DOI issue:
October 10, 1885
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17759#0180
OCTOBER 10, 1885.] PUNCH, OK THE
ofiing, are Staffa and Iona at all. Then, in spite of all the pictures,
photographs, histories, and guide-books on hoard, the Well-informed
Person finds himself beset by the following questions:—
Are Staffa and Iona together ? If not, how far apart ? To whom
do they belong ? "Where is Fingal's Cave ? "Who was Fingal ? Was
he a poet P or a giant P or a hermit P or a saint ? or a robber P Didn't
he write prophecies in ancient Gaelic ? If not, who did P Hadn't
Fingal something to do^with Ossian ? TheWell-informed Person—there
is always one of these superior beings on board—shows a disposition
to answer the first few interrogatories in such a manner as to inspire
confidence, and at once finds himself lecturing a small crowd of
earnest inquirers, until, on the arrival of the boat at the promised
land, he is suddenly superseded and snuffed out by the Professional
Guide, to whom is intrusted the task of personally conducting the
visitors. From the moment of his abandonment by the fickle crowd,
the Well-informed Person stands apart, with an expression of super-
cilious scorn for the Guide, and of pity for the people, who are
evidently, in his opinion, being misled and mis-instructed.
Staffa— Landing in boats: on the basaltic rocks. Rocks chipped
up into neatly cut black blocks, as if the Val de Travers Co. had taken
a contract for laying down an asphalte pavement, and had. already
sent a heap of material, and left it there. Here we go, all the
Excursionists in a line, young men and maidens, children, fat old
women, thin old women, with the Chevalier's Guides, dressed like
stewards, to direct our steps, doing the whole distance under a
broiling sun and against time, with the oppressive consciousness that
the Chevalier, in spite of all his politeness, won't wait luncheon for
anybody, but will sit down at one o'clock punctually. Hurry
along—push on—keep your eyes on the rocks to prevent stumbling—
a few falls—up again—on we go—everybody very hot—no rest to
stop and admire—for fear of being left behind—here, round to the
right, Fingal's Cave—" Is this Yes
The Composer pauses at the entrance—he is enraptured—" Is this
indeed Fingal's?"—but the voice of the Guide interrupts. "Pass
on, please—pass on ! " And then voices from behind, Now, then,
Sir, get on,\do, or let them come as wants to,"—and the Composer,
just on the verge of a glorious inspiration, is hustled along, and lost
to my view as I am shoved aside by one of the stout, sweltering old
ladies, carrying a basket and a big umbrella, who, after nearly
knocking me off the rocks and sending me anyhow into the deep sea
at the entrance of Fingal's Cave, begs my pardon, and bustles on.
Yes. Fingal's Cave is grand. I pick up the Composer a little
further on, and we have a few seconds' quiet to admire the view of the
Ocean as seen from the Cave. Yes, it is grand—but—" Pass along,
please—time's up ! " We're the last. Where's Fobd-Bamly?
Where's Melleville ? Gone back ? Yes, very beautiful—should
like to see it quietly—but get on—up here—down there—round the
corner—look, the boats are going—how they crowd them—'tisn'tsafe—
" Now then, Gentlemen, come on! "—and blundering over the rocks,
stumbling into small pools, clutching at sharp edges, and stepping
cleverly down into deceptive hollows which are only receptacles for
sea-water, we fall at last into stalwart sailors' arms, are stowed
away in the broad-beamed boats anyhow, packed closely shoulder to
shoulder, umbrellas and legs and sticks all mixed up painfully
together, and so we remain tightly wedged in, and hopelessly pro-
testing against everything and everybody, until we are gradually
unpacked again, and able to stretch our limbs on the deck of the
Chevalier.
Then we draw a long breath, and the Composer looks at me and I
look at the Composer, and we both exclaim, "Well, anyhow we've
seen Staffa and Fingal's Cave." And we agree that, in consequence
of high anticipations on the streneth of i>hotographs, we are decidedly
disappointed, and consider that Fingal, whoever he was, might have
done much better. Fobd-Bamly and Melleville, to whom the
show is familiar, have merely strolled about the rocks for the sake
of improving their appetites. Luncheon, which is not quite up to
the breakfast mark, and then we arrive at Iona.
Iona.—Much the same performance again. Boats crowded with
Excursionists, as if we were being taken in batches to he sold for
slaves. We are assisted out, and with difficulty recover the use of
our legs on the slippery stepping-stones. Guides ready to receive us.
Little ragged children selling necklaces of shells, and shells of all
sorts and sizes ; also flowers and ferns. One Guide leads the way,
another acts as whipper-in, and brings up the stragglers sharply.
Here is the Nunnery of St. Columba (who was she ?- an ancestress of
Columbus ?)—ruins —last of the Prioresses, or last of the Priors of a
monastery in 1400. Then the Excursionists, 'specially some of the
waddling Excursionists who can't keep pace with the Guide but
want to have all they can for their money, interrogate one another
anxiously—"Indeed? Very curious?" " What's he say P " "Last
of the who ? " Priors—ah! we 're the pryers now—and as I do not
want to be hurried, and have quite lost sight of the rest of my party,
I am quite "the last of the pryers" myself. Animated, or rather
soothed by mixed feelings of sentiment, reverence, and indigestion
after lunch, I am lingering over the Prior's grave; but the Whip-
per-in won't have it. You'd better go on," he says, sternly,
CHARIVARI. 173
" and keep up with the Guide." I obey him sullenly, as the weary
slave moves on under the lash of the driver. Then we all gather
round the Graves of the Kings, as if for a funeral service, while
the Chief Guide tells us, as fast as he can, how many Kings of
Scotland and Chieftains occupy the small enclosure of thirty feet by
eight, which we are now examining.
An American Young Lady is very much interested. She stops the
Guide as he is moving ofi rapidly, and says, " See here ! if all the
Kings and Chieftains were buried in this place, what was Wailace
about all the time ? " She evidently thinks that Wallace ought to
have prevented this. The Guide, rather staggered, repeats her
question, but is unable to give any answer to satisfy the fair
American. And he can't shake her off, though he walks on faster
than ever; and after each description, which he gives as rapidly
as possible, he bolts to another part of the ruin, in order to avoid, her
questioning. "See here "she commences again, but the Guide
is not to be caught.
There is a Runic Cross with an inscription, and something built by
St. Martin of Tours,—prophetically appropriate, for surely he, " St.
Martin of Tours," must be the patron Saint of Messrs. Cook & Co.
and of all personally well-conducted Tourists.
Now the show is over, and it is time for us to stream back again,
stumbling over the ruins, picking our way across the fields, and once
more on the dusty road leading to the shore, where the children,
becoming desperate at having done but a poor day's work in shells,
ferns, and flowers, waylay us furiously with their commodities, and
vainly attempt to extort coppers. Then once more we are huddled
into the boats, squeezed in shapelessly anyhow, and delivered com-
pressed, but safe and sound, to our old friend the Chevalier. Steam
up—and off again. Lovely afternoon: perfect evening. Back to
Oban. Boat's crew waiting. Once more in the gig (Why gig P),
and at 7.30 we are enjoying an excellent dinner, on board. Thankful
to get back once more to our comfortable floating home, we dedicate
our first glass of Pommery '74 to the health of Staffa, Iona, and
Fingal. After dinner we discuss our next move, which is to go far
North to the home of the Sea Lions, and beard them, like oysters, in
their dens.
IN MEMORIAM.
Jntjjflitn JUMnr Cflopt; cf
Born, April 28, 1801. Died, Ocioijer 1, 1885.
Is life worth living ? Who will dare to ask,
Remembering thy nobly rounded task,
Large-hearted Earl, whose lengthened track of years,
Death-shadowed now amidst a people's tears,
Spread smiles like sunshine on the earth's dark ways ?
If Htaven's approval and the people's praise,
Poverty's blessing, and the joy sublime
Of ministry that lifts the curse of crime,
If these avail to dower our days with worth,
How happy was thy life, who wealth and birth
Mad'st not a perch for pleasure, pride, pretence,
But vantage ground for high beneficence!
Friend of the fallen, helper of the poor,
The poor shall see, the fallen hear no more
That kindly presence, that inspiring voice.
As in thy life their thousands did rejoice,
So at thy death they grieve. Those toilers grey,
Who find so little sun on life's hard way,
Those helpless thralls of trade, whese spirits feel
The long relentless grinding of the wheel,
Those all unchildlike children, victims small
Of modern Molochs, all who creep or fall
On poverty's rough road, or crime's steep slope,
Wil l miss the presence of incarnate hope,
In the Good Earl. Yet has their champion left
Bequests of which they shall not be bereft,
And legaoies of help, in softened law,
And guardian edict; so that Mammon's maw
Crushes them not quite wholly as of old.
There be his monuments! His heart is cold
Who reads unmoved the roll of that long life,
With nought but suffering and wrong at strife,
Or marks without a touch of tearful mist,
The passing of the great Philanthropist.
Summary of Mr. Chamberlain's Yiews on Land Municipali-
sation, up to Date.—Allotment—and little explained.
The Real "Bitter" Cry of London.—The demand for Bass
and Allsopp.
ofiing, are Staffa and Iona at all. Then, in spite of all the pictures,
photographs, histories, and guide-books on hoard, the Well-informed
Person finds himself beset by the following questions:—
Are Staffa and Iona together ? If not, how far apart ? To whom
do they belong ? "Where is Fingal's Cave ? "Who was Fingal ? Was
he a poet P or a giant P or a hermit P or a saint ? or a robber P Didn't
he write prophecies in ancient Gaelic ? If not, who did P Hadn't
Fingal something to do^with Ossian ? TheWell-informed Person—there
is always one of these superior beings on board—shows a disposition
to answer the first few interrogatories in such a manner as to inspire
confidence, and at once finds himself lecturing a small crowd of
earnest inquirers, until, on the arrival of the boat at the promised
land, he is suddenly superseded and snuffed out by the Professional
Guide, to whom is intrusted the task of personally conducting the
visitors. From the moment of his abandonment by the fickle crowd,
the Well-informed Person stands apart, with an expression of super-
cilious scorn for the Guide, and of pity for the people, who are
evidently, in his opinion, being misled and mis-instructed.
Staffa— Landing in boats: on the basaltic rocks. Rocks chipped
up into neatly cut black blocks, as if the Val de Travers Co. had taken
a contract for laying down an asphalte pavement, and had. already
sent a heap of material, and left it there. Here we go, all the
Excursionists in a line, young men and maidens, children, fat old
women, thin old women, with the Chevalier's Guides, dressed like
stewards, to direct our steps, doing the whole distance under a
broiling sun and against time, with the oppressive consciousness that
the Chevalier, in spite of all his politeness, won't wait luncheon for
anybody, but will sit down at one o'clock punctually. Hurry
along—push on—keep your eyes on the rocks to prevent stumbling—
a few falls—up again—on we go—everybody very hot—no rest to
stop and admire—for fear of being left behind—here, round to the
right, Fingal's Cave—" Is this Yes
The Composer pauses at the entrance—he is enraptured—" Is this
indeed Fingal's?"—but the voice of the Guide interrupts. "Pass
on, please—pass on ! " And then voices from behind, Now, then,
Sir, get on,\do, or let them come as wants to,"—and the Composer,
just on the verge of a glorious inspiration, is hustled along, and lost
to my view as I am shoved aside by one of the stout, sweltering old
ladies, carrying a basket and a big umbrella, who, after nearly
knocking me off the rocks and sending me anyhow into the deep sea
at the entrance of Fingal's Cave, begs my pardon, and bustles on.
Yes. Fingal's Cave is grand. I pick up the Composer a little
further on, and we have a few seconds' quiet to admire the view of the
Ocean as seen from the Cave. Yes, it is grand—but—" Pass along,
please—time's up ! " We're the last. Where's Fobd-Bamly?
Where's Melleville ? Gone back ? Yes, very beautiful—should
like to see it quietly—but get on—up here—down there—round the
corner—look, the boats are going—how they crowd them—'tisn'tsafe—
" Now then, Gentlemen, come on! "—and blundering over the rocks,
stumbling into small pools, clutching at sharp edges, and stepping
cleverly down into deceptive hollows which are only receptacles for
sea-water, we fall at last into stalwart sailors' arms, are stowed
away in the broad-beamed boats anyhow, packed closely shoulder to
shoulder, umbrellas and legs and sticks all mixed up painfully
together, and so we remain tightly wedged in, and hopelessly pro-
testing against everything and everybody, until we are gradually
unpacked again, and able to stretch our limbs on the deck of the
Chevalier.
Then we draw a long breath, and the Composer looks at me and I
look at the Composer, and we both exclaim, "Well, anyhow we've
seen Staffa and Fingal's Cave." And we agree that, in consequence
of high anticipations on the streneth of i>hotographs, we are decidedly
disappointed, and consider that Fingal, whoever he was, might have
done much better. Fobd-Bamly and Melleville, to whom the
show is familiar, have merely strolled about the rocks for the sake
of improving their appetites. Luncheon, which is not quite up to
the breakfast mark, and then we arrive at Iona.
Iona.—Much the same performance again. Boats crowded with
Excursionists, as if we were being taken in batches to he sold for
slaves. We are assisted out, and with difficulty recover the use of
our legs on the slippery stepping-stones. Guides ready to receive us.
Little ragged children selling necklaces of shells, and shells of all
sorts and sizes ; also flowers and ferns. One Guide leads the way,
another acts as whipper-in, and brings up the stragglers sharply.
Here is the Nunnery of St. Columba (who was she ?- an ancestress of
Columbus ?)—ruins —last of the Prioresses, or last of the Priors of a
monastery in 1400. Then the Excursionists, 'specially some of the
waddling Excursionists who can't keep pace with the Guide but
want to have all they can for their money, interrogate one another
anxiously—"Indeed? Very curious?" " What's he say P " "Last
of the who ? " Priors—ah! we 're the pryers now—and as I do not
want to be hurried, and have quite lost sight of the rest of my party,
I am quite "the last of the pryers" myself. Animated, or rather
soothed by mixed feelings of sentiment, reverence, and indigestion
after lunch, I am lingering over the Prior's grave; but the Whip-
per-in won't have it. You'd better go on," he says, sternly,
CHARIVARI. 173
" and keep up with the Guide." I obey him sullenly, as the weary
slave moves on under the lash of the driver. Then we all gather
round the Graves of the Kings, as if for a funeral service, while
the Chief Guide tells us, as fast as he can, how many Kings of
Scotland and Chieftains occupy the small enclosure of thirty feet by
eight, which we are now examining.
An American Young Lady is very much interested. She stops the
Guide as he is moving ofi rapidly, and says, " See here ! if all the
Kings and Chieftains were buried in this place, what was Wailace
about all the time ? " She evidently thinks that Wallace ought to
have prevented this. The Guide, rather staggered, repeats her
question, but is unable to give any answer to satisfy the fair
American. And he can't shake her off, though he walks on faster
than ever; and after each description, which he gives as rapidly
as possible, he bolts to another part of the ruin, in order to avoid, her
questioning. "See here "she commences again, but the Guide
is not to be caught.
There is a Runic Cross with an inscription, and something built by
St. Martin of Tours,—prophetically appropriate, for surely he, " St.
Martin of Tours," must be the patron Saint of Messrs. Cook & Co.
and of all personally well-conducted Tourists.
Now the show is over, and it is time for us to stream back again,
stumbling over the ruins, picking our way across the fields, and once
more on the dusty road leading to the shore, where the children,
becoming desperate at having done but a poor day's work in shells,
ferns, and flowers, waylay us furiously with their commodities, and
vainly attempt to extort coppers. Then once more we are huddled
into the boats, squeezed in shapelessly anyhow, and delivered com-
pressed, but safe and sound, to our old friend the Chevalier. Steam
up—and off again. Lovely afternoon: perfect evening. Back to
Oban. Boat's crew waiting. Once more in the gig (Why gig P),
and at 7.30 we are enjoying an excellent dinner, on board. Thankful
to get back once more to our comfortable floating home, we dedicate
our first glass of Pommery '74 to the health of Staffa, Iona, and
Fingal. After dinner we discuss our next move, which is to go far
North to the home of the Sea Lions, and beard them, like oysters, in
their dens.
IN MEMORIAM.
Jntjjflitn JUMnr Cflopt; cf
Born, April 28, 1801. Died, Ocioijer 1, 1885.
Is life worth living ? Who will dare to ask,
Remembering thy nobly rounded task,
Large-hearted Earl, whose lengthened track of years,
Death-shadowed now amidst a people's tears,
Spread smiles like sunshine on the earth's dark ways ?
If Htaven's approval and the people's praise,
Poverty's blessing, and the joy sublime
Of ministry that lifts the curse of crime,
If these avail to dower our days with worth,
How happy was thy life, who wealth and birth
Mad'st not a perch for pleasure, pride, pretence,
But vantage ground for high beneficence!
Friend of the fallen, helper of the poor,
The poor shall see, the fallen hear no more
That kindly presence, that inspiring voice.
As in thy life their thousands did rejoice,
So at thy death they grieve. Those toilers grey,
Who find so little sun on life's hard way,
Those helpless thralls of trade, whese spirits feel
The long relentless grinding of the wheel,
Those all unchildlike children, victims small
Of modern Molochs, all who creep or fall
On poverty's rough road, or crime's steep slope,
Wil l miss the presence of incarnate hope,
In the Good Earl. Yet has their champion left
Bequests of which they shall not be bereft,
And legaoies of help, in softened law,
And guardian edict; so that Mammon's maw
Crushes them not quite wholly as of old.
There be his monuments! His heart is cold
Who reads unmoved the roll of that long life,
With nought but suffering and wrong at strife,
Or marks without a touch of tearful mist,
The passing of the great Philanthropist.
Summary of Mr. Chamberlain's Yiews on Land Municipali-
sation, up to Date.—Allotment—and little explained.
The Real "Bitter" Cry of London.—The demand for Bass
and Allsopp.