DOI issue:
August 17, 1889
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17688#0079
August 17, 1889.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
73
THE MEDICI MACKINTOSH-A SUGGESTION.
OUR MARITIME REPRESENTATIVE ALL AT SEA.
(A Yarn About the Naval Manoeuvres.')
Punch, mx Hearty,—You did wisely to ask me to report the Naval Manoeuvres for
you. You knew well enough that I could distinguish between a marlingspike and a top-
gallant yard, and was as familiar with the boatswain’s whistle of a man-o’-war as a Thames
Pilot plying between Cherry Gardens and Battersea Pier.
Well, you will say, What do I think of the Fleet? And if you don’t, there will he
others who will want to know it; for, mind you, it’s
valuable. It’s not often you can get an old Salt who has
been a sailor, man and boy, for more than a quarter of a
century! So, when you do get such a one, why, hold on
to him, and hear what he has to say.
But just let me tell you I am doing you credit, and
may be taking credit at your tailor’s. It was not likely
that a veteran sea-horse like myself would disgrace you,
so I have togged myself out in full rig, and those who
march the quarter-deck imagine that I am a German
Admiral of the Fleet, or perhaps a Russian, or may be a
Portuguese. As for me, 1 pretend I can’t speak English,
and consequently can pick up a wrinkle as easy as a gun-
ner’s mate hoisting up a hammock to the mainstays of the
captain’s gig. For you see they do not make any mystery
before me, looking upon me as it were as an ignorant
foreigner who knows nothing about his own country and
less about theirs! “Mossoo,” said’the Admiral, “parley ****&£&? «s=ar
voo Italiano or Dutch ? ”
“ Nong Comprenny,” I replied; and, after that, I was free of the ship.
And now for the Fleet—how about the ships ? Well, first, there’s the Northumberland,
as nice a piece of iron as you would like to see on a summer trip up to Henley. She is
commanded by Baird, known throughout the Service as “the Early Baird,” on account
of that brilliant bit of work (was it in the Baltic?) on board H.M.S. Worm. Next there’s
the Anson, named after a well-known actor now starring in Australia, and appropriately
commanded by Irvine, who, although I believe he plays Macbeth as well as any Tar afloat,
must not be confounded with Irving of the Lyceum. D’ ye see, one spells his name
with an “ e,” the other with a “ g.”
Then there’s the Collingwood (made of iron), and the Camperdown (as light as a feather),
and the Inflexible (which frequently doubles up), and the Devastation (which has made a
big hole in the Navy Vote), and a lot of others. And what do I think of them all?
Well, I should say much the same as the foreigners do—that we might just hold our own
(with luck) against—say, the French or the Russians singly ; but if so be they combined,
that we might get blown out of the water before we knew where we were—unless, indeed,
all our ironclads sank on their own account first, before the enemy could get at them (and
more unlikely things than that might happen). If you don’t believe me, just you read
the papers. And now I shall not give you much more, for when we are manoeuvring it’s
like a lazy landlubber to blab out the secrets of the gun-room’s mess. Moreover, as it is
going to begin to blow, I think, with your permission, I will go down-stairs! I don’t
feel very well! Hurriedly Yours,
Mid Ocean, Britannia's Realm. A Very Old Sailor.
GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON.
(iCommunicated by our Special “ Spook,” believed
to be in the confidence of the Shade of Prated,.)
Good night to the Season ! ’Tis over!
As good as defunct, anyway.
Dumfog has sky-dunked, via Dover,
And Crambo is off to Cathay.
There’s nobody left, worth a button,
In either the Row or the House.
Pall MaU is as chill as cold mutton
A sputter at Portsmouth or Cowes
Won’t keep up the quidnunc’s enjoyment;
The penny-a-liner run’s dry,
Or finds but a fleeting employment
In prattling of toffs on the fly.
Good night to the Season ! The lobbies
Are thinning; St. Stephen’s is left
To rowdies and riders of hobbies,
And boobies of manners bereft.
The Oirishman fitfully thunders
With eloquent anger, half sham,
Of the Marquis’s eloquent blunders,
And Balfour’s base battering-ram.
Denouncings of rents and evictions,
Packed juries, and patriots in thrall,
Couched all in the dullest of dictions,
Proceed, like the Clock, but that’s all.
Good night to the Season ! The Galleries,
Burlington, Grosvenor, and New,
Are shut up, like Diner-out’s railleries,
Beauty’s no longer on view.
No longer Lord’s glitters with ladies,
“ Swell ” cricket like salmon is ‘ ‘ hoff ” ;
Young Cambridge is flirting in Cadiz,
Young Oxford is practising Golf.
And Damon is sketching in Venice,
And Pythias lonely must sup,
And Renshaw’s still Champion at Tennis,
And Trayles carried off the Gold Cup.
Good night to the Season! Sensations
About a new scandal or song;
The “ movements ” of militant nations,
Or highly-born turfites gone wrong ;
To marriages royal and ducal;
To great Golden Weddings and Fights;
Mysterious murders that shook all
Men’s hearts on their couches o ’nights ;
To tall things in stories, and scoring,
To big things in Bridges and Towers ;
To fortunes, and parachutes, soaring.
And Bull-fights and Battles of Flowers,
Good night to the Season ! It tickles
Old Time on his rounds to reflect
That e’en Nasr-ed-Din and young Nick als
Oblivion in time must expect.
Old Edax devours saints and sinners,
And quickly the memory dulls
Of those who by heads have been winners,
And those who’ve been winners by sculls.
Little further Wit’s record-book reaches
Than tales of the prigs and the bores ;
The fame of one W. G.’s speeches
Than that of another’s big scores.
Good night to the Season! Another
Will come with its Gladstone and
Grace.
This is gone with its swelter and smother ;
I’m off now—to angle for dace.
A punt out at Pangbourne, a_ pitcher
Of amber-hued ale and a pipe !
Will the next find me poorer or richer ?
That question for settling’s unripe.
Why seek to “ proticipate ? ” Saibey,
Sententious old humbug, was right.
It’s a “Wale,” and things do go “ con-
trairey : ”
Good night to the Season—good night!
Substitute for the Hornpipe as New
Nautical Dance for the British Navy.—
The Break-down.
vol. xcvn.
H
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
73
THE MEDICI MACKINTOSH-A SUGGESTION.
OUR MARITIME REPRESENTATIVE ALL AT SEA.
(A Yarn About the Naval Manoeuvres.')
Punch, mx Hearty,—You did wisely to ask me to report the Naval Manoeuvres for
you. You knew well enough that I could distinguish between a marlingspike and a top-
gallant yard, and was as familiar with the boatswain’s whistle of a man-o’-war as a Thames
Pilot plying between Cherry Gardens and Battersea Pier.
Well, you will say, What do I think of the Fleet? And if you don’t, there will he
others who will want to know it; for, mind you, it’s
valuable. It’s not often you can get an old Salt who has
been a sailor, man and boy, for more than a quarter of a
century! So, when you do get such a one, why, hold on
to him, and hear what he has to say.
But just let me tell you I am doing you credit, and
may be taking credit at your tailor’s. It was not likely
that a veteran sea-horse like myself would disgrace you,
so I have togged myself out in full rig, and those who
march the quarter-deck imagine that I am a German
Admiral of the Fleet, or perhaps a Russian, or may be a
Portuguese. As for me, 1 pretend I can’t speak English,
and consequently can pick up a wrinkle as easy as a gun-
ner’s mate hoisting up a hammock to the mainstays of the
captain’s gig. For you see they do not make any mystery
before me, looking upon me as it were as an ignorant
foreigner who knows nothing about his own country and
less about theirs! “Mossoo,” said’the Admiral, “parley ****&£&? «s=ar
voo Italiano or Dutch ? ”
“ Nong Comprenny,” I replied; and, after that, I was free of the ship.
And now for the Fleet—how about the ships ? Well, first, there’s the Northumberland,
as nice a piece of iron as you would like to see on a summer trip up to Henley. She is
commanded by Baird, known throughout the Service as “the Early Baird,” on account
of that brilliant bit of work (was it in the Baltic?) on board H.M.S. Worm. Next there’s
the Anson, named after a well-known actor now starring in Australia, and appropriately
commanded by Irvine, who, although I believe he plays Macbeth as well as any Tar afloat,
must not be confounded with Irving of the Lyceum. D’ ye see, one spells his name
with an “ e,” the other with a “ g.”
Then there’s the Collingwood (made of iron), and the Camperdown (as light as a feather),
and the Inflexible (which frequently doubles up), and the Devastation (which has made a
big hole in the Navy Vote), and a lot of others. And what do I think of them all?
Well, I should say much the same as the foreigners do—that we might just hold our own
(with luck) against—say, the French or the Russians singly ; but if so be they combined,
that we might get blown out of the water before we knew where we were—unless, indeed,
all our ironclads sank on their own account first, before the enemy could get at them (and
more unlikely things than that might happen). If you don’t believe me, just you read
the papers. And now I shall not give you much more, for when we are manoeuvring it’s
like a lazy landlubber to blab out the secrets of the gun-room’s mess. Moreover, as it is
going to begin to blow, I think, with your permission, I will go down-stairs! I don’t
feel very well! Hurriedly Yours,
Mid Ocean, Britannia's Realm. A Very Old Sailor.
GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON.
(iCommunicated by our Special “ Spook,” believed
to be in the confidence of the Shade of Prated,.)
Good night to the Season ! ’Tis over!
As good as defunct, anyway.
Dumfog has sky-dunked, via Dover,
And Crambo is off to Cathay.
There’s nobody left, worth a button,
In either the Row or the House.
Pall MaU is as chill as cold mutton
A sputter at Portsmouth or Cowes
Won’t keep up the quidnunc’s enjoyment;
The penny-a-liner run’s dry,
Or finds but a fleeting employment
In prattling of toffs on the fly.
Good night to the Season ! The lobbies
Are thinning; St. Stephen’s is left
To rowdies and riders of hobbies,
And boobies of manners bereft.
The Oirishman fitfully thunders
With eloquent anger, half sham,
Of the Marquis’s eloquent blunders,
And Balfour’s base battering-ram.
Denouncings of rents and evictions,
Packed juries, and patriots in thrall,
Couched all in the dullest of dictions,
Proceed, like the Clock, but that’s all.
Good night to the Season ! The Galleries,
Burlington, Grosvenor, and New,
Are shut up, like Diner-out’s railleries,
Beauty’s no longer on view.
No longer Lord’s glitters with ladies,
“ Swell ” cricket like salmon is ‘ ‘ hoff ” ;
Young Cambridge is flirting in Cadiz,
Young Oxford is practising Golf.
And Damon is sketching in Venice,
And Pythias lonely must sup,
And Renshaw’s still Champion at Tennis,
And Trayles carried off the Gold Cup.
Good night to the Season! Sensations
About a new scandal or song;
The “ movements ” of militant nations,
Or highly-born turfites gone wrong ;
To marriages royal and ducal;
To great Golden Weddings and Fights;
Mysterious murders that shook all
Men’s hearts on their couches o ’nights ;
To tall things in stories, and scoring,
To big things in Bridges and Towers ;
To fortunes, and parachutes, soaring.
And Bull-fights and Battles of Flowers,
Good night to the Season ! It tickles
Old Time on his rounds to reflect
That e’en Nasr-ed-Din and young Nick als
Oblivion in time must expect.
Old Edax devours saints and sinners,
And quickly the memory dulls
Of those who by heads have been winners,
And those who’ve been winners by sculls.
Little further Wit’s record-book reaches
Than tales of the prigs and the bores ;
The fame of one W. G.’s speeches
Than that of another’s big scores.
Good night to the Season! Another
Will come with its Gladstone and
Grace.
This is gone with its swelter and smother ;
I’m off now—to angle for dace.
A punt out at Pangbourne, a_ pitcher
Of amber-hued ale and a pipe !
Will the next find me poorer or richer ?
That question for settling’s unripe.
Why seek to “ proticipate ? ” Saibey,
Sententious old humbug, was right.
It’s a “Wale,” and things do go “ con-
trairey : ”
Good night to the Season—good night!
Substitute for the Hornpipe as New
Nautical Dance for the British Navy.—
The Break-down.
vol. xcvn.
H