DOI Heft:
September 14, 1889
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17688#0130
September 14, 1889.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
125
“ Good gracious, Mr. Skrymmager ! ” cries Miss Brondesly, gasp-
ing as if her breath had been quite taken away by this sudden
avalanche of information, “what terrible things you are telling us!.”
And she glances round from one to the other in a playfully timid
frightened manner, as she places her miniature pockethandkerehief
to her lips as if to repress a coming shriek.
But Harry Skrymmager is in a generous humour, and he is
going into further interesting details about “argillaceous slates,
schistose grits, traces of quartz at Morthoe and manganese at Woola-
combe Sands,” when Our Own Mr. Cook, says quietly, “I’ve arranged
for you all to go down to Watermouth Caves on the sea-shore.
There are two donkey-chairs coming, and a spare donkey for those
who like to 4 ride and. tie.’ We start in half an hour., It’s low tide
at four, and just the day for the excursion.”
“ Oh, Mr. Cook ! ” exclaims Miss Brondesly. “ Am I to go into
a cave—into a dark, horrible cave—on the sea-shore, among the
pirates and smugglers? Are there any smugglers? Oh, my dear,”
she turns appealingly to our hostess as Miss Netley refuses to listen
to her ; “ my dear ! aren’t you frightened ? ” and she flops down on
the floor by Our Own Mrs. Cook’s chair, and buries her head in her
hands as if in abject terror, laughing hysterically all the time.
Our hostess takes her under her protection, murmuring soothingly,
“Dear Jennie!” as she protests that, if there were anything
terrible in the caves, her husband wouldn’t have arranged for any-
one to go there, which is at once a common-sense and yet sympathetic
view of the case
“Oh!” exclaims the impulsive Miss Brondesly, kneeling up
suddenly, and folding her hands like a pretty nursery picture of
“the little one at her mother’s knee,”—of which, perhaps, a glim-
mering recollection occurs to her mind at this moment,—“I’ll go
wherever you go.” She says this with a little tremulous laugh, as she
looks into Our Own Mrs. Cook’s quiet eyes. Then she smiles a smile
of such sweet and tender confidence that it would have softened even
the heart of Hubert, if he had had to
deal with Miss Brondesly instead of
little Prince Arthur—or would have
irritated him beyond all control, and
made him do something desperate.
“We may find some octopuses,”
says Harry Skrymmager, in serious
earnest, as he sharpens his knife on
the leather sheath.
Miss Jennie looks up and pouts, as
if begging him not to try and. impose
on her with his nonsense about octo-
puses.
“ There are octopuses about,” says
Miss Netley, “just as in Jersey,”
and Our Own Mr. Cook presumes it
is not improbable. Copley Markham
wishes we were on the coast of Brit-
tany, and Gillie King recollects
having heard of several being seen
somewhere about, though on reflection
he rather thinks these must have been
porpoises. The Poet is recalling that
scene so graphically described by
Victor Hugo, when Miss Brondesly
starts up, nearly upsetting Our Own
Mrs. Cook, orying, “ Oh, a wasp! ”
Devonshire Grass Lane. Short «. “ Don’t hit it! ” “ Don’t touch it! ”
Cut for Two Miles. “ Length ,, Leaye xt. al°ne [ Where is it ? ”
without Breadth.” Everyone is snouting, and the room is
cleared. A start is made for Water-
mouth Caves, a trudge of about three miles and a half, with a visit
to the caves in boats at sixpence a-head. “Interesting, but not
remarkable,” says Gillie. “Better in Brittany,” says Copley.
“You didn’t come with us,” I observe to one of our party,
Mr. Rudolph Shultza, a quiet, rotund, grey-bearded, and middle-
aged gentleman, whose life’s studies have been among the driest and
mustiest works on the highest and deepest philosophical and theo-
logical subjects, and whose professional inoome is derived from
contributions, under a well-known and highly popular nom de
plume, to all branches of the very lightest literary and dramatic work.
He generally carries about with him a curious old book or two, in
antique binding, and has pencils, note-books, and portable diction-
aries, concealed about his person in all sorts of out-of-the-way
pockets. He does not care for “views,” exeept philosophical and
theological ones, and rarely accompanies us on anv excursion. For
the greater part of the day he reads on the rocks, “and,” he says, in
replying to my observation, “when I am fatigued with that, I assist
at a most interesting performance of Punch and Judy, which takes
place on the rocks at 12'30, four, and (by torchlight) at seven.”
Punch and Judy on the rocks is one of the principal entertain-
ments by day or night. There are three performances, and if anyone
wants to see the legitimate drama of Punch and Judy in its entirety,
without any sort of curtailment, but with an occasional introduction
of a character or two quite in keeping with modern requirements,
—just as in the dialogue interspersed with songs, after the style of a
Vaudeville, are brought topical allusions exactly up to date,—I say
if anyone wants to see this (as far as I know) unique performance, he
must come to Ilfracombe before Professor Smith with his Royal Punch
Show—which he carries, as a snail does his house, on his back—leaves
the place. Or he must follow him through his tour in the provinces.
There are two other entertainments on the beach—one provided
by the strong man, who ties himself up, and unties himself, and
who I don’t think has a great following, as I have frequently seen
him wandering about the promenade in a sort of acrobatic bathing-
dress, folding his muscular arms as he regards the crowd about
Punch and Judy, and listens to the irritating squeak of the chief
performer, with the melodramatic scowl of the blighted professional,
who mutters to himself, “Ha! ha! a time will come!” The
second entertainment is composed of two hideous-looking persons in
slouch hats, and dark-blue spectacles, who travel with a grand piano,
and call themselves “ The Original Mysterious Minstrels.” One of
them is a powerful tenor, who does the sentimental part of the
performance, and the other, a big fat man with a husky voice, is a
baritone, who as the low comedian, sings Corney Grain’s and
Grossmith’s songs.
There is a good town band, who"are not on speaking terms with
the Mysterious Musicians; and, in fact, the jealousy between the
two parties of entertainers reached such an acute point as to threaten
the harmony of the place by splitting it up into factions. When,
indeed, the opponents met under one roof, and some wanted the band
and others the singers, it was evident we couldn’t have “songs
without ‘ words ’.” A truce, however, was proclaimed during the
remainder of the Mysterious Minstrels’ sojourn, and all ended well
without the intervention of the police.
Where people most do congregate is a miniature Crystal Palace,
called the “Jubilee Shelter,” to which admission is free, (and no
less welcome th an ___ 1 . ...__
free), when the MlMfc=-
stormy winds do
suddenly blow,
and the rain un-
expectedly de-
scends in tor-
rents, It has a
hot, passionate
temperament,
this North De-
von ; it is all
smiles, radiant;
all of a sudden it
frowns, it looks
black, there is an
awful row, and
then it bursts
into tears—a de-
luge — it is all
over — and out
comes the sun
again, and all is
bright, joyous,
and happy, and
everybody about
the Capstone Hill
blesses the au-
shelterf with 1 as A Ha’p’orth of Sunset on the Terr’s Walks,
much gratitude as, proverbially, the North Briton blesses His Grace
of Argyll. Every evening we go on to the Torr’s Walks, and have
a ha’porth of Sunset, and a ha’porth. of North-Westerly Atlantic
breeze, and cheap at the price. “ It is very wonderful,” observes
Miss Jennie Brondesly, for one instant thoughtful, as she takes a
last fond look at the setting sun. “ Now it’s going to the Antipodes.
I suppose it’s beginning to be daybreak in Australia.”
“ Not exactly,” replies Harry . Skrymmager, seizing the oppor-
tunity of getting rid of some of his scientific cargo. “You see, the
earth’s motion round the sun is in this way-^—■” And he commences
an illustration with two pebbles, which he picks up for the purpose.
“ Oh, don’t try it on me!" cries Miss Brondesly, exploding with
merriment. “I don’t care to know how a conjuring trick is done.
The sun disappears—down it goes—and the people in the Antipodes
haye the use of it when, we’ve done with it. I think it’s very nice
that we should have it first; ” and, delighted with her own sharpness
in putting the solar system into a nutshell, and shutting it up, (and
Harry Skrymmager. as well), she runs up half a scale of laughter,
waves her handkerchief as if bidding adieu to sun, science, Skrym-
mager, and all argument, and steps out briskly, as if she didn’t care
what became of her, even if she tripped over the edge of Torr’s
Walks into the sea.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
125
“ Good gracious, Mr. Skrymmager ! ” cries Miss Brondesly, gasp-
ing as if her breath had been quite taken away by this sudden
avalanche of information, “what terrible things you are telling us!.”
And she glances round from one to the other in a playfully timid
frightened manner, as she places her miniature pockethandkerehief
to her lips as if to repress a coming shriek.
But Harry Skrymmager is in a generous humour, and he is
going into further interesting details about “argillaceous slates,
schistose grits, traces of quartz at Morthoe and manganese at Woola-
combe Sands,” when Our Own Mr. Cook, says quietly, “I’ve arranged
for you all to go down to Watermouth Caves on the sea-shore.
There are two donkey-chairs coming, and a spare donkey for those
who like to 4 ride and. tie.’ We start in half an hour., It’s low tide
at four, and just the day for the excursion.”
“ Oh, Mr. Cook ! ” exclaims Miss Brondesly. “ Am I to go into
a cave—into a dark, horrible cave—on the sea-shore, among the
pirates and smugglers? Are there any smugglers? Oh, my dear,”
she turns appealingly to our hostess as Miss Netley refuses to listen
to her ; “ my dear ! aren’t you frightened ? ” and she flops down on
the floor by Our Own Mrs. Cook’s chair, and buries her head in her
hands as if in abject terror, laughing hysterically all the time.
Our hostess takes her under her protection, murmuring soothingly,
“Dear Jennie!” as she protests that, if there were anything
terrible in the caves, her husband wouldn’t have arranged for any-
one to go there, which is at once a common-sense and yet sympathetic
view of the case
“Oh!” exclaims the impulsive Miss Brondesly, kneeling up
suddenly, and folding her hands like a pretty nursery picture of
“the little one at her mother’s knee,”—of which, perhaps, a glim-
mering recollection occurs to her mind at this moment,—“I’ll go
wherever you go.” She says this with a little tremulous laugh, as she
looks into Our Own Mrs. Cook’s quiet eyes. Then she smiles a smile
of such sweet and tender confidence that it would have softened even
the heart of Hubert, if he had had to
deal with Miss Brondesly instead of
little Prince Arthur—or would have
irritated him beyond all control, and
made him do something desperate.
“We may find some octopuses,”
says Harry Skrymmager, in serious
earnest, as he sharpens his knife on
the leather sheath.
Miss Jennie looks up and pouts, as
if begging him not to try and. impose
on her with his nonsense about octo-
puses.
“ There are octopuses about,” says
Miss Netley, “just as in Jersey,”
and Our Own Mr. Cook presumes it
is not improbable. Copley Markham
wishes we were on the coast of Brit-
tany, and Gillie King recollects
having heard of several being seen
somewhere about, though on reflection
he rather thinks these must have been
porpoises. The Poet is recalling that
scene so graphically described by
Victor Hugo, when Miss Brondesly
starts up, nearly upsetting Our Own
Mrs. Cook, orying, “ Oh, a wasp! ”
Devonshire Grass Lane. Short «. “ Don’t hit it! ” “ Don’t touch it! ”
Cut for Two Miles. “ Length ,, Leaye xt. al°ne [ Where is it ? ”
without Breadth.” Everyone is snouting, and the room is
cleared. A start is made for Water-
mouth Caves, a trudge of about three miles and a half, with a visit
to the caves in boats at sixpence a-head. “Interesting, but not
remarkable,” says Gillie. “Better in Brittany,” says Copley.
“You didn’t come with us,” I observe to one of our party,
Mr. Rudolph Shultza, a quiet, rotund, grey-bearded, and middle-
aged gentleman, whose life’s studies have been among the driest and
mustiest works on the highest and deepest philosophical and theo-
logical subjects, and whose professional inoome is derived from
contributions, under a well-known and highly popular nom de
plume, to all branches of the very lightest literary and dramatic work.
He generally carries about with him a curious old book or two, in
antique binding, and has pencils, note-books, and portable diction-
aries, concealed about his person in all sorts of out-of-the-way
pockets. He does not care for “views,” exeept philosophical and
theological ones, and rarely accompanies us on anv excursion. For
the greater part of the day he reads on the rocks, “and,” he says, in
replying to my observation, “when I am fatigued with that, I assist
at a most interesting performance of Punch and Judy, which takes
place on the rocks at 12'30, four, and (by torchlight) at seven.”
Punch and Judy on the rocks is one of the principal entertain-
ments by day or night. There are three performances, and if anyone
wants to see the legitimate drama of Punch and Judy in its entirety,
without any sort of curtailment, but with an occasional introduction
of a character or two quite in keeping with modern requirements,
—just as in the dialogue interspersed with songs, after the style of a
Vaudeville, are brought topical allusions exactly up to date,—I say
if anyone wants to see this (as far as I know) unique performance, he
must come to Ilfracombe before Professor Smith with his Royal Punch
Show—which he carries, as a snail does his house, on his back—leaves
the place. Or he must follow him through his tour in the provinces.
There are two other entertainments on the beach—one provided
by the strong man, who ties himself up, and unties himself, and
who I don’t think has a great following, as I have frequently seen
him wandering about the promenade in a sort of acrobatic bathing-
dress, folding his muscular arms as he regards the crowd about
Punch and Judy, and listens to the irritating squeak of the chief
performer, with the melodramatic scowl of the blighted professional,
who mutters to himself, “Ha! ha! a time will come!” The
second entertainment is composed of two hideous-looking persons in
slouch hats, and dark-blue spectacles, who travel with a grand piano,
and call themselves “ The Original Mysterious Minstrels.” One of
them is a powerful tenor, who does the sentimental part of the
performance, and the other, a big fat man with a husky voice, is a
baritone, who as the low comedian, sings Corney Grain’s and
Grossmith’s songs.
There is a good town band, who"are not on speaking terms with
the Mysterious Musicians; and, in fact, the jealousy between the
two parties of entertainers reached such an acute point as to threaten
the harmony of the place by splitting it up into factions. When,
indeed, the opponents met under one roof, and some wanted the band
and others the singers, it was evident we couldn’t have “songs
without ‘ words ’.” A truce, however, was proclaimed during the
remainder of the Mysterious Minstrels’ sojourn, and all ended well
without the intervention of the police.
Where people most do congregate is a miniature Crystal Palace,
called the “Jubilee Shelter,” to which admission is free, (and no
less welcome th an ___ 1 . ...__
free), when the MlMfc=-
stormy winds do
suddenly blow,
and the rain un-
expectedly de-
scends in tor-
rents, It has a
hot, passionate
temperament,
this North De-
von ; it is all
smiles, radiant;
all of a sudden it
frowns, it looks
black, there is an
awful row, and
then it bursts
into tears—a de-
luge — it is all
over — and out
comes the sun
again, and all is
bright, joyous,
and happy, and
everybody about
the Capstone Hill
blesses the au-
shelterf with 1 as A Ha’p’orth of Sunset on the Terr’s Walks,
much gratitude as, proverbially, the North Briton blesses His Grace
of Argyll. Every evening we go on to the Torr’s Walks, and have
a ha’porth of Sunset, and a ha’porth. of North-Westerly Atlantic
breeze, and cheap at the price. “ It is very wonderful,” observes
Miss Jennie Brondesly, for one instant thoughtful, as she takes a
last fond look at the setting sun. “ Now it’s going to the Antipodes.
I suppose it’s beginning to be daybreak in Australia.”
“ Not exactly,” replies Harry . Skrymmager, seizing the oppor-
tunity of getting rid of some of his scientific cargo. “You see, the
earth’s motion round the sun is in this way-^—■” And he commences
an illustration with two pebbles, which he picks up for the purpose.
“ Oh, don’t try it on me!" cries Miss Brondesly, exploding with
merriment. “I don’t care to know how a conjuring trick is done.
The sun disappears—down it goes—and the people in the Antipodes
haye the use of it when, we’ve done with it. I think it’s very nice
that we should have it first; ” and, delighted with her own sharpness
in putting the solar system into a nutshell, and shutting it up, (and
Harry Skrymmager. as well), she runs up half a scale of laughter,
waves her handkerchief as if bidding adieu to sun, science, Skrym-
mager, and all argument, and steps out briskly, as if she didn’t care
what became of her, even if she tripped over the edge of Torr’s
Walks into the sea.