Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99., August 23, 1890. by Various
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Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99., August 23, 1890.
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 99.
August 23, 1890.
NOVELTY UP TO DATE.
[Illustration]
The originality of the plot of _The English Rose_ (the new play at
the Adelphi) having been questioned, the following Scotch Drama is
published with a view of ascertaining if it has been done before.
Those of our readers who think they recognise either the situations
or any part of the dialogue, will kindly remember that treatment is
everything, and the imputation of plagiarism is the feeblest of all
charges. The piece is called _Telmah_, and is written in Three Acts,
sufficiently concise to be given in full:--
ACT I.
_The Horse Guards Parade, Elsinore, near Edinburgh._
_Enter MACCLAUDIUS, MACGERTRUDE, Brilliant Staff, and Scotch
Guards. The Colours are trooped._
_Then enter TELMAH, who returns salute of Sentries._
_MacClaudius_. I am just glad you have joined us, TELMAH.
_Telmah_. Really! I fancied some function was going on, but thought it
was a parade, in honour of my father's funeral.
_MacGertrude_ (_with a forced laugh_). Don't be so absurd! Your poor
father--the very best of men--died months ago.
_Telmah_ (_bitterly_). So long!
_MacClaudius_ (_aside_). Ma gracious! He's in one of his nasty
tempers, MACGERTRUDE. Come away! (_Aloud._) Believe me, I shall drink
your health to-night in Perrier Jouet of '74. Come!
[_Exeunt with Queen and Guards._
_Telmah_. Oh! that this too solid flesh would melt! (_Enter_ Ghost.)
Hallo! Who are you?
_Ghost_ (_impressively_). I am thy father's spirit! List, TELMAH, oh,
list!
_Telmah_. Would, with pleasure, were I not already a Major in the
Army, and an Hon. Colonel in the Militia.
_Ghost_ (_severely_). None of your nonsense! (_More mildly._) Don't
be frivolous! (_Confidentially._) I was murdered by a serpent, who now
wears my crown.
_Telmah_ (_in a tone of surprise_). O my prophetic soul! Mine uncle?
_Ghost_. Right you are! Swear to avenge me!
_Telmah_ (_after an internal struggle_). I swear!
[_Solo for the big drum. Re-enter troops, spectral effect, and
tableau._
ACT II.--_INTERIOR OF THE PALACE OF ELSINORE, NEAR EDINBURGH, ARRANGED
FOR PRIVATE THEATRICALS. MACCLAUDIUS, MACGERTRUDE AND COURT SEATED,
WITH TELMAH ACTING AS PROMPTER._
_MacClaudius_ (_aside to MACPOLONIUS_). Lord Chamberlain, have you
heard the argument? Is there no offence in't?
_MacPolonius_. Well, Sire, as I understand it is not intended for
public representation, I have not done more than glance at it. I am
told it is very clever, and called "_The Mouse-trap_."
_MacGertrude_. Rather an idiotic title! (_Contemptuously._) "_The
Mouse-trap_!"
[_Business. A King on the mimic stage goes to sleep, and a
shrouded figure pours poison into his ear. MACCLAUDIUS rises
abruptly._
_Telmah_ (_excitedly_). He poisons him for his estate. His name's
MACGONZAGO. The story is extant, and writ in choice Italian. You shall
see anon how the murderer gets the love of MACGONZAGO's wife!
_MacClaudius_ (_angrily to MACPOLONIUS_). Chamberlain, we part this
day month! Ma gracious! [_Exit, followed by Queen and Court._
_Telmah_ (_exultantly_). Now could I drink hot blood, and do such
bitter business as the day would quake to look on!
_Ghost_ (_entering abruptly_). Well, do it! What's the good of all
this play-acting? Cut the ranting, and come to the slaughtering!
(_Seizes TELMAH by the arm._) If you are an avenger, behave as such!
[_TELMAH greatly alarmed, sinks on his knees before Ghost,
and the Curtain falls on the tableau._
ACT III.--_THE MILITARY TOURNAMENT AT THE AGRICULTURAL HALL, ELSINORE,
NEAR EDINBURGH, TELMAH, AND MACLAERTES, DISCOVERED FENCING._
_Captain MacOsric, R.A._ (_Superintendent of the Circus_). A hit, a
palpable hit! (TELMAH _and_ MACLAERTES _engage a second time, and_
MACLAERTES _wounds his opponent._) One to white! (_Points out_
MACLAERTES _with a small flag. Another round, when_ TELMAH _wounds_
MACLAERTES.) One to black!
[_Touches TELMAH with his flag._
_MacClaudius_ (_pouring out a glass of cheap champagne_). Here,
TELMAH, you are heated, have a drink!
_Telmah_. I'll play this bout first. Set it by awhile. (_Aside to
MAC-HORATIO, who smiles._) I know his cellar!
_MacGertrude_. I will take it for you, dear! (_Impatiently._) Give me
the cup? (_Seizes it._) The Queen carouses to thy fortunes, TELMAH!
[_Drinks eagerly and with gusto._
_MacClaudius_ (_aside_). The poisoned cup at eighteen shillings the
dozen! It is too late! Ma gracious! [_QUEEN dies in agonies._
_MacLaertes_. TELMAH, I am slain, and so are you--the foils are tipped
with poison! (_Speaking with difficulty._) Prod the old 'un!
[_Dies._
_Telmah._ The point envenomed, too! Then venom do thy work!
[_Stabs King and dies._
_Ghost_ (_entering in blue fire, triumphantly to MACCLAUDIUS_). Now,
you'll remember me! [_MACCLAUDIUS dies._
[_Soft music. Scene sinks, discovering magnificent funeral
ceremony at the Abbey, Elsinore, near Edinburgh. A solemn
dirge (specially composed for this new and original piece) is
sung. Slow Curtain._
* * * * *
PROS AND CONS OF FOREIGN TRAVEL.
(_BY A HESITATING TRIPPIST._)
_Antwerp_.--Lots of Rubens, _but_ the Harwich route is objectionable
in "dusty" weather.
_Boulogne_.--Great attraction this year--Ex-Queen of NAPLES
installed--_but_ the port, at low tide, requires all the perfumes of
Araby, and more.
[Illustration]
_Cologne_.--Cathedral finished, _but_ local scent is accurately
expressed by "Oh!"
_Dieppe_.--Casino cheery, _but_ the passage from Newhaven to French
coast at times too terrible for words.
_Etretat_.--Amusing society, _but_ the sanitary arrangements are
rather shady.
_Florence_.--The Capital of Art, _but_ at its worst in the dog days.
_Geneva_.--Within reach of Mont Blanc, _but_ hotels indifferent, even
when under "Royal Patronage."
_Heidelberg_.--Magnificent view from the Castle, _but_ too many Cooks
spoil the prospect.
_Interlaken_.--Jungfrau splendid, _but_ not free from 'ARRIES and
'ARRIETTS.
_Jerusalem_.--Interesting associations, _but_ travelling on mule-back
is a trial to born pedestrians.
_Kissingen_.--Out of the beaten track, _but_ query rather too much so.
_Lucerne_.--Lovely; _but_ comfort takes a back seat if the
Schweitzerhoff is full.
_Madrid_.--Plenty of pictures, _but_ cholera in the neighbourhood.
_Naples_.--Famous Bay never off, _but_ scarcely the place to face an
epidemic.
_Ouchy_.--Beau Rivage beyond all praise, _but_ environs uninteresting.
_Paris_.--Always pleasant--_save_ in August.
_Quebec_.--Possibly attractive to the wildly adventurous, _but_
scarcely worthy of a jaunt across the Atlantic.
_Rome_.--The City of the Popes and the Caesars, _but_ not to be thought
of before the early winter.
_St. Malo_.--Quaint old Breton port, _but_ journey from Southampton
frequently dangerous, and always disagreeable.
_Turin_.--Typical Italian town; _but_ why go here when other places
are equally accessible?
_Utrecht_.--Suggestive of cheap velvet, _but_ suggestive of nothing
else.
_Vevey_.--Pleasantly situated, _but_ _triste_ to the last degree.
_Wiesbaden_.--Kept its popularity, in spite of its loss of _roulette_
and _trente et quarante_; _but_ Baden-Baden is preferable.
_X les Bains_.--Beautiful scenery, _but_ population chiefly invalids.
_Zurich_.--Might do worse than go there; _but_, on the other hand, why
not stay at home?
* * * * *
[Illustration: AN OBJECT OF COMPASSION.
PITY AN UNFORTUNATE MAN, DETAINED IN LONDON BY UNINTERESTING
CIRCUMSTANCES OVER WHICH HE HAS NO CONTROL, WHOSE FAMILY ARE ALL OUT
OF TOWN, WHOSE ESTABLISHMENT IS REPRESENTED BY A CARETAKER, AND WHOSE
CLUB IS CLOSED FOR ALTERATIONS AND REPAIRS.]
* * * * *
VOCES POPULI.
COCKNEY COQUETRY: A STUDY IN REGENT'S PARK.
SCENE--_NEAR THE BAND-STAND. TIME--7 P.M. ON A SUNDAY IN AUGUST._
CHARACTERS.
_Polly_ (_about 22; a tall brunette, of the respectable lower
middle-class, with a flow of light badinage, and a taste for
tormenting._)
_Flo_ (_18; her friend; shorter, somewhat less pronounced in
manner; rather pretty, simply and tastefully dressed; milliner
or bonnet-maker's apprentice._)
_Mr. Ernest Hawkins_ (_otherwise known as "ERNIE 'ORKINS";
19 or 20; _short, sallow, spectacled; draper's assistant; a
respectable and industrious young fellow, who chooses to pass
in his hours of ease as a blase misogynist_).
_Alfred_ (_his friend; shorter and sallower; a person with a
talent for silence, which he cultivates assiduously_).
_POLLY and FLO are seated upon chairs by the path, watching
the crowd promenading around the enclosure where the Band is
playing._
_Polly_ (_to FLO_). There's ERNIE 'ORKINS;--he doesn't see us yet.
'Ullo, ERNIE, come 'ere and talk to us, won't you?
_Flo_. Don't, POLLY. I'm sure _I_ don't want to talk to him!
_Polly_. Now you know you _do_, FLO,--more than I do, if the truth was
known. It's all on your account I called out to him.
_Mr. Hawkins_ (_coming up_). 'Ullo! so _you_'re 'ere, are you?
[_Stands in front of their chairs in an easy attitude. His
friend looks on with an admiring grin in the background,
unintroduced, but quite happy and contented._
_Polly_. Ah, _we_'re 'ere all right enough. 'Ow did _you_ get out?
_Mr. H._ (_his dignity slightly ruffled_). 'Ow did I get out? I'm not
in the 'abit of working Sundays if _I_ know it.
_Polly_. Oh, I thought p'raps _she_ wouldn't let you come out without
'er. (_Mr. H. disdains to notice this insinuation._) Why, how you are
blushing up, FLO! She looks quite nice when she blushes, don't she?
_Mr. H._ (_who is of the same opinion, but considers it beneath him
to betray his sentiments_). Can't say, I'm sure; I ain't a judge of
blushing myself. I've forgotten how it's done.
_Polly_. Ah! I dessay you found it convenient to forget. (_A pause.
Mr. H. smiles in well-pleased acknowledgment of this tribute to his
brazen demeanour._) Did ARTHUR send you a telegraph?--he sent FLO
one. [_This is added with a significance intended to excite Mr. H.'s
jealousy._
_Mr. H._ (_unperturbed_). No; he telegraphed to father, though. He's
gettin' on well over at Melbun, ain't he? They think a lot of him out
there. And now gettin' his name in the paper, too, like that, why--
_Flo_. That'll do him a lot of good, 'aving his name in the paper,
won't it?
_Mr. H._ Oh, ARTHUR's gettin' on fine. Have you read the letters he's
sent over? No? Well, you come in to-morrow evening and have a look
at 'em. Look sharp, or they'll be lent out again; they've been the
reg'lar round, I can tell you. I shall write and blow 'im up, though,
for not sending me a telegraft, too.
_Polly_. You! 'Oo are _you_? You're on'y his brother, you are. It's
different, his sending one to FLO.
_Mr. H._ (_not altogether relishing this last suggestion_). Ah, well,
I dessay I shall go out there myself, some day.
[_Looks at Miss FLO, to see how she likes that._
_Flo_. Yes, you'd better. It would make you quite a man, wouldn't it?
[_Both girls titter._
_Mr. H._ (_nettled_). 'Ere, I say, I'm off. Good-bye! Come on, ALF!
[_Fausse sortie._
_Polly_. No, don't go away yet. Shall you take _'er_ out with you,
ERNIE, eh?
_Mr. H._ What 'er? I don't know any 'er.
_Polly_ (_archly_). Oh, you think we 'aven't 'eard. 'Er where you live
now. _We_ know all about it!
_Mr. H._ Then you know more than what _I_ do. There's nothing between
me and anybody where _I_ live. But I'm going out to Ostralia, though.
I've saved up 'alf of what I want already.
_Polly_ (_banteringly_). You _are_ a good boy. Save up enough for _me_
too!
_Mr. H._ (_surveying her with frank disparagement_). _You_? Oh, lor!
Not if I know it!
_Flo_ (_with an exaggerated sigh_). Oh dear, I wish I was over there.
They say they're advertising for maidservants--fifteen shillings a
week, and the washing put out. I'd marry a prince or a lord duke,
perhaps, when I got there. ARTHUR sent me a fashion-book.
_Mr. H._ So he sent me one, too. It was the Autumn fashions. They get
their Autumn in the Spring out there, you know, and their Christmas
Day comes in the middle of July. Seems rum, doesn't it?
_Flo_. He sent me his photo, too. He _has_ improved.
_Polly_. You go out there, ERNIE, and p'raps _you_'ll improve. [_FLO
giggles._
_Mr. H._ (_hurt_). There, that's enough--good-bye.
[_Fausse sortie No. 2._
_Polly_ (_persuasively_). 'Ere, stop! I want to speak to you. Is your
girl here?
_Mr. H._ (_glad of this opportunity_). My girl? I ain't got no girl. I
don't believe in 'em--a lot of--
_Polly_ (_interrupting_). A lot of what? Go on--don't mind _us_.
_Mr. H._ It don't matter. _I_ know what they are.
_Polly_. But you like Miss PINKNEY, though,--at the shop in Queen's
Road,--_you_ know.
_Mr. H._ (_by way of proclaiming his indifference_). Miss PINKNEY? She
ought to be Mrs. SOMEBODY by this time,--she's getting on for thirty.
_Polly_. Ah, but she don't look it, does she: not with that lovely
coloured 'air and complexion? You knew she painted, I dessay? She
don't look--well, not more than thirty-two, at the outside. She
spends a lot on her 'air, I know. She sent our GEORGY one day to the
'air-dresser's for a bottle of the stuff she puts on, and the barber
sez: "What, do _you_ dye your 'air?" To little _GEORGY_! fancy!
_Mr. H._ Well, she may dye herself magenter for all I care. (_Changing
the subject._) ARTHUR's found a lot of old friends at Melbun,--first
person he come upon was a policeman as used to be at King Street; and
you remember that Miss LAVENDER he used to go out with? (_Speaking at_
FLO.) Well, her brother was on board the steamer he went in.
_Polly_. It's all right, FLO, ain't it? so long as it wasn't Miss
LAVENDER herself! (_To Mr. H._) I say, ain't you got a moustarsh
comin'!
_Mr. H._ (_wounded for the third time_). That'll do. I'm off this
time! [_The devoted ALF once more prepares for departure._
_Polly_. All right! Tell us where you'll be, and we may come and
meet you. I daresay we shall find you by the Outer Circle,--where the
children go when they get lost. I say, ERNIE, look what a short frock
that girl's got on.
_Mr. H._ (_lingering undecidedly_). I don't want to look at no girls,
I tell you.
_Polly_. What, can't you see _one_ you like,--not out of all this lot?
_Mr. H._ Not one. Plenty of 'ARRIETS! [_Scornfully._
_Flo._ Ah! and 'ARRIES too. There's a girl looking at you, ERNIE; do
turn round.
_Mr. H._ (_loftily_). I'm sure I shan't look at _her_, then. I
expected a cousin of mine would ha' turned up here by now.
_Polly_. I wish he'd come. P'raps I might fall in love with him,--who
knows?--or else FLO might.
_Mr. H._ Ah! he's a reg'lar devil, I can tell you, my cousin is. Why,
I'm a saint to _'im!_
_Polly_. Oh, I daresay! "Self-praise," you know!
_Mr. H._ (_with a feeling that he is doing himself an injustice_). Not
but what I taught him one or two things he didn't know, when he was
with me at Wandsworth. (_Thinks he won't go until he has dropped one
more hint about Australia._) As to Ostralia, you know, I've quite made
up my mind to go out there as soon as I can. I ain't _said_ nothing,
but I've been meaning it all along. They won't mind my going at home,
like they did ARTHUR's, eh?
_Flo_ (_in a tone of cordial assent_). Oh no, of _course_ not. It
isn't as if you were 'im, _is_ it?
_Mr. H._ (_disappointed, but still bent on asserting his own value_).
You see, I'm independent. I can always find a berth, _I_ can. I don't
believe in keeping on anywhere longer than I'm comfortable. Not but
what I shall stick to where I am a bit longer, because I've a chance
of a rise soon. The Guv'nor don't like the man in the Manchester
department, so I expect I shall get his berth. I get on well with the
Guv'nor, you know, and he treats us very fair;--we've a setting-room
to ourselves, and we can come and set in the droring-room of a Sunday
afternoon, like the family; and I often have to go into the City, and,
when I get up there, I can tell yer, I--
_Flo_ (_suddenly_). Oh! there's Mother! I must go and speak to her a
minute. Come, POLLY!
[_Both girls rise, and rush after a stout lady who is
disappearing in the crowd._
_Alfred_ (_speaking for the first time_). I say, we'll 'ook it now,
eh?
_Mr. H._ (_gloomily accepting the situation_). Yes, we'd better 'ook
it.
[_They "'ook it" accordingly, and Miss FLO and Miss POLLY,
returning later, find, rather to their surprise, that their
victim has departed, and their chairs are filled by blandly
unconscious strangers. However, both young ladies declare that
it is "a good riddance," and they thought "that ERNIE 'ORKINS
never meant to go,"-- which seems amply to console them for
having slightly overrated their powers of fascination._
* * * * *
THE GROAN OF THE "GROWLER."
[_The British "Cabby," hearing of the new Parisian plan of
regulating Cab-fares by distance, which is to be shown by
an automatic apparatus, venteth his feelings of dismay and
disgust in anticipation of the application of the new-fangled
System nearer home._]
A Autumn-attic happaratus
For measuring off our blooming fares!
Oh, hang it all! They slang and slate us;
They say we crawls, and cheats, and swears.
And we surwives the sneering slaters,
Wot tries our games to circumvent,
But treating us like Try-yer-weighters,
Or chockerlate, or stamps, or scent!
Upon my soul the stingy dodgers
Did ought to be shut up. They're wuss
Than Mrs. JACKERMETTY PRODGERS,
Who earned the 'onest Cabman's cuss.
It's sickening! Ah, I tell yer wot, Sir,
Next they'll stick hup--oh, you may smile--
This:--"Drop a shilling in the slot. Sir,
And the Cab goes for just two mile!"
Beastly! I ain't no blessed babby,
Thus to be measured off like tape.
Yah! Make a autumn-attic Cabby,
With clock-work whip and a tin cape.
May as well, while you're on the job, Sir.
And then--may rust upset yer works!
The poor man of his beer they'd rob, Sir,
Who'd rob poor Cabby of his perks!
[Illustration: A CONTENTED MIND.
_Angelina_. "INCOMES UNDER L150 A YEAR ARE EXEMPT FROM INCOME-TAX.
ISN'T IT LUCKY, DARLING? WE JUST MISS IT BY FIVE POUNDS!"]
* * * * *
TO A FEATHER-HEADED POET.
Oh, mountainous mouther of molehills, weak wielder of terrors outworn,
Discharger of sulphurous salvoes, effetely ferocious in scorn,
Shrill shrieker and sesquipedalian, befoamed and befumed and immense
With the words that are wind on an ocean, whose depth is unfathomed of sense,
Red fury that smitest at shadows, black shadows of blood that is red
In the face of a soulless putrescence, doomed, damned, deflowered and dead;
Oh, robed in the rags of thy raging, like tempests that thunder afar,
In a night that is fashioned of Chaos discerned in the light of a star,
For the verse that is venom and vapour, discrowned and disowned of the free,
Take thou from the shape that is Murder, none other will thank thee, thy fee.
Yea, Freedom is throned on the Mountains; the cry of her children seems vain
When they fall and are ground into dust by the heel of the lords of the plain.
Calm-browed from her crags she beholdeth the strife and the struggle beneath.
And her hand clasps the hilt, but it draws not the sword of her might from its sheath.
And we chide her aloud in our anguish, "Cold mother, and careless of wrong,
How long shall the victims be torn unavenged, unavenging? How long?"
And the laugh of oppressors is scornful, they reck not of ruth as they urge
The hosts that are tireless in torture, the fiends with the chain and the scourge,
But at last--for she knoweth the season--serene she descends from the height,
And the tyrants who flout her grow pale in her sunrise, and pray for the night.
And they tremble and dwindle before her amazed, and, behold, with a breath,
Unhasting, unangered advancing, she dooms them to terror and death.
But she the great mother of heroes, the shield and the sword of the weak,
What lot or what part has her glory in madmen who gibber and shriek?
Her eye is as death to assassins, the brood of miasma and gloom,
Foul shapes that grow sleek upon slaughter, as worms that are hid in a tomb.
In the dawn she has marshalled her armies, the millions go marching as one,
With a tramp that is fearless as joy, and a joy that is bright as the sun.
But the minions of Murder move softly; unseen they have crept from their lair,
In a night that is darker than doom on the famishing face of despair.
And they lurk and they tremble and cower, and stab as they lurk from behind,
Like shapes from a pit Acherontic by hatred and horror made blind.
These are not the soldiers of Freedom; the hearts of her lovers grow faint
When the name of assassin is chanted as one with the name of a saint.
And thou the pale poet of Passion, who art wanton to strike and to kill,
Lest her wrath and her splendour abash thee and scorch thee and crush thee, be still.
* * * * *
A VERY SHORT HOLIDAY.
(_BY ONE WHO ENJOYED IT._)
It having occurred to me that within a few days I might get an entire
change by visiting some thoroughly French seaside places on the coast
of Normandy, I started _via_ Southampton for Havre.
I started mysteriously at midnight. Lights down. We glided out, almost
sneaked out, as if ashamed of ourselves. I had pictured to myself
sitting out on deck, enjoying the lovely air and the picturesque
view. _L'homme propose, la mer dispose._ I retired early, and
enjoyed neither the lovely air nor the picturesque view. "The rest
is--silence," or as much silence as possible, and as much rest as
possible.
[Illustration: The "Screen Scene," as played on a gusty night on the
covered terrace at Frascati's, Le Havre.]
8'30 A.M.--Le Havre. Consul's chief attendant,--_Lictor_, I
suppose, the master being a consul,--sees me and my baggage
through the customs--"customs more honoured in the breach than the
observance,"--and in five minutes I am--that is, _we_ are, the pair
of us--at the Hotel Frascati, which, whether it be the best or not
I cannot say, is certainly the liveliest, and the only one with a
covered terrace facing the sea where you can breakfast, dine, and
generally enjoy a life which, for the time being, is worth living.
_A propos_ of this terrace, I merely give the proprietor of Frascati
a hint,--the one drawback to the comfort of dining or breakfasting
in this upper terrace is the door which communicates with the lower
terrace, and through which everyone is constantly passing. We know
that _Il faut qu'une porte soit ouverte ou fermee_. But this is opened
and shut, or not shut, and, if shut, more or less banged, every three
minutes. If it isn't banged, it bursts open of its own accord, and
whacks the nearest person violently on the back, or hits a table, and
scatters the bottles, or, if not misbehaving itself in this way (which
is only when rude Boreas is at his rudest), it admits such a draught
as causes bald-headed men to rage, ladies to shiver, delicate persons
to sneeze, and, finally, impels the diners to raise such a clattering
of knife-handles on the different tables, as if they were applauding
a speech or a comic song. Then the _maitre-d'hotel_ rushes at the
door and closes it violently,--only for it to be re-opened a minute
afterwards by a waiter or visitor entering from the terrace below!
A mechanical contrivance and a light screen would do away with the
nuisance, for a nuisance it most undoubtedly is. The perpetual banging
causes headache, irritation, and indigestion, and those who have
suffered _n'y reviendront pas_, like several _Marlbrooks_. Let the
proprietor look to this, and, where most things are done so well, and
not unreasonably, don't let there be a Havre-and-Havre policy of hotel
management. _Allons!_
I am writing this paper for the sake of those who have only a very
few days for a holiday, and like to make the most of it in the way
of thorough change. If you select Havre as your head-quarters for
Trouville, Cabourg, and Dives, _you must be a good sailor_, as you
can only reach these places by sea; and three-quarters of an hour bad
passage there, with the prospect of three-quarters of an hour worse
passage back at some inconvenient hour of the evening, destroys all
chance of enjoyment. If you're not a good sailor, remain on the Havre
side of the Seine, and there's plenty to be seen there to occupy you
from Saturday afternoon till Wednesday evening, when _The Wolf_ (what
a name!) makes its return voyage to Southampton.
If the sea at Dives, in 1066 A.D., had been anything like what it was
at Havre the other day, when I wanted to cross over to Dives, WILLIAM
THE CONQUEROR would never have sailed from that place for the invasion
of England. Dull as he might have found Dives, yet I am sure the
Conquering Hero would have preferred returning to Paris, to risking
the discomfort of the crossing. By the way, the appropriate station
in Paris for Dives would be Saint-Lazaire.