Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99., August 23, 1890. by Various
V >>
Various >> Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 99., August 23, 1890.
Then there are Honfleur, and Harfleur, and most people know Ste.
Adresse and Etretat. The views and the drives are not equal to those
about Ilfracombe and Lynton, and Etretat itself is only a rather
inferior kind of Lynmouth. Those who want bracing won't select either
Ste. Adresse or Etretat or Havre for a prolonged stay. Taking for
granted the short-holiday-maker will visit all these places, let me
give him a hint for one day's enjoyment, for which, I fancy, I shall
earn his eternal gratitude. Order a carriage with two horses at Havre,
start at nine or 9'30, and drive to Etretat by way of Marviliers.
Stop at the Hotel de Vieux Plats at Gonneville for breakfast. Never
will you have seen a house so full of curiosities of all sorts; the
walls are covered with clever sketches and paintings by more or less
well-known artists, and the service of the house is carried on by M.
and Mme. AUBOURG, their son and daughter, who, with the assistance
of a few neat-handed Phyllises, do everything themselves for their
customers, and are at once the best of cooks, _sommeliers_, and
waiters. So cheery, so full of life and fun, so quick, so attentive,
serving you as if you were the only visitor in the place, though
the little inn is as full as it can be crammed, and there are fifty
persons breakfasting there at the same moment.
[Illustration: Mademoiselle qui sait attendre.]
Every room being occupied, and every nook in the garden too, we are
accommodated with a rustic table in the "Grand Salon," part of which
is screened off as a kind of bar. The "Grand Salon" is also full of
quaint pictures and eccentric curiosities; it is cool and airy, bright
flowers are in the windows, and the floor is sanded. We had stopped
here to refresh the horses, intending to breakfast at Etretat. But so
delighted were we, a party of "_deux couverts_," with this good hotel,
and still more with the _famille Aubourg_, that, though we had driven
away, and were a mile further on our road to Etretat, we decided--and
Counsellor Hunger was our adviser too--on returning to this house
where we had noticed breakfast-table tastefully laid out for some
expected visitors, and had been in the kitchen, and with our own eyes
had seen, and with our own noses had smelt the appetising preparation
for the parties already in possession. So we drove back again rapidly,
much to the delight of our coachman, who had become very melancholy,
and was evidently forming a very poor opinion of persons who could
lose the chance of a breakfast _chez Aubourg_.
[Illustration: "Le vrai dernier!"]
How pleased Mlle. AUBOURG, the waitress, appeared to be when
we returned! All the family prepared to kill the fatted calf
figuratively, as it took the shape of the sweetest and freshest
shrimps as _hors d'oeuvre_, and then it became an omelette _au lard_
("O La!") absolutely unsurpassable, and a _poulet saute_, which was
about the best that ever we tasted. A good bottle of the ordinary
generous, fruit, and then a cup of recently roasted and freshly
ground coffee with a thimbleful of some special Normandy cognac,--in
which our cheery host joined us, and we all drank one another's
healths,--completed as good a _dejeuner_ as any man or woman of simple
tastes could possibly desire.
[Illustration: M. Aubourg fils comes out for a blow. The Son and Air.]
Then the cheery son of the house, dressed in a cook's cap and apron,
pauses in his work to join in our conversation. He tells us how he has
been in London, and can speak English, and is enthusiastic about the
satiric journal which _Mr. Punch_ publishes weekly. M. AUBOURG _fils_
who is a truthful likeness, on a large scale, of M. DAUBRAY, of the
Palais Royal, informs me that he can play the horn after the manner of
the guards on the coaches starting from the "White Horse," Piccadilly;
and so, when we start for Etretat, he produces a big _cor de chasse_,
and, while he sounds the farewell upon it, a maid rushes out and rings
the parting bell, and M. AUBOURG _pere_ waves his cap, and Madame
her hand, and Mlle. her _serviette_, and we respond with hat and
handkerchief until we turn the corner, and hear the last flourish of
the French "horn of the hunter," and see the last flourish of pretty
Mademoiselle's snow-white _serviette_. Then we go on our way to
Etretat, rejoicing. But, after this excitement, Etretat palls upon
us. After a couple of hours of Etretat, we are glad to drive up, and
up, and up, and get far away and above Etretat, where we can breathe
again.
Far better is Fecamp which we tried two days after, and Fecamp
is just a trifle livelier than Westward Ho! Of course its Abbaye
is an attraction in itself. It is a place whose inhabitants show
considerable public spirit, as it is here that "Benedictine" is
made. When at Le Havre drive over to St. Jouin, and breakfast _chez
Ernestine_. Another day you can spend at Rouen, returning in the
evening to dinner. This is not intended as a chapter in a guidebook,
but simply as a hint at any time to those who need a thorough change
in a short time, and who do not care to go too far off to get it. When
they've quite finished building and paving Havre, I'll return there
and take a few walks. Now the authorities responsible for the paving
are simply the best friends of the boot-making interest, just as in
London the Hansoms collectively ought to receive a handsome Christmas
hat-box from the hatters. But mind this, when at Havre drive to
Gonneville, and breakfast _chez_ M. AUBOURG.
* * * * *
IN THE KNOW.
(_BY MR. PUNCH'S OWN PROPHET._)
I have had a communication from Mr. JEREMY, written in the execrable
English of which this calico-livered scoundrel is a consummate master,
and informing me that, if I care to join the staff of the journal
which Mr. J. directs, a princely salary shall be at my disposal.
Mr. J. inquires what special branch of fiction it would suit me to
undertake, as he proposes to publish a serial novel by an author of
undoubted imaginative power. Here is my answer to Mr. J. I will do
nothing for him. His compliments I despise. Flattery has never yet
caused me to falter. And if he desires to prop the tottering fortunes
of his chowder-headed rag, let him obtain support from the pasty-faced
pack of cacklers who surround him. I would stretch no finger to help
him, no, not if I saw him up to his chin in the oleo-margarine of
which his brains and those of his bottle-nosed, flounder-eared friends
seem to be composed. So much then for Mr. J. _Du reste_, as TALLEYRAND
once said, my important duties to the readers of this journal fully
absorb my time.
Last week I offered to the public some interesting details of the
family history of an exalted German prince, whose friendship and
good-will it has been my fortune to acquire by means of the dazzling
accuracy of my forecasts of racing events in this country. I may state
at once that the Grand Cross of the Honigthau Order, "_mit Diamanten
und Perlen_," which his Serene Highness was good enough to confer upon
me, has come to hand, and even now sparkles on a breast as incapable
of deceit as it is ardent in the pursuit of truth. Let this be an
incitement to the deserving, and a warning to scoffers who presume
to doubt me. Many other gratifying testimonies of foreign approval
have reached me. From the immense heap of them stored in my front
drawing-room, I select the following specimens:--
(I.) _BUENOS AYRES, MONDAY._
Revolution crushed entirely by your aid. At the crisis, General
Pompanilla read _all_ your published writings aloud to insurgent
chiefs. Effect was magical. They thought your prophecies _better than
ammunition_. Ha, ha! Their widows have fled the country. A pension
of a million _pesetas_ awarded to you. Rumours about my resignation
a mere blind. (_Signed_) Dr. Celman, _President_.
(II.) _BUENOS AYRES, MONDAY._
The traitor Celman has been vanquished, thanks to you. When ammunition
failed, we loaded with sporting prophecies. Very deadly. Treasury
cleared directly. One of your adjectives annihilated a brigade of
infantry.
(_Here follow the signatures of the Leaders of the Union Civica, to
the number of_ 5,000.)
(III.) _GUATEMALA, SUNDAY._
Victorious army of Guatemala sends thanks to its brave champion. Your
inspired writings have been set to music, and are sung as national
hymns. Effect on San Salvadorians terrible. Only two deaf sergeants
left alive. _Guerra, Vittoria Matador, Mantilla_.
(_Signed_) BARILLAS, _President_.
(IV.) _SAN SALVADOR, SUNDAY._
Land pirates from Guatemala foiled, owing to valiant English
_Punch_-Prophet. Army when reduced to last biscuit, fed on racing
intelligence. Captain-General sustained nature on white native plant
called _Tehp_, much used by Indian tribe of _Estar-ting-prisahs_. My
body-guard performed prodigies on _Thenod_, the well-known root of the
_Cuff_ plant. Have adopted you as my grandson.
(_Signed_) Ezeta, _President_.
That is sufficient for one week. Those who wish for more in the
meantime, must call at my residence.
* * * * *
THE REAL GRIEVANCE OFFICE.
(_BEFORE MR. COMMISSIONER PUNCH._)
_AN ENGINEER OFFICER, R.N., INTRODUCED._
_The Commissioner_. Sorry to see you here, Sir, as your presence
argues that you have a right to demand redress.
[Illustration]
_Engineer Officer, R.N._ I think, Sir, that we have a genuine
grievance is almost universally conceded. But, as our labours and
responsibilities have increased enormously of late years, perhaps you
will kindly allow me to describe our duties.
_The Com._ By all means.
_En. Of., R.N._ As the matter is of the greatest importance to
fourteen hundred officers, commanding ten thousand men, I hope you
will not consider me tedious in making the following statement. The
success of every function of the modern battle-ship depends upon
machinery for which the Engineer officers are directly responsible.
By its means the anchor is lifted, boats are hoisted, the ship is
steered, ventilated, and electrically lighted. Pure drinking water is
supplied for its hundreds of inhabitants. The efficiency of all the
elaborate arrangements of the hull for safety in collision, fire,
or battle, depends upon the Engineers. Their machinery trains and
elevates, loads and controls the heavy guns. The use of the Whitehead
torpedo and all its appliances would be an impossibility without the
Engineers. In addition to this there is the propulsion of the ship,
and the control and supervision of a large staff of artificers
and men. And yet the Engineer officers are the lowest paid class
of commissioned officers in the Royal Navy--this when, without
exaggeration, they may be described as the hardest-worked.
_The Com._ It certainly seems unfair that officers of your importance
should not receive ampler remuneration. When was the rate established?
_En. Of., R.N._ It has seen little change since 1870; and you
may judge of its justice when I tell you that a young Surgeon of
twenty-three, appointed to his first ship, receives more pay than
many Engineer officers who have seen fourteen years' service, and
have reached the age of thirty-five.
_The Com._ I am decidedly of opinion that your pay should be
increased, and I suppose (as evidently there has been "class feeling"
in the matter) you have had to suffer annoyance anent relative rank?
_En. Of., R.N._ (_with a smile_). Well, yes, we have. But if the
Engineer-in-Chief at the Admiralty (who, by the way, receives L1000
a-year, and yet is held responsible for the design and manufacture of
machinery costing L12,000,000 per annum) is admitted to be superior
to all other Engineer officers, we shall be satisfied. Still I cannot
help saying that the Chief Engineer of a ship is snubbed when all is
right, and only has his importance and responsibility allowed (when
indeed it is recognised and paraded) when anything is wrong! But let
that pass.
_The Com._ I am afraid it is too late to do anything further this
Session, as the House is just up. However, if matters are not more
satisfactory at the end of the recess, let me know, and--but you
shall see!
[_The Witness, after suitable acknowledgment, then withdrew._
* * * * *
"A LITTLE MORE THAN GAY BUT LESS THAN GRAVE."--Not very long ago, an
act of sacrilege was committed at Canterbury by a man, who robbed an
alms-box in the Cathedral. However, disregarding the precedent set
some time since by the Dean and Chapter (who it will be remembered dug
up and removed the bones of the honoured dead) the intruder abstained
from touching the vaults of those buried in consecrated ground.
* * * * *
[Illustration: DIGNITY IN DISTRESS.
_Small Boys_ (_to Volunteer Major in temporary command_). "I SAY,
GUV'NOR--HI! JUST WIPE THE BLOOD OFF THAT 'ERE SWORD!!"]
* * * * *
MIGHT BE BETTER!
Small game and scant! The Season's show
Of Birds, in bunches big, adjacent,
Will hardly take JOHN's eye, although
The Poulterer appears complacent,
Seeing, good easy man, quite clearly
That rival shops show yet more queerly.
It can't be said the Birds look young,
Or plump of breast, or fine of feather.
A skinnier lot than SOL has hung
Ne'er skimmed the moor or thronged the heather;
But for dull plumage, shrivelled crop,
Look at the Opposition shop!
Amongst the blind the one-eyed king
Is, not unnaturally, bumptious.
That Poulterer with a swaggering swing
Strides to his door, the stock looks "scrumptious"
In _his_ eyes; but thrasonic diction
To BULL will hardly bring conviction.
"Humph!" mutters JOHN. "A poorish lot!
Scarce tempting to the would-be diner;
This year, SOL,--or may I be shot!--
Your foreign birds appear the finer.
The Home moors have not yielded? Well, Sir,
Let's hope your stock, though scant, may sell, Sir!
"Eh? What? Do better later on?
Give a look in about November?
Well, for the time I must be gone,
Off to the Sea! But I'll remember.
My judgment heat or haste shan't fetter,
But, up to now--things _might_ look better!"
* * * * *
LITTERAE INHUMANIORES.
(_SELECTED FROM THE PROJECTED INTERNATIONAL SCHOOLBOY
CORRESPONDENCE._)
_FROM_ TOMMY, _ETON, TO_ JULES, _LYCEE HENRI IV._
Mon cher "CHAP,"--Je connais pas votre surnom et c'est pourquoi je
vous appelle "chap,"--vous pouvez comprendre, je crois, que c'est
difficile de commencer un correspondence dans une langue qui n'est
pas le votre, et surtout avec un chap que vous ne connais pas, mais
il faut faire un commencement de quelque sorte, et malgre qu'on m'a
dit que vous "fellows," etes des _duffers_ (expression Anglaise. Un
_duffer_ c'est une personne qui n'est pas dans le "swim"), qui ne
comprenderaient pas un seul mot que je dirai sur le sujet, jamais le
plus petit, j'essayerai a expliquer brefment qu'est-ce que c'est que
Le "Cricket."
Eh bien, le _cricket_ est un "stunning" jeu. "Stunning" est une autre
expression Anglaise qui veut dire qu'une chose est regulairement "a,
un," ou de me servir d'argot, "parfaitement de premiere cotelette," et
qui "prend le gateau." Pour faire un cote de cricket, il faut onze.
Je ne suis pas encore dans notre onze, mais j'espere d'etre la un de
ces jours. Mais pour continuer. Il y a le "wicket," une chose fait de
trois morceaux de bois, a qui le "bowler" jette la balle, dur comme
une pierre, et si ca vous attrappe sur le jambe, je vous promis, ca
vous fera sauter. Et bien, avant le wicket se place l'homme qui est
dedans et qui tient dans ces mains le "bat" avec lequel il frappe la
balle et fait des courses. L'autre jour dans un "allumette" entre deux
"counties," un professional qui s'appelle _Fusil_ a fait plus que deux
cents des courses.
Mais pour continuer encore. Si l'homme qui est dedans ne frappe pas la
balle, et la balle au contraire frappe les "wickets," on tourne a un
personage qui s'apelle le "Umpire" et lui dit, "Comment ca, Monsieur
l'Umpire?" et il dit, "Dehors!" ou, "Pas dehors!"--et quand tous les
onze sont "dehors" le innings est fini, et l'autre cote commence.
Et voila le cricket. N'est-ce pas qu'il est, comme j'ai dis, un
_stunning_ jeu? Eh bien, je crois que, pour une premiere lettre, j'ai
fait le chose en style. Ecrivez vous maintenant en reponse, et donnez
moi une description d'un de votre jeux, pour me montrer que vous
Francais ne sont pas, comme nous pensons en Angleterre, tous des
"duffers." Le votre sincerement, TOMMY.
_FROM JULES, LYCEE HENRI IV., TO TOMMY, ETON._
My excellent comrade,--I have just been in receipt of your epistle,
profound, interesting, but antagonistic concerning your JOHN BULL's
prizefighting, high life, sportsman's game, your _Jeu de Cricquette_,
about which I will reply to you in my next. Accept the assurance of my
most distinguished consideration, JULES.
* * * * *
A DANGEROUS CORNER.--A ring in Chemicals is proposed, which, if
formed, will cost the public about ten millions sterling. Whether
the said public will see any return for its money is problematical.
However, it may be hinted that the end of Chemicals is frequently
smoke, and sometimes an explosion which blows up the company!
* * * * *
[Illustration: MIGHT BE BETTER!
JOHN BULL. "HUMPH! SEEMS TO ME, MR. SALISBURY, YOUR _FOREIGN_ BIRDS ARE
THE FINEST THIS SEASON!"]
* * * * *
TO CANADA.
"We beseech your MAJESTY to accept our assurances of the
contentment of your MAJESTY's Canadian subjects with the
political connection between Canada and the rest of the
British Empire, and of their fixed resolve to aid in
maintaining the same."--_Loyal Address to the Queen from
Canada_.
Accept them? _Punch_ believes you, boys,
And store them 'midst our choicest treasures!
In these fierce days of factious noise
The Sage experiences few pleasures
So genuine as this outburst frank
Of "true Canadian opinion."
He hastens heartily to thank
The loyal hearts of the Dominion!
Mother and daughter should be tied
By trustful faith and free affection.
If ours be mutual love and pride,
Who's going to "sever the connection"?
Let plotters scheme, and pedants prate,
They will not pick our true love's true lock
Whilst truth and justice arm the State
With friends like AMYOT and MULOCH!
Mother and daughter! Love-linked like
Persephone and fond Demeter.
Fleet to advance, and strong to strike,
And yearly growing stronger, fleeter,
Miss CANADA need not depend
On Dame BRITANNIA altogether,
But she may trust her as a friend,
Faithful in fair or threatening weather.
Tour hand, Miss, with your heart in it,
You to the Mother Country proffer.
Beshrew the cynic would-be wit.
Who coldly chuckles at the offer!
BRITANNIA takes it, with a grip
That on the sword, at need, can clench too, too!
She will not that warm grasp let slip,
Health, boys of British blood,--and French
* * * * *
A NATIONAL APPEAL.
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Cannot you do something to help us, and save us from
a permanent consignment to that wretched hole-in-a-corner back street
site thrust upon us at the rear of the National Gallery? We do not
know how far matters may have gone, but somebody wrote the other day
to _The Times_ to protest against the job, and we conclude, therefore,
it may not yet, perhaps, be too late to agitate for a stay of
execution. We are not difficult to please, and would be contented with
a modest but suitable home in any convenient locality. That such can
be found when really sought for, witness the happy facility with which
a fitting residence has been discovered in the east and west galleries
surrounding the Imperial Institute for the promised new National
Collection. At South Kensington _we_ had a narrow escape of a
conflagration, from too close a proximity to the kitchen of a shilling
_restaurant_. At Bethnal Green we have been having a prolonged merry
time of it, with damp walls behind us and leaking roofs above our
heads. At one time we were packed away in dusty obscurity, in the
cupboards of a temporary Government office; and looking back on the
past, fruitful as it is in recollections of official slights and
snubs, you may gather that we can have no very ambitious designs for
the future. We do, however, protest against being tacked on as a sort
of outside back-stair appendage to the National Gallery, that will
soon want the space we shall be forced to occupy for its own natural
and legitimate expansion. Suggest a site for us--anywhere else. There
is still room on the Embankment. Kensington Palace--is still in the
market. Why not be welcome there? As representatives for all of us, I
subscribe my name hereunder, and remain,
Your obedient servant,
JOSHUA REYNOLDS (late P.R.A.)
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. JOSKINS BUYS A BOOK ON HORSEBREAKING, AND TRIES HIS HAND.
1. The first thing is to teach the Colt to Lead.
2. Next put on the Bridle, and drive him quietly.
3. After this you may get on his Back.
4. Ride him gently at first, and avoid using the Whip.
5. Make the Pupil understand, firmly but quietly, that you are his Master.
6. Then, after a few Lessons, you will have broken the Colt (or he will have
broken you).]
* * * * *
THE LESSON OF THE SEASON.
[Illustration]
The Season's over; for relief
You're off to scale the Alps;
Say, do you, like some Indian Chief,
Look back and count your scalps?
Does someone rue your broken vows,
And sigh he has to doubt you;
Yet felt withal the week at Cowes
Was quite a blank without you?
Are hearts still broken, as of old,
In this prosaic time,
When love is only given for gold,
And poverty's a crime.
Say, are you conscious of a heart,
And can you feel it beating;
And is it ever sad to part,
And finds a joy in meeting?
The Seasons come, the Seasons go,
With store of good and ill;
Do all men find you cold as snow,
And unresponsive still?
O beautiful enigma, say,
Will love's sublime persistence
Solve for you, in the usual way,
The riddle of existence?
Alas! love is not love to-day,
But just a bargain made,
In cold and calculating way;
And if the price be paid,
A man may win the fairest face,
A maiden tall and queenly,
The daughter of some ancient race,
Who sells herself serenely.
What wonder that the cynic sneers
At such a rule of life;
That, after but a few short years,
Dissension should be rife.
Ah! Lady, you'll avoid heart-ache,
And scorn of bard satiric,
If haply you should deign to take
A lesson from our lyric.
* * * * *
[Illustration: IMITATION THE SINCEREST FLATTERY.
(_Effects of a Long Session in the House._)]
* * * * *
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.
BORN, FEBRUARY 21, 1801. DIED AUGUST 11, 1890.
"Lead, kindly Light!" From lips serene as strong,
Chaste as melodious, on world-weary ears
Fall, 'midst earth's chaos wild of hopes and fears,
The accents calm of spiritual song,
Striking across the tumult of the throng
Like the still line of lustre, soft, severe,
From the high-riding, ocean-swaying sphere,
Athwart the wandering wilderness of waves.
Is there not human soul-light which so laves
Earth's lesser spirits with its chastening beam,
That passion's bale-fire and the lurid gleam
Of sordid selfishness know strange eclipse?
Such purging lustre his, whose eloquent lips
Lie silent now. Great soul, great Englishman!
Whom narrowing bounds of creed, or caste, or clan,
Exclude not from world-praise and all men's love.
Fine spirit, which the strain of ardent strife
Warped not from its firm poise, or made to move
From the pure pathways of the Saintly Life!
NEWMAN, farewell! Myriads whose spirits spurn
The limitations thou didst love so well,
Who never knew the shades of Oriel,
Or felt their quickened spirits pulse and burn
Beneath that eye's regard, that voice's spell,--
Myriads, world-scattered and creed-sundered, turn
In thought to that hushed chamber's chastened gloom.
In all great hearts there is abundant room
For memories of greatness, and high pride
In what sects cannot kill nor seas divide.
The Light hath led thee, on through honoured days
And lengthened, through wild gusts of blame and praise,
Through doubt, and severing change, and poignant pain,
Warfare that strains the breast and racks the brain,
At last to haven! Now no English heart
Will willingly forego unfeigned part
In honouring thee, true master of our tongue,
On whose word, writ or spoken, ever hung
All English ears which knew that tongue's best charm.
Not as great Cardinal such hearts most warm
To one above all office and all state,
Serenely wise, magnanimously great;
Not as the pride of Oriel, or the star
Of this host or of that in creed's hot war,
But as the noble spirit, stately, sweet,
Ardent for good without fanatic heat,
Gentle of soul, though greatly militant,
Saintly, yet with no touch of cloistral cant;
Him England honours, and so bends to-day
In reverent grief o'er NEWMAN's glorious clay.