Part 5

There used to be buttercups once on these meads, There used to be reeds by the bank, But now these same meadows have not even weeds, And the water's decidedly rank. The pastures are crowded with mannerless shows, And the river with refuse is blocked; There isn't a corner for quiet repose, While the nose is most constantly shocked! The houseboats and tents may with rich colour glow, And the course be more bright than before, But there isn't the thought for the men who will row, As there was in the brave days of yore! How Willan and Warre and stout "Johnny" Moss Must recurrence of past time re-wish, And the sight be to them and to rowing a loss, But _I_ only can think of the fish Who are poisoned by garbage and bloated with food, And oppressed with the bottles o'erthrown! My sentiments, though by the many pooh-poohed, By the few will be met with a moan!

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE TOURIST'S BAROMETER

(_Read on the Channel_)

Splendid Weather. I never mind the sea myself. The rougher for me the better. Have a cigar?

Very Fine. One certainly does feel that only Englishmen can be sailors. Somehow or other they take naturally to the sea--now, don't they?

Fine. Yes. I always come by Folkestone. I never _could_ see the use of the _Castalia_. We are not foreigners, you know. Most of us have our sea-legs. Eh?

Moderate. Yes. Perhaps a little brandy-and-water _would_ be a good thing.

Sea slight. The _very_ roughest passage I remember. But I am an excellent sailor. Still, would you mind putting out that cigar?

Rather Rough. It's simply disgraceful. The _Castalia_ ought to be established by Act of Parliament. Shall write to the _Times_. I shall go down below--to think about it!

Rough Oh! Here, somebody! Will it be more--than five minutes? Oh! oh! oh!

Very Rough. (_Far too dreadful for description._)

* * * * *

* * * * *

RIVERSIDE SUNDAY

Unnumbered are the trees that fling O'er Pangbourne Reach their shade, Unnumbered there the birds that sing Melodious serenade; But as the leaves upon the boughs Or feathers on the birds, So are the trippers who carouse Along the banks in herds.

Punt, centre-board, launch, skiff, canoe, Lunch-laden hither hie, Each bearing her expectant crew To veal and chicken-pie; And from the woods around Hart's Lock Reports ring loud and clear, As trippers draw the festive hock Or democratic beer.

From one to three, below, above, Is heard the crisp, clear crunch Of salad, as gay Damons love To linger over lunch. From three to six a kettle sings 'Neath every sheltering tree As afternoon to Phyllis brings The magic hour of tea.

Well may the Cockney fly the Strand For this remoter nest, Where buses cease from rumbling and The motors are at rest. But would you shun your fellows--if To quiet you incline-- Oh, rather scull your shilling skiff Upon the Serpentine.

* * * * *

* * * * *

NEW SAILING ORDERS

(_To be in force on or after the next Ultimo instant_)

_The Darkest Night._--Any man not knowing when the darkest night is will be discharged.

Inquiries can be made any day at the Admiralty from 10 till 4, excepting from 1 till 2, when all hands are piped to luncheon.

_The Rule of the Rowed_ at sea is similar to the rule of the sailed.

No ship must come into collision with another.

If two steamers are on the starboard tack, they must return to the harbour and begin again.

Any steamship likely to meet another steamship must reverse and go somewhere else.

Any admiral out after 12 o'clock will be locked up wherever he is.

Nobody, however high in command, can be permitted to sit on a buoy out at sea for the purpose of frightening vessels.

All complaints to be made to the Admiralty, or to one of the mounted sentries at the Horse Guards.

An admiral is on duty all night to receive complaints.

Every mounted marine on joining must bring his own fork, spoon and towel horse.

If two vessels are meeting end on, take one end off. The other loses and forfeits sixpence.

Any infringement or infraction of the above rules and regulations will be reported by the head winds to the deputy toastmaster for the current year at Colwell-Hatchney.

N.B.--On hand a second-hand pair of gloves for boxing the compass. Remember the 26th of December is near, when they may be wanted. The equivalent of a chaplain-general to the forces has been appointed. He is to be called chaplain-admiral to the fleet. The cockpits are being turned into pulpits. If not ready by next Sunday he will deliver his first sermon from the main-top gallant jibboom mizen. The Colney-Hatches will be crowded.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

A REGATTA RHYME

_On Board the "Athena," Henley-on-Thames_

I like, it is true, in a basswood canoe To lounge, with a weed incandescent: To paddle about, there is not a doubt, I find it uncommonly pleasant! I love the fresh air, the lunch here and there, To see pretty toilettes and faces; But one thing I hate--allow me to state-- The fuss they make over the Races! _I don't care a rap for the Races!_-- _Mid all the Regatta embraces_-- _I'm that sort of chap, I don't care a rap,_ _A rap or a snap for the Races!_

I don't care, you know, a bit how they row, Nor mind about smartness of feather; If steering is bad, I'm not at all sad, Nor care if they all swing together! Oh why do they shout and make such a rout, When one boat another one chases? 'Tis really too hot to bawl, is it not? Or bore oneself over the Races! _I don't care a rap for the Races, &c., &c._

Then the Umpire's boat a nuisance we vote, It interrupts calm contemplation; Its discordant tone, and horrid steam moan, Is death to serene meditation! The roar of the crowd should not be allowed; The gun with its fierce fulmination, Abolish it, pray--'tis fatal, they say, To pleasant and quiet flirtation! _I don't care a rap for the Races, &c., &c._

If athletes must pant--I don't say they shan't-- But give them some decent employment; And let it be clear, they don't interfere With other folks' quiet enjoyment! When luncheon you're o'er, tis really a bore-- And I think it a very hard case is-- To have to look up, from _páté_ or cup, And gaze on those tiresome Races! _I don't care a rap for the Races, &c., &c._

The Races, to me, seem to strike a wrong key, Mid dreamy delightful diversion; There isn't much fun seeing men in the sun, Who suffer from over-exertion! In sweet idle days, when all love to laze, Such violent work a disgrace is! Let's hope we shall see, with me they'll agree, And next year abolish the Races! _I don't care a rap for the Races, &c., &c._

* * * * *

* * * * *

HENLEY REGATTA

_By Jingle Junior on the Jaunt_

All right -- here we are -- quite the waterman -- jolly -- young -- white flannels -- straw hat -- canvas shoes -- umbrella -- mackintosh -- provide against a rainy day! Finest reach for rowing in England -- best regatta in the Eastern Hemisphere -- finest pic-nic in the world! Gorgeous barges -- palatial houseboats -- superb steam-launches -- skiffs -- randans -- punts -- wherries -- sailing-boats -- dinghies -- canoes! Red Lion crammed from cellar to garret -- not a bed to be had in the town -- comfortable trees all booked a fortnight in advance -- well-aired meadows at a premium! Lion Gardens crammed with gay toilettes -- Grand Stand like a flower-show -- band inspiriting -- church-bells distracting -- sober grey old bridge crammed with carriages -- towing-path blocked up with spectators -- meadows alive with pic-nic parties! Flags flying everywhere -- music -- singers -- niggers -- conjurers -- fortune-tellers! Brilliant liveries of rowing clubs -- red -- blue -- yellow -- green -- purple -- black -- white -- all jumbled up together -- rainbow gone mad -- kaleidoscope with _delirium tremens_. Henley hospitality proverbial -- invitation to sixteen luncheons -- accept 'em all -- go to none! Find myself at luncheon where I've not been asked -- good plan -- others in reserve! Wet or fine -- rain or shine -- must be at Henley! If fine, row about all day -- pretty girls -- bright dresses -- gay sunshades. If wet, drop in at hospitable houseboat just for a call -- delightful damsels -- mackintoshes -- umbrellas! Houseboat like Ark -- all in couples -- Joan of Ark in corner with Darby -- Who is she? -- Don't No-ah -- pun effect of cup. Luncheons going on all day -- cups various continually circulating -- fine view -- lots of fun -- delightful, very! People roaring -- rowists howling along bank -- lot of young men with red oars in boat over-exerting themselves -- lot more in boat with blue oars, also over-exerting themselves -- bravo! -- pick her up! -- let her have it! -- well pulled -- everybody gone raving mad! Bang! young men leave off over-exerting themselves -- somebody says somebody has won something. Seems to have been a race about something -- why can't they row quietly? Pass the claret-cup, please -- Why do they want to interrupt our luncheon? -- Eh?

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAIDS

And have you not read of eight jolly young watermaids, Lately at Cookham accustomed to ply And feather their oars with a deal of dexterity, Pleasing the critical masculine eye? They swing so truly and pull so steadily, Multitudes flock to the river-side readily;-- It's not the eighth wonder that all the world's there, But this watermaid eight, ne'er in want of a stare.

What sights of white costumes! What ties and what hatbands, "Leander cerise!" We don't wish to offend, But are these first thoughts with the dashing young women Who don't dash too much in a spurt off Bourne End? Mere nonsense, of course! There's no "giggling and leering"-- Complete ruination to rowing and steering;-- "All eyes in the boat" is their coach's first care, And "a spin of twelve miles" is as naught to the fair.

* * * * *

* * * * *

ECHOES FROM THE THAMES

SCENE--_Houseboat in a good position._ TIME--_Evening during "the Regatta week._" PRESENT (_on deck in cozy chairs_)--_He and She._

_She._ Very pretty, the lights, are they not?

_He._ Perfectly charming. So nice after the heat.

_She._ Yes, and really, everything has been delightful.

_He._ Couldn't possibly be better. Wonderful how well it can be done.

_She._ Yes. But, of course, it wants management. You know a lot comes down from town.

_He._ Will the stores send so far?

_She._ Yes, and if they won't others will. And then the local tradespeople are very obliging.

_He._ But don't the servants rather kick at it?

_She._ No, because they are comfortable enough. Put them up in the neighbourhood.

_He._ Ah, to be sure. And your brother looks after the cellar so well.

_She._ Yes, he is quite a genius in that line.

_He._ And it's awfully nice chatting all day.

_She._ Yes, when one doesn't go to sleep.

_He._ And, of course, we can fall back upon the circulating libraries and the newspapers.

_She._ And so much better than town. It must be absolutely ghastly in Piccadilly.

_He._ Yes, so I hear. And then there's the racing!

_She._ Ah, to be sure. To tell the truth, I didn't notice that very much. Was there any winning?

_He._ Oh, yes, a lot. But I really quite forget what----

_She._ Oh, never mind. We can read all about it in to-morrow's papers, and that will be better than bothering about it now.

[_Scene closes in to soft music on the banjo._

* * * * *

]

* * * * *

"THE SAILORMAN'S MENOO"

(_To a Shipowner. By a Shell-back_)

It's mighty fine, yer talkin', but you never done no trips In the bloomin' leaky foc'sle of yer leaky, rotten ships; And though you gulls the public with a sham Menoo for _us_, It isn't printed lies as makes provisions worth a cuss; And even silly emigrants will tell you straight and true That the test of grub is grubbin', not the advertised Menoo.

I'm talkin' now, not beggin' for a chance to starve and work In an undermanned old tanker with a skipper like a Turk; With a cook as larnt 'is cookin' when 'e 'ad to cook or beg, Or go into an 'orspital to nurse a cranky leg; And what I says I means it, and my words is plain and true, Which is more than any sailorman will say for yer Menoo.

I'll allow that in the look of it, the print of it I mean, That all you say is sarved to us; but is it good or clean? And wot's wet 'ash, or porridge, or any other stuff, When at the very best of it there's 'ardly 'arf enough? Not even with the cockroaches that's given with the stew, Though I notice they nor maggots wasn't down in yer Menoo.

There's the tea and corfee talked of, but folks ashore ain't told That the swine as bought it for you winked 'is eye at them as sold. For sailormen's best Mocha was never further East Than a bloomin' Essex bean-field; and the tea ain't tea--at least It's on'y "finest sweepin's" from the docks, and wot a brew It makes when sarved in buckets to drink to yer Menoo!

The pork and beef on paper, or a tin dish, makes a show, But you'd want yer front teeth sharpened if you tackled it, my bo'! For the beef is still the ancient 'orse wot worked on Portland Pier, And the pork is rotten reasty, that was inwoiced twice too dear If they charged you 'arf a thick 'un for the whack you gives the crew, With the pickles and the butter set out fine in yer Menoo.

I'd like to take you jossers, as thinks as sailormen Is a grumblin' lot of skulkers, just one trip and 'ome agen; For when yer 'ands was achin' with sea cuts to the bone, And the Baltic talked north-easters, you'd be alterin' of yer tone, And might'nt think wot's wrote in print is necessary true, And perhaps when you was safe agen you'd alter our Menoo.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

HENLEY REGATTA

(_By Mr. Punch's Own Oarsman_)

Sir,--This letter is private and is not intended for publication. I particularly beg that you will note this, as on a former occasion some remarks of mine, which were intended only for your private eye, were printed. I of course accepted your assurance that no offence was meant, and that the oversight was due to a person whose services had since the occurrence been dispensed with; but I look to you to take care that it shall not happen again. Otherwise the mutual confidence that should always exist between an editor and his staff cannot possibly be maintained, and I shall have to transfer my invaluable services to some other paper. The notes and prognostications which I have laboriously compiled with regard to the final results of the regatta will arrive by the next post, and will, I flatter myself, be found to be extraordinarily accurate, besides being written in that vivid and picturesque style which has made my contributions famous throughout the civilised world.

There are one or two little matters about which I honestly desire to have your opinion. You know perfectly well that I was by no means anxious for the position of aquatic reporter. In vain I pointed out to you that my experience of the river was entirely limited to an occasional trip by steamboat from Charing Cross to Gravesend. You said that was an amply sufficient qualification, and that no aquatic reporter who respected himself and his readers, had ever so far degraded himself as to row in a boat and to place his body in any of the absurd positions which modern oarsmanship demands. Finding you were inexorable, and knowing your ridiculously hasty temper, I consented finally to undertake the arduous duties. These circumstances, however, make it essential that you should give me advice when I require it. For obvious reasons I don't much like to ask any of the rowing men here any questions. They are mostly in what they call hard training, which means, I fancy, a condition of high irritability. Their strokes may be long, but their tempers are, I regret to say, painfully short. Besides, to be candid, I don't wish to show the least trace of ignorance. My position demands that I should be omniscient, and omniscient, to all outward appearance, I shall remain.

In the first place, what is a "lightship"? As I travelled down to Henley I read in one of the newspapers that "practice for the Royal Regatta was now in full swing, and that the river was dotted with lightships of every description." I remember some years ago passing a very pleasant half hour on board of a lightship moored in the neighbourhood of Broadstairs. The rum was excellent. I looked forward with a lively pleasure to repeating the experience at Henley. As soon as I arrived, therefore, I put on my yachting cap (white, with a gold anchor embroidered in front), hired a boat and a small boy, and directed him to row me immediately to one of the lightships. I spent at least two hours on the river in company with that boy--a very impudent little fellow,--but owing no doubt to his stupidity, I failed to find a single vessel which could be fairly described as a lightship. Finally the boy said they had all been sunk in yesterday's great storm, and with that inadequate explanation I was forced to content myself. But there is a mystery about this. Please explain it.

Secondly, I see placards and advertisements all over the place announcing that "the Stewards Stand." Now this fairly beats me. Why should the stewards stand? They are presumably men of a certain age, some of them must be of a certain corpulence, and it seems to me a refinement of cruelty that these faithful officials, of whom, I believe, the respected Mayor of Henley is one, should be compelled to refrain from seats during the whole of the Regatta. It may be necessary for them to set an example of true British endurance to the crowds who attend the Regatta, but in that case surely they ought to be paid for the performance of their duties.

Thirdly, I have heard a good deal of talk about the Visitors' Cup. Being anxious to test its merits, I went to one of the principal hotels here, and ordered the waiter to bring me a quart of Visitors' Cup, and to be careful to ice it well. He seemed puzzled, but went away to execute my orders. After an absence of ten minutes he returned, and informed me, with the manager's compliments, that they could not provide me with what I wanted, but that their champagne-cup was excellent. I gave the fellow a look, and departed. Perhaps this is only another example of the asinine and anserous dunderheadedness of these crass provincials. Kindly reply, _by wire_, about all the three points I have mentioned.

I have been here for a week, but have, as yet, not been fortunate enough to see any crews. Indeed, I doubt if there are any here. A good many maniacs disport themselves every day in rickety things which look something like gigantic needles, and other people have been riding along the bank, and, very naturally, abusing them loudly for their foolhardy recklessness. But no amount of abuse causes them to desist. I have puzzled my brains to know what it all means, but I confess I can't make it out. I fancy I know a boat when I see one, and of course these ridiculous affairs can't be boats.

Be good enough to send me, by return, at least £100. It's a very difficult and expensive thing to support the dignity of your paper in this town. Whiskey is very dear, and a great deal goes a very short way.

Yours sincerely,

THE MAN AT THE OAR.

_Henley-on-Thames, July 4._

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *