Chapter 2

Dear BOB,--There's a stir in our noble Profession. The hope of the Hairdresser, silent so long, At last, like most others, is finding expression. We've started, dear BOB, and are now going strong. Early Closing's our object, which means that on _one_ day We want to shut up shops and scissors at five! Perhaps Saturday's best, BOB, as coming next Sunday-- Don't seem asking _much_, if they'd keep us alive.

You cannot imagine how grinding our trade is-- Long hours, and long waits, BOB, when custom is slack! When the premises hold one old gent and two ladies, 'Tis hard for twelve chaps to be kept on the rack. To knock off at five on a Saturday eases Our week's work a little. One evening in six Ain't more than the Public can spare--if it pleases-- If only its hours 'twill conveniently fix.

When a swell wants a shave, a shampoo, or a clipping, He likes to drop in at _his_ pleasure, no doubt; But surely he'd not keep us scraping and snipping To save him from being a trifle put out! If he'll but get fixed before five on a Saturday, We poor Hairdressers may get just a chance Of an hour or two's pleasure or rest on the latter day; Prospect to make many dreary eyes dance!

And yet some object to this small "Early Closing," I wish they could know what it is to chop, chop, When your feet are one ache and your eyes drawn to dozing And you're sick of the sight and the smell of the shop! When a whiff from the meadows appears to come stealing Above all our washes, and powders, and soaps; And the whirr of the brush which revolves near the ceiling Seems pain to our ears and seems death to our hopes!

True, most of the Masters will yield to our yearnings, A lesson I think to the few who stand out! I wager the change won't diminish their earnings, W. REED and A. SUTTON know what they're about,-- Our President, BOB, and our Hon. Sec. Address 'em At "fair Piccadilly," 6, Swallow Street, W. Hairdressers' Assistants unitedly bless 'em, If you, BOB, or others _can_ help us, I'll trouble you!

'Tis long, my dear BOB, since I sent you a letter, And this you'll admit is a practical one. We Hairdressers wish our condition to better, And get our fair share of rest, leisure, and fun. One Five o' Clock Close every week is our plea, BOB, Not much for the slaves of scrape-scrape and snip-snip! The fairness of it I'm convinced you will see, BOB, And so should the world, says

CARACTACUS CLIP.

[_Mr. Punch_, who knows how much his own personal comfort is dependent upon the adroit ministrations of the "Sons of the Shears," cordially seconds the appeal of his old Correspondent.]

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A CASE OF FRENCH LEAVE.--The Gallic Fleet have gone to Cherbourg--as if they had not had enough "cheers" before leaving England!

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MR. PUNCH'S ANTI-LABOUR CONGRESS.

_MR. PUNCH (IN A MARINE LOTOS-LAND) SINGS HIS SEA-SIDE VERSION OF THE LAUREATE'S LOVELY "CHORIC SONG."_

I.

There is a slumber here that softlier falls Than forty-winks where dull, dull Bills they pass; Oft have I drowsed within those dreary walls, Where brays the pertinacious party ass. Here sleep more gently on the spirit lies Than where the SPEAKER tells the Noes and Ayes. The wave-wash brings sweet sleep down, from the summer skies, Here laps the azure deep, And through the weed the small crabs creep, And safe from prigs who plague and nymphs who peep, Sagacious _Punch_ reclines and woos benignant sleep.

II.

Why are we weighed upon with Politics, And, utterly fatigued by "bores" and "sticks," While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are "_such_ clever things!" And make perpetual moan, Still from one "Question" to another thrown? Gulls, even, fold their wings, And cease their wanderings, Watching our brows which slumber's holy balm Bathes gently, whilst the inner spirit sings "There is no joy but calm!" Why should _Punch_ only toil, the top and crown of things?

III.

How sweet it were, dodging the urban stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half dream! To dream and dream that yonder glittering light No more shall top the tall Clock Tower's height; To hear no more the party speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach; (No, no, _not_ HICKS! Thank heaven, he's far away!) To lend one's mind and fancy wholly Unto the influence of the calmly jolly; Forgetful, whilst the salt breeze round one rustles; Of all the clamorous Congresses of Brussels, Of all the spouting M.P.'s party tussles, Of all the noisy votaries of CARL MARX; Of all save slumber and Unmitigated Larks!

IV.

Dear are the memories of our wedded lives, Dear also are the outfits of our wives, And their huge trunks: but this is a sweet change! For surely now our household hearths are cold, Charwomen prowl thereby: our halls look strange, Our suites are swathed like ghosts. Here all is joy, And, by the stirless silence rendered bold, The very gulls stand round with furléd wings. What do _you_ think of it, TOBY, my boy? The Session's Bills are half-forgotten things. Is there discussion in our little Isle? Let Parties broken so remain. Factions are hard to reconcile: Prate not of Law and Order--by the main! There _is_ a fussiness worse than death Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Lost labour, and sheer waste of breath, Sore task to hearts dead beat by many wars, And ears grown dumb with listening to loud party jars.

V.

But propt on sand and pebbles rolly-olly How sweet (while briny breezes fan us lowly) With half-dropt eyelids still, Beneath a boat-side tarry, coally, To watch the long white breakers drawing slowly Up to the curling turn and foamy spill-- To hear far-off the wheezy Town-Crier calling, "Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" Truly, TOBIAS mine, This _solitude à deux_ is most divine; A Congress we--of Two; where no outfalling Is possible. Our Anti-Labour line Is wordlessly prolonged, stretched out beside the brine.

VI.

Such Lotos-eating all at times must seek! The Lotos blows by many an English creek. _Punch_ is no "mild-eyed melancholy" coon, Born, like the Laureate's islanders, to moon In lands in which 'tis always afternoon. No, TOBY, no! Yet stretch your tawny muzzle Upon these tawny sands! We will not puzzle, For a few happy hours, our weary pates With Burning Questions or with Dull Debates. We have had enough of Measures, and of Motions, we, "Ayes" to starboard, "Noes" to larboard (in the language of the sea), Where the wallowing SEYMORE spouted like a whale, and COBB made free. Let us take our solemn davy, TOBY, for a space (_Punch_ perceives complete approval in that doggish face)-- Let us take our davy, TOBY--_for a time_, now mind!-- In this briny Lotos Land to live and lie reclined, On the sands like chums together, careless of mankind!

[_Sleeps._

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SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

CHAPTER II.

_ON TOUR--RESTAURATION--METHOD--RAPID ACT--PATRIOTISM--CHORUS--DINNER--FORWARDS--ENTRÉE--EXIT--DESTINATION._

With DAUBINET I soon acquire the careless habit of speaking any French that comes into my head, irrespective of grammar, genders, or idioms. If he doesn't understand it in French he will do so in English, or _vice versâ_. On this mutual comprehension system we get along as easily as the express does, and as easily as the boat does too, to-day,--for we are in luck, the weather is delicious and the sea propitious,--and so we arrive hungry and happy at the excellent buffet at the Calais Station, the praises of which I have sung more than once in my lifetime.

Far be it from me to draw comparisons, but I if want to start well and wisely for the Continong, give me the short sea-passage _viâ_ Dover and the excellent restauration at Calais, with a good twenty-five minutes allowed for refreshment; _though why this interval shouldn't be extended to three-quarters of an hour, and less time occupied on the journey to Paris, I have never yet been able to ascertain._ In the not very dim and distant future no doubt it will be so. I record the above observation in italics, in order to attract the attention of all whom it may and does and ought to concern. Perhaps they'll kindly see to it.

Our _déjeuner_ at Calais is as good as it usually is at that haven of Restauration. After the buffeting of the waves, how sweet is the _buffet_ of the shore. I sit down at once, as an old Continental-travelling hand, tell the waiter immediately what I am going to take, and forthwith it is brought; then, in advance, I command the coffee, and have my French money all ready in an outside-pocket, so that there shall be no unnecessary delay. All station-feeding is a fearsome pastime. You are never quite sure of the trains, and you never quite trust the waiter's most solemn asseveration to the effect that you have still so many minutes left, decreasing rapidly from fifteen to five, when, time being up and the food down, you find yourself hurrying out on to the platform, plunging recklessly in between the lines, uncertain as to your carriage, and becoming more and more hot, nervous, and uncomfortable up to the very last moment, when the stout guard, with the heavy black moustache, and the familiar bronzed features set off by a cap-band which once was red, bundles you into your proper place, bangs the door, and you are off,--for Paris, or wherever your destination may be.

DAUBINET knows the proprietor of the restaurant, likewise the proprietor's good lady and good children. He has a great deal to say to them, always by means of working the semaphore with his arms and hands, as if the persons with whom he excitedly converses were deaf; and having lost all count of time, besides being in a state of considerable puzzle as to the existence of his appetite, he is suddenly informed by the head-waiter,--another of his acquaintances, for DAUBINET, it appears, is a constant traveller to and fro on this route, that if he wants, any thing he must take it at once, or he won't get it at all, unless he chooses to stop there and lose his train. So DAUBINET ladles some soup into his mouth, and savagely worries a huge lump of bread: then having gobbled up the soup in a quarter of a second, and having put away all the bread in another quarter, he pours a glass of wine into a tumbler out of the bottle which I have had opened for both of us, adds water, then tosses it off, wipes his lips with the napkin which he bangs down on the table, and, with his hat and coat on, his small bag in his hand, and quite prepared to resume the journey, he cries, "_Allons! Petzikoff!_" (or some such word, which I suppose to be either Russian or an ejaculation quite new and original, but _à la Russe_, and entirely his own invention), with the cheery and enthusiastic addition of, "Blass the Prince of WAILES!"

"By all means," I cordially respond, for we are on a foreign soil, where loyalty to our Royal Family is no longer a duty only, but also a mark of patriotism, which should ever distinguish the true Briton,--though, by the way, now I think of it, DAUBINET is a lively Gaul. Subsequently, observing my friend DAUBINET, I find that he is especially English in France, and peculiarly French in England. On what is to me foreign, but to him his own native soil, he is always bursting out into snatches of our British National Anthem, or he sings the line above quoted. In France he will insist on talking about London, England, Ireland, Scotland, with imitations in slang or of brogue, as the case may be, on every possible or even impossible opportunity; and, when the subject of conversation does not afford him any chance for his interpolations, then, for a time, he will "lay low," like. Brer Fox, only to startle us with some sudden outbursts of song, generally selected from the popular English Melodies of a byegone period, such as "_My Pretty Jane_," "_My Love is like a red, red Rose_," or "_Good-bye, Sweetheart, good-bye_," and such-like musical reminiscences, invariably finishing with a quotation from the National Anthem, "_Rule Britannia_," or "Blass the Prince of WAILES!" He is a travelling chorus.

We stop--I don't know where, as I trust entirely to my guide and fellow-traveller--for a good twenty minutes' stuff, nominally dinner, _en route_, about seven o'clock. It is the usual rush; the usual indecision; the usual indigestion. DAUBINET does more execution among the eatables and drinkables in five minutes than I can manage in the full time allotted to refreshment; and not only this, but he finds plenty of time for talking nonsense to one of the nicest-looking waitresses. Of course, he positively refuses to speak a word of his own native language, but gives his orders in English, Spanish, and Russian, to the despair of all the attendants, with the exception of the pretty waiting-maid, to whom he addresses himself in colloquial French. She quite enters into the joke; can give and take as pleasantly as possible; can also fetch and carry; and when, finally, DAUBINET _en bon prince_ rewards her intelligence with a two-franc piece, her bright smile, and her courteous "_Merci beaucoup, Monsieur_," prove once more that she can take as well as give,--nay, even better, and yet leave the donor her debtor. "_Da Karascho!_ Yes, all right! _Montez donc!_" cries my mercurial friend, hurrying to the train; then, as he once more settles himself in the compartment, he sings "Rule Britannia! Blass the Prince of WAILES! O Maman!" and before I have lit my after-dinner cigar, he has made himself quite comfortable, lying at full length, and is fast asleep. So am I soon. When I awake, it is night; pitch-dark, and very cold. We are stopping at some station. A stout Frenchman enters our carriage; not that there is anything remarkable about his stoutness, as it seems to me that the majority of middle-class and middle-aged Frenchmen, and Frenchwomen, too, are all, more or less, of considerable corpulence.

The new arrival recognises DAUBINET, and salutes him. DAUBINET warmly acknowledges the recognition, and in a few moments they are engaged in an animated conversation, one commencing his reply before the other has finished his question, neither permitting the other to complete a sentence, whether interrogatory or declaratory; so that, during the greater part of their conversation,--which lasts till, thank goodness, the stranger has to get out, which he does at the next station, and disappears in the darkness,--I can only pick up a word or half a sentence here and there, and, in a general way, wonder why they become so earnest and emphatic about the most ordinary topics. For an English listener, however, it is an excellent lesson in colloquial French; only I cannot help wishing that they would take the "_tempo_" just a little slower, and that their tone were not necessarily up to concert pitch, in order to keep itself well above the running accompaniment of railway-wheels, which seems to fit all modes of counting from two to sixteen in a bar. At last the train stops, the dialogue becomes jerky, our companion salutes us politely, wishes us "_bon voyage_" and descends.

After his departure, I ask DAUBINET, "Who is your friend?" as I should like to know the reason of DAUBINET not having introduced us. His reply at once resolves all my doubts and difficulties on the subject; it is simply, "Heaven knows! He is a nice fellow. I have met him _quelque part. Ah! v'là!_" He rushes to the window. "Hi! hi! Guard! Conducteur!" The Conducteur appears, and informs us that we descend at the next station, and, after that, in another five minutes we shall be at Reims.

And so we are. Reims at last! Not brilliant is Reims on this dark night. There are several omnibuses and other vehicles waiting to take the very few passengers who alight from the train, and who, it appears, as a rule, prefer to walk. Having no baggage beyond a few bags and a small portmanteau which travel with us in our compartment, and which the porter can wheel on a truck, or indeed carry if he chooses, we are soon in the 'bus, and rattling over the stones to the Hotel.

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* * * * *

ODE TO A BAROMETER.

(_BY A TROUBLED TAPSTER._)

I tap you early, tap you late, In vain! We get--whatever _you_ may state-- Much rain. The Woodpecker of which fools sing Ne'er tapped Half so persistently. Since Spring I've rapped Your fair false dial day by day, And yet The end--whatever you may say Is wet! 'Twas wet in June, and in July Wet too; In August it is wetter. Why, Trust _you_? Barometer, you false old chap, You bore! I'm no Woodpecker, and I'll tap No more!

* * * * *

"NOTHING IN THE PAPERS!"

_OR, VOLUNTARY CONTRIBUTIONS UN-GRATEFULLY RECEIVED._

SCENE--_A Railway Compartment. BROWN and SMITH _looking up from their Daily Papers._

_Brown_. Now that Parliament stands prorogued, I suppose there is nothing to read?

_Smith_. Nothing. Except this article upon Australia. Tells one all about Capital and Labour in _that_ part of the world. Most interesting. Wonder how they found room for it! Have you seen it?

_Brown_. Well, no. Fact is I have been reading about Argentina. Very exhaustive article this, and on a matter of serious moment. I hold some shares as a trustee. Seems that they will all come right in the end. Would you like to see it?

_Smith_. When I have time to read it. But, to tell the truth, it takes me a good hour to get through the City Intelligence. And the racing, too, that always interests me; but I don't think it is so exciting as the Stock Exchange.

_Brown_. No more do I. By the way, is there anything good in the correspondence line in your paper?

_Smith_. The usual sensational recess subjects. Some of the letters are too good for the general public; they must have been written in the office.

_Brown_. I daresay. And perhaps these sketches of places away from Town are also written in London?

_Smith_. Not a bit of it! I happen to know that the papers spend thousands and thousands upon obtaining information in every quarter of the globe. Bogus articles are things of the past.

_Brown_. Only fancy! And all this expense for nothing in the recess! When no one reads the papers!

_Smith_. Yes, and when there's nothing in them!

[_They resume perusal of their papers until interrupted by a tunnel. Curtain._

* * * * *

THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.

Oh, Sir, I read the papers every day, To amuse myself and pass the time away; But they've got so hard to follow that they simply beat me hollow With the learning and the culture they display; And they wouldn't be so hard if those good people down at Cardiff Would but be a shade more careful what they say.

The President's address, I think, will tax My intellectual organ till it cracks; The Association British isn't wanted to be skittish, Wear the motley, nor to run a race in sacks; But 'twas getting awkward rather when my youngest asked his father What the President implied by parallax.

The money market often puzzles me; I've no notion what the Funding Loan may be; In the sales of corn (Odessa), jute and sago, I confess a Sort of feeling that I'm very much at sea; But couldn't the reporter keep this science rather shorter, Or at any rate provide us with a key?

* * * * *

QUEER QUERIES.

HOUSE DECORATION.--What am I to do under the following circumstances? I took a house a year ago, and painted the outside scarlet, with gold "facings," to remind me--and my neighbours--of the fact that I am highly connected with the Army, my deceased wife's half-brother having once held some post in the Commissariat. I am leaving the house now, and my landlord actually insists on my scraping all the paint off! He says that if any bulls happen to pass the house, they will be sure to run at it. Am I obliged to yield to this ridiculous caprice?--LOVER OF THE PICTURESQUE.

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SEASIDE ASIDES.

(_PATERFAMILIAS IN NORTH CORNWALL._)

Oh! how delightful now at last to come Away from town--its dirt, its degradation, Its never-ending whirl, its ceaseless hum. (A long chalks better, though, than sheer stagnation.)

For what could mortal man or maid want more Than breezy downs to stroll on, rocks to climb up, Weird labyrinthine caverns to explore? (There's nothing else to do to fill the time up.)

Your honest face here earns an honest brown, You ramble on for miles 'mid gorse and heather, Sheep hold athletic sports upon the down (Which makes the mutton taste as tough as leather).

The place is guiltless, too, of horrid piers, And likewise is not Christy-Minstrel tooney; No soul-distressing strains disturb your ears. (A German band has just played "_Annie Rooney_.")

The eggs as fresh as paint, the Cornish cream The boys from school all say is "simply ripping," The butter, so the girls declare, "a dream." (The only baccy you can buy quite dripping.)

A happiness of resting after strife, Where one forgets all worldly pain and sorrow, And one contentedly could pass one's life. (A telegram will take _me_ home to-morrow.)

* * * * *

CANINE SAGACITY.--Numerous instances of this have been quoted in the _Spectator_ and other papers. Our _Toby_ would like to be informed how one clever dog would communicate with another clever dog, if the former were in a great hurry? The reply from a great authority in the K9 Division, signing himself "DOGBERRY," is that "the clever dog would either tailegraph or tailephone; but that, anyhow, in the strictest confidence, he would tell his own tail."

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THE MANNERS OF OUR CHILDREN!

(_FRAGMENT FROM A TRAGIC FARCE, SUGGESTED BY A CORRESPONDENCE IN A DAILY PAPER._)

SCENE--_The Sanctum of Paterfamilias. Enter to him JACKY, his eldest born._

_Pater_. (_cordially_). How are you, old chap?

_Jacky_. Very well, thank you, Father. And will you forgive me--is not "chap" a trifle slangy?

_Pater_. (_astonished_). Eh! what?

_Jacky_. You were good enough to write to my Form Master after the Easter Vacation, complaining of my style. Consequently that worthy pedagogue has given more than usual attention to that part of my education.

_Pater_. Well, now you are home for the holidays! As for your Form Master--hang him and all his works!