Chapter 2

On second thoughts will look at papers in smoking-room. Am alone at first, but in a few minutes room crowded. Medical Association has returned in force. I catch occasional bits in conversation:--

"Pity MCSIMMUM (or some name very like this) couldn't come. Great pity; missed him immensely." (Here several stories about MCSIMMUM, all evidently more or less good, and all interesting. I myself begin to wish that MCSIMMUM had arrived. He would have been an acquisition.) More medical men of various ages and with variety of spectacles. All enjoying themselves thoroughly,--quite medical boys out for a holiday,--but every one of them, individually and collectively, intensely regretting the absence of Dr. MCSIMMUM. I hear the voice of my friend Mr. CAPES in the passage. I will ask Mr. CAPES about this celebrated Dr. MCSIMMUM, whom evidently I ought to know, at least by repute. Perhaps I have known him by sight for years; perhaps he is a man with whom I often dine at the Club, and who entertains us in the smoking-room with strange stories of odd patients. His name I have heard long ago. Was it MCSIMMUM? Not unlikely. Can't remember.

Mr. CAPES is energetically explaining and protesting to everybody. Amid the hum and buzz of voices, I catch what he is saying. It is, "My dear Sir, Dr. MCSIMMUM _is_ here. I've seen him. He dined alone. He said he preferred it, as he had so much to do to-morrow." Then several exclaim, "But _where_ is he _now_?"

"I don't know," replies the Proprietor. "Most likely, being tired, he has gone to bed. I myself showed him to his room, No. 142, on his arrival."

Heavens! The number of my room--is 142! Not another man in _there_! No.... I see it all now, _I am Dr. MCSIMMUM!_ The real MCSIMMUM hasn't arrived, and he hasn't sent a message. This accounts for my welcome, and the absence of all difficulty in obtaining a room. But if he arrives now! where shall _I_ be?

"What's that about MCSIMMUM?" says a jovial voice, coming right into the midst of them.

To which inquiry responds a chorus, "He's here! Mr. CAPES says so, but no one's seen him."

"And no one's likely to." returns the cheery speaker. "He's staying with some friends a little way out of the town. He has just sent me a note by hand to say that he won't occupy his room till to-morrow, and will be much obliged if Mr. CAPES will forward by bearer a bag that was labelled and addressed to the room taken for him here, No. 142."

"But--" exclaims the Proprietor, aghast, "but--"

At this moment I catch sight of the man with the cheery voice. Saved! I know him. It is my old friend, Sir JOHN HARTLEY, M.D., who, years ago, told me there was nothing the matter with me, only I must take a holiday and go abroad to get better (most excellent advice, and I've never been quite well since), and who now exclaims, with all his old breadth of manner, "What _you_ here! Bravo! We'll make you an honorary member!"

The Proprietor looks at me, and I at the Proprietor. I know what is passing through the mind of Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, F.R.G.S. and P.R.B.H. I hasten to relieve his anxiety by saying, "Thanks; I'm here only for the night; I'm off to-morrow. I've just come down here to look for a house. By the way, I rather think that Dr. MCSIMMUM's bag must be in my room. Let's see."

So I depart with the Proprietor. Explanations _en route_. Dr. MCSIMMUM's bag has been placed in my room, I should say in _his_ room. But I've got the apartment, and if it hadn't been for the mistake, I should have been homeless and houseless, and a wanderer on the face of the sand at Bournemouth. Must write to that best of all doctors, MCSIMMUM, and thank him for not coming to-night.

As it is I spend a delightful evening with the Members of the B.M.A. here assembled, in the smoking-room. The conversation is chiefly about the use of alcohol and tobacco as poisons. The decision arrived at towards one o'clock A.M., or, more correctly speaking, the Inn-decision, is that, on this particular occasion, one glass more of something or other, and just one last pipe or cigar, cannot possibly hurt anybody. This is carried _nem. con._: and so, subsequently, we adjourn, not carried but walking, soberly and honestly, to bed.

Next morning up with the lark, indeed a trifle earlier, and after examining Bournemouth and finding excellent residences up above in beautiful air where it must always be breezy, I thank Mr. NORFOLK CAPES, F.R.G.S. and P.R.B.H for the Hospitality shown me in his exceptionally pleasant house, and I return by the swift 2·5 P.M. train, which lands me at Vauxhall at 4·30 to the moment. Of course I am now expecting my diploma as Honorary Member of the British Medical Association.

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ANOTHER JUBILEE.--That of the Old Stagers at Canterbury. Free List entirely suspended at the Theatre, with the exception of just _A Scrap Of Paper_ in the house.

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KURDS AND AWAY!

Indignant we spoke out, and any amount Of strong language we used when we read the account, And a tear slowly rolled down our cheek when we heard Of the youthful Miss G. and the Kidnapping Kurd.

We sat in our chairs, and, quite reckless of life, We wiped out the insult with war to the knife; And it only redoubled our anger to read That the girl--so they said--had abandoned her creed.

Such a thing was absurd, and, of course, wasn't true; Much perplexed, we all wondered what we ought for to do, Though we heard with delight they were on the girl's track, And we wept in our joy when we knew she was back.

But the wonderful ending remains to be told, For the maiden was fond of the warrior bold, And embracing her husband (as is usual with brides) Mrs. AZIZ embraced his religion besides.

So our tears were all wasted, our threats all in vain, We can now feel quite calm and collected again. At the fate of the lady we all should rejoice, She is happy with AZIZ, the man of her choice.

Good luck to the bridegroom! Good luck to the bride! Good luck to the knot they have hastily tied! With all due respect, let us venture to say That we hope from her Kurd she will not run away!

* * * * *

ROBERT SEES THE PHOTOGRAFF TAKEN.

Well, I have seen some grandly hinteresting sites in my time, I have, but never, no never, did I see anythink to ekal the picter as I seed on the werry larst day of July larst week, when, by such a series of good lucks as I ardly ever had afore, I was priveledged for to see the Rite Honerable the Lord MARE prepare hisself, with his two lately benighted Sheriffs, in the most scrumptious of their many rich dresses, and with the solid gold Carsket as was guv to the HEMPERER of GARMANY about a fortnight ago, and had most misteriously cum back from abroad, all for to be photograffed altogether in one big grupe, with all the Aldermen as they coud find handy in their rich crimson silk dresses, and several werry Common Counsellers and Town Clarks and Remembrensers, et setterer, in horder as the longing world may see what sorts of Gents they was, and how they all looked when in their werry best close, and with their lovely solid gold deckorations on (as the HEMPERER and the Prince of WALES begged and prayed as they might have one a-peace) who arranged and carried out the grandest show of modern times, wiz, when the GERMAN HEMPEROR and his wife cum to Guildhall. Oh, wasn't they a long wile before the Gent coud get 'em all into good places, and didn't they all look sollem, when he said, "Quite steddy, please!"

But not noboddy as reddily gives a ginny for a mere coppy of what I saw dun, will see all I saw without paying no ginny, and that was, to see the hole grand picter built up, as it were, beginning with the Lord MARE in his white hermine robe of poority and his black Cocked Hat of Power all most bewtifoolly and kindly arranged for him by the hartistic Sheriff.

And then what a lesson on trew humility, to see the Lord MARE, in all his glory, retire to the Committee's dressing-room, and there strip hisself to his werry shirt-sleeves and clothe hisself in the mere hordnary close of common humanety!

Ah! I henvys no man his persession of the bewtifool Photygraff, for I, almost alone, can say, tho but a pore hed Waiter, I saw the grand pictur grow like' a bewtifool dream, and then saw it fade away like a strawbery hice on a Summer's Day!

ROBERT.

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LA POLITESSE DE PORTSMOUTH.--The French Fleet may depend upon a courteous welcome at Portsmouth by the Mayor, who is the "Pink" of Politeness.

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* * * * *

"A LONG DISTANCE SWIM."

["Our Session began before last year was closed. It has been a Session full of anxiety, full of fatigue. I am thankful to agree with your Lordship in thinking that the people of this country will recognise that it has been a Session of hard and valuable work."--_Lord Salisbury at the Mansion House_.]

Don't talk about WEED, FINNEY, FISHER, or DALTON; As Long Distance Swimmer our SOLLY stands first, His wild watery way never tempted to halt on, Undaunted by cold as by hunger or thirst. Nine months in the waves, though, no man may enjoy; So he's glad that at last he's in sight of the buoy.

In November last year he first entered the water, To start on this special, most arduous swim, It was cold, with the wind in a winterly quarter, But winds, like the waves, have small terrors for him. You remember accounts that the papers then gave (Here's an extract) concerning this King of the Wave.

"SOLLY (of Hatfield), and SMIFF (who hails from Greenlands), started yesterday (November 25), for a second attempt--the first having been a failure--to swim from Tithes Pier to Purchase Point Buoy. It was an unfavourable time of the year for such an unprecedented feat of natation, but the Hatfield Champion was confident of success. He is a perfect whale at long-distance immersions, and has been heard to talk of 'twenty years of resolute' swimming against stream as a comparative trifle. His 'pal and pardner,' SMIFF--more commonly known as the Sanguine Old 'Un--was equally confident. Two boats accompanied the Champion, in one of which was his trusty Pilot, SMIFF, and in the other a Party of their 'Mutual Friends.' One thing, indeed, was in the Hatfield man's favour; his lately cocky and contemptuous competitors had been 'weeded out' by a fortuitous series of adverse circumstances, including what SOLLY, in a spirit of cynical but excusable elation, subsequently called 'that beneficent disease, the Influenza.' The Irish Contingent, which not long ago looked dangerous, had become so thoroughly demoralised by mutual hostilities and disputes between them and their backers, that there was not a single 'Paddy' prepared to enter the water when the signal 'gun' fired for the start. SOLLY, therefore, had it all to himself; the performance practically resolves itself into a trial of his skill and endurance, and the 'Scythe Bearer' is the only enemy against whom the Great Swimmer has to measure himself. Indeed, he covered what may be called the first stage of his long journey with ease, and in an unexpectedly short time. Nevertheless, it is to be feared that 'later on' he will have to contend against cold, little or no sun, northerly breezes, &c.; the 'flowing tide' will assuredly not always be with him, and before he gets to the end of his briny journey, even the Hatfield Wonder will probably have 'had enough of it.'"

True prognostication! But skilful natation Despite some "anxiety" and much "fatigue," Has "pulled SOLLY through" to his "pardner's elation." Together they've plodded o'er many a league Of big tumbling billows. See those in the rear! They were ridden with skill, though regarded with fear.

"The flowing tide" fails him, but side-stroke and breast-stroke Alternately serve him; fatigued but unhurt, Like CÆSAR, he swims. "Now mate, put on your best stroke!" Sings out faithful SMIFFY, his pilot. "One spurt, My SOL! Two or three more strong strokes and 'tis done; Our Long Swim, for the Buoy is at hand, and we've won!"

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OPERATIC BIRDS.--M. MAUREL can sing but didn't wish to sing in Mr. ISIDORE DE TRA-LA-LARA's new Opera, _The Light of Asia_. Where was TRA-LA-LARA when _The Light of Asia_ didn't come out? M. MAUREL seems to have said, that, if the Opera were produced this season, he'd be blowed if he sang, and the Opera would probably be damned, theatrically and operatically speaking. That's the Moral or MAUREL of the story. _The Light of Asia_ mustn't be snuffed out altogether, but it may want trimming a bit, in order to shine as brightly as TRA-LA-LARA expects it to do next season. There's a good time coming, and good tunes too, we hope.

* * * * *

AMENDE HONORABLE.--In making up the list of outside contributors, _Mr. Punch's_ Private Secretary regrets having omitted the name of JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD, the friend of the Bloomsburians, and the determined foe of Mud Salad Market and Monopolisers. "J.H.," or, to reverse the initials, "HONEST JOHN," will now be satisfied.

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* * * * *

VOCES POPULI.

BANK HOLIDAY.

SCENE--_The Crystal Palace. The Nave is filled with a dense throng of Pleasure-seekers. Every free seat commanding the most distant view of a Variety Performance on the Great Stage, has been occupied an hour in advance. The less punctual stand and enjoy the spectacle of other persons' hats or bonnets. Gangs of Male and Female Promenaders jostle and hustle to their hearts' content, or perform the war-song and dance of the Lower-class 'ARRY, which consists in chanting "Oi tiddly-oi-toi; hoi-toi-oi!" to a double shuffle. Tired women sit on chairs and look at nothing. In the Grounds, the fancy of young men and maidens is lightly turning to thoughts of love; the first dawn of the tender passion being intimated, on the part of the youth, by chasing his charmer into a corner and partially throttling her, whereupon the maiden coyly conveys that his sentiments are not unreciprocated by thumping him between the shoulders. From time to time, two champions contend with fists for the smiles of beauty, who may usually be heard bellowing inconsolably in the background. A small but increasing per-centage have already had as much liquid refreshment as is good for them, and intend to have more. Altogether, the scene, if festive, might puzzle an Intelligent Foreigner who is more familiar with Continental ideas of enjoyment._

_A Damsel_ (_in a ruby plush hat with a mauve feather_). Why, if they yn't got that bloomin' ole statute down from Charin' Cross! What's _'e_ doin' of down 'ere, I wonder?

_Her Swain_ (_whose feather is only pink and white paper_). Doin' of? Tykin' 's d'y orf--like the rest of us are tykin' it.

_The Damsel_ (_giggling_). You go on--you don't green _me_ that w'y--a statute!

_Swain_. Well, 'yn't this what they call a "Statutory" 'Oliday, eh?

_Damsel_ (_in high appreciation of his humour_). I'll fetch you _sech_ a slap in a minnit! 'Ere, let's gow on the Swissback.

_Another Damsel_ (_in a peacock-blue hat with orange pompons_). See that nekked young man on the big 'orse, ALF? It says "Castor" on the stand. 'Oo was _'e_?.

_Alf_. Oh, _I_'d 'now. I dessay it'll be 'im as invented the Castor Ile.

_The Damsel_ (_disgusted_). Fancy their puttin' up a monument to _'im_!

_Superior 'Arry_ (_talking Music-halls to his Adored One_). 'Ave you 'eard her sing "_Come where the Booze is Cheapest_"?

_The Adored_. Lots o' toimes. I _do_ like _'er_ singing. She mykes sech comical soigns--and then the _things_ she sez! But I've 'eard she's very common in her tork, and that--_orf_ the styge.

_The S.A._ I shouldn't wonder. Some on 'em _are_ that way. You can't 'ave _everythink_!

_His Adored_. No, it _is_ a pity, though. 'Spose we go out, and pl'y Kiss in the Ring? [_They do._

AMONG THE ETHNOLOGICAL MODELS.

_Wife of British Workman_ (_spelling out placard under Hottentot Group_). "It is extremely probable that this interesting race will be completely exterminated at no very distant period." Pore things!

_British Workman_ (_with philosophy_). Well, _I_ shan't go inter mournin' for 'em, SAIRER!

_Lambeth Larrikin_ (_in a pasteboard "pickelhaube," and a false nose, thoughtfully, to BATTERSEA BILL, who is wearing an old grey chimney-pot hat, with the brim uppermost, and a tow wig, as they contemplate a party of Botocudo natives_). Rum the sights these 'ere savidges make o' theirselves, ain't it, BILL?

_Batt. Bill_ (_more thoughtfully_). Yer right--but I dessay if you and me 'ad been born among that lot, _we_ shouldn't care _'ow_ we looked!

_Vauxhall Voilet_ (_who has exchanged headgear with CHELSEA CHORLEY--with dismal results_). They _are_ cures those blackies! Why, yer carn't 'ardly tell the men from the wimmin! I expect this lot'll be 'aving a beanfeast. See, they're plyin' their myusic.

_Chelsea Chorley_. Good job we can't _'ear_ 'em. They say as niggers' music is somethink downright horful. Give us "_Hi-tiddly-hi_" on that mouth-orgin o' yours, will yer?

[_VAUXHALL VOILET obliges on that instrument; everyone in the neighbourhood begins to jig mechanically; exeunt party, dancing._

_A Pimply Youth_. "Hopium-eater from Java." That's the stuff they gits as stoopid as biled howls on--it's about time we went and did another beer. [_They retire for that purpose._

DURING THE FIREWORKS.

_Chorus of Spectators_. There's another lot o' bloomin' rockets gowin orf! Oo-oo, 'ynt that lur-uvly? What a lark if the sticks come down on somebody's 'ed! There, didyer see 'em bust? Puts me in mind of a shower o' foiry smuts. Lor, so they do--what a fancy you _do_ 'ave, &c., &c.

COMING HOME.

_An Old Gentleman_ (_who has come out with the object of observing Bank Holiday manners--which he has done from a respectful distance--to his friend, as they settle down in an empty first-class compartment_). There, now we shall just get comfortably off before the crush begins. Now, to _me_, y'know, this has been a most interesting and gratifying experience--wonderful spectacle, all that immense crowd enjoying itself in its own way--boisterously, perhaps, but, on the whole, with marvellous decorum! Really, very exhilarating to see--but you don't agree with me?

_His Friend_ (_reluctantly_). Well, I must say it struck me as rather pathetic than--

_The O.G._ (_testily_). Pathetic, Sir--nonsense! I like to see people putting their _heart_ into it, whether it's play or work. Give me a crowd--

[_As if in answer to this prayer, there is a sudden irruption of typical Bank Holiday-makers into the compartment._

_Man by the Window_. Third-class as good as fust, these days! There's ole FRED! Wayo, FRED, tumble in, ole son--room for one more standin'!

[_"OLE FRED" plays himself in with a triumphal blast on a tin trumpet, after which he playfully hammers the roof with his stick, as he leans against the door._

_Ole Fred_. Where's my blanky friend? I 'it 'im one on the jaw, and I ain't seen 'im since! (_Sings, sentimentally, at the top of a naturally powerful voice._) "Com-rides, Com-rides! Hever since we was boys! Sharin' each other's sorrers. Sharin' each hother's--beer!"

[_A "paraprosdokian," which delights him to the point of repetition._

_The O.G._ Might I ask you to make a little less disturbance there Sir? [_Whimpers from over-tired children._

_Ole Fred_ (_roaring_). "I'm jolly as a Sandboy, I'm 'appy as a king! No matter what I see or 'ear, I larf at heverything! I'm the morril of my moth-ar, (_to O.G._) the himage of _your_ Par! And heverythink I see or 'ear, it makes me larf 'Ar-har!'"

[_He laughs "Ar-har," after which he gives a piercing blast upon the trumpet, with stick obbligato on the roof._

_The O.G._ (_roused_). I really _must_ beg you not to be such an infernal nuisance! There are women and children here who--

_Old Fred_. Shet up, ole umbereller whiskers! (_Screams of laughter from women and children, which encourage him to sing again._) "An' the roof is copper-bottomed, but the chimlies are of gold. In my double-breasted mansion in the Strand!" (_To people on platform, as train stops_.) _Come_ in, oh, lor, _do_! "Oi-tiddly-oi-toi! hoi-toi-oy!"

[_The rest take up the refrain--"'Ave a drink an' wet your eye," &c., and beat time with their boots._

_The O.G._. If this abominable noise goes on, I shall call the guard--disgraceful, coming in drunk like this!

_The Man by the Window_. 'Ere, dry up, Guv'nor--_'e_ ain't 'ad enough to 'urt 'im, _'e_ ain't!

_Chorus of Females_ (_to O.G._). An' Bank 'Oliday, too--you orter to be _ashimed_ o' yerself, you ought! 'E's as right as right, if you on'y let him alone!

_Old Fred_ (_to O.G._). Ga-arn, yer pore-'arted ole choiner boy! (_Says, dismally_), "Ow! for the vanished Spring-time! Ow! for the dyes gorn boy! Ow! for the"--(_changing the melody_)--"'omeless, I wander in lonely distress. No one ter pity me--none ter caress!" (_Here he sheds tears, overcome by his own pathos, but presently cheers up._) "I dornce all noight! An' I rowl 'ome toight! I'm a rare-un at a rollick, or I'm ready fur a foight." Any man 'ere wanter foight me? Don't say no, ole Frecklefoot! (_To the O.G., who perspires freely_.) Oh, I _am_ enj'yin' myself! [_He keeps up this agreeable rattle, without intermission, for the remainder of the journey, which--as the train stops everywhere, and takes quite three-quarters of an hour in getting from Queen's Road, Battersea, to Victoria--affords a signal proof of his social resources, though it somewhat modifies the O.G.'s enthusiasm for the artless gaiety of a Bank Holiday._

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* * * * *

"ON THE SQUARE."

"A CHEQUE-MATE's a husband who's found a good catch," So lisp rosy lips that romance little reck. Yes, and many a close "matrimonial" match Is won by "perpetual cheque."

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AN 'UMBLE CORRECTION.

In "The New Yachting," a discursive paper, pleasantly written by Sir MORELL MACKENZIE, M.D., in _The Fortnightly_ for this month, the author quotes a verse from the old song of "Jim Collins," or, as he writes it, "John Collins" (by way of proving that the drink known by that name was originated by this individual) but quotes it, to the best of our knowledge and belief, inaccurately. It was set to the air of "Jenny Jones," and thus it ran:--

"My name is JIM COLLINS, 'Ead-vaiter at Limmers', The corner of Conduck Street, 'Anover Square.

"And my hokkipashun Is sarvin' out liquors To such sportin' covies As chance to come _there_."

This, we venture to assert, savours more of the old bar and the ancient sanded floors, more of the by-gone Cider Cellars and extinct Vauxhall Gardens, more of the early mornings and late nights, more of the rough-and-ready "P.R." times, than the veneered version for the drawing-room given us by Sir M.M., M.D. We may be wrong, but--we don't think we are.

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AFTER LUNCH.

_A FANCY SKETCH, COPIED FROM COBB._