Chapter 1

PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 101.

September 5, 1891.

SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

CHAPTER III.

_REIMS--NIGHT--STREETS--ARRIVAL--LION D'OR--DEPRESSION--LANDLADY--BOOTS--CATHEDRAL--LONELINESS--BED._

It is just ten o'clock. Reims seems to be in bed and fast asleep, except for the presence in the streets of a very few persons, official and unofficial, of whom the former are evidently on the alert as to the movements, slouching and uncertain, of the latter.

We drive under ancient Roman Arch; DAUBINET tells me its history in a vague kind of way, breaking off suddenly to say that I shall see it to-morrow, when, so he evidently wishes me to infer, the Roman Arch will speak for itself. Then we drive past a desolate-looking Museum. I believe it is a Museum, though DAUBINET's information is a trifle uncertain on this point.

We pass a theatre, brilliantly illuminated. I see posters on the wall advertising the performance. A gendarme, in full uniform, as if he had come out after playing _Sergeant Lupy_ in _Robert Macaire_, is pensively airing himself under the _façade_, but there is no one else within sight,--no one; not a _cocher_ with whom _Sergeant Lupy_ can chat, nor even a _gamin_ to be ordered off; and though, from one point of view, this exterior desolation may argue well for the business the theatre is doing, yet, as there is no logical certainty that the people, who do not appear outside a show, should therefore necessarily be inside it, the temple of the Drama may, after all, be as empty as was _Mr. Crummles_' Theatre, when somebody, looking through a hole in the curtain, announced, in a state of great excitement, the advent of another boy to the pit.

And now we rattle over the stones joltingly, along a fairly well-lighted street. All the shops fast asleep, with their eyelids closed, that is, their shutters up, all except one establishment, garishly lighted and of defiantly rakish, appearance, with the words _Café Chantant_ written up in jets of gas; and within this _Café_, as we jolt along, I espy a _dame du comptoir_, a weary waiter, and two or three second-class, flashy-looking customers, drinking, smoking, perhaps arguing, at all events, gesticulating, which, with the low-class Frenchmen, comes to much the same thing in the end, the end probably being their expulsion from the drinking-saloon. Where is the _chantant_ portion of the _café_? I cannot see,--perhaps in some inner recess. With this flash of brilliancy, all sign of life in Reims disappears. We drive on, jolted and rattled over the cobble stones--(if not cobble, what are they? Wobble?)--and so up to the _Lion d'Or_.

I am depressed. I can't help it. It _is_ depressing to be the only prisoners in a black van; I should have said "passengers," but the sombre character of the omnibus suggests "Black Maria;" it _is_ depressing (I repeat to myself), to be the only two passengers driving through a dead town at night-time, as if we were the very personification of "the dead of night" being taken out in a hearse to the nearest cemetery. Even DAUBINET feels it, for he is silent, except when he tries to rouse himself by exclaiming "Caramba!" Only twice does he make the attempt, and then, meeting with no response from me, he collapses. Nor does it relieve depression to be set down in a solemn courtyard, lighted by a solitary gas-lamp. This in itself would be quite sufficient to make a weary traveller melancholy, without the tolling of a gruesome bell to announce our arrival. This dispiriting sound seems to affect nobody in the house, except a lengthy young man in a desperate state of unwakefulness, who sleepily resents our arrival in the midst of his first slumber (he must have gone to bed at nine), and drowsily expresses a wish to be informed (for he will not take the trouble to examine into the matter for himself) whether we have any luggage; and this sense of depression becomes aggravated and intensified when no genial Boniface (as the landlord used invariably to be styled in romances of half a century ago) comes forth to greet us with a hearty welcome, and no buxom smiling hostess, is there to order the trim waiting-maid, with polished candlestick, "to show the gentleman his room." And, at length, when a hostess, amiable but shivering, does appear, there is still an absence of all geniality; no questions are asked as to what we might like to take in the way of refreshment, there is no fire to cheer us, no warm drinks are suggested, no apparent probability of getting food or liquor, even if we wanted it, which, thank Heaven, we don't, not having recovered from the last hurriedly-swallowed meal at the railway buffet _en route_. Yes, at the "Lion d'Or" at Reims, on this occasion, _hic et nunc_, is a combination of melancholy circumstances which would have delighted _Mark Tapley_, and, as far as I know, _Mark Tapley_ only.

"On an occasion like this," I murmur to myself, having no one else to whom I can murmur it confidentially,--for DAUBINET, having a knowledge of the house, has disappeared down some mysterious passage in order to examine and choose our rooms,--"there is, indeed, some merit in being jolly."

DAUBINET returns. He has found the rooms. The somnolent boots will carry our things upstairs. Which of the two rooms will I have? They are _en suite_. I make no choice. It is, I protest, a matter of perfect indifference to me; but one room being infinitely superior to the other, I select it, apologetically. DAUBINET, being more of a _Mark Tapley_ than I am, is quite satisfied with the arrangement, and has almost entirely recovered his wonted high spirits.

"Very good. _Très bien!_ Da! Petzikoff! Pedadjoi! I shall sleep like a top. _Bon soir! Buono notte! Karascho!_ Blass the Prince of WAILES!" and he has disappeared into his bedroom. I never knew a man so quick in unpacking, getting into bed, and going to sleep. He hasn't far to go, or else Morpheus must have caught him up, _en route_, and hypnotised him. I hear him singing and humming for two minutes; I hear him calling out to me, "All right? Are you all right?" and, once again invoking the spirit of _Mark Tapley_, I throw all the joviality I can into my reply as I say, through the wall, "Quite, thanks. Jolly! Good-night!" But my reply is wasted on him; he has turned a deaf ear to me, the other being on the pillow, and gives no sign. If he is asleep, the suddenness of the collapse is almost alarming. Once again I address him. No answer. I continue my unpacking. All my portmanteau arrangements seem to have become unaccountably complicated. I pause and look round. Cheerless. The room is bare and lofty, the bed is small, the window is large, and the one solitary _bougie_ sheds a gloom around which makes unpacking a difficulty. I pull up the blind. A lovely moonlight night. In front of me, as if it had had the politeness to put itself out of the way to walk up here, and pay me a visit, stands the Cathedral, that is--some of it; but what I can see of it, _au clair de la lune_, fascinates me. It is company, it is friendly. But it is chilly all the same, and the sooner I close the window and retire the better. Usual difficulty, of course, in closing French window. After a violent struggle, it is done. The bed looks chilly, and I feel sure that that stuffed, pillow-like thing, which is to do duty for blanket and coverlet, can't be warm enough.

Hark! a gentle snore. A very gentle one. It is the first time I ever knew a snore exercise a soothing effect on the listener. This is decidedly soporific. It is an invitation to sleep. I accept. The Cathedral clock sounds a _carillon_. It plays half a tune, too, as if this was all it had learnt up to the present, or perhaps to intimate that there is more where that comes from, only I must wait for to-morrow, and be contented with this instalment. I am. Half a tune is better than no tune at all, or _vice versâ_: it doesn't matter. When the tune breaks off I murmur to myself, "To be continued in our next;" and so--as I believe, for I remember nothing after this--I doze off to sleep on this my first night in the ancient town of Reims.

* * * * *

BUMBLE BROUGHT TO BOOK.

["Mr. Ritchie ... has taken the unusual step of preparing a memorandum explanatory of ... the Public Health (London) Act, which comes into operation on the 1st of January ... The Vestries and District Councils ... have come out with increased powers, but also with increased responsibilities. They are in future known as 'the sanitary authorities'; they must make bye-laws, and enforce not only their own, but those made by the County Council; and, if they fail in their duty--as, for example, in the matter of removing house-refuse, or keeping the streets clean--they are liable to a fine. It is pleasant to think that, in future, any ratepayer may bring Mr. Bumble to book."--_The Times_.]

_Bumble_. Wot, more dooties piled upon me? It's a beastly black shame and a bore. Which Ritchie beats _Oliver Twist_ in a canter at "asking for more." Didn't grasp his dashed Hact, not at fust, though of course I opposed it like fun; But this 'ere Memyrandum's a startler. _I_ want to know what's to be done. _Me_ keep the streets clean, _me_ go poking my dalicot nose into 'oles As ain't fit for 'ogs, but is kep' for them Sweaters' pale wictims--pore soles? _Me_ see that the dust-pails is emptied, and underground bedrooms made sweet? _Me_ nail the Court Notices hup upon Butchers as deals in bad meat? Great Scissors, it's somethink houtrageous. I knew Ritchie's Act meant 'ard lines, And it's wus than I could 'ave emagined. But wot I funk most is them FINES!!! Fine _Me_--if I make a mistake, as, perhaps, even BUMBLE may do! That _is_ turning the tables a twister! More powers? Ah, well, that might do, But increase my great "Responsibilities," give them Ratepayers a chance Of a calling _me_ hover the coals! Won't this make my hold henemies dance? I never did like that HYGEIA, a pompous and nose-poking minx-- A sort of a female _Poll Pry_, with a heye like an 'ork or a lynx; But the making me "Sanit'ry," too--oh, I know wot _that_ means to a T. She's cock--or say, hen--of the walk, and her sanit'ry slave'll be Me! Oh, I fancy I see myself sweeping the snow from the streets with a broom, Or explorin'--with fingers to nose--some effluvious hunderground room! Or a-trotting around with the dust-pails when scavengers chance to run short! Oh, just _won't_ the street-boys chyike me and 'ousemaids of BUMBLE make sport? Disgustin'! But there RITCHIE stands with his dashed Memyrandum. A look In his heye seems to tell me that he too enjoys bringing BUMBLE to book, As the _Times_--I'm serprised at that paper!--most pleasantly puts it to-day. My friend BONES the Butcher too! Moses! wot _would_ my old parlour-chum say If he saw me a nailing a Notice--but no, that's too horrid a dream. I must be a 'aving a Nightmare, and things cannot be wot they seem. I could do with mere Laws--bye or hother-wise--Hacts, jest like Honours, is easy, But this Memyrandum of RITCHIE's queers BUMBLE, and makes him feel queasy, Can't pertend as I don't hunderstand it, it's plain as my nose, clear as mud. _I'm_ responsible for--say Snow-clearing! It stirs up a Beadle's best blood! And when they can _Fine_ me for negligence, jest like some rate-paying scrub-- Oh! Porochial dignity's bust! I must seek a pick-up at my Pub!

[_Does so._

* * * * *

* * * * *

"FIRST-CLASS" TRAVELLING

_MADE EASY, BY PAYING A "THIRD-CLASS" FARE AND A SMALL ADDITIONAL TIP._

(BY ONE WHO HAS DONE IT.)

1. Arrive at station in four-wheeler, accompanied by lots of superfluous rugs, wraps, air-cushions, and pillows, &c., and if your domestic arrangements permit of it, two young ladies and one middle-aged one, who should assume an anxious and sympathetic mien.

2. On your cab drawing up, stay with a gentle forbearance the rush of the ordinary attentive porter, and request him, as if you had something important to communicate, to send you "the guard of the train" by which you propose to travel. On the appearance of this official, who will not fail to turn up, you will now appeal to one of your three female assistants, the middle-aged one for choice. Placing your case, as it were, in her hands, she will, in a half-sympathetic, half-commanding tone, address the official somewhat as follows:--"This gentleman, who is travelling to Barminster, and is going third-class (she makes a point of this), is, as you see, a great invalid, and he will require (this with a certain sense of being understood to mean a handsome tip) a carriage to himself." If said with a certain self-assurance, involving a species of lofty wink, this will probably be understood in the right sense by the official in question, and will be probably met by some such assurance as--"The train is very full, Madam, but I will do my best for the gentleman, and can ensure him, I think, a compartment to himself, at least, as far as Bolchester, where I leave the train. But I will explain the matter to my successor, and I have no doubt that he will be able (this also with a significant wink) to ensure the gentleman's seclusion. You are, I think, four? If you will follow me, and take my arm, Sir, I think we shall be able to manage it for you."

3. Enlist the assistance of several attendant porters, regardless of apparent outlay, who have been fairly let into your secret, and are prepared to, and in fact absolutely do, empty a third-class compartment already packed with passengers for Barminster, who retreat awe-stricken at your approach.

4. Immediately on taking possession of your carriage, recline the whole length of the five seats, faced by your three sympathetic and anxious-miened female companions. Be careful to give each of the assistant porters certainly not less than sixpence apiece in ostentatious fashion. Do not, however, as yet administer the shilling, or perhaps, eighteenpence you purpose giving to the original guard of the train who is to hand you over to the official who will have charge of you after Bolchester.

5. You will possibly have a _mauvais quart d'heure_ before departure, for though your guard, in hopes of the remunerative fee, will have carefully locked you in, he will not be able to prevent the calculating and more or less unfeeling British public, who, composed of a party of nine, are looking for as many places as they can find together, from discovering that you have six vacant places in your carriage, and directing the attention of other railway officials, not initiated into your secret agreement, to this circumstance. You must therefore be prepared for some such curt brutality as, "Why, look 'ere, EMMA, there's room for 'arf-a-dozen of us 'ere!" or, "I'm sure 'e needn't be a sprawlin' like that, takin' 'arf the carriage to 'isself," a rebuke which your feminine supporters resent in their severest manner. You are, however, at length saved by the interposition of your guardian angel, who sweeps away the party of nine unseated ones with a voice of commanding control, as much as to say, "This isn't your end of the train; besides, can't you see the poor gentleman's pretty well dying?" And he does hurry them off, and pack them in somewhere or other, but whether to their satisfaction or not, it is easier to hazard a guess than faithfully to record.

6. Bolchester is reached, and you are formally introduced to your final guarding and protecting angel, who rapidly takes in the situation, and by an assurance that he will see to your comfort, this, accompanied by a slightly perceptible wink, leaves you in happy expectation, which the result justifies, of reaching your destination uninvaded.

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO. V. Scene--_Upper deck of the Rhine Steamer, König Wilhelm, somewhere between Bonn and Bingen. The little tables on deck are occupied by English, American, and German tourists, drinking various liquids, from hock to Pilsener beer, and eating veal-cutlets. Mr. CYRUS K. TROTTER is on the lower deck, discussing the comparative merits of the New York hotels with a fellow countryman. Miss MAUD S. TROTTER is seated on the after-deck in close conversation with CULCHARD. PODBURY _is perched on a camp-stool in the forward part. Near him a British Matron, with a red-haired son, in a green and black blazer, and a blue flannel nightcap, and a bevy of rabbit-faced daughters, are patronising a tame German Student in spectacles, who speaks a little English._

_The British Matron_. Oh, you _ought_ to see London; it's our capital--chief city, you know. Very grand--large--four million inhabitants! [_With pride, as being in some way responsible for this._

_A Rabbit-faced Daughter_ (_with a simper_). Quite a little _world_!

[_She looks down her nose, as if in fear of having said something a little too original._

_The Germ. Stud._ No, I haf not yet at London peen. Ven I vill pedder Englisch learn, I go.

_The Blazer_. You read our English books, I suppose? DICKENS, you know, and HOMER, eh? About the Trojan War--that's his _best_ work!

_The Stud._ (_Ollendorffically_). I haf not read DIGGINS; but I haf read ze bapers by _Bigvig_. Zey are vary indereshtin, and gurious.

_A Patriotic Young Scot_ (_to an admiring Elderly Lady in a black mushroom hat_). Eh, but we just made a pairrty and went up Auld Drachenfels, and when we got to th' tope, we danced a richt gude Scots reel, and sang, "_We're a' togither an' naebody by_." concluding--just to show, ye'll understan', that we were loyal subjics--wi' "_God Save th' Queen_." The peasants didna seem just to know what to mak' of us, I prawmise ye!

_The Black Mushroom_. How I wish I'd been one of you!

_The Young Scot_ (_candidly_). I doot your legs would ha' stood such wark.

[_PODBURY becomes restless, and picks his way among the camp-stools to CULCHARD and Miss TROTTER._

_Podbury_ (_to himself_). Time _I_ had a look in, I think. (_Aloud._) Well, Miss Trotter, what do you think of the Rhine, as far as you've got?

_Miss T._ Well, I guess it's navigable, as far as _I've_ got.

_Podb._ No, but I mean to say--does it come up to the mark in the scenery line, you know?

_Miss T._ I cannot answer that till I know whereabouts it is they mark the scenery-line. I expect Mr. CULCHARD knows. He knows pretty well everything. Would you like to have him explain the scenery to you going along? His explanations are vurry improving, I assure you.

_Podb._ I daresay; but the scenery just here is so flat that even my friend's remarks won't improve it.

_Culch._ (_producing his note-book ostentatiously_). I do not propose to attempt it. No doubt you will be more successful in entertaining Miss TROTTER than I can pretend to be. I retire in your favour. [_He scribbles._

_Podb._ Is that our expenses you're corking down there, CULCHARD, eh?

_Culch._ (_with dignity_). If you want to know, I am "corking down," to adopt your elegant expression, a sonnet that suggested itself to me.

_Podb._ Much better cork that _up_, old chap--hadn't he, Miss TROTTER?

[_He glances at her for appreciation._

_Miss T._ That's so. I don't believe the poetic spirit has much chance of slopping over so long as Mr. PODBURY is around. You have considerable merit as a stopper, Mr. PODBURY.

_Podb._ I see; I'd better clear out till the poetry has all gurgled out of him, eh? Is that the idea?

_Miss T._ If it is, it's your own, so I guess it's a pretty good one.

[_PODBURY shoulders off._

_Culch._ (_with his pathetic stop on_). I wish I had more of your divine patience! Poor fellow, he is not without his good points; but I do find him a thorn in my flesh occasionally, I'm afraid.

_Miss T._ Well, I don't know as a thorn in the flesh is any the pleasanter for having a good point.

_Culch._ Profoundly true, indeed. I often think I could like him better if there were less in him to like. I assure you he tries me so at times that I could almost wish I was back at work in my department at Somerset House!

_Miss T._ I daresay you have pretty good times there, too. Isn't that one of your leading dry goods stores?

_Culch._ (_pained_). It is not; it is a Government Office, and I am in the Pigeonhole and Docket Department, with important duties to discharge. I hope you didn't imagine I sold ribbons and calico over a counter?

_Miss T._ (_ambiguously_). Well, I wasn't just sure. It takes a pretty bright man to do that where I come from.

_An Old Lady_ (_who is sitting next to PODBURY, and reading a home-letter to another Old Lady_). "Dear MARIA and dear MADELINE are close by, they have taken very comfortable lodgings in Marine Crescent. Dear MADELINE's frame is expected down next Saturday."

_Second Old Lady_. MADELINE's frame! Is anything wrong with the poor girl's spine?

_First Old Lady_. I never heard of it. Oh, I see, it's _fiancé_, my dear. CAROLINE _does_ write so illegibly. (_Continuing._) "Um--um,--suppose you know she will be maimed--" (perhaps it _is_ her spine after all--oh, _married_, to be sure), "very slowly" (is it slowly or shortly, I wonder?), um--um, "very quiet wedding, nobody but dear Mr. WILKINSON and his hatter."

_Second O.L._ The idea of choosing one's hatter for one's best man! I'm surprised MARIA should allow it!

_First O.L._ Maria always _was_ peculiar--still, now I come to look, it's more like "brother," which is certainly _much_ more suitable. (_Continuing._) "She will have no--no bird's-marks ..." (Now, what _does_ that--should you think that meant "crows-feet"? Oh, no, _how_ stupid of me--_bridesmaids_, of course!)--"and will go to the otter a plain guy"--(Oh, Caroline really is _too_....)--"to the _altar_ in plain _grey_! She has been given such quantities of pea-nuts"--(very odd things to give a girl! Oh, _presents_! um, um)--"Not settled yet where to go for their hangman"--(the officiating clergyman, I suppose--very flippant way of putting it, I _must_ say! It's meant for _honeymoon_, though, I see, to be _sure_!) &c., &c.

_Culch._ I should like to be at Nuremberg with you. It would be an unspeakable delight to watch the expansion of a fresh young soul in that rich mediæval atmosphere!

_Miss T._ I guess you'll have opportunities of watching Mr. PODBURY's fresh young soul under those conditions, any way.

_Culch._ It would not be at all the same thing--even if he--but you _do_ think you're coming to Nuremberg, don't you?

_Miss T._ Well, it's this way. Poppa don't want to get fooling around any more one-horse towns than he can help, and he's got to be fixed up with the idea that Nuremberg is a prominent European sight before he drops everything to get there.

_Culch._ I will undertake to interest him in Nuremberg. Fortunately, we are all getting off at Bingen, and going, curiously enough, to the same hotel. (_To himself_.) Confound that fellow PODBURY, here he is _again_!

_Podb._ (_to himself, as he advances_). If she's carrying on with that fellow, CULCHARD, to provoke me, I'll soon show her how little I--(_Aloud._) I say, old man, hope I'm not interrupting you, but I just want to speak to you for a minute, if Miss TROTTER will excuse us. Is there any particular point in going as far as Bingen to-night, eh?