Chapter I: Part 1

Transcriber's Note: Some Illustrations have been moved higher in the book to allow uninterrupted flow of the text.

PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

Edited by J. A. Hammerton

Designed to provide in a series of volumes, each complete in itself, the cream of our national humour, contributed by the masters of comic draughtsmanship and the leading wits of the age to "Punch," from its beginning in 1841 to the present day.

MR. PUNCH ON THE CONTINONG

("SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI")

_'Andsome 'Arriet._ "Ow my! If it 'yn't that bloomin' old Temple Bar, as they did aw'y with out o' Fleet Street!"

_Mr. Belleville_ (_referring to Guide-book_). "Now, it 'yn't! It's the fymous Bridge o' _Sighs_, as _Byron_ went and stood on; 'im as wrote _Our Boys_, yer know!"

_'Andsome 'Arriet._ "Well, I _never!_ It 'yn't _much_ of a _Size_, any'ow!"

_Mr. Belleville._ "'Ear! 'ear Fustryte!"]

MR. PUNCH ON THE CONTINONG

_WITH 152 ILLUSTRATIONS_

BY

PHIL MAY, GEORGE DU MAURIER, JOHN LEECH, CHARLES KEENE, L. RAVENHILL, J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE, E. T. REED, REGINALD CLEAVER, AND OTHER HUMOROUS ARTISTS

PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH

THE PROPRIETORS OF "PUNCH"

THE AMALGAMATED PRESS, LTD.

PUNCH LIBRARY OF HUMOUR

_Crown 8vo. 192 pages, fully illustrated, pictorial cover, 1s. net._

MR. PUNCH AT THE SEASIDE

MR. PUNCH'S RAILWAY BOOK

MR. PUNCH ON THE CONTINONG

MR. PUNCH'S BOOK OF LOVE

MR. PUNCH AFLOAT

MR. PUNCH IN THE HIGHLANDS

OTHERS TO FOLLOW

OFF TO THE CONTINONG!

(_A Foreword_)

The kind of figure you see on posters inviting you to French
seaside resorts.
]

Nothing is more calculated to give Englishmen a good conceit of themselves in the matter of international courtesy than a careful examination of the archives of Mr. Punch, such as was necessary in the preparation of the present volume. To anyone familiar with the anti-British attitude of the French comic press before these happier days of the _Entente Cordiale_, and of the German press at all times, the complete absence of all manner of ill-feeling from Mr. Punch's jokes about our neighbours across the Channel is little short of wonderful. Even in the days when the English people were the unfailing subject for every French satirist when he suffered from an unusual attack of spleen, our national jester seems never to have lost the good-humour with which he has usually surveyed the life of the Continent. Indeed, as the pages here brought together will readily prove, Mr. Punch has seldom, if ever, laid himself open to the charge of insularity in his point of view. Instead of showing a tendency to ridicule our neighbours on the Continent, he has been more inclined to pillory the follies of his own countrymen, and to contrast their behaviour on the Continent rather unfavourably with that of the natives. But, even so, there is nothing in these humorous chronicles of "Mr. Punch on the Continong" which will not amuse equally the travelling or the stay-at-home Briton and the foreigner, since each will find many of his national characteristics "touched off" in a way that is no less kindly than amusing. The fact that a considerable proportion of these pages are from the pen of George Du Maurier, himself a Frenchman by birth, is a reminder that long before the Governments of France and Great Britain had come into their present relationship of intimate friendliness, Mr. Punch had maintained his own _Entente Cordiale!_

The kind of figure which comes nearest to the ideal you have
formed.
]

SCENE--_Boulevards, Paris_

_Professional Beggar_ (_whining_). "Ayez pitié, mon bon m'sieu. Ayez pitié! J'ai froid--j'ai bien froid!"

_Le Bon Monsieur_ (_irritably_). "Allez au di----" (_suddenly thinking that sunshine might be preferable_) "aux Champs Elysées!"]

AND ON THIS!"]

(TWO ASIDES)

_Young England._ "Rummy style of 'at!" _La Jeune France._ "Drôle de chapeau!"]

MR. PUNCH ON THE CONTINONG

TIPS

(_To a Friendly Adviser_)

When starting off on foreign trips,
I've felt secure if someone gave me
Invaluable hints and tips;
Time, trouble, money, these would save me.

I'm off; you've told me all you know.
Forewarned, forearmed, I start, instructed
How much to spend, and where to go;
Yet free, not like some folks "conducted."

Now I shall face, serene and calm,
Those persons, often rather pressing
For little gifts, with outstretched palm.
To some of them I'll give my blessing.

To others--"_service_" being paid--
_Buona mano_, _pourboire_, _trinkgeld;_
They fancy Englishmen are made
Of money, made of (so they think) _geld_.

The _garçon_, ready with each dish,
His brisk "_Voilà, monsieur_" replying
To anything that one may wish;
His claim admits of no denying.

The _portier_, who never rests,
Who speaks six languages together
To clamorous, inquiring guests,
On letters, luggage, trains, boats, weather.

The _femme de chambre_, who fills my _bain;_
The _ouvreuse_, where I see the _acteur_.
A cigarette to _chef de train_,
A franc to energetic _facteur_.

I give each _cocher_ what is right;
I know, without profound researches,
What I must pay for each new sight--
Cathedrals, castles, convents, churches.

Or climbing up to see a view,
From _campanile_, roof, or steeple,
Those verbal tips I had from you
Save money tips to other people.

Save all those florins, marks or francs--
Or _pfennige_, _sous_, _kreutzer_, is it?--
The change they give me at the banks,
According to the towns I visit.

I seem to owe you these, and yet
Will money do? My feeling's deeper.
I'll owe you an eternal debt--
A debt of gratitude, that's cheaper.

_British Matron_. "Oh, to be sure, yes. You remember, George, we had French beans, _à la Maître Autel_ for dinner yesterday!"]

BREAKING THE BANK AT MONTE CARLO

(_A Note from One who has all but done it_)

DEAR MR. PUNCH.--Now that so many of my countrymen (the word includes both sexes) patronise Monte Carlo, it is well that they should be provided with an infallible system. Some people think that a lucky pig charm or a piece of Newgate rope produces luck. But this impression is caused by a feeling of superstition--neither more nor less. What one wants in front of the table is a really scientific mathematical system. This I am prepared to give.

Take a Napoleon as a unit, making up your mind to lose up to a certain sum, and do not exceed that sum. Now back the colour twenty consecutive times. Don't double, but simply keep to the unit. When you have lost to the full extent of your limit, double your stake. Keep to this sum for another twenty turns. By this time it is a mathematical certainty that you must either have won--or lost. Of course, if you have won you will be pleased. If you have lost, keep up your heart and double your stakes again. This time you will be backing the colour with a stake four times as large as your original fancy. Again go for twenty turns, and see what comes of it.

Of course, if you still lose it will be unfortunate, but you cannot have everything. And with this truism, I sign myself,

ONE WHO WISHES TO BENEFIT MANKIND.

_First Foreigner_. "This is what they call _à la Russe_, isn't it!"

_Second Foreigner_. "_Alleroose_ is it? Well there! I could a' sworn it warn't beef nor mutton."]

THE BRITISH BATHER

(_By a Dipper in Brittany_)

[Apropos of a correspondence in the _Daily Graphic_]

Mrs. Grundy rules the waves,
With Britons for her slaves--
They're fearful to disport themselves,
Unless the sexes sort themselves
And take their bathing, sadly, for French gaiety depraves (!)

'Tis time no more were seen
The out-of-date "machine";
Away with that monstrosity
Of prudish ponderosity--
Why can't we have the bathing tent or else the trim _cabine?_

I think we should advance
If we took a hint from France,
And mingled (quite decorously)
On beaches that before us lie
All round our coasts--we do abroad whene'er we get the chance!

O'er here in St. Maló
The thing's quite _comme il faut;_
Why not in higher latitude?
I can't make out the attitude
Of those who make the British dip so "shocking," dull and slow!

FEEDING THE PIGEONS AT ST. MARK'S SQUARE, VENICE]

_First Tripper_ (_in French Picture Gallery_). "What O! 'Erb! What price this?"

_Gardien_ (_who quite understands him_). "Pardon, M'sieur, eet is not 'Watteau,' and eet is not for sale!"]

_Tourist expostulates_: "Oh--h, come! Them seegar is poor le--le--le--foomigaseong de mor-mem--yer fool!"]

A ROMAN HOLIDAY

_On the Appian Way_

We are with a guide, voluble after the fashion of guides all the world over, and capable of speaking many languages execrably. His English, no doubt, is typical of the rest. "Datt-e building dere," he says, "is de Barze of Caracalla."

"The _what?_" says my companion.

"De Barze of Caracalla--vere de ancient Romans bayze demselfs in de water--same as ve go to Casino, zey take a barze, morning, afternoon, ven zey like."

"It must have been a large building," I venture, ineptly.

"In dem dere barze," he retorts, impressively, "sixteen honderd peoples all could chomp in de water same time!"

"Jolly good splash they must have made," says A.

The guide pays no attention, but continues:--

"Dem dere barze not de biggest. In de Barze of Diocletian four tousand peoples all could chomp in de water same time. In all de barze in Rome forrrty tousand could chomp in same time."

"I wonder," says A., "how they got 'em all together and started them jumping?"

"Vell, dey not all chomp togesser every day same peoples, but ven de barze all full den forrrty tousand chomp in same time."

_At the Bosco Sacro._

"Now," remarks the guide, "I tell you fonny story--make you laugh. Ven dem eight honderd robbers foundated Rome dey live on a 'ill and dey haf no religion. Den come de King Numa Pompilio: he say 'dey most haf religion,' so he can goffern dem better. Den 'e go to diss _bosco_, and ven he come back he tell dem robbers he haf seen de Naimp _Egeea_----"

"The Nymph _Egeria_," A. intervenes, with superiority.

"Vell, I say de Naimp _Egeea_. He say he haf seen her, dat she haf appareeted to him, and so dey get deir religion."

A. laughs dubiously.

"Yes," concludes the guide, "dat iss a fonny story."

_By the Circus of Maxentius_.

"Diss is de Circus of Massenzio. He build 'im ven his son Romulus die. No, diss is not de same Romulus who foundated Rome, but anosser one, a leetle boy, de son of de Emperor Massenzio. He die ven he vos a leetle boy. In dem days it not permitted to make sacrifice of men, so dey build a race-course instead: it is de same ting, for some of de charioteers alvays get dem killed, and Massenzio tink dey go play wiz Romulus."

_In the Catacombs._

"Ven de _martiri_ condemnated to dess and dey kill dem, dey safe some drops blood in a leetle bottle and dey put dem bottles in de valls. Dere iss a bit, you see. San Sebastiano 'e vos condemnated to de arrows--dey shotted 'im--and afterward dey smash his head on a column. Dere is de column."

"What was that you were telling us about Caracalla just now?"

"Caracalla he no like 'is brozzer Geta--so he kill 'im. Den he make 'im a god and tell peoples to vorship him, and 'e say 'I did not like my brozzer ven he vos a man, but I like him very moch ven he is a god.' Dat is anosser funny story."

* * *

AT BOULOGNE.--_Mrs. Sweetly_ (_on her honeymoon_). "Isn't it funny, Archibald, to see so many foreigners about? And all talking French!"

_Fritz the Waiter_ (_to Lady and Gent just arrived, and a little at sea as to the sort of a kind of a place it is_). "Yes, madame, dere is such a lot of _Swift_ people here. More dan half de peoples what is here is _Swift_."]

John Henry Jones thinks he will do a little bit of marketing for himself, and asks the price of tomatoes. With a killing glance and a winning smile, the vendor replies that for him they will be a franc apiece, but that he mustn't mention it. The modest J. H. J. blushes, and buys, in spite of some misgiving that for anybody else they would be about sixpence a dozen.]

SCENE--_A Table d'hôte_

_Aristocratic English Lady_ (_full of diplomatic relations_). "A--can you tell me if there is a resident British Minister here?"

_Scotch Tourist._ "Well, I'm not just quite sure--but I'm told there's an excellent Presbyterian service every Sunday!"]

WONDERS OF THE WORLD ABROAD

Wonder if there be an inn upon the Continent where you are furnished gratis with a cake of soap and bed candle.

Wonder how many able-bodied English waiters it would take to do the daily work of half a dozen French ones.

Wonder why it is that Great (and Little) Britons are so constantly heard grumbling at the half a score of dishes in a foreign bill of fare, while at home they have so frequently to feed upon cold mutton.

Wonder what amount of beer a German tourist daily drinks, and how many half-pint glasses a waiter at Vienna can carry at a time without spilling a drop out of them.

Wonder how it is that, although one knows full well that many Paris people are most miserably poor, one never sees such ragged scarecrows in its streets as are visible in London.

Wonder how many successive ages must elapse ere travellers abroad enjoy the luxury of salt-spoons.

Wonder why so many tourists, and particularly ladies, will persist in speaking French, with a true Britannic accent, when the waiter so considerately answers them in English.

Wonder when our foreign friends, who are in most things so ingenious, will direct their ingenuity to the art of drainage coupled with deodorising fluids.

Wonder if there be a watering-place in France where there is no Casino, and where Frenchmen may be seen engaged in any game more active than dominoes or billiards.

Wonder when it will be possible to get through seven courses at a foreign _table d'hôte_ without running any risk of seeing one's fair neighbour either eating with her knife or wiping her plate clean by sopping bread into the gravy.

Wonder what would be the yearly increase of deafness in Great Britain, if our horses all had bells to jangle on their harness, and our drivers all were seized with the mania for whip-cracking, which possesses in such fury all the coachmen on the Continent.

Wonder in what century the historian will relate that a Frenchman was seen walking in the country for amusement.

Wonder why it is that when one calls a Paris waiter, he always answers, "V'la, M'sieu," and then invariably vanishes.

Wonder when Swiss tourists will abstain from buying alpenstocks which they don't know how to use, and which are branded with the names of mountains they would never dare to dream of trying to do more than timidly look up to.

Wonder in what age of progress a sponge-bath will be readily obtainable abroad, in places most remote, and where Britons least do congregate.

Wonder if French ladies, who are as elegant in their manners as they are in their millinery, will ever acquire the habit of eating with their lips shut.

Wonder when it will be possible to travel on the Rhine, without hearing feeble jokelets made about the "rhino."

_Mrs. Vanoof_ (_shopping in Paris_). "Now let me see what you've got extra special."

_Salesman._ "Madam, we 'ave some ver' fine Louis treize."

_Mr. Vanoof._ "Trays, man! What do we want with trays!"

_Mrs. Vanoof._ "Better try one or two; they're only a louis."]

"Oh--er--pardong, Mossoo--may kelly le shmang kilfoker j'ally poor ally Allycol Militair?"

"Monsieur, je ne comprends pas l'Anglais, malheureusement!"

[_Our British Friend is asking for the way to the École
Militaire._
]

SCENE--_Public drawing-room of hotel in the Engadine._

_The Hon. Mrs. Snobbington (to fair stranger)._ "English people are so unsociable, and never speak to each other without an introduction. I always make a point of being friendly with people staying at the same hotel. One need never know them afterwards!"]

The Delamere-Browns, who have been spending their honeymoon trip in France, have just taken their seats on the steamer, agreeably conscious of smart clothes and general well-being, when to them enters breathlessly, Françoise, the "bonne" from the hotel, holding on high a very dirty comb with most of its teeth missing.

_Françoise (dashing forward with her sweetest smile)._ "Tiens! J'arrive juste à point! Voilà un peigne que madame a laissé dans sa chambre!"

[_Tableau!_
]

_'Arry._ "I say, Bill, ain't he a rum lookin' cove?"]

Appalling position of Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins, who had a jib horse when the tide was coming in.]

_First Compatriot_ (_in Belgian café_). "I beg your pardon, sirr. Are ye an Irishman?"

_Second Compatriot._ "I am!"

[_Silence._

_First Compatriot._ "I'd as soon meet a crocodile as an Irishman 'foreign parts. I beg ye'll not address yer conversation to me, sirr!!"]

AN IDYLLIC ISLAND

When we came to Amsterdam, we determined, Pashley, Shirtliff and I, that we would take the earliest opportunity of seeing Marken. Wonderful place, by all accounts. Little island, only two miles from mainland, full of absolutely unsophisticated inhabitants. Most of them have never left Marken--no idea of the world beyond it! Everybody contented and equal; costumes quaint; manners simple and dignified. Sort of Arcadia, with dash of Utopia.

And here we are--actually at Marken, just landed by sailing-boat from Monnickendam.

All is peaceful and picturesque. Scattered groups of little black cottages with scarlet roofs, on mounds. Fishermen strolling about in baggy black knickerbockers, woollen stockings, and wooden shoes.

Women and girls all dressed alike, in crimson bodice and embroidered skirt; little cap with one long brown curl dangling coquettishly in front of each ear. Small children--miniature replicas of their elders--wander lovingly, hand in hand. A few urchins dart off at our approach, like startled fawns, and disappear amongst the cottages. Otherwise, our arrival attracts no attention.

The women go on with their outdoor work, cleaning their brilliant brass and copper, washing and hanging out their bright-hued cotton and linen garments, with no more than an occasional shy side-glance at us from under their tow-coloured fringes. "Perfectly unconscious," as Shirtliff observes, enthusiastically, "of how unique and picturesque they are!"

All the more wonderful, because excursion steamers run every day during the season from Amsterdam.

We walk up and down rough steps and along narrow, winding alleys. Shirtliff says he "feels such a bounder, going about staring at everything as if he was at Earl's Court." Thinks the Markeners must hate being treated like a show. _We_ shouldn't like it ourselves!

That may be, but, as Pashley retorts, it's the Markeners' own fault. They shouldn't be so beastly picturesque.

Fine buxom girl approaches, carrying pail. On closer view, not precisely a girl--in fact, a matron of mature years. These long, brown side-curls deceptive at a distance; impression, as she passes, of a kind of Dutch "Little Toddlekins"; view of broad back and extensive tract of fat, bare neck under small cap. She turns round and intimates by expressive pantomime that her cottage is close by, and if we would care to inspect the interior, we are heartily welcome. Uncommonly friendly of her. Pashley and I are inclined to accept, but Shirtliff dubious--we may have misunderstood her. We really can't go crowding in like a parcel of trippers!

Little Toddlekins, however, quite keen about it; sees us hesitate, puts down pail and beckons us on round corner with crooked forefinger, like an elderly Siren. How different this simple, hearty hospitality from the sort of reception foreigners would get from an English fishwife! We can't refuse, or we shall hurt her feelings. "But whatever we do," urges Shirtliff, "we mustn't dream of offering her money. She'd be most tremendously insulted."

Of course, we quite understand _that_. It would be simply an outrage. We uncover, and enter, apologetically. Inside, an elderly fisherman is sitting by the hearth mending a net; a girl is leaning in graceful, negligent attitude against table by window. Neither of them takes the slightest notice of us, which is embarrassing. Afraid we really _are_ intruding. However, our hostess--good old soul--has a natural tact and kindliness that soon put us at our ease. Shows us everything. Curtained recesses in wall, where they go to bed. "Very curious--so comfortable!" Delft plates and painted shelves and cupboards. "Most decorative!" Caps and bodices worn by females of the family. "Charming; such artistic colour!" School copybooks with children's exercises. "Capital; so neatly written!" What is she trying to make us understand? Oh, in winter, the sea comes in above the level of the wainscot. "Really! How very convenient!" We don't mean this, but we are so anxious to please and be pleased, that our enthusiasm is degenerating into drivel. Girl by the window contemplates us with growing contempt; and no wonder. High time we went.

Little Toddlekins at the end of her tether; looks at us as if to imply that she has done _her_ part. Next move must come from us. Pashley consults us in an undertone. "Perhaps, after all she _does_ expect, eh? What do _we_ think? Would half a gulden---- What?"

Personally, I think it _might_, but Shirtliff won't hear of it, "Certainly not. On no account! At all events _he_'ll be no party to it. He will simply thank her, shake hands, and walk out." Which he does. I do the same. He may be right, and anyhow, if one of us is to run the risk of offending this matron's delicacy by the offer of a gratuity, Pashley will do it better than I.

Pashley overtakes us presently, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Did he tip her?" "Yes, he _tipped_ her." "And she flung it after you!" cries Shirtliff, in triumph. "I knew she would! _Now_ I hope you're satisfied!"

"If I am, it's more than _she_ was," says Pashley. "She stuck to it all right, but she let me see it was nothing like what she'd expected for the three of us."

Shirtliff silent but unconvinced. However, as we go on, we see a beckoning forefinger at almost every door and window. Every Markener anxious that we should walk into his little parlour--and pay for the privilege. All of them, as Pashley disgustedly observes, "On the make"; got some treasured heirloom that has been in the family without intermission for six months, and that they would be willing to part with, if pressed, for a consideration. We don't press them; in fact, we are obliged at last to decline their artless invitations--to their unconcealed disgust. Nice people, very, but can't afford to know too many of them.

"At least the _children_ are unspoilt," says Shirtliff, as we come upon a couple of chubby infants, walking solemnly hand in hand as usual. He protests, when Pashley insists on presenting them with a cent, or one-fifth of an English penny, apiece. "Why demoralise them, why instil the love of money into their innocent minds?" Shirtliff wants to know.

He is delighted when they exhibit no sort of emotion on being thus enriched. It shows, he says, that, as yet, they have no conception what money means.

The pair have toddled off towards a gathering of older children, and Pashley, who has brought a Kodak, wonders if he can induce them to stay as they are while he takes a snapshot. Shirtliff protests again. Only spoil them, make them conceited and self-conscious, he maintains.

But the children have seen the Kodak, and are eager to be taken. One of them produces a baby from neighbouring cottage, and they arrange themselves instinctively in effective group by a fence.

Pashley delighted. "Awfully intelligent little beggars!" he says. "They seem to know exactly what I want."

They also know exactly what _they_ want, for the moment they hear the camera click, they make a rush at us, sternly demanding five cents a head for their services.

Shirtliff very severe with them; not one copper shall they have from _him;_ not a matter of pence, but principle, and they had better go away at once. They don't; they hustle him, and some of the taller girls nudge him viciously in the ribs with sharp elbows, as a hint that "an immediate settlement is requested." Pashley and I do the best we can, but we soon come to the end of our Dutch coins. However, no doubt English pennies will---- Not a bit of it! Even the chubby infants don't consider them legal tender here, and reject them with open scorn.

Fancy we have compromised all claims at last. No; Marken infantry still harassing our rear. What _more_ do they want? It appears that we have not paid the baby, which is an important extra on these occasions, and which they carry after us in state as an unsatisfied creditor and a powerful appeal to our consciences. Adult Markeners come out, and seem to be exchanging remarks (with especial reference to Shirtliff, who is regarded as the chief culprit) on the meanness that is capable of bilking an innocent baby.

"What I like about Marken," says Pashley, when we are safely on board our sailing boat, to which we have effected a rather ignominious retreat, "what I like about Marken is the beautiful simplicity and unworldliness of the natives. Didn't that strike _you_, Shirtliff?"

We gather from Shirtliff's reply that he failed to observe these characteristics.

* * *

AT MUNICH.--_Mr. Joddletop_ (_to travelling companion at Bierhalle_). What they call this larger beer for I'm blessed if I know! Why, it's thinner than the Bass I drink at home!

* * *

_Mrs. Tripper_ (_examining official notice on the walls of Boulogne_). What's that mean, Tripper, "Pas de Calais"?

_Tripper (who is proud of his superior acquaintance with a foreign language)._ It means--"Nothing to do with Calais," my dear. These rival ports are dreadfully jealous of one another!

* * *

VERY MUCH ABROAD.--_Brown._ I say, Smith, you've been here before. Tell me where I can get a first dish of _Tête de veau?_

_Smith._ _Tête de veau?_ Let's see, that's "calf's head," isn't it? Well, I heard of a place where they ought to have it good, as they call it the _Hôtel de Veal_.

_She._ "Great feat, you mean, count."

_He._ "Ah! Zen you climed him more as once!"]

COURTESY À LA SUISSE

["The recent complaints of the rudeness shown to English
travellers in Switzerland by the natives has been officially
denied by the authorities of Lucerne."--_Daily Paper._]

_You are an idiot, a fool, and a rascal._ (_Official explanation._) Terms of endearment denoting feeling of the utmost friendship.

_Why do you come here? Why don't you stay at home?_ (_Official explanation._) Merely questions asked to stimulate pleasant conversation.

_You are a rosbif, a boule dogue, and plum-pudding._ (_Official interpretation._) Fine names intended to express the greatest possible admiration for British institutions.

_If you speak we will knock you down._ (_Official interpretation._) Merely a kindly expression of concern calculated to produce repose.

_You are one brutal, ugly-faced foreigner._ (_Official interpretation._) A jocular salutation.

_You sell your wife at Smithfield--Long live the Boers!_ (_Official interpretation._) A polite attempt to commence a courteous conversation.

_Are you English?_ (_Official interpretation._) The highest praise imaginable.

_Youthful North Briton_ (_on honeymoon tour, proud of his French_). "Gassong! La--le--le--cart----"

_Garçon._ "Oui, m'sieu', tout de suite!"

_Admiring Bride._ "Losh! Sandy, what did he say?"

_Youthful North Briton_ (_rather taken aback_). "Aweel, Jeannie, dear, he kens I'm Scotch, an' he asked me to 'tak' a seat.'"]

After the bath, the Count and Countess de St. Camembert have a little chat with their friends before dressing; and Monsieur Roucouly, the famous baritone, smokes a quiet cigarette, ere he plunges into the sandy ripple.]

THE DAMSELS OF DIEPPE

_Or, The Legend of Lionel_

"Newhaven to Dieppe," he cried, but, on the voyage there,
He felt appalling qualms of what the French call _mal de mer;_
While, when the steward was not near, he struck Byronic attitudes,
And made himself most popular by pretty little platitudes.
And, while he wobbled on the waves, be sure they never slep',
While waiting for their Lionel, the Damsels of Dieppe.

He landed with a jaunty air, but feeling rather weak,
While all the French and English girls cried out "_C'est
magnifique!_"
They reck'd not of his bilious hue, but murmur'd quite ecstatical,
"Blue coat, brass buttons, and straw hat--c'est _tout-à-fait_
piratical!"
He hadn't got his land-legs, and he walked with faltering step,
But still they thought it _comme-il-faut_, those Damsels of Dieppe.

The Douane found him circled round by all the fairest fair,
The while he said, in lofty tones, he'd nothing to declare;
He turned to one girl who stood near, and softly whisper'd "Fly, O
Nell!"
But all the others wildly cried, "Give us a chance, O Lionel!"
And thus he came to shore from all the woes of Father Nep.,
With fatal fascinations for the Damsels of Dieppe.

He went to the Casino, whither mostly people go,
And lost his tin at baccarat and eke _petits chevaux;_
And still the maidens flocked around, and vowed he was amusing 'em;
And borrowed five-franc pieces, just for fear he should be losing
'em;
And then he'd sandwiches and bocks, which brought on bad dyspep-
-sia for Lionel beloved by Damsels of Dieppe.

As bees will swarm around a hive, the maids of _La belle France_
Went mad about our Lionel and thirsted for his glance;
In short they were reduced unto a state of used-up coffee lees
By this mild, melancholic, maudlin, mournful Mephistopheles.
He rallied them in French, in which he had the gift of rep-
-artee, and sunnily they smiled, the Damsels of Dieppe.

At last one day he had to go; they came upon the pier;
The French girls sobbed, "_Mon cher!_" and then the
English sighed, "My dear!"
He looked at all the threatening waves, and cried, the while
embracing 'em,
(I mean the girls, not waves,) "Oh no! I don't feel quite like
facing 'em!"
And all the young things murmured, "Stay, and you will find sweet
rep-
aration for the folks at home in Damsels of Dieppe."

And day by day, and year by year, whene'er he sought the sea,
The waves were running mountains high, the wind was blowing free.
At last he died, and o'er his bier his sweethearts sang doxology,
And vowed they saw his ghost, which came from dabbling in
psychology.
And to this hour that spook is seen upon the pier. If scep-
tical, ask ancient ladies, once the Damsels of Dieppe.

* * *

TO INTENDING TOURISTS.--"Where shall we go?" All depends on the "coin of 'vantage." Switzerland? Question of money. Motto.--"_Point d'argent point de Suisse._"

* * *

AT INTERLACHEN.--_Cockney Tourist to Perfect Stranger_. Must 'ave been a 'ard frost 'ere last night, sir.

_Perfect Stranger_ (_startled_). Dear me! Why?

_Cockney Tourist._ Why, look at the top of that there 'ill, sir (_points to the Jung Frau_). Ain't it covered with snow!

_Smith_ (_meeting the Browns at the station on their return from the Continent_). "Delighted to see you back, my boy! But--well, and how did you like Italy?"

_Mrs. B._ (_who is "artistic"_). "Oh, charming, you know, the pictures and statues and all that! But Charles had typhoid for six weeks at Feverenze (our hotel was close to that glorious Melfizzi Palazzo, y'know), and after that I caught the Roman fever, and so," &c., &c.

[_They think they go to Ramsgate next year._]

"Now, then, mossoo, your form is of the manliest beauty, and you are altogether a most attractive object; but you've stood there long enough. So jump in and have done with it!"]

_Sir G. Midas_ (_to his younger son_). "There's a glass o' champagne for yer, 'Enry! Down with it, my lad--and thank 'Eaven you're an Englishman, and can afford to drink it!"]

VENEZIA LA BELLA

[According to a correspondent of the _Times_, it is proposed to erect bridges connecting Venice with the mainland.]

One afternoon in the autumn of 1930, when the express from Milan arrived at Venice an Englishman stepped out, handed his luggage ticket to a porter, and said, "_Hotel Tiziano_."

"_Adesso Hotel Moderno, signore_," remarked the porter.

"They've changed the name, I suppose. All right. _Hotel Moderno, gondola._"

"_Che cosa, signore?_" asked the porter, apparently confused, "_gon--, gondo--, non capisco. Hotel Moderno, non è vero?_" And he led the way to the outside, where the Englishman perceived a wide, asphalted street. "_Ecco là, signore, la stazione sotterranea del Tubo dei Quattro Soldi; ecco qui la tramvia elettrica, e l'omnibus dell' hotel._"

"_Gondola_," repeated the Englishman. The porter stared at him again. Then he shook his head and answered, "_Non capisco, signore, non parlo inglese_." So the Englishman entered the motor omnibus, started at once, for there were no other travellers, and in a few minutes arrived at the hotel, designed by an American architect and fifteen stories in height. The gorgeous marble and alabaster entrance-hall was entirely deserted.

Having engaged a room, the Englishman asked for a guide. The hall porter, who spoke ten languages fluently and simultaneously, murmured some words into a telephone, and almost immediately a dapper little man presented himself with an obsequious bow.

"I want to go round the principal buildings," said the Englishman. "You speak English, of course."

"Secure, sir," answered the guide, with another bow; "alls the ciceronians speaks her fine language, but her speak I as one English. Lets us go to visit the Grand Central Station of the Tube."

"Oh, no," said the Englishman, "not that sort of thing! I'm not an engineer. I should like to see the Doge's Palace."

"Lo, sir! The Palace is now the _Stazione Centrale Elettrica_."

"Then it's no good going to see that. I will go to St. Mark's."

"San Marco is shutted, sir. The _vibrazione_ of the elettrical mechanism has done fall the mosaics. The to visit is become too periculous."

"Oh, indeed! Well, we can go up the Grand Canal."

"The _Canal Grande_, sir, is now the _Via Marconi_. Is all changed, and covered, as all the olds canals of Venezia, with arches of steel and a street of _asfalto_. Is fine, fine, _è bella, bella, una via maravigliosa"!_

"You don't mean to say there isn't a canal left? Where are the gondolas then?"

"_An, una gondola!_ The sir is _archeologo_. _Ebbene!_ We shalls go to the _Museo_. There she shall see one gondola, much curious, and old, ah, so old!"

"Not a canal, not a gondola--except in the museum! What is there to see?"

"There is much, sir. There is the Tube of the Four Halfpennies, _tutto all' inglese_, as at London. He is on the arches of steel below the news streets. There is the bridge from the city to Murano, one span of steel all covered of stone much thin, as the _Ponte della Torre_, the Bridge of the Tower, at London. Is marvellous, the our bridge! Is one bridge, and not of less not appear to be one bridge, but one castle of the middle age in the middle air. _È bellissimo, e anche tutto all' inglese._ And then----"

"Stop," cried the Englishman. "Does anybody ever come to your city now? Any artists, for instance?"

"Ah, no, sir! _Pittori, scultori, perche?_ But there are voyagers some time. The month past all the Society of the Engineers of Japan are comed, and the hotels were fulls, and all those sirs were much contenteds and sayed the city was marvellous. She shall go now, sir, to visit the bridge?"

"No," said the Englishman, emphatically, "not I! Let me pay my bill here and your fee, whatever it is, and take me back to the railway station as fast as you can. There are plenty of bridges in London. I am going back there."

* * *

AT BRUSSELS.--_Mrs. Trickleby_ (_pointing to announcement in grocer's window, and spelling it out_).

_Jambon d' Yorck._ What's that mean, Mr. T.?

_Mr. T._ (_who is by way of being a linguist_). Why, good Yorkshire preserves, of course. What did you suppose it was--Dundee marmalade?

"These 'ere cigars at three a 'na'penny 'as just as delicate a flavour as them as we pays a penny a piece for at 'ome!"]

_The Garsong_ (_to Jones and Brown, from Clapham_). "But your dinner, gentlemans! He go to make 'imself cold, if you eat 'im not!"]

'ARRY IN SWITZERLAND

DEAR CHARLIE,--You heard as I'd left good old England agen, I'll
be bound.
Not for Parry alone, mate, this time--I've bin doing the Reglar
Swiss Round.
Mong Blong, Mare de Glass, and all that, Charlie--guess it's a
sight you'd enjoy
To see 'Arry, the Hislington Masher, togged out as a Merry Swiss
Boy.

'Tis a bit of a stretch from the "Hangel," a jolly long journey by
rail.
But I made myself haffable like; I'd got hup on the toppingest
scale;
Shammy-hunter at Ashley's not in it with me, I can tell yer, old
chap;
And the way as the passengers stared at me showed I wos fair on
the rap.

Talk of hups and downs, Charlie! North Devon I found pooty steep,
as you know.
But wot's Lynton roads to the Halps, or the Torrs to that blessed
Young Frow?
I got 'andy with halpenstocks, Charlie, and never came _much_ of a
spill;
But I think, arter all, that, for comfort, I rayther prefer
Primrose 'Ill.

But that's _ontry nous_, dont cher know; keep my pecker hup proper
out 'ere.
'Arry never let on to them Swiss as he felt on the swivel--no fear!
When I slipped down a bloomin' _crevassy_, I _did_ do a bit of a
'owl,
On them glasheers, to keep your foot fair, you want claws, like a
cat on the prowl.

Got arf smothered in snow, and no kid, Charlie--guide swore 'twas
all my hown fault,
'Cos I would dance, and sing _too-ral-li-ety_, arter he'd hordered
a halt.
Awful gonophs, them guides, and no herror; they don't know their
place not a mite,
And I'm dashed if this cad didn't laugh (with the rest), 'cos I
looked sich a sight.

* * *

AT OSTEND.--_Biffles_ (_to Tiffles_). In this bloomin' country everyone's a prince or a marquis or a baron or a nob of some sort, so I've just shoved you down in the Visitors' Book as Lord Harthur MacOssian, and me as the Dook of FitzDazzlem!

_Tiffles._ Well, now, that is a lark! What'd our missuses say?

[_And what did their "Missuses" say when B. and T., held in pawn
by the hotel proprietor (charging aristocratic prices), had to
write home to Peckham Rye for considerable advances from the
family treasuries?_

_Passenger from London_ (_as the train runs into the Gare du Nord, Paris_). "Oh--er--I say--er--garsong! Kel ay le nomme du set plass?"]

SUR LA PLAGE

_Sur la Plage!_ and here are dresses, shining eyes, and golden
tresses,
Which the cynic sometimes guesses are not quite devoid of art;
There's much polyglottic chatter 'mid the folks that group and
scatter,
And men fancy that to flatter is to win a maiden's heart.

'Tis a seaside place that's Breton, with the rocks the children
get on,
And the ceaseless surges fret on all the silver-shining sand;
Wave and sky could scarce be bluer, and the wily Art-reviewer
Would declare the tone was truer than a seascape from Brett's hand.

And disporting in the waters are the fairest of Eve's daughters,
Each aquatic gambol slaughters the impulsive sons of France,
While they gaze with admiration at the mermaids' emulation,
And the high feats of natation at fair Dinard on the Rance.

There are gay casino dances, where, with Atalanta glances
That ensnare a young man's fancies, come the ladies one by one;
Every look is doubly thrilling in the mazes of quadrilling,
And, like _Barkis_, we are willing, ere the magic waltz is done.

And at night throng Fashion's forces where the merry little horses
Run their aggravating courses throughout all the Season's height;
Is the sea a play-provoker?--for the bard is not a joker
When he vows the game of poker goeth on from morn till night.

There St. Malo walls are frowning,--'twas immortalised by Browning,
When he wrote the ballad crowning with the laurel Hervé Riel;
With ozone each nerve that braces, pleasant strolls, and pretty
faces,
Sure, of all fair seaside places, Breton Dinard bears the bell!

* * *

COMPENSATION,--"Ullo, Jones! You in _Paris!_"

"Yes, I've just run over for a holiday."

"Where's your wife?"

"Couldn't come, poor dear. Had to stop at home on account of the baby!"

"Why, your holiday will be half spoiled!"

"Yes. Mean to stay twice as long, to make up!"

He tries to make a droski-driver understand that he could have gone the same distance in a hansom for less money.]

AT PARIS.--_Professed Linguist._ Look here! Moi et un otrer Mossoo--a friend of mine--desirong der go par ler seven o'clock train à Cologne. Si nous leaverong the hotel at six o'clock et ung demy, shall nous catcherong le train all right? Comprenny voo? Voo parly Français, don't you? You understand French, eh?

_Polite Frenchman_ (_who speaks the English_). I understand the French? Ah yase! Sometimes, monsieur!

WHAT TOURISTS NOTE

(_Supplementary Facts--omitted from the Times List_)

That everything is so much better on the Continent.

That the proverbially polite Frenchman never smokes before ladies in a railway carriage.

That not for worlds would he shut the window in your face and glare at you if you ask for a little air.

That no official ever seen through a pigeon-hole at a post bureau is dyspeptic and insolent.

That sanitary improvements in Italy do not mean typhoid fever.

That where your bed-room walls are of paper, and somebody on one side of you retires in good spirits at two, and somebody else on the other gets up lively at four, you have a refreshing night's rest.

That rambling parties of Cook's tourists add immensely to the national _prestige_.

That the discovery of what it is you eat in a _vol-au-vent_ at a "_diner à trois francs_," will please but not surprise you.

That it is such fun being caged-up in a railway waiting-room, and then being allowed to scamper for your life to the carriages.

That perpetual fighting to get into over-crowded hotels, crammed with vulgar specimens of your own fellow-countrymen, is really enjoyable and exhilarating work.

That a couple of journeys across the Channel, especially if it is blowing both ways, are at least always something pleasant to look back upon.

That when you once get home again, England, spite some trivial advantages, being without Belgian postmen, French omnibuses, and Swiss police-regulations, strikes you as almost unendurable.

* * *

AT MONTE CARLO.--_Angelina_ (_sentimentally_). Look, Edwin, how the dear palms are opening themselves instinctively to the golden air.

_Edwin_ (_brutally remembering his losses at the table and the long hotel bill_). If you can show me any palm in the place, human or vegetable, which doesn't open itself instinctively to the golden air, I'll eat my hat!

[_Angelina sighed profoundly, and Edwin opened his purse
strings._

_Mrs. Blunderby._ "Now, my dear Monty, let me order the luncheon ar-la-Fraingsy. Gassong! I wish to begin--as we always do in Paris, my dears--with some _chef-d'[oe]uvres_--you understand--some _chef-d'[oe]uvres_."

[_Emile, the waiter, is in despair. It occurs to him, however,
presently that the lady probably means "Hors d'[oe]uvres," and
acts accordingly._
]

"What's 'Rots'?" "Game."]

BEAUTIES OF BOLOGNA

Not those, along the route prescribed
To see them in a hurry,
Church, palace, gallery, described
By worthy Mr. Murray.

Nor those detailed as well by whom
But Baedeker, the German;
The choir, the nave, the font, the tomb,
The pulpit for the sermon.

No tourist traps which tire you out,
A never-ending worry;
Most interesting things, no doubt,
Described by Mr. Murray.

Nor yet, O gastronomic mind--
In cookery a boss, sage
In recipes--you will not find,
I mean Bologna sausage.

Not beauties, which, perhaps, you class
With your own special curry;
Not beauties, which we must not pass
If led by Mr. Murray.

I sing--alas, how very ill!--
Those beauties of the city,
The praise of whose dark eyes might fill
A much more worthy ditty.

O, Ladies of Bologna, who
The coldest heart might flurry,
I much prefer to study you
Than Baedeker or Murray.

Those guide-book sights no longer please;
Three hours still, _tre ore_,
I have to lounge and look at these
_Bellissime signore_.

Then slow express--South Western goes
Much faster into Surrey--
Will take me off to other shows
Described by Mr. Murray.

But still, _Signore_, there will be,
By your sweet faces smitten,
One Englishman who came to see
What Baedeker has written.

Let Baedeker then see the lot
In frantic hurry-scurry.
I've found some beauties which are not
Described by Mr. Murray.

* * *

OVERHEARD AT CHAMONIX.--_Stout British Matron_ (_in a broad British accent, to a slim diligence driver_). Êtes-vous la diligence?

_Driver._ Non, madame, mais j'en suis le cocher.

_Matron_ (_with conviction_). C'est la même chose; gardez pour moi trois places dans votre intérieur demain.

(Waiting for one's bathing tent at the Dieppe casino)]

_First Tourist._ "I say, old chap, it smells pretty bad about here; it's the river, I suppose?"

_Second Tourist._ "Yes--Seine _Inférieure_."]

(SCENE--_Restaurant in Switzerland_)

_Tourist_ (_to manager, who knows English_). "There are two bottles of wine in our bill. We had only one bottle."

_Manager._ "Ach, he is a new waiter, and zee confounded echo of zee mountain must have deceived zee garçon."]

_Anxious Tourist._ "Since your town has been newly drained, I suppose there is less fever here?"

_Hotel-Keeper_ (_reassuringly_). "Ach, yes, sir! Ze teefoose (typhus) is now quite _ze exception!_"]

_First Man_ (_tasting beer_). "Hullo! I ordered lager. This isn't lager!"

_Second Man_ (_tasting_). "No; but it's jolly good, all the same!"

_Third Man_ (_tasting_). "C'est magnifique! mais ce n'est pas lager-r-r!"]

MRS. R. ON BOULOGNE-SUR-MER

Mrs. Ramsbotham, who has been staying at Boulogne for a short time, writes as follows:--

"Bullown-some-Air is, I am informed, not what it used to be, though the smells must be pretty much as always, which is not the scent of rheumatic spices. It's called Bullown-some-Air because if the sea-breeze wasn't too powerful for the smells, living would be impossible. Many of the visitors to the hotels on the Key told me the bedrooms were full of musketeers, who came in when the candle went out, and bit them all over. Such a sight as one poor gentleman was! He reminded me of the Spotted Nobleman at the Agrarian in Westminster. Then, on the Sunday I was there, a day as I had always been given to understand the French were 'tray gay,' there was actually no music, no band, no concert, and in fact no amusement whatever at the _Establishmong day Bangs_ (so called because there's a shooting-gallery next it, where they bang away all day at so much a head), which might as well have been closed, as there was no race-game (of which I had heard so much), no Tom Bowling[A] (they wouldn't get up a Tom Bowling unless there were nine persons present, which Mr. Hackson says is much the same as when magistrates meet and there isn't a sufficient number to make a jorum), and only one gentleman trying to produce another to play billiards with him.

"There was a theatre open. Not being a Samaritan myself, though as strict as anyone as to my own regular religious diversions at church, I let Mr. Hackson take myself and Lavinia to see _The Clogs of Cornwall_, which, I think, was the name of the opera, though, as I hadn't a bill, and didn't understand one quarter of what they were saying--not but what I was annoyed by Lavvy and Mr. Hackson always turning round to explain the jokes to me--I confess I did not see what either _Cornwall_ or _Clogs_ had to do with the story. The singing and the acting was worse than anything I'd ever met with at an English seaside theatre, because a place like Bullown ought to have a theatre as good as the one at Brighton. The customs worn by the actors were ugly, and when the lover, who was intended for a sailor--though his dress wasn't at all _de rigger_--said, confidentially, to the audience, alluding to an unfortunately plain young person who played the part of the Herring, "She is lovely!" there was a loud laugh, or, as Mr. Hackson, who speaks French perfectly, called it, a _levy de reedo_, all over the house, and this emulating from people who, I always thought, were remarkable for their politeness, was about the rudest thing I ever heard done to a public character in a playhouse.

"The place was hot, and the seats uncomfortable; so that after two acts, which was more like being in a penitentiary than a place of recrimination, we left, and went to our hotel, where, there being nothing more to do than there was anywhere else, Lavinia and myself retired to rest--that is, such rest as the musketeers would allow us. She slept in a back cupboard, called a _cabinet de Twilight_, because it was so dark and scarcely any veneration, there being no fireplace, and only such a window, as it was healthier to keep shut than open: but she had the advantage over me in not being troubled by any musketeers. There was only one of them in my room, and when I heard him singing away like a couple of gnats, I hid under the bedclothes, and he couldn't find me till I came up again for air, like a fish, and then he bit me on the forehead.

"Next morning we went to breakfast '_à la four sheets_' they call it, on account of the size of the table-napkins, at the _Rest-wrongs_ on the pier. The time they kept us! as there was only one _gossoon_ to about twenty persons. The best thing we had there was our own appetite, which we brought with us.

"After this there was nothing doing in the place till dinner-time (called _table doat_ because they're so fond of it), and after that there was a dull concert at the _Establishmong_, and as Mr. Hackson told us, who went there, a dull dance and poor fireworks at the Artillery Gardens in the _Oat Veal_. The '_Oat Veal_' is French for the high part of the town, but, judging from the smells on and about the Key, I should say that our hotel was situated in quite the highest part of the town.

"Less than a week at Bullown was quite enough and too much for us. If Sunday here were only lively, it would be a nice change from London, or Dover, or Folkestone, or Ramsgate, as I do not know a pleasanter and easier way to go than starting by the London, Chatting and Dover train at 10 A.M. from Victoria or Holborn Viaduct, arriving at Dover at twelve. Then by one of the comfortablest boats I was ever in, called the _Inflicter_ or _Invigorator_, I couldn't catch which, but Mr. Hackson told me it was Latin for 'unconquered,' which takes you, if it's a fine day and wind and tide favourable, in an hour and a quarter to Callous (or Kally in French), and if you are only going on to Bullown, you have your luggage examined (as if you were a smuggling brigadier!), and you have more than an hour for lunch before you start again. The luncheon at the Kallyous buffy is excellent, and the buffers, who speak English with hardly any accident, are most attentive. Then, when you've finished, you start for Bullown by the 2.45 train, and are at your hotel by 3.30 or thereabouts, which is what I call doing it uxuriously.

"But Bullown, as Mr. Hackson said to me, requires some _ongterprenner_, which means 'an undertaker,' to look after it, as it has become so deadly-lively. I think this must be a joke of Mr. Hackson's, one of his _caramboles_, as they call them in French, as what Bullown wants is waking up. As it is now, Bullown is a second-class place, and will soon be a third-class one, which, as Mr. Hackson says, 'Arry and an inferior dummy-mong will have all to themselves.

"Yours truly,

"M. A. R."

[Footnote A: We fancy Mrs. R. means "_Tombola_."]

During his recent tour in Switzerland, Tomkins, who is rather nervous, had a most terrifying experience.]

LINES ON (AND OFF) AN ITALIAN MULE

O dubious hybrid, what your patronymic
Or pedigree may be, does not much matter;
But if my own attire you mean to mimic,
And flaunt the fact that you, too, have a hatter--
Well then, in self-defence I'll pick with you
A bone or two.

Perchance you have a motive, deep, ulterior,
In donning head-gear borrowed from banditti?
You wish to show an intellect superior,
(And hide a profile which is not too pretty?
Or is it, simply, you prefer to go
Incognito?

A transmigrated Balaam's self you may be,
But still I bar your method of progression;
For while I sit, as helpless as a baby,
And scale each precipice in steep succession,
You scorn the mule-track, and pursue the edge
Of ev'ry ledge.

How can I scan with rapt enthusiasm
These Alpine heights, when balanced _à la_ Blondin,
While you survey with bird's-eye view each chasm?
I cry _Eyupp! Avanti!_--_you_ respond in
Attempts straightway to improvise a "chute"
For me, you brute!