Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 9

only this, but he finds
plenty of time for talking nonsense to one of the nicest-looking
waitresses. Of course, he positively refuses to speak a word of his own
native language, but gives his orders in English, Spanish, and Russian,
to the despair of all the attendants, with the exception of the pretty
waiting-maid, to whom he addresses himself in colloquial French. She
quite enters into the joke; can give and take as pleasantly as possible;
can also fetch and carry; and when, finally, DAUBINET en bon prince
rewards her intelligence with a two-franc piece, her bright smile, and
her courteous "_Merci beaucoup, Monsieur_," prove once more that
she can take as well as give,--nay, even better, and yet leave the donor
her debtor. "_Da Karascho!_ Yes, all right! _Montez donc!_" cries my
mercurial friend, hurrying to the train; then, as he once more settles
himself in the compartment, he sings "Rule Britannia! Blass the Prince
of WAILES! O Maman!" and before I have lit my after-dinner cigar, he

has made himself quite comfortable, lying at full length, and is fast
asleep. So am I soon. When I awake, it is night; pitch-dark, and very
cold. We are stopping at some station. A stout Frenchman enters our
carriage; not that there is anything remarkable about his stoutness, as it
seems to me that the majority of middle-class and middle-aged
Frenchmen, and Frenchwomen, too, are all, more or less, of
considerable corpulence.
[Illustration]
The new arrival recognises DAUBINET, and salutes him. DAUBINET
warmly acknowledges the recognition, and in a few moments they are
engaged in an animated conversation, one commencing his reply before
the other has finished his question, neither permitting the other to
complete a sentence, whether interrogatory or declaratory; so that,
during the greater part of their conversation,--which lasts till, thank
goodness, the stranger has to get out, which he does at the next station,
and disappears in the darkness,--I can only pick up a word or half a
sentence here and there, and, in a general way, wonder why they
become so earnest and emphatic about the most ordinary topics. For an
English listener, however, it is an excellent lesson in colloquial French;
only I cannot help wishing that they would take the "_tempo_" just a
little slower, and that their tone were not necessarily up to concert pitch,
in order to keep itself well above the running accompaniment of
railway-wheels, which seems to fit all modes of counting from two to
sixteen in a bar. At last the train stops, the dialogue becomes jerky, our
companion salutes us politely, wishes us "_bon voyage_" and descends.
After his departure, I ask DAUBINET, "Who is your friend?" as I
should like to know the reason of DAUBINET not having introduced
us. His reply at once resolves all my doubts and difficulties on the
subject; it is simply, "Heaven knows! He is a nice fellow. I have met
him _quelque part. Ah! v'là!_" He rushes to the window. "Hi! hi! Guard!
Conducteur!" The Conducteur appears, and informs us that we descend
at the next station, and, after that, in another five minutes we shall be at
Reims.
And so we are. Reims at last! Not brilliant is Reims on this dark night.
There are several omnibuses and other vehicles waiting to take the very
few passengers who alight from the train, and who, it appears, as a rule,
prefer to walk. Having no baggage beyond a few bags and a small

portmanteau which travel with us in our compartment, and which the
porter can wheel on a truck, or indeed carry if he chooses, we are soon
in the 'bus, and rattling over the stones to the Hotel.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "NEB'LAR (HIC) 'POTHESIS."
Elderly Gentleman (_overcome by gravitation_). "'ORRIGHT,
INSPECTRUM. BEEN READING SPEESH--PRES'DENT
BRI'SH-SOSHIASHLEM. SHPLENDID SPEESH! I'M IN 'UNIQUE
POSISHN 'F (HIC) ABSOLUTE IMM'BILITY IN MIDSHT OF
WHIRLING 'N DRIFTING SUNS, 'N SYSHTEMS 'F SUNS.' GOOD
OLD HUGGINS!!"]
* * * * *
ODE TO A BAROMETER.
(_BY A TROUBLED TAPSTER._)
I tap you early, tap you late, In vain! We get--whatever you may state--
Much rain. The Woodpecker of which fools sing Ne'er tapped Half so
persistently. Since Spring I've rapped Your fair false dial day by day,
And yet The end--whatever you may say Is wet! 'Twas wet in June, and
in July Wet too; In August it is wetter. Why, Trust _you_? Barometer,
you false old chap, You bore! I'm no Woodpecker, and I'll tap No
more!
* * * * *
"NOTHING IN THE PAPERS!"
_OR, VOLUNTARY CONTRIBUTIONS UN-GRATEFULLY
RECEIVED._
SCENE--_A Railway Compartment. BROWN and SMITH _looking up
from their Daily Papers._
Brown. Now that Parliament stands prorogued, I suppose there is
nothing to read?

Smith. Nothing. Except this article upon Australia. Tells one all