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by Various
Language: en397 downloads on Project Gutenberg
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In: Punch·Humour·British Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #30694.
The opening · free to read
EIGHT HOURS ONLY.
(A Fancy Sketch of the Possible.)
It was the first day under the operation of the new Act. Everyone was a little nervous about the outcome, and JOHN JONES, the Barrister, was no exception to the general rule. At three o'clock he was in the full swing of an impassioned appeal to the Jury.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. JONES," said the Judge, glancing at the clock, "but I am afraid I must interrupt you. I cannot hear you any longer."
"But, my Lord, I have not touched upon a third of the case. I can assure you my remarks shall be as brief as possible."
"That is not the point, Mr. JONES," replied his Lordship. "I am following your argument with the liveliest interest, and I am sure that all you would wish to say would be of the greatest possible service to your client; but unfortunately I happen to know that you prepare your cases in the early hours of the morning. Now, you know the law as well I do. If you have not been at work to-day for eight hours, of course I shall be happy to hear; but if you have----"
"As your Lordship pleases," said poor JONES, and he gathered up his papers, and left the Court.
"Just in time, Sir," observed the attendant in the robing-room, as he put the Barrister's wig in its box, and assisted him to divest himself of his gown. "Had you come five minutes later, we should have gone."
"Really! How would that have suited silk and stuff?"
"Caused a fearful row, I am afraid, Sir. But we daren't exceed the eight hours' limit, and we must keep two or three of them for some work we have in the evening."
When JONES found himself in the Strand he noticed that the traffic was considerably less than usual. The omnibuses were few and far between, and he did not see a cab in any direction.
"Yes, Sir," replied a policeman, who was removing his band of office, preparatory to going home; "you won't find many. Eight hours' limit, Sir. Good-day, Sir. I am off myself."
The boats had ceased running; there were no trams. To pass the time he thought he would call upon the Editor, whose rooms were in Fleet Street.
"I hope I am not interrupting you," he said, as he entered the sanctum.
"Interrupting me! Why, I am delighted to see you. We have nothing to do. Mustn't exceed the eight hours, and they were up at two o'clock. But how did you get in?"
"Oh, the Publisher opened the door, and then returned to a rubber of whist he was playing with the Reader, the Manager, and the Head of the Advertisement Department. I was introduced to them all. Then I watched a tug of war going on in the composing-room between the Compositors on the one side, and the Machinists and Foundry-men on the other, and came up here."
"Very glad to see you, my dear fellow!" and the Editor once again shook hands.
A little later JONES entered a restaurant, but he was refused dinner. The eight hours' limit had cleared off the cooks and the waiters. Half-starving, he purchased a stall for the theatre. For a while his thoughts were distracted by the excellence of the performance. Suddenly, in the most interesting part of the play, the curtain was prematurely dropped.
"Very sorry," said the Stage Manager, addressing the audience from behind the footlights, "but, Ladies and Gentlemen, we have no option. We had a rehearsal this morning of the new piece, and, taking this into consideration, our limit is reached. I may seize this opportunity for regretfully announcing that as two performances take more than eight hours, the customary Saturday Matinee will for the future be discontinued."
The orchestra played a few bars of the National Anthem, and the theatre cleared. JONES strolled on to the Embankment, and, the evening being pleasant, took a seat. Beside him was a student reading for examination, a clergyman thinking out a sermon, and an artist taking a rough sketch. JONES took out a brief himself and opened it.
"It's no business of mine," said a policeman off duty, who happened to be passing, "but you gents will get yourselves into trouble if you exceed the limit."
"I will go home," exclaimed JONES; and he walked to his suburban villa. But the place was locked up, and the servants did not dare to open the door to him, as they had finished their legal spell of labour hours before.
"Don't feel well," he murmured. "Will call upon my Doctor."
"Now, my dear Sir," said the medical man, as JONES appeared before him, "you know I must not prescribe for you. The eight hours' limit was reached at four."
"Then, I suppose I must die. Will the Act allow me to do that?"
"You, as a Barrister, ought to know best, my dear Sir. What is your idea?"
"My idea?" echoed the considering JONES. "Well, I should say----But, stay; I am not entitled to give a professional opinion until to-morrow morning! Still, offhand I may observe, that such an illegal death would savour of positive suicide; but it would not matter very much, as under existing circumstances suicide in some form or other seems to me inevitable!" And JONES was right!
Those who have carefully read the remarks which I have thought it my duty to make in these columns from time to time, must have reaped a golden harvest at Newmarket last week. It is not easy, of course, in these milk-and-water days to say what one means in sufficiently plain words. Personally, I have always been mild in my language, and have often been reproached on this score. But I have always found it possible, without using vulgar and exaggerated abuse, to express the contempt which, in common with every right-minded man, I feel for the grovelling herd of incompetent boobies, whose minds are as muddy as the Rowley Mile after a thunderstorm. Surefoot was always a favourite of mine. Two months ago I said, "if Surefoot can only face the starter for the Two Thousand firmly, he will probably get off well, and ought not to be far behind the first six at the finish. As to Le Nord, though he is not my colour, he is not likely to be last." Only a mooncalf, with a porridge-bowl instead of a head, could have mistaken these remarks.
So Sir THOMAS CHUCKS has joined the ranks of aristocratic owners. Here is a chance for the dilly-dallying professors of humbug to distinguish themselves. What can be expected from a stable which always runs its trials at one o'clock in the morning, with nobody but Mr. JEREMY to look on? No doubt we shall hear all about it in the columns which Mr. J. devotes to the edification of dough-faced, gruel-brained noodles who accept him as their prophet.
Catawampus ran well last week. With two stone less and a Calyx-eyed saddle-bar, he would have shown up even better. Whenever the barometer goes up two points Catawampus must be remembered. He was foaled in a ditch on the old North Road, somewhere between London and York, and having remained there or thereabouts for a month, may be considered a good stayer.
THE EMPIRE IN THE TIME OF SEVERUS.--Wonderful Juggler at the Empire, with a name that's not to be trifled with, SEVERUS. Some nights he may be better than on others, but you'll be delighted if you just catch him in the Juggler vein.
The Over-rated Rate-payers who fear the rising of the Rates more than almost any other rising, express a hope that the L. C. C. will be economical, and that FARRER may be "Nearer."
Schoolmaster. "YES; BUT LOOK HERE, MY BOY. SUPPOSE I WERE TO LEND YOUR FATHER FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS, LET US SAY,--WITHOUT INTEREST,--BUT ON CONDITION THAT HE SHOULD PAY ME TEN POUNDS A WEEK. HOW MUCH WOULD HE STILL OWE ME IN TWO MONTHS?"
New Boy. "FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS, SIR!"
Schoolmaster. "TUT! TUT! MY BOY, YOU DON'T KNOW THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF ARITHMETIC!"
New Boy. "_YOU_ DON'T KNOW MY FATHER, SIR!"]
Humph! Show is very passable, no doubt; And as you pull the strings, my clever Showman, 'Tis clear that you know what you are about, Sense's sworn friend, and babbling folly's foeman. The slides, as worked by you, seem mighty fine, A trifle vague, perhaps, in composition, Sloppy in colouring, and weak in line, As is the civic peep-show's old tradition; Still there is graphic vigour here and there, Perspective, and a general sense of "movement." On the old "Shirker" Show, 'tis only fair To own, it evidences some improvement. Plenty of slides! there is no doubt of that; In fact one questions if there are too many. Yes, I shall find when you pass round the hat, The price is more than the old-fashioned Penny. I pay my money and I take my--choice? Well no, it won't quite fit, that fine old patter. Still, if your Show proves good, I shall rejoice; A trifling rise in fee won't greatly matter, If 'tis not too "progressive" (as you say). To stump up for sound work I'm always willing; But though, of course, a Penny may not pay, One wants a first-class Peep-Show for a Shilling! Some of your novel slides are rather nice, Some of them, on the other hand, look funny. I felt grave doubts about 'em once or twice. I don't want muddlers to absorb my money. However, as I said, 'tis very clear As puller of the strings you yield to no man. The Show seems promising, if rather dear, But anyhow it has a first-rate Showman!
"So Engelish you know!" exclaims the BARON DE B. W., on seeing the advertisement of Dr. LOUIS ENGEL's new book from Handel to Halle. "It will be interesting," says the Baron, "to note how much of HANDEL's popularity was due to that particular inspiration of genius which caused him to use the name of the future composer and pianist in one of his greatest works, namely, the celebrated '_Hallelujah Chorus_.' For this magnificent effort would have been only half the chorus it is without 'HALLE' to commence it."
Bung. Either I mistake your shape and making quite, Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite Called GRANDOLPH GOODFELLOW. Are you not he That did your best to spill Lord S-L-SB-RY? Gave the Old Tory party quite a turn, And office with snug perquisites did spurn? And now you'd make Strong Drink to bear no barm (Or proper profit.) You would do us harm. Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sly PUCK, Are right; you always bring your friends bad luck. Are you not he?
Puck. By Jove, thou speak'st aright; I am that merry wanderer full of spite. I jest unto the Plebs and make it smile. Old, fat, and bean-fed Tories I beguile, And lead them to a Democratic goal. Now I am "going for" the flowing bowl. E'en W-LFR-D owns I am "upon the job". I mean to save the workman many a "bob". But, lessening his chance of toping ale, The Witler tells his pals the saddest tale. Bacchus for his true friend mistaketh me, Then step I from his side, down topples he, And "Traitor!" cries, and swears I did but chaff, And the Teetotallers hold their sides and laugh, And chortle in their joy, and shout, and swear That GRANDOLPH GOODFELLOW's a spirit rare. But room, old boy, the Second Reading's on.
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