BITTERS AT THE CLUB.
MacStodge (Pidor ignotus). “ Who ’s that going out 1
O Duffer (Pidor ignotissimus). “One Ernest Raphael Sopelt, who painted Lady Midas ! ”
MacStodge. “Oh, rim Artist!”
O Duffer. “No. The Royal Academician /”
UNDER TPIE CLOAK.
“ Charity coyereth a multitude of sins.”—Old Troverb with a new Point.
Scene—An Audience-Chamber. Present—Charity, John Bull, and Mr. Punch.
John Bull [effusively to Charity). Yes, Madam,, my little island, I am proud to say, is your chosen home. Ilere Institutions—Temples I may say—are dedi
catee! to your service in number and variety unmatched elsewhere. The treasure annually laid voluntarily upon your shrine is the marvel of other nations. If there is one thing upon which I congratulate myself-----
Mr. Bunch [drily). My dear John, there are many—too many, perhaps. John Bull (staggered). Why, what do you mean ?
Mr. Punch. 1 mean that indiscriminate self-eulogy is one of your little weaknesses. Indiscriminate, I sav. You are apt to pat your own head, with your eyes shut, and without considering with sufficient care the grounds of your self-complacency. . .
John Bull. But surely the service of Charity— Mr. Punch. Is a holy one. But how about its Ministers ? John Bull. Oh, I suppose they are all right.
Mr. Punch. Of course you do. Charity and I are not quite so comfortably satisfied on that point. Suppose we have a few of them in, and question them.
Enter sundry Doctors, Matrons, Nurses, and other Dignitaries and Servitors from Hospitals, Infirmaries, and Wor/chouses.
John Bull (surveying them as the leader of a Salvation Army might be supposed to review his mustered troops). Ah! a brave, benevolent, and highly respectable lot. Madam, you may be proud of your Ministrants.
Charity. Humph!
Mr. Punch. WeU, Ladies and Gentlemen, you are all Almoners in the holy cause of Charity.
All (Chorus after a popular song). We are ! We are! We are I Hooray!
Mr. Punch. Your duty is to minister to the sick, the suffering, and the destitute.
All. It is! It is!
Mr. Punch. In consideration of adequate salaries ?
All (with less effusion and unanimity). Ye-es—no-o— ah-h—that is to say—ah!-----
Mr. Punch. Well, at least you are all paid for your services. The charity which you administer is no more your own than the dog’s food is the gift of the man who ooks after the kennels. You need not trouble to assent, with or without qualification, because it is indisputable matter of fact, though, perhaps, put plainly, it strikes you in a new light. Well now, do you consider your patients and paupers duly grateful-----
Dr. Drivem. To us, for all our care and kindness ? I’m sorry to be compelled to answer in the negative. They seem frequently to be inspired with a very imperfect sense of the favours they receive at our hands.
Mrs. Matron Hoitytoity. Their lack of deference and docility is sometimes lamentable.
Mrs. Nurse Naggem. Want as much waiting on as if they was Ladies and Gentlemen, and paid for it.
Entry Porter. Orful job to make ’em stand in their proper places and wait their turn. , ’Ave to be down on ’em sharp; worry ’em like sheep a’most, I can tell you.
Mr. Bumble. ’Ear! ’Ear! A nasty wexing, worritting, illconwenient, bragian lot, as arskes for wot’s give to ’em free gratis for nothin’, as bold and howdacious as if, they paid us to wait on ’em. If I’d my way I’d-----
Mr. Punch, That will do, Mr. Bumble. You are paid to wait on them, recollect, though not by them. That is precisely the little fact that you all seem to overlook. The spirit in which you have all responded—the same spirit, whether expressed in the elegant periods of Dr. Drivem, or the less refined idiom of Mr. Bumble— is evidence, I fear, of the spirit in which you are apt too often to administer—administer only remember—the bounties of Charity ¡to [the objects of her care. I ’ve heard unpleasant stories of needless harshness and very uncalled-for haughtiness, of free indulgence in insolent suggestion and supercilious snubbing, of honest, and
often gently born sick folk, kept waiting during weary hours in seatless rooms, exposed to the rudeness of churlish Jacks-in-Office, and the none too delicate dealing of bumptious Doctors.
Dr. Drivem. These stories, Sir,-----
Mr. Punch. Are true, many of them, I know. There are many things in the inner life of Hospitals and In
firmaries, which need the Public eye upon them. Mine is,—and you know what that means.
Charity [sternly). My gifts must not be marred in the manner of giving. Charity churlishly administered is Charity degraded and half defeated of her aims. The sick poor, like the opulent, need kindness and con
sideration, often quite as much as they need drugs and diet. The paid Almoners of my bounty—the National bounty—are not to lesson or frustrate my purposes of
help and healing, by any manifestations of their personal arrogance.
Mr. Punch. Precisely so. Realise the fact, Dr. Drivem, that neither you nor any of your fellow
servants of the Public here, has more right to be rude or harsh to a public patient on a hospital pallet than to a private patient in a Belgravian bedchamber—at any rate, until you give your services gratuitously, or sup
port the public Charity out of your own private purse. Dixi ! And now you can go—for the present.
John Bull. Well, really, Mr. Punch, I don’t feel quite so proud as 1 did of my multitudinous Charities.
Mr. Punch. They are fine things, all the same, Mr. Bull, and to a large extent fairly administered. But Officialism, high or low, professional or proletarian, cultured, or illiterate, always grows callous and cruel in its dealings with the helplessness of poverty, of sickness, or of youth, unless continually acting under the Public eye. There are black sheep even in Charity’s flock ; or, rather, there are wolfish hirelings amongst her shepherds.
John Bull. You must keep yout eye on them, Mr.
Punch.
Mr. Punch [emphatically). I mean to
The best way to afford instant relief to anyone suffering from water on the brain is to give him a good tap on the head.
MacStodge (Pidor ignotus). “ Who ’s that going out 1
O Duffer (Pidor ignotissimus). “One Ernest Raphael Sopelt, who painted Lady Midas ! ”
MacStodge. “Oh, rim Artist!”
O Duffer. “No. The Royal Academician /”
UNDER TPIE CLOAK.
“ Charity coyereth a multitude of sins.”—Old Troverb with a new Point.
Scene—An Audience-Chamber. Present—Charity, John Bull, and Mr. Punch.
John Bull [effusively to Charity). Yes, Madam,, my little island, I am proud to say, is your chosen home. Ilere Institutions—Temples I may say—are dedi
catee! to your service in number and variety unmatched elsewhere. The treasure annually laid voluntarily upon your shrine is the marvel of other nations. If there is one thing upon which I congratulate myself-----
Mr. Bunch [drily). My dear John, there are many—too many, perhaps. John Bull (staggered). Why, what do you mean ?
Mr. Punch. 1 mean that indiscriminate self-eulogy is one of your little weaknesses. Indiscriminate, I sav. You are apt to pat your own head, with your eyes shut, and without considering with sufficient care the grounds of your self-complacency. . .
John Bull. But surely the service of Charity— Mr. Punch. Is a holy one. But how about its Ministers ? John Bull. Oh, I suppose they are all right.
Mr. Punch. Of course you do. Charity and I are not quite so comfortably satisfied on that point. Suppose we have a few of them in, and question them.
Enter sundry Doctors, Matrons, Nurses, and other Dignitaries and Servitors from Hospitals, Infirmaries, and Wor/chouses.
John Bull (surveying them as the leader of a Salvation Army might be supposed to review his mustered troops). Ah! a brave, benevolent, and highly respectable lot. Madam, you may be proud of your Ministrants.
Charity. Humph!
Mr. Punch. WeU, Ladies and Gentlemen, you are all Almoners in the holy cause of Charity.
All (Chorus after a popular song). We are ! We are! We are I Hooray!
Mr. Punch. Your duty is to minister to the sick, the suffering, and the destitute.
All. It is! It is!
Mr. Punch. In consideration of adequate salaries ?
All (with less effusion and unanimity). Ye-es—no-o— ah-h—that is to say—ah!-----
Mr. Punch. Well, at least you are all paid for your services. The charity which you administer is no more your own than the dog’s food is the gift of the man who ooks after the kennels. You need not trouble to assent, with or without qualification, because it is indisputable matter of fact, though, perhaps, put plainly, it strikes you in a new light. Well now, do you consider your patients and paupers duly grateful-----
Dr. Drivem. To us, for all our care and kindness ? I’m sorry to be compelled to answer in the negative. They seem frequently to be inspired with a very imperfect sense of the favours they receive at our hands.
Mrs. Matron Hoitytoity. Their lack of deference and docility is sometimes lamentable.
Mrs. Nurse Naggem. Want as much waiting on as if they was Ladies and Gentlemen, and paid for it.
Entry Porter. Orful job to make ’em stand in their proper places and wait their turn. , ’Ave to be down on ’em sharp; worry ’em like sheep a’most, I can tell you.
Mr. Bumble. ’Ear! ’Ear! A nasty wexing, worritting, illconwenient, bragian lot, as arskes for wot’s give to ’em free gratis for nothin’, as bold and howdacious as if, they paid us to wait on ’em. If I’d my way I’d-----
Mr. Punch, That will do, Mr. Bumble. You are paid to wait on them, recollect, though not by them. That is precisely the little fact that you all seem to overlook. The spirit in which you have all responded—the same spirit, whether expressed in the elegant periods of Dr. Drivem, or the less refined idiom of Mr. Bumble— is evidence, I fear, of the spirit in which you are apt too often to administer—administer only remember—the bounties of Charity ¡to [the objects of her care. I ’ve heard unpleasant stories of needless harshness and very uncalled-for haughtiness, of free indulgence in insolent suggestion and supercilious snubbing, of honest, and
often gently born sick folk, kept waiting during weary hours in seatless rooms, exposed to the rudeness of churlish Jacks-in-Office, and the none too delicate dealing of bumptious Doctors.
Dr. Drivem. These stories, Sir,-----
Mr. Punch. Are true, many of them, I know. There are many things in the inner life of Hospitals and In
firmaries, which need the Public eye upon them. Mine is,—and you know what that means.
Charity [sternly). My gifts must not be marred in the manner of giving. Charity churlishly administered is Charity degraded and half defeated of her aims. The sick poor, like the opulent, need kindness and con
sideration, often quite as much as they need drugs and diet. The paid Almoners of my bounty—the National bounty—are not to lesson or frustrate my purposes of
help and healing, by any manifestations of their personal arrogance.
Mr. Punch. Precisely so. Realise the fact, Dr. Drivem, that neither you nor any of your fellow
servants of the Public here, has more right to be rude or harsh to a public patient on a hospital pallet than to a private patient in a Belgravian bedchamber—at any rate, until you give your services gratuitously, or sup
port the public Charity out of your own private purse. Dixi ! And now you can go—for the present.
John Bull. Well, really, Mr. Punch, I don’t feel quite so proud as 1 did of my multitudinous Charities.
Mr. Punch. They are fine things, all the same, Mr. Bull, and to a large extent fairly administered. But Officialism, high or low, professional or proletarian, cultured, or illiterate, always grows callous and cruel in its dealings with the helplessness of poverty, of sickness, or of youth, unless continually acting under the Public eye. There are black sheep even in Charity’s flock ; or, rather, there are wolfish hirelings amongst her shepherds.
John Bull. You must keep yout eye on them, Mr.
Punch.
Mr. Punch [emphatically). I mean to
The best way to afford instant relief to anyone suffering from water on the brain is to give him a good tap on the head.