Punch, a mysterious and delectable compound, we had better not order in the bar, its consumption is so much more pleasant upstairs; but there is no reason why we should not admire the punch bowls, and having considered them and studied the portrait of an erstwhile waiter over the fireplace as much as they deserve, we probably turn about, and, as the eyes become accustomed to the darkness, find ourselves confronted with the way out. But don’t go for a while. You would probably like to see somebody in the bar. Adequately to people the bar would task the pencil of a Hogarth, the pen of a Thackeray. That more genial Hogarth of our time, the late Phil May, has indeed done it exceedingly well in his “Parson and the Painter.” But the human constituents of the bar’s society vary with the hour of the day. In the morning the journalistic element predominates. But it is when night begins to fall that the life of the bar is at its brightest. Then the blinds are drawn, the gas is lighted, and the full orchestra tunes up. The Cheeseites are in their glory, and what might be copy for a dozen comic papers elicits a little passing laughter and then is forgotten. When the sparkle has fled from the champagne, who can restore it? Here, however, are a few fragments of typical conversation.
The bar is crowded, and floating in the ambient air one detects the rich voice of a Scotch poet who is being taken to task for his grammar.
“THE WAY OUT.”
“It’s maybe not English at present, Mr. Bluggs; but wha maks your English? It’s your Shakespeares, your Multons, an Me!”
From another part of the room comes the voice of an Englishman somewhat at a disadvantage among Irish and Scotch intonations of rich variety.
“Of course the Scotch say they speak better English than the English. I remember I once had a short engagement on an Edinburgh paper. When about to leave ‘Auld Reekie’ there was a little deoch-an-dorus, and some fifteen of the fellows came to wish me God-speed. They were from some fifteen different parts of Scotland, and after certain formalities in the way of hot toddy my Scotch friends brought up the eternal question of their immaculate English. ‘It may be as you say,’ I interposed, ‘but why do you speak it with fifteen different accents?’ Had them there, ha! ha!”
Irish Dramatist (discussing tours, etc.)—“Did I hear you say Stony Stratford? I was once there, and no wonder they called it Stony Stratford, for I was never so bitten with bugs in my life.”[3]
Genial Advertising Manager—“I hear that poor old Mac’s dead” (general sorrow and display of handkerchiefs). (Enter poor old Mac—silence falls on the company.)
Poor old Mac—“Good evening, Miss S——, I haven’t seen you for a long time.”