DOI Heft:
July to December, 1850
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16606#0029
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
21
" There, Baby dear, look at the pretty Soldiers !"
A BIT OF MY MIND.
BIT THE ELEVENTH.
mrs. mouser suggests a domestic improvement as regards the
exhibition oe 1851.
Mr. Punch,—At this minute I write in deepest darkness. Whether
Hyde Park, as Mr. Mouser says, is to be roofed in as a brick tenement,
or whether the world's to meet in Battersea Fields, is at the moment I
hold my quill in the bosoms of the Fates. Destiny, no doubt, has already
taken her measures; and all we have to do is to sit quiet, like Patience
on her monument, and wait for 'em. Though, if I may be allowed, as a
fragment of the female public, to give my mind upon the matter, I would
certainly object to what Mrs. Hornblower calls the desecration of
Hyde Park by bricks and mortar, and with 'em no end of chimneys.
To be sure, I'm told that there's to be an Act of Parliament to compel
the_ chimneys, for the sake of the herbage and the trees, to digest
their own smoke,—but I've no faith in 'em. It's all very well to talk
about Aphrodite coals; but there can be no Aphrodite without fire,—
and no fire without smoke. But this is not the grist of my present
writing.
What I burn to make public is this. Whenever the Exhibition may
be opened—and whatever it may have to show, from a piece of the walls
of China, to snow-balls from the North Pole—the whole business will
be a mocking-bird, an illusion and a snare, if conducted wholly and
solely by the monopolists, as I am bold to call 'em, of the creation,—
need I observe, mere men ? Unless the mind of woman sets her mark
upon the show, it will be nothing more than a big, selfish bachelors'
party of all the world; or, what's the same thing, a Club House of the
Lords of the Creation (as they give the nobility to themselves), with
the Ladies stopping at home. A proposal, throbbing at the heart of
your humble servant, carried out at the fullest extent, would make a
very different thmg of it.
Mr. Hornblower—(I dislike the man, for I never know—or rather
I do know, too well—when Mouser goes out with him, when he '11 come
back)—Mr. Hornblower, the other night dropping in, and as usual
all over tobacco smoke, remarked that the whole world would be packing
up its carpet bag by next April, directed " London:" men from the
Mountains of the Moon, Timbuctoo, and the Beginning of the Nile.
" There '11 be a pattern-book of colours "—(Mr. H. is a tailor in a great
way, and inventor of the Butterfly Paletot, though he might, as I say,
leave his shop at home when he comes into other people's drawing-
rooms ; especially, who are not tailors)—" a pattern-book of colours of
all the men in the world." "And why not," said I, "of the women
too ? How, in an Exhibition of all the world, can the women be left
out? Why, without 'em,"—said I, for I felt my blood rising; and
if I hadn't felt it, I could have seen it in Mooser's looks, who, when
1 've my heart at my Hps, too often likes to frown it back again—
"without 'em," said I, not seeming to see Mouser, " without 'em, the
great globe itself, as somebody calls it, would be only like a plum-
pudding cut in half; and I won't say—or I could—which half is the
richest and the best, with most of the fruit and spice in it. Why not
all the women, too ? " I repeated in a voice that, I could see it, rather
astonished Mr. Hornblower; "if we are to have the Lords of the
Mountains of the Moon, why not the Ladies of the Moon too ? If the
Great Cham's to come, as Mouser calls him, why not the Great
Chamess ? Are we always to be left at home at gala times ; thrown
into a comer like every-day clothes, as if we weren't good and handsome
enough to be worn on holidays ?"
Well, Mr. Punch, this question—which Mr. Hornblower couldn't
answer, and therefore, in a mean way, he shifted his ground, as I after-
wards heard, to some tavern; taking, of course, Mouser with him—this
question remaining, I may say, in my mind, went to bed with me;
and the consequence was, one of the sweetest dreams that ever came to
anybody in the world upon goose-feathers. All the sweeter and prettier
too, because it can be carried out, when the world's wide-awake; there
being nothing in it that isn't as plain as pancakes. Whch is this :
I dreamt that the Exhibition, which wasn't in Hyde Park after all,
though, being awake, I can't be sworn where—was, as it ought to be, a
palace of very crystal, the sky looking through every bit of the roof upon
all nations under it. And the nations, Mr. Punch, were in my dream,
as they should be, not represented by halves, but men and wives com-
plete. Here and there it was like a tulip-bed with beautiful creatures
of all colours, from the lily-white Circassian—(though, after all, none
of 'em came up to the Bed and White Poses of England, as I'm bold
to call myself and country-women,)—to the tawny Cherokee. And
there they were, some of 'em with their children little and big, sprinkled
about—among the goods of All Nations—the Chinese lady on her
chest of gunpowder—the Turkish with prize rhubarb—the woman
from the Sandwiches with grass baskets—the Bussian lady with black
fur boas—the maidens of Cachemire with such loves of shawls, like
being wrapped in Paradise—the Persian Sultaness with otto of roses
—and a real American lady from California with necklaces of gold-dust
and virgin ear-rings to match.
It may be said, this is all very well in a dream. But why, I ask—as
I asked of Mouser when I woke—why shouldn't it be carried out in
broad daylight ? Why, when the Chinaman tea-dealer comes to Hyde
Park himself—supposing it to be Hyde Park—why should his poor wife,
with crushed foot and broken spirit, be left at Pekin at home ? 11
we 're to have Bussian merchants with then- beards, why not their
wives with their boas ? If we've a Cachemire man in a turban, why
and wherefore not a Cachemire maid in a shawl ? Without the other
and superior sex, as I insist on calling them, it will be an Exhibition of all
the World by halves, and the worst halves too, as I needn't insist upon.
Besides, if the Exhibition's to be only carried out with men, what it
pretends to go for will go for nothing. "The Show," says Mouser,
"will tighten the bonds of peace; will draw people across seas and
mountains close to one another." I don't believe a bit of it, if the
women of all nations are to be kept at home. Let 'em all come with
their fathers, husbands, and sweethearts—let us have a great Petticoat
Meeting of all the World, when the Exhibition's done—and then, if we
don't bind the world over to keep the peace ; if we do not send gun-
powder out of fashion • and pluck all the armies of the earth of their
leathers like geese at Michaelmas—don't let us ever open our mouths
again, that's all; and I can't say more.
Poor women are never more scandalised hi one earthly thmg than in
this—they are snubbed with adiniring soldiers. To love the fine
clothes—the gold lace—the fluttering feathers—the flags of silk and
'broidery that flap so proud in the wind: they are said to dote upon
the colour of red; and, quite the reverse of turkeys, to run after it with
pleasure and happiness. Mr. Punch, this is only one of the hundreds
of unmanly-vulgar errors that the other sex invent against us._ Give us
our meeting of the Ladies of All Nations at the Exhibition that's
coining; and, if we don't make all the world embrace in peace and
quietness, never again put faith
In yours, most faithfully,
The Honeysuckles. Amelia Mouser.
P. S. The Nepaulese Ambassador reads Punch. It is translated for
him, Mouser tells me, with his morning's curry, by the young man who,
for the last two or three years, swept the Cheapside crossing Will you,
then, beg of his Excellency, the N. A., not to go about as he does from
party to party with those aggravating emeralds—those heart-breaking
diamonds ? Even Duchesses—as I say to Mouser, who, upon my
word, I don't think quite believes me—Duchesses are but mortal flesh
and blood; and it isn't in either one or t'other to see that shower of
diamonds on one cap—and that cap a man's; for, after all, except for
a ring, or perhaps a shut stud, men have no business with diamonds
which, in my opinion, were created for women only—it isn't hi mortal
flesh to see those precious jewels, and always to know what to do with
one's fingers. It was only last week that at the-fete, I was crowded
very close to Juggut Jum, and upon my word—for we 're wonderfully
made—looking at his diamonds, with the tips of my_ fingers tingling,
I did feel myself, whether I would or not, ahnost getting—as Mouser
says—very near the Old Bailey.
21
" There, Baby dear, look at the pretty Soldiers !"
A BIT OF MY MIND.
BIT THE ELEVENTH.
mrs. mouser suggests a domestic improvement as regards the
exhibition oe 1851.
Mr. Punch,—At this minute I write in deepest darkness. Whether
Hyde Park, as Mr. Mouser says, is to be roofed in as a brick tenement,
or whether the world's to meet in Battersea Fields, is at the moment I
hold my quill in the bosoms of the Fates. Destiny, no doubt, has already
taken her measures; and all we have to do is to sit quiet, like Patience
on her monument, and wait for 'em. Though, if I may be allowed, as a
fragment of the female public, to give my mind upon the matter, I would
certainly object to what Mrs. Hornblower calls the desecration of
Hyde Park by bricks and mortar, and with 'em no end of chimneys.
To be sure, I'm told that there's to be an Act of Parliament to compel
the_ chimneys, for the sake of the herbage and the trees, to digest
their own smoke,—but I've no faith in 'em. It's all very well to talk
about Aphrodite coals; but there can be no Aphrodite without fire,—
and no fire without smoke. But this is not the grist of my present
writing.
What I burn to make public is this. Whenever the Exhibition may
be opened—and whatever it may have to show, from a piece of the walls
of China, to snow-balls from the North Pole—the whole business will
be a mocking-bird, an illusion and a snare, if conducted wholly and
solely by the monopolists, as I am bold to call 'em, of the creation,—
need I observe, mere men ? Unless the mind of woman sets her mark
upon the show, it will be nothing more than a big, selfish bachelors'
party of all the world; or, what's the same thing, a Club House of the
Lords of the Creation (as they give the nobility to themselves), with
the Ladies stopping at home. A proposal, throbbing at the heart of
your humble servant, carried out at the fullest extent, would make a
very different thmg of it.
Mr. Hornblower—(I dislike the man, for I never know—or rather
I do know, too well—when Mouser goes out with him, when he '11 come
back)—Mr. Hornblower, the other night dropping in, and as usual
all over tobacco smoke, remarked that the whole world would be packing
up its carpet bag by next April, directed " London:" men from the
Mountains of the Moon, Timbuctoo, and the Beginning of the Nile.
" There '11 be a pattern-book of colours "—(Mr. H. is a tailor in a great
way, and inventor of the Butterfly Paletot, though he might, as I say,
leave his shop at home when he comes into other people's drawing-
rooms ; especially, who are not tailors)—" a pattern-book of colours of
all the men in the world." "And why not," said I, "of the women
too ? How, in an Exhibition of all the world, can the women be left
out? Why, without 'em,"—said I, for I felt my blood rising; and
if I hadn't felt it, I could have seen it in Mooser's looks, who, when
1 've my heart at my Hps, too often likes to frown it back again—
"without 'em," said I, not seeming to see Mouser, " without 'em, the
great globe itself, as somebody calls it, would be only like a plum-
pudding cut in half; and I won't say—or I could—which half is the
richest and the best, with most of the fruit and spice in it. Why not
all the women, too ? " I repeated in a voice that, I could see it, rather
astonished Mr. Hornblower; "if we are to have the Lords of the
Mountains of the Moon, why not the Ladies of the Moon too ? If the
Great Cham's to come, as Mouser calls him, why not the Great
Chamess ? Are we always to be left at home at gala times ; thrown
into a comer like every-day clothes, as if we weren't good and handsome
enough to be worn on holidays ?"
Well, Mr. Punch, this question—which Mr. Hornblower couldn't
answer, and therefore, in a mean way, he shifted his ground, as I after-
wards heard, to some tavern; taking, of course, Mouser with him—this
question remaining, I may say, in my mind, went to bed with me;
and the consequence was, one of the sweetest dreams that ever came to
anybody in the world upon goose-feathers. All the sweeter and prettier
too, because it can be carried out, when the world's wide-awake; there
being nothing in it that isn't as plain as pancakes. Whch is this :
I dreamt that the Exhibition, which wasn't in Hyde Park after all,
though, being awake, I can't be sworn where—was, as it ought to be, a
palace of very crystal, the sky looking through every bit of the roof upon
all nations under it. And the nations, Mr. Punch, were in my dream,
as they should be, not represented by halves, but men and wives com-
plete. Here and there it was like a tulip-bed with beautiful creatures
of all colours, from the lily-white Circassian—(though, after all, none
of 'em came up to the Bed and White Poses of England, as I'm bold
to call myself and country-women,)—to the tawny Cherokee. And
there they were, some of 'em with their children little and big, sprinkled
about—among the goods of All Nations—the Chinese lady on her
chest of gunpowder—the Turkish with prize rhubarb—the woman
from the Sandwiches with grass baskets—the Bussian lady with black
fur boas—the maidens of Cachemire with such loves of shawls, like
being wrapped in Paradise—the Persian Sultaness with otto of roses
—and a real American lady from California with necklaces of gold-dust
and virgin ear-rings to match.
It may be said, this is all very well in a dream. But why, I ask—as
I asked of Mouser when I woke—why shouldn't it be carried out in
broad daylight ? Why, when the Chinaman tea-dealer comes to Hyde
Park himself—supposing it to be Hyde Park—why should his poor wife,
with crushed foot and broken spirit, be left at Pekin at home ? 11
we 're to have Bussian merchants with then- beards, why not their
wives with their boas ? If we've a Cachemire man in a turban, why
and wherefore not a Cachemire maid in a shawl ? Without the other
and superior sex, as I insist on calling them, it will be an Exhibition of all
the World by halves, and the worst halves too, as I needn't insist upon.
Besides, if the Exhibition's to be only carried out with men, what it
pretends to go for will go for nothing. "The Show," says Mouser,
"will tighten the bonds of peace; will draw people across seas and
mountains close to one another." I don't believe a bit of it, if the
women of all nations are to be kept at home. Let 'em all come with
their fathers, husbands, and sweethearts—let us have a great Petticoat
Meeting of all the World, when the Exhibition's done—and then, if we
don't bind the world over to keep the peace ; if we do not send gun-
powder out of fashion • and pluck all the armies of the earth of their
leathers like geese at Michaelmas—don't let us ever open our mouths
again, that's all; and I can't say more.
Poor women are never more scandalised hi one earthly thmg than in
this—they are snubbed with adiniring soldiers. To love the fine
clothes—the gold lace—the fluttering feathers—the flags of silk and
'broidery that flap so proud in the wind: they are said to dote upon
the colour of red; and, quite the reverse of turkeys, to run after it with
pleasure and happiness. Mr. Punch, this is only one of the hundreds
of unmanly-vulgar errors that the other sex invent against us._ Give us
our meeting of the Ladies of All Nations at the Exhibition that's
coining; and, if we don't make all the world embrace in peace and
quietness, never again put faith
In yours, most faithfully,
The Honeysuckles. Amelia Mouser.
P. S. The Nepaulese Ambassador reads Punch. It is translated for
him, Mouser tells me, with his morning's curry, by the young man who,
for the last two or three years, swept the Cheapside crossing Will you,
then, beg of his Excellency, the N. A., not to go about as he does from
party to party with those aggravating emeralds—those heart-breaking
diamonds ? Even Duchesses—as I say to Mouser, who, upon my
word, I don't think quite believes me—Duchesses are but mortal flesh
and blood; and it isn't in either one or t'other to see that shower of
diamonds on one cap—and that cap a man's; for, after all, except for
a ring, or perhaps a shut stud, men have no business with diamonds
which, in my opinion, were created for women only—it isn't hi mortal
flesh to see those precious jewels, and always to know what to do with
one's fingers. It was only last week that at the-fete, I was crowded
very close to Juggut Jum, and upon my word—for we 're wonderfully
made—looking at his diamonds, with the tips of my_ fingers tingling,
I did feel myself, whether I would or not, ahnost getting—as Mouser
says—very near the Old Bailey.