DOI issue:
July to December, 1850
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16606#0109
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
101
our little bird.
a word for the nightingale. •
ertain of our friends in print take it in
dudgeon that Jenny Lind should have so
gathered about her all the hearts of Liver-
pool • should have been so attended to
her ship by the " aves vehement" of affec-
tionate thousands ; for there was real heart
in the shoutings that were sent to her
across the Mersey. Good friends, think
again ; reconsider your discontent. When
there is so much hp-homage—so much eager
voluntary self-debasement—so much licking
of the shoe-leather of absurd pomp, that
has no more in it or upon it, to justify the
idolatry, than may be found in the barren
letters that spell a title—in the imagined heap that piles a banker's
■ account.—when there is so much nauseous worship of the Capitolian
geese, that only cackle, and do not protect—of the golden calves, that,
save to themselves, are not of the worth of shambles' veal—when, in
this age, so precipitant in adulation of prosperity, so that it be
prosperity, when no questions shall be asked—at a time when the
devoted breeches-pocket loyalty to a railway king has foamed itself into
virtuous wrath, the said king's toppled crown being sent to the old
iron shop—at a time so full of sad, humiliating examples of the human
tendency to crawl to the mere images of position and success; at such
a time we take comfort and rejoice in the manifestation of esteem,
even though deemed extravagant and in superflux, when paid to a
genius—to a genius so often shown the handmaiden of good.
We have the hardihood to confess the preference. Yes, we
mightily prefer the applausive shout sent from the throats of a
Liverpool crowd, a shout of happy wishes to a Jenny Lind, to the
stupid, thundering bluster of a Portsmouth salute, stunning, in the
name of senseless ceremony, a quiet elderly gentlewoman. The cannon,
with their " adamantine lips," bellow—" You 're a duchessand not a
word, a syllable more. Human thousands shout to the somewhat more
than Duchess of song; and in that shout, so brief and sudden, there is
acknowledgment, thankfulness for sweet, ennobling emotions; as for
enduring good. How many of the sick, with the thought, the know-
ledge of that shout, might add their prayers, and grateful blessings
to sanctify the acclaim!
Good friends in print, anxious for the stiff sobriety of the English
mind—friends and guardians of propriety, fearful of unprofitable and
unseemly enthusiasm when lavished only upon genius and virtue—take
heart, be confident. There are still wooden idols enough, and more
than enough, to keep alive and rank the old religion. Goose-worship
and calf-worship will not so soon pass away. There is yet enough of
the national heart left untouched to pulsate at the ring of current coin
—there are yet thousands and tens of thousands of ham-strings, to
work, obediently as the threads of painted, paper toys, at the look, the
word of those earthly gods, for whose Pantheon see Debrett's
"Peerage"
Is there any lack of idols ? Any backsliding m idol-worship ? a
young Duke has successfully made off from the House of Commons—
a vast commercial community acknowledges something beyond the
ledger. Who knows, some day, the painter may personally have more
honour- for his pictures, than the mere noble for his heraldic bearings—
the sculptor for his statues, than the commercial owner of vast granite
quarries—the writer of one immortal little book, more even than the
possessor of a paper-mill who turns his weekly thousands ? And if this
should come to pass—(and the homage to Jenny is only a homage to
art and goodness, not an mdirect reverence to her banker)—why should
our friends of the press sneer and repine ? Ought they not rather to
applaud the feeling—to foster it, and rejoice in its fullness ? _ Shah it
be said that the porcupine, with all its upright, independent quills, has,
in its present condition, somewhat too much of the toad-eater ?
To return to Jenny. It seems she is to give a concert on board the
ship for the benefit of the sailors. Very good. As, in the course of
the voyage, it is certain she would be called upon for music—it is well
she should sing for the profit of poor Jack. And she will sing:
" Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath.
That the rude sea grows civil with her song.''
The worst, however, awaits Jenny upon her landing in New York.
There, showman Barnum lies in wait for her, it is said, with a pro-
cession ! We are truly sorry that Jenny should have fallen into such
mercantile hands. Barnum's commodities should still be dwarfs and
manufactured mermaids. He should have had no dealings with Jenny
Lind. Poor soul! We wish her safe back again; even though, to the
amazement of our friends, Liverpool should give her welcome worthy
of their farewell. For Liverpool applauded the woman as well as the
singer. It is not every Nightingale that makes to herself wings of
hospitals. a Little Bird.
PUNCH'S HAND-BOOKS EOR TRAVELLERS.
Mr. Punch, envious of the reputation of Mr. Murray and his
celebrated Handbooks, announces his intention of publishing a new
series of Handbooks, which he is sure will soon be met with hi every
railway, auberge, bierbrauerci, gasthof, hotel, palazzo, and mountain top
throughout the travelling world. The following are the titles of a few
to which he has already affixed the passport of his name.
Punch's Handbook of the Lowtheb
Arcade.
Punch's Handbook of Cardinal Wol-
sey's Palace in Fleet Street, with
a lock of his hair which he had cut
there.
Punch's Hand-Book of the Insolvent
Debtor's Court.
Punch's Handbook to the Cheap Re-
staurateurs of Paris, where (see the
affiche, in the window) "One spikes
English here."
Punch's Handbook of the different
Coins of Switzerland, with rules
how not to lose more than twopence
out of eveiy shilling in every Canton
you pass through.
Punch's Handbook of Boulogne, with
prices of lodgings, provisions, and
brandy, for the use of English resi-
dents.
Punch's Handbook of the Chop Houses
of the City of London.
(composed of hustings lynxes, that, after the election, are prone to sleep Punch's Handbook of the Beer Houses
like hearth-rug spaniels)—made off with a booty of £12,000 per annum; w Bavaria.
the yielding Whigs all guiltless of a blush. Hume's arithmetic might, jisq {n a few ^ays
off-hand calculate the number of household chattels, at a given price,
that, sold by the tax-gatherer's warrant, would make a monetary year
of that self-same Duke; a monstrous young Duke so considered, with
more legs and arms about him than a Hindoo God; with this difference
—they are the legs and arms of tables and chairs confiscated to the
Exchequer. It is pregnant of thoughts salutary, if not blitheful, to
consider how every unjust shilling, voted by way of pension or expense,
may become a visible, working tyrant at the hearths of the poor, seized
upon for taxes. If we may trace the dust of Caesar to a bung-hole, so
may we follow the last blanket of the shivering poor into the pocket of
the pensioner.
Is it not monstrous, a crying wrong, that this new Duke of
Cambridge should sit so heavily upon the backs of the people; and
yet, let his Royal Pursiness appear as visitor in any town, or city, and
fair ladies would flutter their handkerchiefs, and the crowd shout
hurrahs at the Elustrious Pensioner. Now, when we are so ready to
huzzah human packages, because labelled with a high figure, why should
we stint our breath at leave-taking of human genius exercised for
human happiness, and made so often noblv ministrant to human
suffering? Will all the "Contents" and "Non-Contents" that a
Cambridge may utter value one trill of Jenny Lind ? Or rather, may
they not cost the country a hundred times the amount that Jenny, in
her goodness, has thrown about her.
We rejoice in the enthusiasm of Liverpool. And our contemporaries,
reconsidering the matter, may rejoice too. It is surely no hi sign when
Punch's Handbook of the German Con-
stitution (with a view of the cele-
brated maze).
Punch's Handbook of the Loan So-
cieties of London, with complete
directions how to receive £10 out of a
Loan for £50.
Punch's Handbook of the Duke of
York's Column, with a Panorama of
the Bird-cage Walk from the Summit.
Punch's Handbook of Railway Travel-
Talk, with conversations for second
and third Class, and rales how to hold
your tODgue with becoming dignity in
the first Class.
Punch's Handbook of Continental Re-
volutions, including those of France,
Italy, Prussia, Austria, and Rome,
with a map of the splendid prospects
which each country has derived from
them.
Punch's Handbook of the Interior of
Vesuvius, with a profound inquiry
into its " Crater Comforts."
Punch's Handbook of the North Pole.
PUNCH'S HANDBOOK OF THE MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON,
with elevations taken in a new point of sight, to which the finger of science has never
been directed before; and geological specimens and large cuts of the green cheesa
which is supposed to grow there.
WHAT 'S IN A NAME ?
The reporter of the Times, in giving an account of the Peace Con-
gress at Erankfort, says that he heard one of the door-keepers pointing
out to a visitor the person of Cobden, with the words, "Das ist Coby."
This is not worse than our English janitors, who invariably make a
fearful hash of the names of foreigners. The Nepaulese Ambassador
(who has just left us for Paris, which is so crowded that Rum Juggur
could hardlv find a bed, and Shere Mutty—ce cliere Mutty, as the
French call him—was compelled to sleep in a cockloft)—the Nepaulese,
we were about to say, was always known by the humbler class of
Londoners as the New Police Ambassador, there being a vague notion
about town that his mission was in some way connected with the
establishment of a police force in the East, for the detection of the
light-fingered portion of the dark-faced population. The "Das ist
Coby," of the Frankfort doorkeeper is no worse than the " there °-oes
Abraham Parker !" with which Ibrahim Pacha used to be saluted
by the gaminerie of London.
101
our little bird.
a word for the nightingale. •
ertain of our friends in print take it in
dudgeon that Jenny Lind should have so
gathered about her all the hearts of Liver-
pool • should have been so attended to
her ship by the " aves vehement" of affec-
tionate thousands ; for there was real heart
in the shoutings that were sent to her
across the Mersey. Good friends, think
again ; reconsider your discontent. When
there is so much hp-homage—so much eager
voluntary self-debasement—so much licking
of the shoe-leather of absurd pomp, that
has no more in it or upon it, to justify the
idolatry, than may be found in the barren
letters that spell a title—in the imagined heap that piles a banker's
■ account.—when there is so much nauseous worship of the Capitolian
geese, that only cackle, and do not protect—of the golden calves, that,
save to themselves, are not of the worth of shambles' veal—when, in
this age, so precipitant in adulation of prosperity, so that it be
prosperity, when no questions shall be asked—at a time when the
devoted breeches-pocket loyalty to a railway king has foamed itself into
virtuous wrath, the said king's toppled crown being sent to the old
iron shop—at a time so full of sad, humiliating examples of the human
tendency to crawl to the mere images of position and success; at such
a time we take comfort and rejoice in the manifestation of esteem,
even though deemed extravagant and in superflux, when paid to a
genius—to a genius so often shown the handmaiden of good.
We have the hardihood to confess the preference. Yes, we
mightily prefer the applausive shout sent from the throats of a
Liverpool crowd, a shout of happy wishes to a Jenny Lind, to the
stupid, thundering bluster of a Portsmouth salute, stunning, in the
name of senseless ceremony, a quiet elderly gentlewoman. The cannon,
with their " adamantine lips," bellow—" You 're a duchessand not a
word, a syllable more. Human thousands shout to the somewhat more
than Duchess of song; and in that shout, so brief and sudden, there is
acknowledgment, thankfulness for sweet, ennobling emotions; as for
enduring good. How many of the sick, with the thought, the know-
ledge of that shout, might add their prayers, and grateful blessings
to sanctify the acclaim!
Good friends in print, anxious for the stiff sobriety of the English
mind—friends and guardians of propriety, fearful of unprofitable and
unseemly enthusiasm when lavished only upon genius and virtue—take
heart, be confident. There are still wooden idols enough, and more
than enough, to keep alive and rank the old religion. Goose-worship
and calf-worship will not so soon pass away. There is yet enough of
the national heart left untouched to pulsate at the ring of current coin
—there are yet thousands and tens of thousands of ham-strings, to
work, obediently as the threads of painted, paper toys, at the look, the
word of those earthly gods, for whose Pantheon see Debrett's
"Peerage"
Is there any lack of idols ? Any backsliding m idol-worship ? a
young Duke has successfully made off from the House of Commons—
a vast commercial community acknowledges something beyond the
ledger. Who knows, some day, the painter may personally have more
honour- for his pictures, than the mere noble for his heraldic bearings—
the sculptor for his statues, than the commercial owner of vast granite
quarries—the writer of one immortal little book, more even than the
possessor of a paper-mill who turns his weekly thousands ? And if this
should come to pass—(and the homage to Jenny is only a homage to
art and goodness, not an mdirect reverence to her banker)—why should
our friends of the press sneer and repine ? Ought they not rather to
applaud the feeling—to foster it, and rejoice in its fullness ? _ Shah it
be said that the porcupine, with all its upright, independent quills, has,
in its present condition, somewhat too much of the toad-eater ?
To return to Jenny. It seems she is to give a concert on board the
ship for the benefit of the sailors. Very good. As, in the course of
the voyage, it is certain she would be called upon for music—it is well
she should sing for the profit of poor Jack. And she will sing:
" Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath.
That the rude sea grows civil with her song.''
The worst, however, awaits Jenny upon her landing in New York.
There, showman Barnum lies in wait for her, it is said, with a pro-
cession ! We are truly sorry that Jenny should have fallen into such
mercantile hands. Barnum's commodities should still be dwarfs and
manufactured mermaids. He should have had no dealings with Jenny
Lind. Poor soul! We wish her safe back again; even though, to the
amazement of our friends, Liverpool should give her welcome worthy
of their farewell. For Liverpool applauded the woman as well as the
singer. It is not every Nightingale that makes to herself wings of
hospitals. a Little Bird.
PUNCH'S HAND-BOOKS EOR TRAVELLERS.
Mr. Punch, envious of the reputation of Mr. Murray and his
celebrated Handbooks, announces his intention of publishing a new
series of Handbooks, which he is sure will soon be met with hi every
railway, auberge, bierbrauerci, gasthof, hotel, palazzo, and mountain top
throughout the travelling world. The following are the titles of a few
to which he has already affixed the passport of his name.
Punch's Handbook of the Lowtheb
Arcade.
Punch's Handbook of Cardinal Wol-
sey's Palace in Fleet Street, with
a lock of his hair which he had cut
there.
Punch's Hand-Book of the Insolvent
Debtor's Court.
Punch's Handbook to the Cheap Re-
staurateurs of Paris, where (see the
affiche, in the window) "One spikes
English here."
Punch's Handbook of the different
Coins of Switzerland, with rules
how not to lose more than twopence
out of eveiy shilling in every Canton
you pass through.
Punch's Handbook of Boulogne, with
prices of lodgings, provisions, and
brandy, for the use of English resi-
dents.
Punch's Handbook of the Chop Houses
of the City of London.
(composed of hustings lynxes, that, after the election, are prone to sleep Punch's Handbook of the Beer Houses
like hearth-rug spaniels)—made off with a booty of £12,000 per annum; w Bavaria.
the yielding Whigs all guiltless of a blush. Hume's arithmetic might, jisq {n a few ^ays
off-hand calculate the number of household chattels, at a given price,
that, sold by the tax-gatherer's warrant, would make a monetary year
of that self-same Duke; a monstrous young Duke so considered, with
more legs and arms about him than a Hindoo God; with this difference
—they are the legs and arms of tables and chairs confiscated to the
Exchequer. It is pregnant of thoughts salutary, if not blitheful, to
consider how every unjust shilling, voted by way of pension or expense,
may become a visible, working tyrant at the hearths of the poor, seized
upon for taxes. If we may trace the dust of Caesar to a bung-hole, so
may we follow the last blanket of the shivering poor into the pocket of
the pensioner.
Is it not monstrous, a crying wrong, that this new Duke of
Cambridge should sit so heavily upon the backs of the people; and
yet, let his Royal Pursiness appear as visitor in any town, or city, and
fair ladies would flutter their handkerchiefs, and the crowd shout
hurrahs at the Elustrious Pensioner. Now, when we are so ready to
huzzah human packages, because labelled with a high figure, why should
we stint our breath at leave-taking of human genius exercised for
human happiness, and made so often noblv ministrant to human
suffering? Will all the "Contents" and "Non-Contents" that a
Cambridge may utter value one trill of Jenny Lind ? Or rather, may
they not cost the country a hundred times the amount that Jenny, in
her goodness, has thrown about her.
We rejoice in the enthusiasm of Liverpool. And our contemporaries,
reconsidering the matter, may rejoice too. It is surely no hi sign when
Punch's Handbook of the German Con-
stitution (with a view of the cele-
brated maze).
Punch's Handbook of the Loan So-
cieties of London, with complete
directions how to receive £10 out of a
Loan for £50.
Punch's Handbook of the Duke of
York's Column, with a Panorama of
the Bird-cage Walk from the Summit.
Punch's Handbook of Railway Travel-
Talk, with conversations for second
and third Class, and rales how to hold
your tODgue with becoming dignity in
the first Class.
Punch's Handbook of Continental Re-
volutions, including those of France,
Italy, Prussia, Austria, and Rome,
with a map of the splendid prospects
which each country has derived from
them.
Punch's Handbook of the Interior of
Vesuvius, with a profound inquiry
into its " Crater Comforts."
Punch's Handbook of the North Pole.
PUNCH'S HANDBOOK OF THE MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON,
with elevations taken in a new point of sight, to which the finger of science has never
been directed before; and geological specimens and large cuts of the green cheesa
which is supposed to grow there.
WHAT 'S IN A NAME ?
The reporter of the Times, in giving an account of the Peace Con-
gress at Erankfort, says that he heard one of the door-keepers pointing
out to a visitor the person of Cobden, with the words, "Das ist Coby."
This is not worse than our English janitors, who invariably make a
fearful hash of the names of foreigners. The Nepaulese Ambassador
(who has just left us for Paris, which is so crowded that Rum Juggur
could hardlv find a bed, and Shere Mutty—ce cliere Mutty, as the
French call him—was compelled to sleep in a cockloft)—the Nepaulese,
we were about to say, was always known by the humbler class of
Londoners as the New Police Ambassador, there being a vague notion
about town that his mission was in some way connected with the
establishment of a police force in the East, for the detection of the
light-fingered portion of the dark-faced population. The "Das ist
Coby," of the Frankfort doorkeeper is no worse than the " there °-oes
Abraham Parker !" with which Ibrahim Pacha used to be saluted
by the gaminerie of London.