DOI Heft:
July to December, 1853
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16612#0117
10G
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
his eyebrows running up on each side; his vehement discourse, his
grimaces, his shrugs, his lively gestures ? Mark those three -flaneurs !
They are talking each as loud as he can on a different topic, not
listening or listened to, yet perfectly happy and content. Would any
! one but a Frenchman call such monkey-jabber conversation—and
\ like it ?
They slacken their talk a little, to exhibit t he national politeness.
A lady, young, charming, and dressed to perfection, though a little
more sumptuously than is usual with us for the promenade on foot,
must descend into the kennel (a little river) if these Messieurs will not
give place. Ah, bah! do not derange yourselves. Jtjles puts his
head under her bonnet, and perfumes her exquisite coiffure with tobacco
smoke. Adolphe and Horace exchange bon mots with a coarse
laugh, and the poor lady makes her escape as she may. Oh, French
politeness ! truly thou art a thing of the past. The modern Gaul lias
still the trick of taking off his hat; but the spirit of courtesy is
evaporated, leaving nothing but dregs behind.
Four correspondent leaves this last sentence as he wrote it in the
heat of indignation (if his temper is capable of heat) at what could not
have happened in England. Mindful, however, of the danger of
drawing general conclusions from particular premises, he wishes to
limit his censure to Frencli officials and French Boulevard flaneurs, the
only persons that have as yet shown themselves to deserve it, and who
may be unfavourable specimens of their countrymen. Certainly lie lias
met with an obliging good humour in waiters and shop-keepers, that
contrasts favourably with the reserved and almost sullen air of the
same classes in England. On the other hand, carters and cabmen
seem brutally cruel to their cattle, and will drive over a foot passenger
(especially, perhaps, if an Englishman) without scruple. M ho shall
correctly appreciate these things ?
A LION RAMPANT MAD.
That troublesome quadruped the British Lion, generally supposed
defunct, turns out_ to have been Scotched not killed; as he is now
roaring and bellowing more ridiculously than ever, in the character of
the Lion of North Britain or Scotch Lion. He is clamouring not only
tor what he conceives to be his proper corner on the Royal flag, but
also, on behalf of his baronetage and some other connexions, for the
whole territory and fishing-grounds of the Royal Province of New
Scotland, as he calls it; that is to say, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick,
and the adjacent regions. We expect very soon to hear this foolish
old Lion roar lor the moon, in a state of second cubhood. To humour
him, however, it might be advisable to depict him wherever he wishes
in that state of rampancy which he chooses to figure in, that is, in ail
attitude of rampant absurdity.
Honours to Palmerston.
It is determined that Loud Palmerston—who goes in attendance
upon the Queen to Scotland-shall have the freedom of Perth. Had
Pam nad his own way, we take it, long ere this, he would have had the
freedom of Turkey.
THE HOUSE OF FAiVIE.
dedicated, by permission op the president and council, to
THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
Clear and grey the day is dawning, free from each ill-omened warning.
And the sharp fresh air of morning blows upon our mountain way.
As o’er brook and chasm springing, or up woody crag-sides swinging,
Showers of dew and blossom bringing down from each rich laden spray;
While the birds from tree and thicket greet us with a jocund lay,
Merrily our band advancing, towards the mountain’s summit glancing,
Sees the early sunbeams dancing on a dome of burnished flame,
Where, with open doors entreating our approach, a cordial greeting
Angel voices seem repeating, singing, sloth and fear to shame,
“Hasten ! favoured mortals; hasten upward to the House of Fame! ”
Pausing now, in contemplation, I perceive that every nation.
From each calling, class, or station, sends its quota to our band ;
Poets jostling grave logicians ; botanists by politicians ;
Soldiers marching with physicians ; kings, with hermits close at hand
Miners, aeronauts, and divers, pass before me as I stand.
Owen, with a fossil tusk or femur strides along, and Busk a
.tar has got of fresh Mollusca to sustain him in his toil;
Williams, fond of vermicelli, has a mess of small Sahellar,
Serpulm, and Terahellse; Bowler in his “mortal coil”
Thinks he lias a force sufficient any obstacle to foil.
Murchison, with Chambers walking, of striated rocks is talking;
CumminG up a glen goes stalking deer, with Landseer painting him ;
Brougham here and there is tripping, up the rocks for wild bees
skipping.
In the brooks and fountains dipping; gazing, till his eyes arc dim,
On the San, as “Hydrostatics,” “Optics,” “Instincts,” suit his whim.
While Arago drags his dying limbs with us, and, though still plying
All his much-loved arts, is sighing for his country’s broken laws :
Happier Humboldt’s mind in masses groups rocks, pebbles, trees, and
grasses,
Clouds, brooks, torrents, mountain passes; thence one grand conclusion
draws ;
From the greatest and the least of Nature’s works the Common*Cause
And purpose of them all divining. “ Sages, in a well reclining,
Saw the stars at noon-day shining,” ancient legends said but Hind
Marching on in contemplation, by mere force of calculation
Every wandering planet’s station in the sunlit sky can find,
Gazing at them from the deep recesses of his mighty mind.
.Vud as thus, with collimators, syphons, hydro-incubators,
Seismoscopes and insulators, stuffed birds, insects, ferns and grasses.
Microscopic preparations, tons of fire-new publications.
Trophies of departed nations, jars of new invented gases.
Lenses, crucibles, and gauges, all the hurried cortege passes ;
Claudet, on the concourse gazing, as they come beneath the blazing
; Sun, much dust around them raising, dips his brush in solar flame ;
And so skilfully his art he plies, that ’ere the husy party
From before his eye eau start, he manages the whole to frame
In one picture, as a fitting tribute to the House of Fame.
Now the glens and gorges clearing, and on steep bare slopes appearing
Blither grows our band at hearing, from the gazing crowd below.
Shouts of praise and gratulation: but our joy to consternation
Changes, on the observation that some men we do not know
Have crept up by other paths, and share our glory as we go.
And these interlopers blending thoughts of fame and pelf arc vending
Various wares while ihey ’re ascending. Fox the public fancy Juts,
At so much per scratch revealing scratches on the walls and ceiling,
■ Made with infinite good feeling, by dead heroes, bards, and wits,
To amuse an epileptic milliner between her fits.
Reichenbacii here runs up, saying he can see a marsh light playing
On the hill in open day; in swamps to sink above his knees
For his pains he is devoted. ’Mongst the rest, too, here, I noted
The unknown, but often quoted, author of the “Vestiges,”
Seeking for the geese that spring from barnacles that grow on trees.
Here our path with doubts and dangers thick is set; for shabby
strangers,
Little better than bush-rangers, try our purses to retain:
Pupils these of Proudhon’s teaching: Carlyle runs amongst us
preaching
That we are but wind-bags, screeching flunkies, shams and shadows
vain:
Cullen, Wiseman, Newman, tell us our true path is down again.
And a band, denominated Critics, of mere words created,
(Like the horses who were stated to be children of the wind)
Come to settle each pretension; but our best and wisest men shun
The oft proffered intervention of these blind guides of the blind;
On we press, and leave quacks, critics, dreamers, -schemers, all behind.
From the crowd some intervening pine-trees now our baud are
screening,
Yet they shout, their praises meaning for the quacks we leave below.
We, with bated breath, slow creeping up the sharply rising steep, in
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
his eyebrows running up on each side; his vehement discourse, his
grimaces, his shrugs, his lively gestures ? Mark those three -flaneurs !
They are talking each as loud as he can on a different topic, not
listening or listened to, yet perfectly happy and content. Would any
! one but a Frenchman call such monkey-jabber conversation—and
\ like it ?
They slacken their talk a little, to exhibit t he national politeness.
A lady, young, charming, and dressed to perfection, though a little
more sumptuously than is usual with us for the promenade on foot,
must descend into the kennel (a little river) if these Messieurs will not
give place. Ah, bah! do not derange yourselves. Jtjles puts his
head under her bonnet, and perfumes her exquisite coiffure with tobacco
smoke. Adolphe and Horace exchange bon mots with a coarse
laugh, and the poor lady makes her escape as she may. Oh, French
politeness ! truly thou art a thing of the past. The modern Gaul lias
still the trick of taking off his hat; but the spirit of courtesy is
evaporated, leaving nothing but dregs behind.
Four correspondent leaves this last sentence as he wrote it in the
heat of indignation (if his temper is capable of heat) at what could not
have happened in England. Mindful, however, of the danger of
drawing general conclusions from particular premises, he wishes to
limit his censure to Frencli officials and French Boulevard flaneurs, the
only persons that have as yet shown themselves to deserve it, and who
may be unfavourable specimens of their countrymen. Certainly lie lias
met with an obliging good humour in waiters and shop-keepers, that
contrasts favourably with the reserved and almost sullen air of the
same classes in England. On the other hand, carters and cabmen
seem brutally cruel to their cattle, and will drive over a foot passenger
(especially, perhaps, if an Englishman) without scruple. M ho shall
correctly appreciate these things ?
A LION RAMPANT MAD.
That troublesome quadruped the British Lion, generally supposed
defunct, turns out_ to have been Scotched not killed; as he is now
roaring and bellowing more ridiculously than ever, in the character of
the Lion of North Britain or Scotch Lion. He is clamouring not only
tor what he conceives to be his proper corner on the Royal flag, but
also, on behalf of his baronetage and some other connexions, for the
whole territory and fishing-grounds of the Royal Province of New
Scotland, as he calls it; that is to say, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick,
and the adjacent regions. We expect very soon to hear this foolish
old Lion roar lor the moon, in a state of second cubhood. To humour
him, however, it might be advisable to depict him wherever he wishes
in that state of rampancy which he chooses to figure in, that is, in ail
attitude of rampant absurdity.
Honours to Palmerston.
It is determined that Loud Palmerston—who goes in attendance
upon the Queen to Scotland-shall have the freedom of Perth. Had
Pam nad his own way, we take it, long ere this, he would have had the
freedom of Turkey.
THE HOUSE OF FAiVIE.
dedicated, by permission op the president and council, to
THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.
Clear and grey the day is dawning, free from each ill-omened warning.
And the sharp fresh air of morning blows upon our mountain way.
As o’er brook and chasm springing, or up woody crag-sides swinging,
Showers of dew and blossom bringing down from each rich laden spray;
While the birds from tree and thicket greet us with a jocund lay,
Merrily our band advancing, towards the mountain’s summit glancing,
Sees the early sunbeams dancing on a dome of burnished flame,
Where, with open doors entreating our approach, a cordial greeting
Angel voices seem repeating, singing, sloth and fear to shame,
“Hasten ! favoured mortals; hasten upward to the House of Fame! ”
Pausing now, in contemplation, I perceive that every nation.
From each calling, class, or station, sends its quota to our band ;
Poets jostling grave logicians ; botanists by politicians ;
Soldiers marching with physicians ; kings, with hermits close at hand
Miners, aeronauts, and divers, pass before me as I stand.
Owen, with a fossil tusk or femur strides along, and Busk a
.tar has got of fresh Mollusca to sustain him in his toil;
Williams, fond of vermicelli, has a mess of small Sahellar,
Serpulm, and Terahellse; Bowler in his “mortal coil”
Thinks he lias a force sufficient any obstacle to foil.
Murchison, with Chambers walking, of striated rocks is talking;
CumminG up a glen goes stalking deer, with Landseer painting him ;
Brougham here and there is tripping, up the rocks for wild bees
skipping.
In the brooks and fountains dipping; gazing, till his eyes arc dim,
On the San, as “Hydrostatics,” “Optics,” “Instincts,” suit his whim.
While Arago drags his dying limbs with us, and, though still plying
All his much-loved arts, is sighing for his country’s broken laws :
Happier Humboldt’s mind in masses groups rocks, pebbles, trees, and
grasses,
Clouds, brooks, torrents, mountain passes; thence one grand conclusion
draws ;
From the greatest and the least of Nature’s works the Common*Cause
And purpose of them all divining. “ Sages, in a well reclining,
Saw the stars at noon-day shining,” ancient legends said but Hind
Marching on in contemplation, by mere force of calculation
Every wandering planet’s station in the sunlit sky can find,
Gazing at them from the deep recesses of his mighty mind.
.Vud as thus, with collimators, syphons, hydro-incubators,
Seismoscopes and insulators, stuffed birds, insects, ferns and grasses.
Microscopic preparations, tons of fire-new publications.
Trophies of departed nations, jars of new invented gases.
Lenses, crucibles, and gauges, all the hurried cortege passes ;
Claudet, on the concourse gazing, as they come beneath the blazing
; Sun, much dust around them raising, dips his brush in solar flame ;
And so skilfully his art he plies, that ’ere the husy party
From before his eye eau start, he manages the whole to frame
In one picture, as a fitting tribute to the House of Fame.
Now the glens and gorges clearing, and on steep bare slopes appearing
Blither grows our band at hearing, from the gazing crowd below.
Shouts of praise and gratulation: but our joy to consternation
Changes, on the observation that some men we do not know
Have crept up by other paths, and share our glory as we go.
And these interlopers blending thoughts of fame and pelf arc vending
Various wares while ihey ’re ascending. Fox the public fancy Juts,
At so much per scratch revealing scratches on the walls and ceiling,
■ Made with infinite good feeling, by dead heroes, bards, and wits,
To amuse an epileptic milliner between her fits.
Reichenbacii here runs up, saying he can see a marsh light playing
On the hill in open day; in swamps to sink above his knees
For his pains he is devoted. ’Mongst the rest, too, here, I noted
The unknown, but often quoted, author of the “Vestiges,”
Seeking for the geese that spring from barnacles that grow on trees.
Here our path with doubts and dangers thick is set; for shabby
strangers,
Little better than bush-rangers, try our purses to retain:
Pupils these of Proudhon’s teaching: Carlyle runs amongst us
preaching
That we are but wind-bags, screeching flunkies, shams and shadows
vain:
Cullen, Wiseman, Newman, tell us our true path is down again.
And a band, denominated Critics, of mere words created,
(Like the horses who were stated to be children of the wind)
Come to settle each pretension; but our best and wisest men shun
The oft proffered intervention of these blind guides of the blind;
On we press, and leave quacks, critics, dreamers, -schemers, all behind.
From the crowd some intervening pine-trees now our baud are
screening,
Yet they shout, their praises meaning for the quacks we leave below.
We, with bated breath, slow creeping up the sharply rising steep, in