DOI issue:
July to December, 1853
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16612#0133
122
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
I
A NEW ZODIACAL LIGHT.
At the recent Meeting of the British Association, Pro-
fessor Glimm, of Einsterberg, favoured Section A with the
outlines of his plan for the better arrangement of the signs
of the zodiac, which, as he truly remarked, were in a very
unsatisfactory state, and not at all in accordance with the
spirit of the age. “ What occasion have we,” he asked, “ for
Libra, the Balance, when we have already the scales of the
Pisces?” He therefore proposes to remove Libra from its
control over the harvest month, and to substitute for it Virga,
which, as every school-boy knows, is the Latin 1'or a threshing
machine in common use. As Aquarius comes under the pro-
visions of the New Cab Act, which declares that no water-
man shall be allowed on the stand, he is to retire on a pension,
and his berth is to be held over for Father Mathew.
The weapons of Sagittarius, and his mode of conducting
the chase, have become quite obsolete, and can only excite
ridicule in an age which has made so many improvements in
fire-arms. He is therefore to share the honourable retire-
ment of Aquarius, and his duties and emoluments are to
be divided amongst a troop of shooting stars. These last
have (petitioned that Canis Venaticus (the hunting dog) may
be allowed to attend them, but their request cannot be com-
plied with until it has been ascertained that this celestial
pointer will refrain from worrying Taurus and Aries, and
barking at the heels of Virgo. Professor Glimm has also
persuaded some distinguished members of the Peace Society
to arbitrate between the Gemini, who have not been on
visiting terms for many years. By the intervention of these
gentlemen, it is hoped these discreditable squabbles will be
stopped, and Castor and Pollux will be once more seen in
company.
OUR TOURIST IN PARiS.-No. 3.
The Englishman in Paris lives one of two lives; a life of'
duty or a life of pleasure. In the former case he wanders
Irearily through the Louvre and the Luxembourg; he makes
painful pilgrimages to churches, museums, and galleries, in
the hope oi picking up a knowledge of Art. He devotes this
lay to St. Denis, the next to Versailles, the third to St. Cloud.
He fills his catalogue and guide-books with annotations, and
perhaps spends a cheerful evening over a diary, in which des-
perate efforts are made to distinguish the styles of Rubens
and Titian, and the eras of Notre Dame and the Sainte
Ohapelle. In the latter case he frequents the Opera Comique,
die theatres, and the public balls : he breakfasts in the Palais
Royal, and dines at Philippe’s, and quakes a regular prome-
nade in the Champs Elysees every afternoon. The well-
balanced mind of your correspondent seizes the advantages of
Doth these systems. He devotes his morning to the cultivation
of his intellect, and the rest of the day to the gratification of
Iris tastes.
Behold him, then, after a conscientious study of the pic-
tures in the Louvre, prepared to refresh himself by an airing
in the Elysian fields. What a panorama of superb points of
view ! The Rue de la Paix, the Place and Column Vendome,
the Attic Madeleine, the endless arcades of the Rue de Rivoli,
the imperial faqade of the Tuileries, its classic gardens, the
noble opening of the Place de la Concorde, with its obelisk
and fountains, and the avenue ending with the sublime Arch
of the Star. Where else can such a group of beauties be
found? No wonder the poor Parisians find London dull and
ugly! But the less we talk about the appearance of our
dingy city the better; we must forget Trafalgar Square and
its monuments, and console ourselves with our pavement, our
drainage, and our comfortable firesides.
The sun shines cheerfully, the air is pure, and the philo-
sopher enters the Champs Elysees in a state of serene en-
joyment, proposing to study* the manners of the great
nation. He observes an ancient man by the wayside in
tattered garments, who plays soft tunes' on a bass trom-
bone. No one pays the least attention to this mild min-
strelsy. It is a perfect image of Wisdom talking in the
streets, and no man regarding her. Another poor creature
seated on the ground, grinds a feeble tootling organ amid
similar neglect. The Erench are evidently not a musical people.
T e observer passes on to a temple of Punch, at whose exhi-
bition (in reverence to the august original in England) he is
about to assist, when he is suddenly aroused to a sense of a
cruel disappointment. He might just as well be in Hyde
Park. It is the drive by the Serpentine over again. Why,
there’s Overalls, of the Blues. There’s Swellings Swellings; you never
can go anywhere without seeing him. That was Bob Hilton, driving the
high-stepping grey horse. There goes Threadpaper of the Foreign Ofiice,
with his infant moustache (what the deuce does he want with a moustache, 1
should like to know?) There’s old Gratings, who is such a bore at the
Club; there’s Charley (Martingale of the Plungers, with Hooker (known
by his friends as the Bravo) in his wonderful tight trousers. But who isn’t
here? Two men behind are talking about the Metropolitan Handicap and
Grumbler’s chance of the Derby. Really, really, this is too bad. The ancient
poet asks, “ What exile from his fatherland can leave himself behind ? ”
The question now is what man, by departure from his country, can hope to be
free from his countrymen ? It is intolerable. How is it possible to take notes
of Parisian manners when you are seized upon by Swellings Swellings and
catechised about the prospects of the Haymarket Opera ? You get rid of him
by informing him, in confidence, that it has been taken by Mr. John Bright
for a series of Bal Masques and Ballet entertainments, when up come the
Bravo and Martingale, who want to know when Pytchley’s stud is to be
sold. You profess a sulky ignorance of the subject, and try to get away, when
Martingale enters upon a sketch of Erench character, which he holds very low,
chiefly on grounds of a sporting nature. Ever see such dogs ?—ever see such
horses ?—ever see such riding and driving ?—ever see such grooms and coachmen ?
You should go to one of their steenle-chases and look at them tumbling about.
The last time, at La Marche, white and red cap came pounding along fifty
miles an hour, and pulled ap short at the brook to inquire for the bridge.
“ Ou est le pont, Messieurs ? Mon Dieu, je vais perdre ! De grace, ou est le
pont ? ” and another man got with his horse on to the top oi a bank, where
he stopped for a quarter-of-an-hour without being able to get off again, until
at last the crowd flicked the unfortunate animal with their pocKet-hancmerchiefs
into a state of madness, when lie jumped down, only it was on the wrong
side, and Ids rider gave up the adventure. Mahtingale was also very severe
on the cavalry, whom he described as tailors mounted on bad cart-horses, and
unable to stand for a moment before British heavies.
Hooker endorsed the criticisms oi his friend, and called attention to the
cavaliers who pranced up and down the drive. Certainly it was rather a
ludicrous contrast, both for men and cattle, with our exhibition in Rotten
Row. The horses were mostly weedy, leggy, tucked up brutes, all mane and
tail, and worth about twro pound ten each. One young fellow, a tremendous
dandy, galloped up and down on a gray Arab-looxing pony that an English
gentleman would have put his little boy of twelve upon. Hie styles ol riding
were various. There were the haute ecole men, who rode very -ong, and show ed
all their saddle in front of them, and the Anglo-maniacs, who rode very short,
and showed all their saddle behind them. Some gentlemen seemed disposed
to tie their legs together under their horse’s belly; others projected them on
each side of his chest like the cat-heads oi a man-of-war.^ They all rode on the
curb, with a grasp of iron, holding the snaffle in the otner hand, perpetuahy
nagging and spurring and hustling the wretched^ animals about, till they did
not know what to be at. Hooker’s honest Yorkshire heart swelled with
bitterness all the time. “ They oughtn’t to be trusted out with a horse, he said.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
I
A NEW ZODIACAL LIGHT.
At the recent Meeting of the British Association, Pro-
fessor Glimm, of Einsterberg, favoured Section A with the
outlines of his plan for the better arrangement of the signs
of the zodiac, which, as he truly remarked, were in a very
unsatisfactory state, and not at all in accordance with the
spirit of the age. “ What occasion have we,” he asked, “ for
Libra, the Balance, when we have already the scales of the
Pisces?” He therefore proposes to remove Libra from its
control over the harvest month, and to substitute for it Virga,
which, as every school-boy knows, is the Latin 1'or a threshing
machine in common use. As Aquarius comes under the pro-
visions of the New Cab Act, which declares that no water-
man shall be allowed on the stand, he is to retire on a pension,
and his berth is to be held over for Father Mathew.
The weapons of Sagittarius, and his mode of conducting
the chase, have become quite obsolete, and can only excite
ridicule in an age which has made so many improvements in
fire-arms. He is therefore to share the honourable retire-
ment of Aquarius, and his duties and emoluments are to
be divided amongst a troop of shooting stars. These last
have (petitioned that Canis Venaticus (the hunting dog) may
be allowed to attend them, but their request cannot be com-
plied with until it has been ascertained that this celestial
pointer will refrain from worrying Taurus and Aries, and
barking at the heels of Virgo. Professor Glimm has also
persuaded some distinguished members of the Peace Society
to arbitrate between the Gemini, who have not been on
visiting terms for many years. By the intervention of these
gentlemen, it is hoped these discreditable squabbles will be
stopped, and Castor and Pollux will be once more seen in
company.
OUR TOURIST IN PARiS.-No. 3.
The Englishman in Paris lives one of two lives; a life of'
duty or a life of pleasure. In the former case he wanders
Irearily through the Louvre and the Luxembourg; he makes
painful pilgrimages to churches, museums, and galleries, in
the hope oi picking up a knowledge of Art. He devotes this
lay to St. Denis, the next to Versailles, the third to St. Cloud.
He fills his catalogue and guide-books with annotations, and
perhaps spends a cheerful evening over a diary, in which des-
perate efforts are made to distinguish the styles of Rubens
and Titian, and the eras of Notre Dame and the Sainte
Ohapelle. In the latter case he frequents the Opera Comique,
die theatres, and the public balls : he breakfasts in the Palais
Royal, and dines at Philippe’s, and quakes a regular prome-
nade in the Champs Elysees every afternoon. The well-
balanced mind of your correspondent seizes the advantages of
Doth these systems. He devotes his morning to the cultivation
of his intellect, and the rest of the day to the gratification of
Iris tastes.
Behold him, then, after a conscientious study of the pic-
tures in the Louvre, prepared to refresh himself by an airing
in the Elysian fields. What a panorama of superb points of
view ! The Rue de la Paix, the Place and Column Vendome,
the Attic Madeleine, the endless arcades of the Rue de Rivoli,
the imperial faqade of the Tuileries, its classic gardens, the
noble opening of the Place de la Concorde, with its obelisk
and fountains, and the avenue ending with the sublime Arch
of the Star. Where else can such a group of beauties be
found? No wonder the poor Parisians find London dull and
ugly! But the less we talk about the appearance of our
dingy city the better; we must forget Trafalgar Square and
its monuments, and console ourselves with our pavement, our
drainage, and our comfortable firesides.
The sun shines cheerfully, the air is pure, and the philo-
sopher enters the Champs Elysees in a state of serene en-
joyment, proposing to study* the manners of the great
nation. He observes an ancient man by the wayside in
tattered garments, who plays soft tunes' on a bass trom-
bone. No one pays the least attention to this mild min-
strelsy. It is a perfect image of Wisdom talking in the
streets, and no man regarding her. Another poor creature
seated on the ground, grinds a feeble tootling organ amid
similar neglect. The Erench are evidently not a musical people.
T e observer passes on to a temple of Punch, at whose exhi-
bition (in reverence to the august original in England) he is
about to assist, when he is suddenly aroused to a sense of a
cruel disappointment. He might just as well be in Hyde
Park. It is the drive by the Serpentine over again. Why,
there’s Overalls, of the Blues. There’s Swellings Swellings; you never
can go anywhere without seeing him. That was Bob Hilton, driving the
high-stepping grey horse. There goes Threadpaper of the Foreign Ofiice,
with his infant moustache (what the deuce does he want with a moustache, 1
should like to know?) There’s old Gratings, who is such a bore at the
Club; there’s Charley (Martingale of the Plungers, with Hooker (known
by his friends as the Bravo) in his wonderful tight trousers. But who isn’t
here? Two men behind are talking about the Metropolitan Handicap and
Grumbler’s chance of the Derby. Really, really, this is too bad. The ancient
poet asks, “ What exile from his fatherland can leave himself behind ? ”
The question now is what man, by departure from his country, can hope to be
free from his countrymen ? It is intolerable. How is it possible to take notes
of Parisian manners when you are seized upon by Swellings Swellings and
catechised about the prospects of the Haymarket Opera ? You get rid of him
by informing him, in confidence, that it has been taken by Mr. John Bright
for a series of Bal Masques and Ballet entertainments, when up come the
Bravo and Martingale, who want to know when Pytchley’s stud is to be
sold. You profess a sulky ignorance of the subject, and try to get away, when
Martingale enters upon a sketch of Erench character, which he holds very low,
chiefly on grounds of a sporting nature. Ever see such dogs ?—ever see such
horses ?—ever see such riding and driving ?—ever see such grooms and coachmen ?
You should go to one of their steenle-chases and look at them tumbling about.
The last time, at La Marche, white and red cap came pounding along fifty
miles an hour, and pulled ap short at the brook to inquire for the bridge.
“ Ou est le pont, Messieurs ? Mon Dieu, je vais perdre ! De grace, ou est le
pont ? ” and another man got with his horse on to the top oi a bank, where
he stopped for a quarter-of-an-hour without being able to get off again, until
at last the crowd flicked the unfortunate animal with their pocKet-hancmerchiefs
into a state of madness, when lie jumped down, only it was on the wrong
side, and Ids rider gave up the adventure. Mahtingale was also very severe
on the cavalry, whom he described as tailors mounted on bad cart-horses, and
unable to stand for a moment before British heavies.
Hooker endorsed the criticisms oi his friend, and called attention to the
cavaliers who pranced up and down the drive. Certainly it was rather a
ludicrous contrast, both for men and cattle, with our exhibition in Rotten
Row. The horses were mostly weedy, leggy, tucked up brutes, all mane and
tail, and worth about twro pound ten each. One young fellow, a tremendous
dandy, galloped up and down on a gray Arab-looxing pony that an English
gentleman would have put his little boy of twelve upon. Hie styles ol riding
were various. There were the haute ecole men, who rode very -ong, and show ed
all their saddle in front of them, and the Anglo-maniacs, who rode very short,
and showed all their saddle behind them. Some gentlemen seemed disposed
to tie their legs together under their horse’s belly; others projected them on
each side of his chest like the cat-heads oi a man-of-war.^ They all rode on the
curb, with a grasp of iron, holding the snaffle in the otner hand, perpetuahy
nagging and spurring and hustling the wretched^ animals about, till they did
not know what to be at. Hooker’s honest Yorkshire heart swelled with
bitterness all the time. “ They oughtn’t to be trusted out with a horse, he said.