DOI issue:
July to December, 1853
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16612#0167
156
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Batcher Boy {who has had a liberal education). “Pur—Purvyor to
Her Madgistt. Oh ! then that’s a Statty-ette of the Q jeen,
THAT’s WOT THAT IS.”
Companion. “ Law ! ”
OUR TOURIST IN PARIS.- No. 7.
It would bo a mistake for a person of taste to leave Paris without
dining at Philippe’s, the great artist, who dwells in the Hue Mont-
orgueil. There is the very highest authority (an Ex-Chancellor, a
Bishop or two, and my friend Jollyboy) for stating that this house is
by far the best in the city; and so, Sir, having the interests of your
paper and my country in view, I accepted the invitation of Harry
Ortolan, himself no bad judge, to meet a small party there. There
were old Martingale and Sheffield Higson, and De Cottrcy of the
Embassy, a young Erenchman named Monsieur Frederic Hulot,
Protocol, De Faulter, and your Correspondent.
Hulot (a great ass) who dresses d VAnglais in a pantalon a la
gentlemens-rideres, and rides a grey mare with very long legs in the
Champs Elysees, fastened on to Martingale, and gabbled away about
le Liverpool Stipple Chase and Monsieur Mason, wanting to know
how much an English horse, pure blood, would cost. He was to be
showy and very quiet. Martingale rather bluntly told him, he had
better learn to ride, before he thought of buying a horse. De Faulter
invited your Correspondent to come and play ecarte at the Cercle some
evening. A very friendly nice fellow. He was in some cavalry regi-
ment, but sold out. I forget why he left the Rag. Perhaps it was too
noisy a club for him. Sheffield Higson was holding forth, to the
great disgust of De Courcy, about the English constitution, main-
taining the universal corruption of the Church and aristocracy, and
looking forward to the time when Mr. Cobden should be at the head
of Foreign Affairs, and Mr. Bright at the War Office; the revenues
of the Church of England being divided pro rata' among the schools of
various denominations. To confess the truth, Higson spoils the effect
of his excellent political principles by the grossest toad-eating. He
never can speak without mentioning some lord as his intimate friend.
De Courcy listened to his speculations in horror, and was quite
unable to profess his own simple faith—that the House of Peers and
the country gentlemen had an exclusive right to the government, and
that the devil was the first Whig. Pie could only turn away, and mutter
something about “ an infernal snob.” Protocol was boring our host
whh his views on the Zollverein. Altogether we were uncomfortable
together, and were all delighted when dinner was announced.
The 1'mitres de Marenne, those genuine treasures of the deep, had
disappeared when Ortolan, filling a glass of old Grave, said, “Do you
know I hate a fellow who says he doesn’t like a good dinner. Il’s
generally humbug, and when it isn’t that, it’s something worse. It
shows a want of humanity: he might just as well not like virtue, or be
indifferent about cleanliness. A good dinner is better than a bad
dinner, exactly as a good man is better than a bad man; and to be
without a taste, is as much a defect as to be without a heart. An
ancient philosopher ” (Ortolan is literary, and has read Athenjeus)
“ has defined man as a cooking animal, with great justice. Advance in
cookery accompanies advance in civilisation, and they doubtless will
both reach perfection at the same time. The culinary art has a direct
effect in refining mankind; in the beautiful words of the Latin Grammar,
it is emollient to the manners; nor does it allow them to be rough.”
(Higson, who_has no Latin, here sneered visibly.) “After this potage
bisque aux ecrevisses, we feel our hearts expand in universal philanthropy.
Who would grovel amid lower dirt when he can nourish his essence
with stuff so ambrosial ? ”
“ Well, for my part,” said honest Martingale, “ I don’t care about
your French flummery—it’s all to hide the taste of the meat. Give
me a steak of good English beef, you know what you’re eating then.
! Who knows what this patty has inside it 1 ” “ You old heathen,” ex-
claimed the epicure with pity, “ eat therefore without inquiry; you
should never work your intellect at the same time with your digestion,
or you will spoil the operation of both. Eat in silence, for it is good,
and thank the happy age and country which puts such delicate things
| before its sons.”
Martingale grumbled about fellows worshipping a certain portion j
of their physical constitution, but devoted himself nevertheless to the
| suspicious pate with great success. The enthusiasm of the less pre-
judiced part of the guests, amongst whom L of course to be reckoned
your open-minded Correspondent, was quickened by some foie gras,
and rose to the highest pitch over a salmi of woodcocks, which even
Martingale admitted to be no end of good, although the best wood-
cocks in the world were to be shot on the governor’s manors in Lin-
colnshire. Protocol here drank the health of the chef in a glass of
Cliquot’s champagne amid general applause.
Your Correspondent is aware of the painful effect that would be pro-
duced on your readers, condemned to drag on a miserable existence on
; the indigestible products of an English kitchen, if he were to enume-
rate and describe the dishes that completed the repast—all light, savoury,
succulent, and nourishing. But why, he begs to ask, is it, that with
confessedly inferior materials a French artist can make up a dinner,
and a good one, where an Anglo Saxon cook only furnishes instruments
of stomachic torture P The fact is certain and the answer plain. A
Frenchman considers his occupation as an art and throws his soul into
it. Success is his ambition and, when achieved, his pride, and he
pleases himself when he pleases you. Compare his enlightened enthu-
siasm with the view Mariar or Soosan takes of her metier. Think
of the impenetrable stupidity, the indolent unconscientiousness, the
complacent conceit, and the obstinacy which hardens the hearts
towards us of that matron and that maid, and by their hands infuses
death into the pot. 0 Mariar! O Soosan! be wise in time, learn
your business, and be not slothful therein; listen to a voice of warning
from a foreign strand, lest the day arrive when Missus is compelled to
! descend into the kitchen as Missuses used to do in times gone by, and
your empire over your employers be broken up once and for ever.
The generous produce of a Burgundian autumn flamed in our glasses,
' loosening the tongue and not blunting the wit. The effect was varied
and delightful. Old Martingale, who had been very hard on the
Lancers of the Guard, admitted that in a campaign the French cavrhy
I might be awkward customers. De Faulter ceased his aiiusior.s to
the card-playing at the Cercle, and his coups at Norris’s. Ortolan
showed that he could talk on other subjects than gastronomy, and
De Courcy was civil to Sheffield Higson, who, on the other hand,
abstained from enumerating his acquaintances among that aristocracy
with whose utter wortlilessness and degradation he was so much
impressed. Your Correspondent, who is always pleasant and equable,
was, if possible, more so than usual, and in the intervals of'his brilliant
sallies, added by acute observation to those stores of limpid wisdom,
whence he periodically dispenses to your readers.
Something in a Name after all.
We see by the French papers, that an umbrella called The Mushroom
has been lately patented in Paris. We are not aware what new pecu-
liarity of construction its inventor has discovered, but we think the
name he has selected is a highly appropriate one, and might with
exceeding fitness be applied, not to his alone, but to umbrellas gene-
rally. For as mushrooms naturally belong to that class of things which
are “here to-day and gone to-morrow,” we think their name may very
properly be used to designate so fugitive a possession as an umbrella.
Cranks and Crotchets.—The introduction of crank labour into
gaols has tended to corroborate the opinion, which is widely prevalent,
that prison disciplinarians arc apt to be what is vulgarly called “ cranky.”
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Batcher Boy {who has had a liberal education). “Pur—Purvyor to
Her Madgistt. Oh ! then that’s a Statty-ette of the Q jeen,
THAT’s WOT THAT IS.”
Companion. “ Law ! ”
OUR TOURIST IN PARIS.- No. 7.
It would bo a mistake for a person of taste to leave Paris without
dining at Philippe’s, the great artist, who dwells in the Hue Mont-
orgueil. There is the very highest authority (an Ex-Chancellor, a
Bishop or two, and my friend Jollyboy) for stating that this house is
by far the best in the city; and so, Sir, having the interests of your
paper and my country in view, I accepted the invitation of Harry
Ortolan, himself no bad judge, to meet a small party there. There
were old Martingale and Sheffield Higson, and De Cottrcy of the
Embassy, a young Erenchman named Monsieur Frederic Hulot,
Protocol, De Faulter, and your Correspondent.
Hulot (a great ass) who dresses d VAnglais in a pantalon a la
gentlemens-rideres, and rides a grey mare with very long legs in the
Champs Elysees, fastened on to Martingale, and gabbled away about
le Liverpool Stipple Chase and Monsieur Mason, wanting to know
how much an English horse, pure blood, would cost. He was to be
showy and very quiet. Martingale rather bluntly told him, he had
better learn to ride, before he thought of buying a horse. De Faulter
invited your Correspondent to come and play ecarte at the Cercle some
evening. A very friendly nice fellow. He was in some cavalry regi-
ment, but sold out. I forget why he left the Rag. Perhaps it was too
noisy a club for him. Sheffield Higson was holding forth, to the
great disgust of De Courcy, about the English constitution, main-
taining the universal corruption of the Church and aristocracy, and
looking forward to the time when Mr. Cobden should be at the head
of Foreign Affairs, and Mr. Bright at the War Office; the revenues
of the Church of England being divided pro rata' among the schools of
various denominations. To confess the truth, Higson spoils the effect
of his excellent political principles by the grossest toad-eating. He
never can speak without mentioning some lord as his intimate friend.
De Courcy listened to his speculations in horror, and was quite
unable to profess his own simple faith—that the House of Peers and
the country gentlemen had an exclusive right to the government, and
that the devil was the first Whig. Pie could only turn away, and mutter
something about “ an infernal snob.” Protocol was boring our host
whh his views on the Zollverein. Altogether we were uncomfortable
together, and were all delighted when dinner was announced.
The 1'mitres de Marenne, those genuine treasures of the deep, had
disappeared when Ortolan, filling a glass of old Grave, said, “Do you
know I hate a fellow who says he doesn’t like a good dinner. Il’s
generally humbug, and when it isn’t that, it’s something worse. It
shows a want of humanity: he might just as well not like virtue, or be
indifferent about cleanliness. A good dinner is better than a bad
dinner, exactly as a good man is better than a bad man; and to be
without a taste, is as much a defect as to be without a heart. An
ancient philosopher ” (Ortolan is literary, and has read Athenjeus)
“ has defined man as a cooking animal, with great justice. Advance in
cookery accompanies advance in civilisation, and they doubtless will
both reach perfection at the same time. The culinary art has a direct
effect in refining mankind; in the beautiful words of the Latin Grammar,
it is emollient to the manners; nor does it allow them to be rough.”
(Higson, who_has no Latin, here sneered visibly.) “After this potage
bisque aux ecrevisses, we feel our hearts expand in universal philanthropy.
Who would grovel amid lower dirt when he can nourish his essence
with stuff so ambrosial ? ”
“ Well, for my part,” said honest Martingale, “ I don’t care about
your French flummery—it’s all to hide the taste of the meat. Give
me a steak of good English beef, you know what you’re eating then.
! Who knows what this patty has inside it 1 ” “ You old heathen,” ex-
claimed the epicure with pity, “ eat therefore without inquiry; you
should never work your intellect at the same time with your digestion,
or you will spoil the operation of both. Eat in silence, for it is good,
and thank the happy age and country which puts such delicate things
| before its sons.”
Martingale grumbled about fellows worshipping a certain portion j
of their physical constitution, but devoted himself nevertheless to the
| suspicious pate with great success. The enthusiasm of the less pre-
judiced part of the guests, amongst whom L of course to be reckoned
your open-minded Correspondent, was quickened by some foie gras,
and rose to the highest pitch over a salmi of woodcocks, which even
Martingale admitted to be no end of good, although the best wood-
cocks in the world were to be shot on the governor’s manors in Lin-
colnshire. Protocol here drank the health of the chef in a glass of
Cliquot’s champagne amid general applause.
Your Correspondent is aware of the painful effect that would be pro-
duced on your readers, condemned to drag on a miserable existence on
; the indigestible products of an English kitchen, if he were to enume-
rate and describe the dishes that completed the repast—all light, savoury,
succulent, and nourishing. But why, he begs to ask, is it, that with
confessedly inferior materials a French artist can make up a dinner,
and a good one, where an Anglo Saxon cook only furnishes instruments
of stomachic torture P The fact is certain and the answer plain. A
Frenchman considers his occupation as an art and throws his soul into
it. Success is his ambition and, when achieved, his pride, and he
pleases himself when he pleases you. Compare his enlightened enthu-
siasm with the view Mariar or Soosan takes of her metier. Think
of the impenetrable stupidity, the indolent unconscientiousness, the
complacent conceit, and the obstinacy which hardens the hearts
towards us of that matron and that maid, and by their hands infuses
death into the pot. 0 Mariar! O Soosan! be wise in time, learn
your business, and be not slothful therein; listen to a voice of warning
from a foreign strand, lest the day arrive when Missus is compelled to
! descend into the kitchen as Missuses used to do in times gone by, and
your empire over your employers be broken up once and for ever.
The generous produce of a Burgundian autumn flamed in our glasses,
' loosening the tongue and not blunting the wit. The effect was varied
and delightful. Old Martingale, who had been very hard on the
Lancers of the Guard, admitted that in a campaign the French cavrhy
I might be awkward customers. De Faulter ceased his aiiusior.s to
the card-playing at the Cercle, and his coups at Norris’s. Ortolan
showed that he could talk on other subjects than gastronomy, and
De Courcy was civil to Sheffield Higson, who, on the other hand,
abstained from enumerating his acquaintances among that aristocracy
with whose utter wortlilessness and degradation he was so much
impressed. Your Correspondent, who is always pleasant and equable,
was, if possible, more so than usual, and in the intervals of'his brilliant
sallies, added by acute observation to those stores of limpid wisdom,
whence he periodically dispenses to your readers.
Something in a Name after all.
We see by the French papers, that an umbrella called The Mushroom
has been lately patented in Paris. We are not aware what new pecu-
liarity of construction its inventor has discovered, but we think the
name he has selected is a highly appropriate one, and might with
exceeding fitness be applied, not to his alone, but to umbrellas gene-
rally. For as mushrooms naturally belong to that class of things which
are “here to-day and gone to-morrow,” we think their name may very
properly be used to designate so fugitive a possession as an umbrella.
Cranks and Crotchets.—The introduction of crank labour into
gaols has tended to corroborate the opinion, which is widely prevalent,
that prison disciplinarians arc apt to be what is vulgarly called “ cranky.”