DOI issue:
July to December, 1853
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16612#0172
PUNCH, OR TtlP LONDON CHARIVARI.
161
THE INN-FLUENZA,
E have had our
attention called
to a complaint
which, it seems,
has long been pre-
valent through-
out the kingdom,
although but
little notice hi-
therto has pub-
licly been taken
of it. It threat-
ens now, how-
ever, to become
as prolific a
source of corres-
pondence as the
Cholera; and
scarcely a Times
passes, without
at least a column
of “ Constant
Readers ” on the
subject.
We are not
aware if a specific name has as yet been found for it; but we think
it may be best described, perhaps, as a sort of Inn-fluenza, although
it certainly in some degree resembles also a remittent fever, seeing that
the sufferers cannot generally make progress without a remittance.
And it partakes still further of a febrile character, since it usually is
attended with irritation in the patient.
Of the symptoms which lead to it, perhaps the most painful is a
species of opthalmia, which commonly afflicts the patient with the most
distressing ocular delusions. He has been even known, under its in-
fluence, to declare that he can see only a pint of wine in a decanter, which
his attendants have assured him contains a bottle • and candles, which
he similarly has been told are wax, he has frequently been found unable
to distinguish from composite. The sense of taste, too, it seems, is
similarly affected. When offered pale ale, the patient not unfrequently
will pronounce it to be swipes; and in some cases he has actually
mistaken that for Cape, which is warranted, and even charged for, as
Madeira.
We trust that the urgency of this complaint being now admitted,
efficient means will be at once devised to stop 'it. There is little doubt,
we think, that the sufferers hitherto have been bled too freely, and
another course of treatment should be certainly adopted. .We do not
generally advocate the use of the knife, but in this complaint decidedly,
wherever any person is attacked by the symptoms which may lead to
it, we do not know if -we can well prescribe a surer remedy than
cutting.
RANDOM RECORDS OF A RUN THROUGH
CERTAIN CONTINENTAL COUNTRIES.
{By the Author of “ All the Great Metropolises.”)
-t)-
[We rather think the following letter has reached us by mistake,
and must have been intended for one of our morning contemporaries.
However, we print it.—Ed.]
LETTER XLIII.
While I am on the Continent I feel quite different to what I do
when I am on an island. The sensation that if you leave one country
you can immediately go into another, without the intervention of what
Lord Byron has so beautifully called the Blue Ocean, (although the
ocean or sea is not always blue, but often green) between the two
neighbourhoods, produces a curious effect upon my idiosyncrasy. At
the same time I must confess that this metaphysical feeling does not
apply to Paris, because that city is in the centre of a large country, and
if 1 wished to leave it (which at present I do not), I should have to
traverse a considerable extent of territory.
Yesterday I visited the Madelaine, which is a church, and stands
near the Boulevards, and the front looks towards the Place de la
Concorde, a locality which has also had various other names, which, if
I knew them, as I am “ free to confess ” (as they say in a certain place
which I have already immortalised) I do not, would naturally suggest
to the mind a long train of instructive historical thoughts, although as
the Madelaine, if Galignani’s Guide may be trusted, was not built
until after the principal events connected with the Place de la Concorde
had occurred, to remember them here would be a case of post hoc et
prompter hoc (I translate for the benefit of the fair sex—“ because you
are here you are prompted to think of that there,”) and as I am
travelling to instruct myself and my readers, I wish to avoid persiflage.
The Madelaine is a building which has cost considerable sums of money,
and it is a remarkable coincidence that it is Greek in style though
intended for Roman Catholic worship, but such are the anomalies and
anachronisms which strike the intelligent traveller. The fagade, or
altar-piece, is painted in very bright colours, with mythological
allusions to . the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, and other well-
known individuals. The effect of the exterior is something like that
of the Licensed Victuallers’ Asylum at Woking Buzzard, but I think
in many respects inferior to that worthy and laudable institution, of
which an Englishman (I do not particularly refer to a talented, gifted,
and irascible correspondent). is so justly proud. I only staid five
minutes; service was not being performed, and there was no person
in the church but myself, but this was enough to inspire me with the
utmost contempt for the mummeries of the Roman Catholic creed,
and with pity for the blinded and unenlightened individuals who
indulge therein.
The day being fine, or as they say in Prance, ce est wie heau journal,
I lounged along the Boulevards, and remarked that human nature was
the same in every climate. I then went down the Rue de la Paix—
you will observe that I am now quite familiar with the old parts of the
City of Paris—and after some turnings came to the Cathedral of Notre
Dame, which is certainly tine, although devoted to a false religion,
which, however, does not alter the architecture, and I hope I am too
candid not to draw the distinction between the external and the in-
ternal aspects of an edifice. To adopt a metaphor, the sign of a tavern
may be well painted, although the beer sold within may not be good ■
but in saying this, I wish to be understood to speak generally, ana
not with reference to any particular establishment, far less to swell that
illiberal cry against hotel-keepers (many of whom are most worthy and
honourable men) which my antagonist—whom it is my mission to
crush—in Printing House Square continually raises.
But, revenions a nous moutions, (“to return to business”) I was
greatly pleased, or shall I say amused, with a highly dramatic scene
which occurred in the course of my walk. I shall never forget it, and
it may take its place “ in this distracted orb ” (Siiakspere’s Hamlet)
beside that other joke, which, as I have already told my readers, will
throw me into paradoxes of laughter at any hour or time. Wake me
and tell me the house is on fire, assure me there is an earthquake, let
me hear that a printer’s unpardonable carelessness has made a news-
paper under my charge say a reverend clergyman reached before
Prince Albert instead of preached before H. R. H., and that the
Court refuses to receive my published apology; still, if you tell me
the joke in question, 1 shall laugh. But 1 think the following dialogue
is as rich as the other. Arcades ambo, (the fair sex must excuse me if
I do not translate this). I saw a respectable gentleman’s handkerchief
protruding from his coat pocket, and knowing the disagreeableness of
finding that humble but useful article missing, especially in the in-
fluenza period, I thought I would waive ceremony, and though unintro-
duced, suggest to him the advisability of a precautionary measure. So,
touching my hat with some playfulness, I said, “ Monsieur, yous voulez
perdre votreparaphae!’ (I must not translate this, or the joke will be
lost.)
“ Ah ! ” he replied, adding, after a pause, “ Bah ! ”
But as he did not replace his handkerchief, I, who am n*t easily
daunted, returned to the attack.
“ Mais, Monsieur, vous riattendez pas a moi.” (Sir, you do not
attend to me.)
“ Liable ! ” he exclaimed, impatiently. As I never permit any of
our own correspondents to use this word, 1 shall not break my own
laws by rendering it into the vernacular.
A compatriot of my own here came up, and with the sportiveness
allowable to intimacy, said,
“ What’s the row ? ”
I explained that I had given the Erencli gentleman a caution as to
his parapluie, to which I pointed as sticking out of his pocket.
“ That’s his mouchoir,” said my friend, laughing heartily, as did the
gentleman when the mistake was explained to him, and we all took oft
our hats to one another. These little amenities cost nothing, but yet
may be bright oases on the ordinary stream of the battle of life.
I must reserve until to-morrow my narrative of the taking of the
Bastille, which naturally occurred to me as I gazed upon the column in
the Place Vendome, and I shall probably offer some instructive
observations upon the literature and religion of the country in which
I now find myself. But I can truly say, “ England ” (which includes
Scotland, and also poor Ireland) “ with all thy faults, my heart still turns
to thee,” a thought which must comfort those countries during my
temporary absence.
The Steam Amnihilator.
It is said that “ Steam annihilates both Time and Space.” Lt is a
thousand pities, for our comfort in railway travelling, that its annihi-
lating powers will sometimes extend, also, to—human beings.
161
THE INN-FLUENZA,
E have had our
attention called
to a complaint
which, it seems,
has long been pre-
valent through-
out the kingdom,
although but
little notice hi-
therto has pub-
licly been taken
of it. It threat-
ens now, how-
ever, to become
as prolific a
source of corres-
pondence as the
Cholera; and
scarcely a Times
passes, without
at least a column
of “ Constant
Readers ” on the
subject.
We are not
aware if a specific name has as yet been found for it; but we think
it may be best described, perhaps, as a sort of Inn-fluenza, although
it certainly in some degree resembles also a remittent fever, seeing that
the sufferers cannot generally make progress without a remittance.
And it partakes still further of a febrile character, since it usually is
attended with irritation in the patient.
Of the symptoms which lead to it, perhaps the most painful is a
species of opthalmia, which commonly afflicts the patient with the most
distressing ocular delusions. He has been even known, under its in-
fluence, to declare that he can see only a pint of wine in a decanter, which
his attendants have assured him contains a bottle • and candles, which
he similarly has been told are wax, he has frequently been found unable
to distinguish from composite. The sense of taste, too, it seems, is
similarly affected. When offered pale ale, the patient not unfrequently
will pronounce it to be swipes; and in some cases he has actually
mistaken that for Cape, which is warranted, and even charged for, as
Madeira.
We trust that the urgency of this complaint being now admitted,
efficient means will be at once devised to stop 'it. There is little doubt,
we think, that the sufferers hitherto have been bled too freely, and
another course of treatment should be certainly adopted. .We do not
generally advocate the use of the knife, but in this complaint decidedly,
wherever any person is attacked by the symptoms which may lead to
it, we do not know if -we can well prescribe a surer remedy than
cutting.
RANDOM RECORDS OF A RUN THROUGH
CERTAIN CONTINENTAL COUNTRIES.
{By the Author of “ All the Great Metropolises.”)
-t)-
[We rather think the following letter has reached us by mistake,
and must have been intended for one of our morning contemporaries.
However, we print it.—Ed.]
LETTER XLIII.
While I am on the Continent I feel quite different to what I do
when I am on an island. The sensation that if you leave one country
you can immediately go into another, without the intervention of what
Lord Byron has so beautifully called the Blue Ocean, (although the
ocean or sea is not always blue, but often green) between the two
neighbourhoods, produces a curious effect upon my idiosyncrasy. At
the same time I must confess that this metaphysical feeling does not
apply to Paris, because that city is in the centre of a large country, and
if 1 wished to leave it (which at present I do not), I should have to
traverse a considerable extent of territory.
Yesterday I visited the Madelaine, which is a church, and stands
near the Boulevards, and the front looks towards the Place de la
Concorde, a locality which has also had various other names, which, if
I knew them, as I am “ free to confess ” (as they say in a certain place
which I have already immortalised) I do not, would naturally suggest
to the mind a long train of instructive historical thoughts, although as
the Madelaine, if Galignani’s Guide may be trusted, was not built
until after the principal events connected with the Place de la Concorde
had occurred, to remember them here would be a case of post hoc et
prompter hoc (I translate for the benefit of the fair sex—“ because you
are here you are prompted to think of that there,”) and as I am
travelling to instruct myself and my readers, I wish to avoid persiflage.
The Madelaine is a building which has cost considerable sums of money,
and it is a remarkable coincidence that it is Greek in style though
intended for Roman Catholic worship, but such are the anomalies and
anachronisms which strike the intelligent traveller. The fagade, or
altar-piece, is painted in very bright colours, with mythological
allusions to . the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, and other well-
known individuals. The effect of the exterior is something like that
of the Licensed Victuallers’ Asylum at Woking Buzzard, but I think
in many respects inferior to that worthy and laudable institution, of
which an Englishman (I do not particularly refer to a talented, gifted,
and irascible correspondent). is so justly proud. I only staid five
minutes; service was not being performed, and there was no person
in the church but myself, but this was enough to inspire me with the
utmost contempt for the mummeries of the Roman Catholic creed,
and with pity for the blinded and unenlightened individuals who
indulge therein.
The day being fine, or as they say in Prance, ce est wie heau journal,
I lounged along the Boulevards, and remarked that human nature was
the same in every climate. I then went down the Rue de la Paix—
you will observe that I am now quite familiar with the old parts of the
City of Paris—and after some turnings came to the Cathedral of Notre
Dame, which is certainly tine, although devoted to a false religion,
which, however, does not alter the architecture, and I hope I am too
candid not to draw the distinction between the external and the in-
ternal aspects of an edifice. To adopt a metaphor, the sign of a tavern
may be well painted, although the beer sold within may not be good ■
but in saying this, I wish to be understood to speak generally, ana
not with reference to any particular establishment, far less to swell that
illiberal cry against hotel-keepers (many of whom are most worthy and
honourable men) which my antagonist—whom it is my mission to
crush—in Printing House Square continually raises.
But, revenions a nous moutions, (“to return to business”) I was
greatly pleased, or shall I say amused, with a highly dramatic scene
which occurred in the course of my walk. I shall never forget it, and
it may take its place “ in this distracted orb ” (Siiakspere’s Hamlet)
beside that other joke, which, as I have already told my readers, will
throw me into paradoxes of laughter at any hour or time. Wake me
and tell me the house is on fire, assure me there is an earthquake, let
me hear that a printer’s unpardonable carelessness has made a news-
paper under my charge say a reverend clergyman reached before
Prince Albert instead of preached before H. R. H., and that the
Court refuses to receive my published apology; still, if you tell me
the joke in question, 1 shall laugh. But 1 think the following dialogue
is as rich as the other. Arcades ambo, (the fair sex must excuse me if
I do not translate this). I saw a respectable gentleman’s handkerchief
protruding from his coat pocket, and knowing the disagreeableness of
finding that humble but useful article missing, especially in the in-
fluenza period, I thought I would waive ceremony, and though unintro-
duced, suggest to him the advisability of a precautionary measure. So,
touching my hat with some playfulness, I said, “ Monsieur, yous voulez
perdre votreparaphae!’ (I must not translate this, or the joke will be
lost.)
“ Ah ! ” he replied, adding, after a pause, “ Bah ! ”
But as he did not replace his handkerchief, I, who am n*t easily
daunted, returned to the attack.
“ Mais, Monsieur, vous riattendez pas a moi.” (Sir, you do not
attend to me.)
“ Liable ! ” he exclaimed, impatiently. As I never permit any of
our own correspondents to use this word, 1 shall not break my own
laws by rendering it into the vernacular.
A compatriot of my own here came up, and with the sportiveness
allowable to intimacy, said,
“ What’s the row ? ”
I explained that I had given the Erencli gentleman a caution as to
his parapluie, to which I pointed as sticking out of his pocket.
“ That’s his mouchoir,” said my friend, laughing heartily, as did the
gentleman when the mistake was explained to him, and we all took oft
our hats to one another. These little amenities cost nothing, but yet
may be bright oases on the ordinary stream of the battle of life.
I must reserve until to-morrow my narrative of the taking of the
Bastille, which naturally occurred to me as I gazed upon the column in
the Place Vendome, and I shall probably offer some instructive
observations upon the literature and religion of the country in which
I now find myself. But I can truly say, “ England ” (which includes
Scotland, and also poor Ireland) “ with all thy faults, my heart still turns
to thee,” a thought which must comfort those countries during my
temporary absence.
The Steam Amnihilator.
It is said that “ Steam annihilates both Time and Space.” Lt is a
thousand pities, for our comfort in railway travelling, that its annihi-
lating powers will sometimes extend, also, to—human beings.