DOI Heft:
Volume XXVI
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16613#0058
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
51
NOVELS FOR THE NURSERY.
iming it hard that our
rising generation should
be debarred from the in-
tellectual pabulum fur-
nished to their elders in
fashionable novels, and
restricted to spelling-
books and primers, or
to infantine hisioriettes
abounding alike in good
children (with an occa-
sional oifender to act as
Bogie), and moral les-
sons, we propose to give
a random chapter or so
of a romance suited to
their capacities. For
why, we would ask,
when Miss J uliana
melts and kindles o’er
the woes of Lady
Clare Phantasmago-
kia, should not her
youthful sister, Emma,
desist awhile from trund-
ling the healthful but
prosaic hoop, to revel in her world of romance and sentiment ? Thus :
CHAPTER XL.
“ Ah ! ” sighed the beautiful La dy Araminta, gazing from the
casement of her nursery at the pensive moon, “where art thou,
Augustus P ”
Beside her ladyship, untouched, unnoticed now, lajq her neglected
doll; her listless fingers clasped a new pink sash. “Noddle,” mur-
mured the maiden, “ attire me for the ball; to meet thee once more,
Augustus ! ” she whispered musically. And now, her graceful pinafore
goon laid aside, the high-born damsel languidly resigned herself to her
attendant. Beauteous, youthful, scarce had she numbered seven
summers, all eyes were turned on Araminta at the balls and soirees
which she deigned to honour with her presence. How to describe that
loveliness ? A robe of pale pink silk, with eight sweet flounces, drooped
to her genoux, while pant atom of finest Mechlin completed her attire.
How simple, yet how elegant! Silent and abstracted she remained
during the toilette, save when Noddle, perchance, unrolled a curl-
paper too roughly; her thoughts were far away. Yes; vividly did
memory depict that fatal supper, when, hovering round the Christmas J
tree, the Hon. Augustus Peckish (just turned of eight) strove
gallantly to win the choicest bonbons for themselves alone; and, as the
liquid sweetness soothed his spirit, murmured soft words of sympathy
and love. And ah ! that honied kiss, those sugared lips!
CHAPTER xli.
In that festive scene of light and soul, who fair as Araminta ? who
noble as Augustus? His ardent glance thrilled through her heart;
her hand pressed his, and left in it—ah, what P A pair of doll’s shoes,
affection’s offering! Soon, twirling in the mazy polka, again he
breathed his love; and Araminta, too, confided all her bitter woes.
“ We ’ll live on sugar-candy, love, and learn no more horrid spelling.”
“And my hah-, love. Noddle shall not curl it, shall she? She
pinches it with tongs sometimes.”
“No, no, sweet Araminta; say but the word, be mine! My pop-
gun shall gain us food. Nero shall be our fiery steed, our home shall
be—•*
“ Nay, love, I have a darling doll’s house, and a new box of bonbons
“ Bonbons ! ” cri Jd Augustus, kindling at the thought, “ bonbons ! say
but the word, loveliest, dearest! say, may I call on your Papa ? ”
The maiden hid her blushes and her curls on the shoulder of her
Augustus’s jacket, her silken socks quivering in the bliss, the rapture
of that moment.
Sibthorp in his Place.
In answer to numerous affectionate inquiries we have to state that,
on the meeting of Parliament, Colonel Sibthorp appeared in his
place like a giant refreshed, or Gog or Magog newly painted. We are
comforted to know that he had still no confidence in Ministers, and
that his voice was for war. We were gladdened to observe that his
neck was clothed (or lined) with his usual thunder—that his hee-haw
(we mean ha! ha!) was as bellicose as ever—and that pawing the
floor of the House, he presented the magnificent image of a Colonel of
Lincoln Greens scenting the battle afar—sav at Kalafat or in the
Black Sea.
THE MONKEY TRIBE IN ART AND LITERATURE.
Imitation is the homage that dulness pays to wit—the acknow-
ledgment that successful talent receives from struggling quackery. The
public have been nauseated with the amount of homage of this sort
which Bunch has experienced from those who have assumed, as far as
possible, his external appearance, without possessing any of his inner
qualities. It would be useless—perhaps unsavoury—to disturb the
ashes of the dead, and we therefore say nothing of those who have
imitated—or rather aped—our outward form; but the ape tribe has
become so numerous and so indiscriminate in the objects on which it
lays its paws, that inexperience may sometimes be deceived by the
“spurious article” and the “base counterfeit.”
The “ spurious imitation ” mania will admit of many illustrations,
and a whole series of illustrations may be met with in the numerous
imitations of the Illustrated London News, which having become a
great success, has called into existence a crowd of imitators which will
eventually resemble the original in greatness—but only by the magni-
tude of their failure.
Mr. Albert Smith, the original monarch of Mont Blanc, has another
Smith dogging him about with another Mont Blanc; though we
believe the latter mountaiu, which has been labouring away for some
time, has been rather a barren speculation. In getting up an exhibition
we do object to the other Mr, Smith’s attempt to confound himself
with the Mr, Smith by putting the name prominently forward in con-
nection with Mont Blanc, for the obvious purpose of profiting by a
case of mistaken identity. We cannot say what his pictorial views may
be—for we have not seen them—but if they resemble his views of
fairness, we cannot think them worth anything.
We hope these remarks will have the effect of abating what has of
late grown into a public nuisance, of a very annoying, if not of a very
dangerous character.
ilium i
FATAL EFFECTS OF WEARING AN “ ALL-ROUNDER ” SHIRT COLLAR.
A Conversation in a Lodging House—Overheard on the
Staircase.
Time—8 a. m. Not a Soul up.
Landlady (bawling from the bottom of the house). Mary', have you
finished sweeping Mr. Simpson yet ?
Mary (over the banisters). Yes, M’m.
Landlady. Have you dusted Mr. Briggs, and cleared out Mr.
Taylor ?
Mary. Yes, M’m.
Landlady. Well, then, blacklead Mr. Jenkins first, and then come
down here, and give the Frenchman a good scrubbing, as soon as you
hear the Sweeps have gone. [Exit Mary, to blacklead Mr. Jenkins.
Wanted, a Present of Slaves.
The fire-eater, John Mitchell, it seems advocates slavery m ms
New York paper. Anxious to receive a present, he wishes “that he
was owner of a plantation of negroes in Alabama.” All in good time.
He has not yet got the plantation, but one of the Beechers (Mks.
Stowe’s brother) has, in a scourging letter, supplied the “ patriot ”
with the lash. That,—as an inseparable element of slavery,—is some-
thing to begin with.
51
NOVELS FOR THE NURSERY.
iming it hard that our
rising generation should
be debarred from the in-
tellectual pabulum fur-
nished to their elders in
fashionable novels, and
restricted to spelling-
books and primers, or
to infantine hisioriettes
abounding alike in good
children (with an occa-
sional oifender to act as
Bogie), and moral les-
sons, we propose to give
a random chapter or so
of a romance suited to
their capacities. For
why, we would ask,
when Miss J uliana
melts and kindles o’er
the woes of Lady
Clare Phantasmago-
kia, should not her
youthful sister, Emma,
desist awhile from trund-
ling the healthful but
prosaic hoop, to revel in her world of romance and sentiment ? Thus :
CHAPTER XL.
“ Ah ! ” sighed the beautiful La dy Araminta, gazing from the
casement of her nursery at the pensive moon, “where art thou,
Augustus P ”
Beside her ladyship, untouched, unnoticed now, lajq her neglected
doll; her listless fingers clasped a new pink sash. “Noddle,” mur-
mured the maiden, “ attire me for the ball; to meet thee once more,
Augustus ! ” she whispered musically. And now, her graceful pinafore
goon laid aside, the high-born damsel languidly resigned herself to her
attendant. Beauteous, youthful, scarce had she numbered seven
summers, all eyes were turned on Araminta at the balls and soirees
which she deigned to honour with her presence. How to describe that
loveliness ? A robe of pale pink silk, with eight sweet flounces, drooped
to her genoux, while pant atom of finest Mechlin completed her attire.
How simple, yet how elegant! Silent and abstracted she remained
during the toilette, save when Noddle, perchance, unrolled a curl-
paper too roughly; her thoughts were far away. Yes; vividly did
memory depict that fatal supper, when, hovering round the Christmas J
tree, the Hon. Augustus Peckish (just turned of eight) strove
gallantly to win the choicest bonbons for themselves alone; and, as the
liquid sweetness soothed his spirit, murmured soft words of sympathy
and love. And ah ! that honied kiss, those sugared lips!
CHAPTER xli.
In that festive scene of light and soul, who fair as Araminta ? who
noble as Augustus? His ardent glance thrilled through her heart;
her hand pressed his, and left in it—ah, what P A pair of doll’s shoes,
affection’s offering! Soon, twirling in the mazy polka, again he
breathed his love; and Araminta, too, confided all her bitter woes.
“ We ’ll live on sugar-candy, love, and learn no more horrid spelling.”
“And my hah-, love. Noddle shall not curl it, shall she? She
pinches it with tongs sometimes.”
“No, no, sweet Araminta; say but the word, be mine! My pop-
gun shall gain us food. Nero shall be our fiery steed, our home shall
be—•*
“ Nay, love, I have a darling doll’s house, and a new box of bonbons
“ Bonbons ! ” cri Jd Augustus, kindling at the thought, “ bonbons ! say
but the word, loveliest, dearest! say, may I call on your Papa ? ”
The maiden hid her blushes and her curls on the shoulder of her
Augustus’s jacket, her silken socks quivering in the bliss, the rapture
of that moment.
Sibthorp in his Place.
In answer to numerous affectionate inquiries we have to state that,
on the meeting of Parliament, Colonel Sibthorp appeared in his
place like a giant refreshed, or Gog or Magog newly painted. We are
comforted to know that he had still no confidence in Ministers, and
that his voice was for war. We were gladdened to observe that his
neck was clothed (or lined) with his usual thunder—that his hee-haw
(we mean ha! ha!) was as bellicose as ever—and that pawing the
floor of the House, he presented the magnificent image of a Colonel of
Lincoln Greens scenting the battle afar—sav at Kalafat or in the
Black Sea.
THE MONKEY TRIBE IN ART AND LITERATURE.
Imitation is the homage that dulness pays to wit—the acknow-
ledgment that successful talent receives from struggling quackery. The
public have been nauseated with the amount of homage of this sort
which Bunch has experienced from those who have assumed, as far as
possible, his external appearance, without possessing any of his inner
qualities. It would be useless—perhaps unsavoury—to disturb the
ashes of the dead, and we therefore say nothing of those who have
imitated—or rather aped—our outward form; but the ape tribe has
become so numerous and so indiscriminate in the objects on which it
lays its paws, that inexperience may sometimes be deceived by the
“spurious article” and the “base counterfeit.”
The “ spurious imitation ” mania will admit of many illustrations,
and a whole series of illustrations may be met with in the numerous
imitations of the Illustrated London News, which having become a
great success, has called into existence a crowd of imitators which will
eventually resemble the original in greatness—but only by the magni-
tude of their failure.
Mr. Albert Smith, the original monarch of Mont Blanc, has another
Smith dogging him about with another Mont Blanc; though we
believe the latter mountaiu, which has been labouring away for some
time, has been rather a barren speculation. In getting up an exhibition
we do object to the other Mr, Smith’s attempt to confound himself
with the Mr, Smith by putting the name prominently forward in con-
nection with Mont Blanc, for the obvious purpose of profiting by a
case of mistaken identity. We cannot say what his pictorial views may
be—for we have not seen them—but if they resemble his views of
fairness, we cannot think them worth anything.
We hope these remarks will have the effect of abating what has of
late grown into a public nuisance, of a very annoying, if not of a very
dangerous character.
ilium i
FATAL EFFECTS OF WEARING AN “ ALL-ROUNDER ” SHIRT COLLAR.
A Conversation in a Lodging House—Overheard on the
Staircase.
Time—8 a. m. Not a Soul up.
Landlady (bawling from the bottom of the house). Mary', have you
finished sweeping Mr. Simpson yet ?
Mary (over the banisters). Yes, M’m.
Landlady. Have you dusted Mr. Briggs, and cleared out Mr.
Taylor ?
Mary. Yes, M’m.
Landlady. Well, then, blacklead Mr. Jenkins first, and then come
down here, and give the Frenchman a good scrubbing, as soon as you
hear the Sweeps have gone. [Exit Mary, to blacklead Mr. Jenkins.
Wanted, a Present of Slaves.
The fire-eater, John Mitchell, it seems advocates slavery m ms
New York paper. Anxious to receive a present, he wishes “that he
was owner of a plantation of negroes in Alabama.” All in good time.
He has not yet got the plantation, but one of the Beechers (Mks.
Stowe’s brother) has, in a scourging letter, supplied the “ patriot ”
with the lash. That,—as an inseparable element of slavery,—is some-
thing to begin with.