DOI issue:
Volume XXVI
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16613#0147
140
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
THE PRUSSIAN EAGLE’S BEAK.
Cicatrization lias, we hope,
ere this, restored the in-
tegrity of the King ot
Prussia’s nose, accom-
panied by a cessation of
the febrile symptoms
which arose from the
excoriation of that pro-
tuberance. The reader
of course knows that his
Prussian Majesty, whilst
walking in the Palace
Gardens at Charlotten-
burg, had the misfortune
to run his royal proboscis
against a tree; thereby
barking the former, if not
the latter: and was laid
up by reason of the acci-
dent with low fever. Out
of evil comes good; and
this casualty, which might
have been followed by
consequences of a deplor-
able nature, may perhaps
lead to the happiest re-
sults. It may impress
the illustrious sufferer
with the expediency of
preferring an upright and
direct to a stooping and
tortuous course; and, for the fu'ure, of adopting a dignified attitude
and walking straight. Not that we mean to insinuate that the
Monarch was in that state in which the footsteps are devious, and the
vision is double ; his disaster is ascribed to mere shortness of sight:
and we trust he will make no more blunders through shortsightedness.
PUNCH AT THE PLAY-
Mon'S. Balzac has preached the solemn yet sad truth, to the
startled ears of ail the nations of the earth, that every French wile is
an object of tenderest sympathy to some unmarried sentimental one.
In some cases, the lady is in the condition of the large-hearted gentle-
woman in the old song :—
“ She loves her husband dearly,
Aud another man quite as well.”
But, commonly, it is not 30. Her husband is a brute to whom she is
legally bound. The wife is, in fact, a victim tied to the horns of the
altar; and her agonies at her hard condition pierce anv number of
waistcoats, cut their way through any corset, and go direct to the
human heart, as beating over a Prench novel—palpitating in a French
play-house. In fact, it, is a household axiom—very successfully circu-
lated by M. Balzac—that a woman has only to vow to love a man, to
be justified in hating him. The marriage service, like witches’ prayers,
is to be read backwards. A woman in the bonds of French matrimony
is exposed to a monster Like poor Andromeda. Bold and gallant, and
very much and very tenderly to be rewarded, is the young gentleman
who shall free her from the creature permitted to devour her. The
bridal-flowers of the French bride are not in reality orange-blossoms
but every one of them a love-lies-a-bleeding. M. Balzac and others
have gone over the decalogue, and with their sharpest peu-knives have
scratched out the forbidding negative in a certain commandment.
The marriage license is a license to snap the marriage-tie. In very
many tales has M, Balzac preached this consoling truth, but in none
with greater eloquence, aided by finer example, than in La Grande
Breteche. This tale, with a little more blister-powder added to it, for
the French stage, did its due sentimental work m a French Playhouse,
and—in natural course, as things theatrical are at the present time—
the piece finds its way to the Princess’s Theatre, for the delight and
instruction of the humdrum, matrimonial English, who do not com-
monly look upon their comer-cupboards as places where wives may,
when Jones or Brown comes unexpectedly home, hide the gay and
gallant Robinson, with whom Mrs. Jones or Brown danced in her
spinster days; and who has therefore been followed by Robinson the
broken-hearted, with oaths upon bis lips and a ten-pound note in
bis pocket, to extort consent, and smooth the way to an elopement. In
fact, to take the victim Mrs. Jones or Brown to his arms, ami,
staunching the bleeding heart, to make the loved one his own for ever
and for ever !
The Mamed Unmarried is the English title to the hst morality from
the sparrow-quill of M. Balzac; whose ink-horn was a goat’s-horn-
Adele is married to a Colonel of wrouglit-iron: he is as hard as lm
sword; as cold; but by no means as polished or pointed. In a word,
the Colonel, being Addle's husband, is a brute. Talk of the bonds of
matrimony, why the Colonel is a conjugal turnkey, and his poor wife
doomed to the condemned cell of her bed-chamber. Poor heart! He
—the brute—talks bullets ; whilst she—especially when she speaks of
Juan—speaks pearls and diamonds. How should it be otherwise?
The Colonel is a Vampire, and Juan is a duck !
Well, the Colonel is called from home to Paris ; and Juan, of course,
enters the Colonel's wife’s bed-room to talk over the horrors of wedded
life, as suffered by Adele, and the joys that must certainly follow, if
Adele would break her marriage-vow. And the lady is very much
inclined to do it. Alter all, what is it more than an ugly Hymen in
china • already flawed by her wishes ? Why, then, should it not be
entirely smashed by her determination ? She has all but made up her
mind to run from her husband when—the mal apropos wretch !—the
husband returns.
What is to be done ? How foolish to ask the question. Of course
Juan is put away with her other precious moveables, in Adele's bed-
room closet. Enter the Colonel, who—(French matrimony has such a
nose !)—smells a rat. The Colonel is such a brute, and does so bully
that sweet little wife—her face running with tears, a lily over-ehargea
with morning dew—that after swearing to her innocence with the
energy of a trooper, she trusts in the support of Heaven and her
innocence, and boldly confesses—there is a man in the closet!
Whereupon, black thoughts of murder, thick as black beetles, crowd
into the cavernous heart of the villain husband! There is a certain
jocose mason, of the name of Colin, luckily on the premises. The
Colonel—in a demoniacal whisper—with the sternness of a Cato
desires the mason to block up the door with Roman cement. Bricks are
not enough for his revenge; but cement, that cement which the Colonel
knows is in the possession of Colin, and which in five minutes will be
harder than marble—hard as the Colonel's heart.
The Colonel orders his supper in the bed-room; the mason departs to
his work; and while Colin lays it on with a trowel, the Colonel, with
no compunction, tipples his wine. No naughty nun wa,s ever walled
up more completely than—to the ferocious delight of the Colonel— is
Juan !
Aud now all is done, and the Colonel is exulting, when a troop of
gendarmes enter with a warrant of bigamy against the double husband!
“ Hm! ba ! glad it’s no worse.”
“But it is worse”—cries the virtuous Adele; “it’s premeditated
murder! ”
Only premeditated, gentle reader; because—of course—Juan escapes
through lath and plaster, confronting the Colonel; who is about to
finish him with his felonious sword, when he is turned from bis purpose
by the very pointed bayonets of the force entrusted with the bigamy
warrant.
The infamous Colonel is conveyed to Paris to be tried for his offence,
and, as we hope, to be sent to the galleys; whilst Adele, who has
already fallen into the arms of Juan, marries him, has a large family,
and lives happily ever afterwards.
No. We transgress the French canon. To live happily, she must
do everything except marry him. As Mrs. Peachem says, “ ’tis mar-
riage, husband, makes the blot.”
Now at an English theatre, is not this a pretty dish to set before an
English Queen ?
TO THE NEUTRALS.
! How many serfs has Nicholas to tremble at bis nod ?
How many slaves to fear him, and adore the “ Russians’ God ? ”
Germans ! at least may you disdain to swell the wretched horde.
Under the scourge to grovel, and to crouch beneath the sword.
Speak, gallant Prussians! to the knout will you submit the back ?
And Austrians ! say if ye would see your Fatherland Cossack?
Will you consent that darkness shall again hide Europe’s day,
Now is your time to answer, if you mean to answer Nay !
A Bed of “Cold Pise a.”
Mr. Simon, in his admirable Sanitary Report, calls the Thames “ a
gigantic Poison-bed.” Now, if it is so, it is entirely the fault of the City
Corporation, who are the Conservators of the River. We think,
therefore, that it is but right that “as the Aldermen have made their
poison bed, so they should be made to lie in it.”
TAKE CARE OE NUMBER ONE.
First Thoughts are the Best decidedly, inasmuch as it is no'
every one whose powers of thinking will go so far even as that.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
THE PRUSSIAN EAGLE’S BEAK.
Cicatrization lias, we hope,
ere this, restored the in-
tegrity of the King ot
Prussia’s nose, accom-
panied by a cessation of
the febrile symptoms
which arose from the
excoriation of that pro-
tuberance. The reader
of course knows that his
Prussian Majesty, whilst
walking in the Palace
Gardens at Charlotten-
burg, had the misfortune
to run his royal proboscis
against a tree; thereby
barking the former, if not
the latter: and was laid
up by reason of the acci-
dent with low fever. Out
of evil comes good; and
this casualty, which might
have been followed by
consequences of a deplor-
able nature, may perhaps
lead to the happiest re-
sults. It may impress
the illustrious sufferer
with the expediency of
preferring an upright and
direct to a stooping and
tortuous course; and, for the fu'ure, of adopting a dignified attitude
and walking straight. Not that we mean to insinuate that the
Monarch was in that state in which the footsteps are devious, and the
vision is double ; his disaster is ascribed to mere shortness of sight:
and we trust he will make no more blunders through shortsightedness.
PUNCH AT THE PLAY-
Mon'S. Balzac has preached the solemn yet sad truth, to the
startled ears of ail the nations of the earth, that every French wile is
an object of tenderest sympathy to some unmarried sentimental one.
In some cases, the lady is in the condition of the large-hearted gentle-
woman in the old song :—
“ She loves her husband dearly,
Aud another man quite as well.”
But, commonly, it is not 30. Her husband is a brute to whom she is
legally bound. The wife is, in fact, a victim tied to the horns of the
altar; and her agonies at her hard condition pierce anv number of
waistcoats, cut their way through any corset, and go direct to the
human heart, as beating over a Prench novel—palpitating in a French
play-house. In fact, it, is a household axiom—very successfully circu-
lated by M. Balzac—that a woman has only to vow to love a man, to
be justified in hating him. The marriage service, like witches’ prayers,
is to be read backwards. A woman in the bonds of French matrimony
is exposed to a monster Like poor Andromeda. Bold and gallant, and
very much and very tenderly to be rewarded, is the young gentleman
who shall free her from the creature permitted to devour her. The
bridal-flowers of the French bride are not in reality orange-blossoms
but every one of them a love-lies-a-bleeding. M. Balzac and others
have gone over the decalogue, and with their sharpest peu-knives have
scratched out the forbidding negative in a certain commandment.
The marriage license is a license to snap the marriage-tie. In very
many tales has M, Balzac preached this consoling truth, but in none
with greater eloquence, aided by finer example, than in La Grande
Breteche. This tale, with a little more blister-powder added to it, for
the French stage, did its due sentimental work m a French Playhouse,
and—in natural course, as things theatrical are at the present time—
the piece finds its way to the Princess’s Theatre, for the delight and
instruction of the humdrum, matrimonial English, who do not com-
monly look upon their comer-cupboards as places where wives may,
when Jones or Brown comes unexpectedly home, hide the gay and
gallant Robinson, with whom Mrs. Jones or Brown danced in her
spinster days; and who has therefore been followed by Robinson the
broken-hearted, with oaths upon bis lips and a ten-pound note in
bis pocket, to extort consent, and smooth the way to an elopement. In
fact, to take the victim Mrs. Jones or Brown to his arms, ami,
staunching the bleeding heart, to make the loved one his own for ever
and for ever !
The Mamed Unmarried is the English title to the hst morality from
the sparrow-quill of M. Balzac; whose ink-horn was a goat’s-horn-
Adele is married to a Colonel of wrouglit-iron: he is as hard as lm
sword; as cold; but by no means as polished or pointed. In a word,
the Colonel, being Addle's husband, is a brute. Talk of the bonds of
matrimony, why the Colonel is a conjugal turnkey, and his poor wife
doomed to the condemned cell of her bed-chamber. Poor heart! He
—the brute—talks bullets ; whilst she—especially when she speaks of
Juan—speaks pearls and diamonds. How should it be otherwise?
The Colonel is a Vampire, and Juan is a duck !
Well, the Colonel is called from home to Paris ; and Juan, of course,
enters the Colonel's wife’s bed-room to talk over the horrors of wedded
life, as suffered by Adele, and the joys that must certainly follow, if
Adele would break her marriage-vow. And the lady is very much
inclined to do it. Alter all, what is it more than an ugly Hymen in
china • already flawed by her wishes ? Why, then, should it not be
entirely smashed by her determination ? She has all but made up her
mind to run from her husband when—the mal apropos wretch !—the
husband returns.
What is to be done ? How foolish to ask the question. Of course
Juan is put away with her other precious moveables, in Adele's bed-
room closet. Enter the Colonel, who—(French matrimony has such a
nose !)—smells a rat. The Colonel is such a brute, and does so bully
that sweet little wife—her face running with tears, a lily over-ehargea
with morning dew—that after swearing to her innocence with the
energy of a trooper, she trusts in the support of Heaven and her
innocence, and boldly confesses—there is a man in the closet!
Whereupon, black thoughts of murder, thick as black beetles, crowd
into the cavernous heart of the villain husband! There is a certain
jocose mason, of the name of Colin, luckily on the premises. The
Colonel—in a demoniacal whisper—with the sternness of a Cato
desires the mason to block up the door with Roman cement. Bricks are
not enough for his revenge; but cement, that cement which the Colonel
knows is in the possession of Colin, and which in five minutes will be
harder than marble—hard as the Colonel's heart.
The Colonel orders his supper in the bed-room; the mason departs to
his work; and while Colin lays it on with a trowel, the Colonel, with
no compunction, tipples his wine. No naughty nun wa,s ever walled
up more completely than—to the ferocious delight of the Colonel— is
Juan !
Aud now all is done, and the Colonel is exulting, when a troop of
gendarmes enter with a warrant of bigamy against the double husband!
“ Hm! ba ! glad it’s no worse.”
“But it is worse”—cries the virtuous Adele; “it’s premeditated
murder! ”
Only premeditated, gentle reader; because—of course—Juan escapes
through lath and plaster, confronting the Colonel; who is about to
finish him with his felonious sword, when he is turned from bis purpose
by the very pointed bayonets of the force entrusted with the bigamy
warrant.
The infamous Colonel is conveyed to Paris to be tried for his offence,
and, as we hope, to be sent to the galleys; whilst Adele, who has
already fallen into the arms of Juan, marries him, has a large family,
and lives happily ever afterwards.
No. We transgress the French canon. To live happily, she must
do everything except marry him. As Mrs. Peachem says, “ ’tis mar-
riage, husband, makes the blot.”
Now at an English theatre, is not this a pretty dish to set before an
English Queen ?
TO THE NEUTRALS.
! How many serfs has Nicholas to tremble at bis nod ?
How many slaves to fear him, and adore the “ Russians’ God ? ”
Germans ! at least may you disdain to swell the wretched horde.
Under the scourge to grovel, and to crouch beneath the sword.
Speak, gallant Prussians! to the knout will you submit the back ?
And Austrians ! say if ye would see your Fatherland Cossack?
Will you consent that darkness shall again hide Europe’s day,
Now is your time to answer, if you mean to answer Nay !
A Bed of “Cold Pise a.”
Mr. Simon, in his admirable Sanitary Report, calls the Thames “ a
gigantic Poison-bed.” Now, if it is so, it is entirely the fault of the City
Corporation, who are the Conservators of the River. We think,
therefore, that it is but right that “as the Aldermen have made their
poison bed, so they should be made to lie in it.”
TAKE CARE OE NUMBER ONE.
First Thoughts are the Best decidedly, inasmuch as it is no'
every one whose powers of thinking will go so far even as that.