DOI Heft:
November 19, 1859
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16864#0214
November 19, 1859.[
PUNCH, Oil THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
203
KUMPTY DUMFTY.
THE SCHILLER CENTENARY.
The question keeps recurring to us, Will Punch have a Centenary ?
and if so, where on earth will the event be celebrated ? The Crystal
Palace may suffice for the Centenaries of Schiller, of Handel, or of
Burns; but will it be found big enough to hold the million upon
million worshippers of Punch'’ Our own impression is that, decidedly,
it won’t. Indeed, we shrink not from predicting that a Punch’s
Crystal Palace will have to be erected expressly for the purpose of
keeping his Centenary ; and some faint notion may be formed of the
dimensions of this edifice, when we prophesy that ships of twice the
size of the Great Pastern will float like toys in the big fountain basin
in the central transept.
Meanwhile, let not the thoughts of the stupendous sights in store
for it, distract the public eye and mind from sights which are now
visible, and which, like those at Sydenham, are in general worth look-
ing at. Until the Punch Centenary comes, the now existing Crystal
Palace will doubtlessly suffice for the keeping of Centenaries. How
many will be kept there before the Crystal Palace has to celebrate its
own, is a problem which we leave to stronger minds to calculate. Had
we not good faith in the good taste_of the Crystal Palace Management,
wTe should almost fear their mania for the keeping of Centenaries
would induce them to keep such as were scarce worthy to be kept. If
the mania spreads much. Centenaries will soon be coming thick as tax-
gatherers, and the friends of any Anybody will get them for the asking.
If the mania be not checked, we may live to see it mooted. Shall Catnacii
have a Centenary ? and the lovers of street organs, who have no ear
for any music except that turned off by Handle, may like to get up a
Centenary for that delightful genius by whom the art of organ-grinding
was first introduced.
^ As we got into the train which rattled us, on Thursday, to ‘'Per
Crystal Palast Schillerfest,” we seemed naturally to get into a train of
thought like this. Our thought-train was however soon taken off the
line, or at least we had to shunt it to make room for another. This
we started from our mental terminus upon perusal of the following
most mind-stirring remarks, which in German and in English, or at
least in German-English, prefaced a short sketch of Schiller’s life
and works, expressly written to be read upon the day of his
Centenary:—
“ Hundred years ago on tliis very day, the creative power of Providence poured
one of the greatest poetical talents of modem times into a mortal mould.
Hundred years full of terrible events (erschiillemder Ereignisse) passed away in the
overflowing stream of time (sind in dem wechselnden Strom der ewigstarren Zeit
veritmken und versekunden). Hundred years !— and joyfully-shouting we see in all
parts of our little planet men, unite in order to celebrate the birth ol one de-
parted long ago (tun die'Menschwerdung cines langst Daliingcschkdenen zufekrn
_ After this big-sounding flourish the word-piler subsides into more
simple language, thus:—
“What is it which excites the Germans on this day, at home not less than abroad,
in the North South East and West, on the shores of the icy Neva as well as on the
thundering (gtiirmenden) Niagara, on the Danube as well as on the banks of the
Ohio, yea, even on the gold-filled rivers of California? What makes them at homo
forgetful of the troubles and cares of their everyday life, their pitiful (kliiglich) po-
litical position, the dissension of parties, the want of a happy independance (an
freier Selbstandigkeit), the oppression of ignorance? What silences abroad the
German’s woeful pangs for a Fatherland, his restless chase after mortal goods, his
hope for gain ? AVhat concentrates and moves all his thoughts and feelings as so
many sparkling planets round one bright sun-light ?”
To these poetic questions the brutal and prosaic mind might haply
answer—Beer ! If anything can excite a German, it is Beer ! If any-
thing can make him sparkle, it is Beer! So at least thinks vulgar
ignorance, and shallow-brained conventionality. Psha! ball! pooh!
Out upon such brutal and untimely jesting! To-day no thought or
taste of beer is in the German’s mind or mouth. What brightens and
excites him on the memorable Tenth is—
“ The heartfelt remembrance of the birth of our great and immortal poet, philo-
sopher, and historian, Friedrich Schiller ; who, by stepping into the light of this
world, became for ever a beaming light on the horizon of poetry.”
To this we, mentally of course, gave a plauditory “hear!” and then
skipping the biography, which was an insult to our memory, we read
with mingled rapture, awe and wonder, this
“ It would be now the moment to establish through Germany’s vast provinces a
brotherly unity in political life : for we have proved on the occasion of Schiller's
Festival that the Germans have, in fact, a Fatherland. A great, far-spread, bound-
less country ! (weit ausgedehntes, unennessliches/) The empire of thought, imagina-
tion, and civilisation ! There dwell the Germans creating in-all the corners and
parts of our terrestrial globe (in alien, Winktln und Gegenden des Erdballs), ‘swelling
eternity but by grains of sand,’ putting their shoulders to the wheels of progress at
the slowly-moving coach of universal civilisation.”
This picture of the Germans putting their shoulders to the wheels of
the coach of civilisation so completely overcame our comprehensive
faculties, that when we reached the Palace we were forced to have
some lunch, that being the best process we could think of for reviving
them. Having thus regained our senses and serenity, we found our-
selves enabled to listen with complacence to the singing and the
fiddling which was done in the great orchestra, to a rattling accompa-
niment of knives and forks and coffee-cups.
Owing to our late arrival (we had been closeted with Lord P—l-
m—rst—n and Mr. Gl—dst—ne all the morning, helping them to
get up the rough draft of their R—f—rm Bill, which, unless “ our
Trench friend” comes to “play a game that two can play at” before
Christmas, will be the trump-card that the Government will lead off
with, shortly after)—through this, we say regretfully, we missed hearing
the Address which was delivered with much pantomime by energetic
Dr. Kinkel ; and as his speech was all in German, we the more regret
not hearing it, as we thereby lost a chance of pretending to know
German by endeavouring to look as though we understood it.
We also missed the hearing of the Festival Cantata, and the sight of
the “Unveiling of the Colossal Bust of Schiller,” which a small
wag, who of course would have tr-rembled had he known Us, dared
within shot of Our ear to call irreverently a Buster! We, however,
were in time for the “ Song of the Bell,” and we thought of our cracked
friend all the time that we were hearing it. Perhaps the lines which
most affected us were these:—
“ When the copper within
Seethes and simmers, the tin
Four quick that the fluid which feeds the Bell
May flow in the right course glibly and well.”
Beading this, of course we naturally thought of the Tin which we
have poured in, or have shelled out, for Big Ben; and this passage
too awakened a painful reminiscence :—
“ Como in, come in !
My merry men, we'll form a ring, *
The new-born labour christening,
And ‘ Concord ’ we will name her ! ”
With our mental cars still ringing with the Denison-cnm-Mears-cum-
Everybody squabble, we thought, had we to re-cliristen our Ben, we
should rather name him Discord.
These reflections, of course, naturally filled us, being tax-payers, with
sorrowful emotions. So,_ on the homoeopathic principle, we tried to
drive away sorrow by taking a small dose of the Show of Prize Chrys-
anthemums, which, as every schoolgirl knows, are called the “ flowers
of grief.” After a minute inspection of the Show (by a “minute
inspection” we mean a glance of sixty seconds), we came to the con-
clusion that the judges had shown judgment in giving seedling “ Arthur
Wortley” a first-class certificate, which seedling “Mrs. W. Holborn”
{query, Holborn, W.C. ?) and seedling . “ Miss Augusta” had likewise
done their nurseries the credit to obtain.. We also came to the con-
clusion that Chrysanthemums were prettier in blossom than in name,
and we rather thought that a young lady with a cold (a complaint
PUNCH, Oil THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
203
KUMPTY DUMFTY.
THE SCHILLER CENTENARY.
The question keeps recurring to us, Will Punch have a Centenary ?
and if so, where on earth will the event be celebrated ? The Crystal
Palace may suffice for the Centenaries of Schiller, of Handel, or of
Burns; but will it be found big enough to hold the million upon
million worshippers of Punch'’ Our own impression is that, decidedly,
it won’t. Indeed, we shrink not from predicting that a Punch’s
Crystal Palace will have to be erected expressly for the purpose of
keeping his Centenary ; and some faint notion may be formed of the
dimensions of this edifice, when we prophesy that ships of twice the
size of the Great Pastern will float like toys in the big fountain basin
in the central transept.
Meanwhile, let not the thoughts of the stupendous sights in store
for it, distract the public eye and mind from sights which are now
visible, and which, like those at Sydenham, are in general worth look-
ing at. Until the Punch Centenary comes, the now existing Crystal
Palace will doubtlessly suffice for the keeping of Centenaries. How
many will be kept there before the Crystal Palace has to celebrate its
own, is a problem which we leave to stronger minds to calculate. Had
we not good faith in the good taste_of the Crystal Palace Management,
wTe should almost fear their mania for the keeping of Centenaries
would induce them to keep such as were scarce worthy to be kept. If
the mania spreads much. Centenaries will soon be coming thick as tax-
gatherers, and the friends of any Anybody will get them for the asking.
If the mania be not checked, we may live to see it mooted. Shall Catnacii
have a Centenary ? and the lovers of street organs, who have no ear
for any music except that turned off by Handle, may like to get up a
Centenary for that delightful genius by whom the art of organ-grinding
was first introduced.
^ As we got into the train which rattled us, on Thursday, to ‘'Per
Crystal Palast Schillerfest,” we seemed naturally to get into a train of
thought like this. Our thought-train was however soon taken off the
line, or at least we had to shunt it to make room for another. This
we started from our mental terminus upon perusal of the following
most mind-stirring remarks, which in German and in English, or at
least in German-English, prefaced a short sketch of Schiller’s life
and works, expressly written to be read upon the day of his
Centenary:—
“ Hundred years ago on tliis very day, the creative power of Providence poured
one of the greatest poetical talents of modem times into a mortal mould.
Hundred years full of terrible events (erschiillemder Ereignisse) passed away in the
overflowing stream of time (sind in dem wechselnden Strom der ewigstarren Zeit
veritmken und versekunden). Hundred years !— and joyfully-shouting we see in all
parts of our little planet men, unite in order to celebrate the birth ol one de-
parted long ago (tun die'Menschwerdung cines langst Daliingcschkdenen zufekrn
_ After this big-sounding flourish the word-piler subsides into more
simple language, thus:—
“What is it which excites the Germans on this day, at home not less than abroad,
in the North South East and West, on the shores of the icy Neva as well as on the
thundering (gtiirmenden) Niagara, on the Danube as well as on the banks of the
Ohio, yea, even on the gold-filled rivers of California? What makes them at homo
forgetful of the troubles and cares of their everyday life, their pitiful (kliiglich) po-
litical position, the dissension of parties, the want of a happy independance (an
freier Selbstandigkeit), the oppression of ignorance? What silences abroad the
German’s woeful pangs for a Fatherland, his restless chase after mortal goods, his
hope for gain ? AVhat concentrates and moves all his thoughts and feelings as so
many sparkling planets round one bright sun-light ?”
To these poetic questions the brutal and prosaic mind might haply
answer—Beer ! If anything can excite a German, it is Beer ! If any-
thing can make him sparkle, it is Beer! So at least thinks vulgar
ignorance, and shallow-brained conventionality. Psha! ball! pooh!
Out upon such brutal and untimely jesting! To-day no thought or
taste of beer is in the German’s mind or mouth. What brightens and
excites him on the memorable Tenth is—
“ The heartfelt remembrance of the birth of our great and immortal poet, philo-
sopher, and historian, Friedrich Schiller ; who, by stepping into the light of this
world, became for ever a beaming light on the horizon of poetry.”
To this we, mentally of course, gave a plauditory “hear!” and then
skipping the biography, which was an insult to our memory, we read
with mingled rapture, awe and wonder, this
“ It would be now the moment to establish through Germany’s vast provinces a
brotherly unity in political life : for we have proved on the occasion of Schiller's
Festival that the Germans have, in fact, a Fatherland. A great, far-spread, bound-
less country ! (weit ausgedehntes, unennessliches/) The empire of thought, imagina-
tion, and civilisation ! There dwell the Germans creating in-all the corners and
parts of our terrestrial globe (in alien, Winktln und Gegenden des Erdballs), ‘swelling
eternity but by grains of sand,’ putting their shoulders to the wheels of progress at
the slowly-moving coach of universal civilisation.”
This picture of the Germans putting their shoulders to the wheels of
the coach of civilisation so completely overcame our comprehensive
faculties, that when we reached the Palace we were forced to have
some lunch, that being the best process we could think of for reviving
them. Having thus regained our senses and serenity, we found our-
selves enabled to listen with complacence to the singing and the
fiddling which was done in the great orchestra, to a rattling accompa-
niment of knives and forks and coffee-cups.
Owing to our late arrival (we had been closeted with Lord P—l-
m—rst—n and Mr. Gl—dst—ne all the morning, helping them to
get up the rough draft of their R—f—rm Bill, which, unless “ our
Trench friend” comes to “play a game that two can play at” before
Christmas, will be the trump-card that the Government will lead off
with, shortly after)—through this, we say regretfully, we missed hearing
the Address which was delivered with much pantomime by energetic
Dr. Kinkel ; and as his speech was all in German, we the more regret
not hearing it, as we thereby lost a chance of pretending to know
German by endeavouring to look as though we understood it.
We also missed the hearing of the Festival Cantata, and the sight of
the “Unveiling of the Colossal Bust of Schiller,” which a small
wag, who of course would have tr-rembled had he known Us, dared
within shot of Our ear to call irreverently a Buster! We, however,
were in time for the “ Song of the Bell,” and we thought of our cracked
friend all the time that we were hearing it. Perhaps the lines which
most affected us were these:—
“ When the copper within
Seethes and simmers, the tin
Four quick that the fluid which feeds the Bell
May flow in the right course glibly and well.”
Beading this, of course we naturally thought of the Tin which we
have poured in, or have shelled out, for Big Ben; and this passage
too awakened a painful reminiscence :—
“ Como in, come in !
My merry men, we'll form a ring, *
The new-born labour christening,
And ‘ Concord ’ we will name her ! ”
With our mental cars still ringing with the Denison-cnm-Mears-cum-
Everybody squabble, we thought, had we to re-cliristen our Ben, we
should rather name him Discord.
These reflections, of course, naturally filled us, being tax-payers, with
sorrowful emotions. So,_ on the homoeopathic principle, we tried to
drive away sorrow by taking a small dose of the Show of Prize Chrys-
anthemums, which, as every schoolgirl knows, are called the “ flowers
of grief.” After a minute inspection of the Show (by a “minute
inspection” we mean a glance of sixty seconds), we came to the con-
clusion that the judges had shown judgment in giving seedling “ Arthur
Wortley” a first-class certificate, which seedling “Mrs. W. Holborn”
{query, Holborn, W.C. ?) and seedling . “ Miss Augusta” had likewise
done their nurseries the credit to obtain.. We also came to the con-
clusion that Chrysanthemums were prettier in blossom than in name,
and we rather thought that a young lady with a cold (a complaint