DOI issue:
September 22, 1860
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16866#0128
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120 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 22, 1860.
LADIES’ HUNTING SONG.
Bright Madeline skips like a fawn,
Grace from her book is torn;
Pa checks his far too frequent yawn,
Alone I sit forlorn.
Girls round the handsome Cornet throng,
To catch that sparkling eye ;
Be mine the nobler task by song
To win his ardent sigh.
With a heigh-ho, Minnie !
Alas! no glance, I win—he
Still ogles like a Ninny,
Those girls so tall and thin—he
Won’t look this way.
Though loud I play,
“ Good bye, Sweetheart, good bye /”
^ With tuneful art I grace my song
To wake his ardent sigh.
In fancied wreath of laurel crowned
I mark his brow so pale,
And muse on his moustache renowned
For thereby hangs a tale.
Some whisper and with accent strong,
He’d for his country dye ;
Let martial airs then, aid my song
To win his ardent sigh.
With a heigh-ho, &c.
Poor me ! why did my heart adore
A beau in gilded lace,
I ’ll be a silly belle no more,
But hide my burning face.
Girls ! if you’d not be single long,
Some other measure try,
And learn by sweeter notes than song
To win a Cornet’s sigh
With a heigh-ho! &c.
“ CHACUN a son tour.”
THE REAL,
Mary Jane in reply to Olivia.
“ The same romantic creature as ever ! His name is not Algernon, but plain
Robert ; and he’s not an Apelles, but a hard-working fellow, with enough of genius to
make me proud of him. As to his Model—”&c. &c. [For “ The Ideal’' see p. 114.
The papers are recording the progress of tne Emperor
through the Provinces he has lately been annexing. As
the heading is no other than the “Imperial Tour,” we infer
it must have a sly reference to the tour de force by which
the Emperor got possession of them. In the latter case
it must be, or ought to be, un bien vilain tour.
GOGS AND MAGOGS.
We see with great pleasure that the Government, has refused an
application made by some well-meaning gentlemen for a quantity of
metal wherewith to make a statue to the memory of Sir John
Eranklin. The monument which Franklin has made for himself is
more durable than brass, and his fame would derive neither extension
nor prolongation from a molten image erected in the market-place.
But even if it would, in case the image were well made, the proposal
to make one would remain objectionable, because we know that the
image would not be well made. There is not one modern statue about
Town that is not a disgrace and an insult, as far as it can be, to the
hero or statesman for whom it is meant. St. Paul’s and Westminster
Abbey are full of statues of illustrious persons, nearly all of which
have no merit whatever but that of comicality, whilst many of them
are draped in the ludicrous dress of the last century; and it is fortu-
nate that they are situated in the naves and aisles, and transepts of
those churches, and not in the choir, where service is performed, the
solemnity of which would be entirely destroyed by the sight of figures
apparelled like old gentlemen in a farce.
Even if our sculptors could make good statues of nude or elegantly
draped figures, they would be unable to make any hut absurd dummies
out of the suits of clothes with a head at the top of them of which all
likenesses of personages of the present time must consist, represented
either in ungainly uniforms, or civil coats, vests, and pants marked by
imagination with Sydenham 17s. 6(7. It does not mend the matter to
put your hero into a toga. He only looks as if he were going to be
shaved. We can’t look, and can’t be made to look like ancient Greeks
and Homans. The classic age was the age of sculpture. That was
the marble and brazen age. This is the wooden age. The propriety of
statues ceased when mankind began to Mister and Monsieur and
Signor, and Herr each other, and the world became comfortable and
ridiculous.
For Antinous, for Jutiter, for Hercules, statues are all very
well. Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo ; vioorum also, such
heroes as Conon and Lysander and Alcibiades. But they won’t do
for the British Grenadier or the British Sailor. Should Cromwell
have a statue ? Perhaps. Cromwell, in his habit as he lived, was
picturesque—may even oe looked upon as statuesque. Shall Franklin ?
Not by any means, if Punch can help it. Sir John Franklin was a
gallant commander; but he was a stout middle-aged man, and, figured
as such, in a naval uniform, his statue would be neither useful nor
ornamental, but on the contrary, a grievous eyesore in any situation
wherein it could be placed, except upon the top of a column like
Nelson’s, where its ugliness would be out of sight.
A Lamentable Case.
In the money article of some paper we were painfully struck with
the following distressing fact:—
“ No Gold was taken to the Bank to-day.”
Poor old Lady of Threadueedle Street ! Doesn’t the reader feel for
her ! Fancy her going one entire day without any gold being taken to
her! How did she sleep that night after such an overwhelming blow
of destitution ? Might we inquire if it possibly disturbed her “ rest ” ?
A BALMORAL OBSERVATION.
The Court Circular says, that the Queen drove the other day to the
Colonel’s Cave in Glen Eye. Is this the glen where the Falls of
Quoich are? If there is a place in all Scotland where one would
expect to find a cataract, it is surely Glen Eye.
The Blackest Hypocrisy.—America pretending to be a land of
Freedom so long as Slavery exists in it!
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120 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 22, 1860.
LADIES’ HUNTING SONG.
Bright Madeline skips like a fawn,
Grace from her book is torn;
Pa checks his far too frequent yawn,
Alone I sit forlorn.
Girls round the handsome Cornet throng,
To catch that sparkling eye ;
Be mine the nobler task by song
To win his ardent sigh.
With a heigh-ho, Minnie !
Alas! no glance, I win—he
Still ogles like a Ninny,
Those girls so tall and thin—he
Won’t look this way.
Though loud I play,
“ Good bye, Sweetheart, good bye /”
^ With tuneful art I grace my song
To wake his ardent sigh.
In fancied wreath of laurel crowned
I mark his brow so pale,
And muse on his moustache renowned
For thereby hangs a tale.
Some whisper and with accent strong,
He’d for his country dye ;
Let martial airs then, aid my song
To win his ardent sigh.
With a heigh-ho, &c.
Poor me ! why did my heart adore
A beau in gilded lace,
I ’ll be a silly belle no more,
But hide my burning face.
Girls ! if you’d not be single long,
Some other measure try,
And learn by sweeter notes than song
To win a Cornet’s sigh
With a heigh-ho! &c.
“ CHACUN a son tour.”
THE REAL,
Mary Jane in reply to Olivia.
“ The same romantic creature as ever ! His name is not Algernon, but plain
Robert ; and he’s not an Apelles, but a hard-working fellow, with enough of genius to
make me proud of him. As to his Model—”&c. &c. [For “ The Ideal’' see p. 114.
The papers are recording the progress of tne Emperor
through the Provinces he has lately been annexing. As
the heading is no other than the “Imperial Tour,” we infer
it must have a sly reference to the tour de force by which
the Emperor got possession of them. In the latter case
it must be, or ought to be, un bien vilain tour.
GOGS AND MAGOGS.
We see with great pleasure that the Government, has refused an
application made by some well-meaning gentlemen for a quantity of
metal wherewith to make a statue to the memory of Sir John
Eranklin. The monument which Franklin has made for himself is
more durable than brass, and his fame would derive neither extension
nor prolongation from a molten image erected in the market-place.
But even if it would, in case the image were well made, the proposal
to make one would remain objectionable, because we know that the
image would not be well made. There is not one modern statue about
Town that is not a disgrace and an insult, as far as it can be, to the
hero or statesman for whom it is meant. St. Paul’s and Westminster
Abbey are full of statues of illustrious persons, nearly all of which
have no merit whatever but that of comicality, whilst many of them
are draped in the ludicrous dress of the last century; and it is fortu-
nate that they are situated in the naves and aisles, and transepts of
those churches, and not in the choir, where service is performed, the
solemnity of which would be entirely destroyed by the sight of figures
apparelled like old gentlemen in a farce.
Even if our sculptors could make good statues of nude or elegantly
draped figures, they would be unable to make any hut absurd dummies
out of the suits of clothes with a head at the top of them of which all
likenesses of personages of the present time must consist, represented
either in ungainly uniforms, or civil coats, vests, and pants marked by
imagination with Sydenham 17s. 6(7. It does not mend the matter to
put your hero into a toga. He only looks as if he were going to be
shaved. We can’t look, and can’t be made to look like ancient Greeks
and Homans. The classic age was the age of sculpture. That was
the marble and brazen age. This is the wooden age. The propriety of
statues ceased when mankind began to Mister and Monsieur and
Signor, and Herr each other, and the world became comfortable and
ridiculous.
For Antinous, for Jutiter, for Hercules, statues are all very
well. Ut sunt Divorum, Mars, Bacchus, Apollo ; vioorum also, such
heroes as Conon and Lysander and Alcibiades. But they won’t do
for the British Grenadier or the British Sailor. Should Cromwell
have a statue ? Perhaps. Cromwell, in his habit as he lived, was
picturesque—may even oe looked upon as statuesque. Shall Franklin ?
Not by any means, if Punch can help it. Sir John Franklin was a
gallant commander; but he was a stout middle-aged man, and, figured
as such, in a naval uniform, his statue would be neither useful nor
ornamental, but on the contrary, a grievous eyesore in any situation
wherein it could be placed, except upon the top of a column like
Nelson’s, where its ugliness would be out of sight.
A Lamentable Case.
In the money article of some paper we were painfully struck with
the following distressing fact:—
“ No Gold was taken to the Bank to-day.”
Poor old Lady of Threadueedle Street ! Doesn’t the reader feel for
her ! Fancy her going one entire day without any gold being taken to
her! How did she sleep that night after such an overwhelming blow
of destitution ? Might we inquire if it possibly disturbed her “ rest ” ?
A BALMORAL OBSERVATION.
The Court Circular says, that the Queen drove the other day to the
Colonel’s Cave in Glen Eye. Is this the glen where the Falls of
Quoich are? If there is a place in all Scotland where one would
expect to find a cataract, it is surely Glen Eye.
The Blackest Hypocrisy.—America pretending to be a land of
Freedom so long as Slavery exists in it!