DOI Heft:
December 1, 1860
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16866#0219
December 1, I860.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
211
A PRETTY PROSPECT 2”
Native (to our Landscape Painter who has come down to sketch). “ Why, Sir, in this 'ere Valley that
you 're a goin' to, you may see—ah—Three splendid Viaducts all at once, and one o' the largest Cloth Factories
in the West of England / ”
ORATORICAL OPIUM.
Punctual Church and Chapel goers
will derive hopes from the subjoined
announcement, which appeared among
the news of the week:—
“A deputation from the Anti-Opium Asso-
ciation had an interview with Mr. Samuel
Laino at the Treasury on Saturday.”
No doubt the objection of the Anti-
Opium Association applies to narcotics
generally; and it is to be hoped that
their efforts will induce the Govern-
ment to take some steps for the pre-
vention of those drowsy discourses by
which Reverend Gentlemen so fre-
quently induce on their mesmerised
hearers a state of coma.
You Know a Man by his
Company.
At the Salters’ dinner, a week or so
ago, Lord Palmerston alluded to his
being “the chief of his company,”
meaning the Cabinet. Now, in every
1 Trench company—a dramatic company
at least—there is always, what is
called, a “jeune premierbut of all
the jeunes premiers within our recol-
lection the youngest is decidedly the
Premier of England, Lord Pam him-
self. Don’t talk of his advanced age !
With him years count as little as they
do in a field of corn. After working
all day, our jeune Premier can play up
to any hour of the night you like,
and be ready the first thing the next
morning to study some fresh part,
such as shall take all, Europe by
storm.
OUR ROVING CORRESPONDENT.
“ My Dear Punch,
“ In these Prae-Raphaelite days of Art, a man must be pretty
accurate about the accessories of his picture. Suppose, for example,
I am depicting a scene from the history of the thirteenth century
(which epoch you must know I particularly affect) and suppose from
inadvertence I paint my hero in trunk hose—what an outcry there will
he among the learned critics, directly! Perhaps the style of my
knight’s armour is a quarter of a century too early, or the ‘ clocks ’ on
Clarissa’s stockings a half an hour too late,—instanter that eminent
savant Borewell drops down upon me in the Propylceum, with ‘ This
absurd anachronism is worthy of—■’ &c. &c., or ‘when will Mr. Easel
learn that it is a painter’s duty to— ’ &c. &c.
“ Well, it was precisely the dread of such remarks as these which
led me the other day into Westminster Abbey with my sketch-book under
my arm. I wanted to make a study for a boot ‘of the period,’ which I
was sure I could find on one of the tombs in Edward the Confessor’s
Chapel. Admission to this portion of the edifice is charged sixpence
per head, in return for which little fee the Dean and Chapter kindly
provide a staff of semi-ecciesiastically robed gentlemen who take it in
turn to play the cicerone to those country cousins and distinguished
foreigners who bestow upon our metropolitan lions their simple admi-
ration. And so.well are these faithful laymen trained to their calling
that I verily believe any one of them could go through his description
blindfold if you only gave him his cue and kept his head clear of the
pillars.
“ The rapid strides which Civilisation is daily making must have an
influence, among the rest of mankind, on Vergers, who 1 make no
doubt are by this time an exceedingly agreeable and well-informed com-
munity, hut years ago when time was young, and I sat sketching at
fair Phillippa’s feet, there was one eccentric member of the frater-
nity who used to intone his description in a manner which was not
pleasant, and as I had to listen to it about/ five times a day, you may
suppose I have not forgotten it yet. His brief, but pithy remarks
were as far as I recollect:—
This ’ere’s the Chappul of Edwed the Confessur. The pavement scomposed of
various sorts of marvels. And thats the Shroine of Edwed the Confessur you
rnusscn touch the mosakes ; and thats the Toom of Edwed the Fust there never
was no monnyment this way please. That theers the Corrynation Cheer same as
Queen Vigtoyer was crowned in and under its the stone as was brought from Scone
palace by Edwed the fust and all the Kings and Queens of England ’sbin crowned
on that stone ever sence. And thats the Screen on which is carved out all the istry
of Edwed the Confessur and deserves a minoot inspection number one’s the
prellits and nobility a swearing feelty to Edward lie wasn’t born at the time so
they swore at his mother instead and number two’s his Buth and number three’s
his Corrynation and number five you see he's blowing up a thief and seven feet long
that sword is mum and eighteen puns in weight was carried before Edwed the
Thud into France and thats the Toom of Ennery the Fifth the body was cased
in silver and the ’ead was solid silver but its bin all took away down the steps to
the leff olease for the way hout.”
“ Ao, my dark robed guide ! Ah my voluble and veracious verger!
little did you think that your artless words would be reproduced on
these pages. I wonder do you still ply your gentle calling on the
‘ mosake ’ pavement ? Does that solemn fat forefinger of yours still
indicate the remains of John de Waltham? Perhaps you have
retired from that line of business. Perhaps ere this your sixpences
have enabled you to exchange your cloister life for one more befitting
an active mind for something, let us say, in the licensed victualling
way—who knows ?
“ Occupied with these speculations, and having finished my sketch,
I wandered listlessly among the tombs and monuments. What a queer
old fashion-book of exploded tastes and byegone conceits one reads in
in them! Just as this terrestrial sphere spins round on its own axis,
so the World of Art revolves on its own sestheticrJ. pivot, and we find
this and that style turning up in its appointed place as surely as the
recurring decimals in Mr. Colenso’s interesting little treatise. Good
heavens ! was there ever a time when yon grinning sheeted skeleton
emerging frpm a marble tomb amidst clouds of the same material
inspired the spectator with any feelings but those of ridicule and horror ?
Is it possible that Mr. Joseph Addison, as he calmly sauntered _ over
this ground in a Ramillies wig could have seen anything to admire in
those plethoric cherubims who hover over the Duke of Somerset’s
sarcophagus? And yet no doubt His Grace’s monument was considered
a masterpiece in its day! That was a time for urns and cenotaphs,
and reversed torches, and slobbering cupids. The Olympian deities
had their reign, but it is past, and the symbols of their dynasty are out
of fashion; English Art is taking another direction. We have long
laughed at those quaint old stiff-legged medievalists, with their black-
letter scrolls, forgetting that they might have been as active and
written as good a hand as ourselves if Eate had but clothed them in
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
211
A PRETTY PROSPECT 2”
Native (to our Landscape Painter who has come down to sketch). “ Why, Sir, in this 'ere Valley that
you 're a goin' to, you may see—ah—Three splendid Viaducts all at once, and one o' the largest Cloth Factories
in the West of England / ”
ORATORICAL OPIUM.
Punctual Church and Chapel goers
will derive hopes from the subjoined
announcement, which appeared among
the news of the week:—
“A deputation from the Anti-Opium Asso-
ciation had an interview with Mr. Samuel
Laino at the Treasury on Saturday.”
No doubt the objection of the Anti-
Opium Association applies to narcotics
generally; and it is to be hoped that
their efforts will induce the Govern-
ment to take some steps for the pre-
vention of those drowsy discourses by
which Reverend Gentlemen so fre-
quently induce on their mesmerised
hearers a state of coma.
You Know a Man by his
Company.
At the Salters’ dinner, a week or so
ago, Lord Palmerston alluded to his
being “the chief of his company,”
meaning the Cabinet. Now, in every
1 Trench company—a dramatic company
at least—there is always, what is
called, a “jeune premierbut of all
the jeunes premiers within our recol-
lection the youngest is decidedly the
Premier of England, Lord Pam him-
self. Don’t talk of his advanced age !
With him years count as little as they
do in a field of corn. After working
all day, our jeune Premier can play up
to any hour of the night you like,
and be ready the first thing the next
morning to study some fresh part,
such as shall take all, Europe by
storm.
OUR ROVING CORRESPONDENT.
“ My Dear Punch,
“ In these Prae-Raphaelite days of Art, a man must be pretty
accurate about the accessories of his picture. Suppose, for example,
I am depicting a scene from the history of the thirteenth century
(which epoch you must know I particularly affect) and suppose from
inadvertence I paint my hero in trunk hose—what an outcry there will
he among the learned critics, directly! Perhaps the style of my
knight’s armour is a quarter of a century too early, or the ‘ clocks ’ on
Clarissa’s stockings a half an hour too late,—instanter that eminent
savant Borewell drops down upon me in the Propylceum, with ‘ This
absurd anachronism is worthy of—■’ &c. &c., or ‘when will Mr. Easel
learn that it is a painter’s duty to— ’ &c. &c.
“ Well, it was precisely the dread of such remarks as these which
led me the other day into Westminster Abbey with my sketch-book under
my arm. I wanted to make a study for a boot ‘of the period,’ which I
was sure I could find on one of the tombs in Edward the Confessor’s
Chapel. Admission to this portion of the edifice is charged sixpence
per head, in return for which little fee the Dean and Chapter kindly
provide a staff of semi-ecciesiastically robed gentlemen who take it in
turn to play the cicerone to those country cousins and distinguished
foreigners who bestow upon our metropolitan lions their simple admi-
ration. And so.well are these faithful laymen trained to their calling
that I verily believe any one of them could go through his description
blindfold if you only gave him his cue and kept his head clear of the
pillars.
“ The rapid strides which Civilisation is daily making must have an
influence, among the rest of mankind, on Vergers, who 1 make no
doubt are by this time an exceedingly agreeable and well-informed com-
munity, hut years ago when time was young, and I sat sketching at
fair Phillippa’s feet, there was one eccentric member of the frater-
nity who used to intone his description in a manner which was not
pleasant, and as I had to listen to it about/ five times a day, you may
suppose I have not forgotten it yet. His brief, but pithy remarks
were as far as I recollect:—
This ’ere’s the Chappul of Edwed the Confessur. The pavement scomposed of
various sorts of marvels. And thats the Shroine of Edwed the Confessur you
rnusscn touch the mosakes ; and thats the Toom of Edwed the Fust there never
was no monnyment this way please. That theers the Corrynation Cheer same as
Queen Vigtoyer was crowned in and under its the stone as was brought from Scone
palace by Edwed the fust and all the Kings and Queens of England ’sbin crowned
on that stone ever sence. And thats the Screen on which is carved out all the istry
of Edwed the Confessur and deserves a minoot inspection number one’s the
prellits and nobility a swearing feelty to Edward lie wasn’t born at the time so
they swore at his mother instead and number two’s his Buth and number three’s
his Corrynation and number five you see he's blowing up a thief and seven feet long
that sword is mum and eighteen puns in weight was carried before Edwed the
Thud into France and thats the Toom of Ennery the Fifth the body was cased
in silver and the ’ead was solid silver but its bin all took away down the steps to
the leff olease for the way hout.”
“ Ao, my dark robed guide ! Ah my voluble and veracious verger!
little did you think that your artless words would be reproduced on
these pages. I wonder do you still ply your gentle calling on the
‘ mosake ’ pavement ? Does that solemn fat forefinger of yours still
indicate the remains of John de Waltham? Perhaps you have
retired from that line of business. Perhaps ere this your sixpences
have enabled you to exchange your cloister life for one more befitting
an active mind for something, let us say, in the licensed victualling
way—who knows ?
“ Occupied with these speculations, and having finished my sketch,
I wandered listlessly among the tombs and monuments. What a queer
old fashion-book of exploded tastes and byegone conceits one reads in
in them! Just as this terrestrial sphere spins round on its own axis,
so the World of Art revolves on its own sestheticrJ. pivot, and we find
this and that style turning up in its appointed place as surely as the
recurring decimals in Mr. Colenso’s interesting little treatise. Good
heavens ! was there ever a time when yon grinning sheeted skeleton
emerging frpm a marble tomb amidst clouds of the same material
inspired the spectator with any feelings but those of ridicule and horror ?
Is it possible that Mr. Joseph Addison, as he calmly sauntered _ over
this ground in a Ramillies wig could have seen anything to admire in
those plethoric cherubims who hover over the Duke of Somerset’s
sarcophagus? And yet no doubt His Grace’s monument was considered
a masterpiece in its day! That was a time for urns and cenotaphs,
and reversed torches, and slobbering cupids. The Olympian deities
had their reign, but it is past, and the symbols of their dynasty are out
of fashion; English Art is taking another direction. We have long
laughed at those quaint old stiff-legged medievalists, with their black-
letter scrolls, forgetting that they might have been as active and
written as good a hand as ourselves if Eate had but clothed them in