DOI Heft:
August 17, 1861
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16868#0077
August 17, 1861.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Then throwing hack his Jove-like head, the proud Immortal poured
Adown his throat the wine which like a mountain cataract roared,
Nor paused he till the goblet he reared loftily on high,
Reversed, had turned its bottom to the everlasting sky.
Some drops remained which Punch, whose wit no coarseness e’er may sully,
Flung as libation in the face of Mu. Yincent Scully.
Tnen, with a condescending nod that filled their hearts with glee,
(Such power have the Celestials),_ “ Ha, I’m better, boys,” said he.
“ Here shuts the Session’s chronicle, here ends the Tale of Talk,
The sixth of August is a day I mark with whitest chalk,
And truly glad am I to think that with these words is Hone
The Essence of the Parliament op Eighteen Sixty One.”
PLAY.
PINERY IN THE KITCHEN.
We lately called attention to the fact that English maid-
servants have not the very best of education in the world,
and that ladies would do well, when they engage a pretty
china-breaker, to ascertain that she has not been a pupil
at a day-school, where more regard is paid to Crinoline
than cleanliness, and where pocket handkerchiefs are held
of less account than peacock-feathered porkpie hats. This
mania for fine dresses is a sadly growing evil, and ill-
educated minds of course are most affected by it. Many
a servant squanders her savings in cheap finery, and spends
on Sunday shawls and bonnets what would well nigh fur-
nish her a cottage when she married, or at least afford
some shelter against a rainy day. Instead of having fore-
thought for feathering their nests, girls too _ often only
think of feathering themselves, and by dressing far too
finely for their station, they affright the homely lovers
they are anxious to attract.
How far ladies are to blame for the finery and aped
gentility of servants, is a question which, if asked, stands
little chance of being answered, except by misogynic
monsters who are ungallant enough to sneer at the fair sex.
Woman, say the cynics, is an imitative animal, and if a
servant sees her mistress extravagant in dress she herself
becomes infected with the mania, and makes herself ridi-
culous by giving it full vent. Having neither taste nor
money to turn it to advantage, she takes a leaf out of the
fashion book on which her mistress pins her faith; and
walks out of a Sunday like a daw in peacock’s plumage, or
a Swelless in burlesque.
Of course, except to Tyrant Fashion, Britons and
Britonesses never never will be slaves : and now-a-days our
servants are by far too independent to submit to any law
for their sumptuary restraint. It is a pity, nevertheless,
that we have not a national costume for our domestics, as
we have for our Queen’s Ministers and servants of the
State. Our pretty china-breakers would look a vast deal
prettier in suitable attire, than they do now in mock
millinery and Brummagem glass brooches, and cheap cotton
imitations of costly foreign silks.
We women live for each other—that is, for the love of
I criticism of each other.
AN ANSWER TO CORRESPONDENTS.
Some years ago, English notions of expediency induced the authorities
of London to execute a certain Scottish gentleman of title. Since that
time opinions have been a good deal modified, and the individual in
question is now regarded as a patriot, not only in his own country, but
in that of the posterity of those who put him to death. There the
matter might have rested, unanimous sentence being given in favour of
the deceased, and his place in history being assigned him. He was a
very brave, rather ferocious, and occasionally successful retarder of the
process of amalgamation which has fused Scotland and England into
the single nation which now leads the World. However, certain Scots
think that more ought to be done, and have resolved on erecting a
memorial tower to the personage in question. This is their affair, and
not that of the southern portion of the island. Mr. Punch might not
have alluded to the business at all, but from his having received a
reat number of letters from Scotland, a few of a taunting character,
ut not amusing enough to be reprinted, while the large majority call
on him as a Brither Scot to “walk into this absurdity.” Now, he
cannot exactly walk into it, because it is not yet built, and for the
reason above-mentioned, he does not intend to walk into the artificers.
He prefers to let justice be done in the matter by Scotsmen themselves.
Ho! doomster!
He answers his correspondents from the Land of Cakes by the
following paragraphs. They are written in Edinburgh, and published
m Inverness, so may be taken as the sentiments of the Capital of the
Lowlands, and of the Capital of the Highlands:—
“ Stands Scotland where it did ? Has it been raised on the wings of patriotic
enthusiasm high into the empyrean, into the seventh heaven, or has it merely
reached, through the efforts of a few busybodies, the lowest elevation known as a
fool’s paradise ? Nothing is more surprising than the realisation of the so-called
National ’ Wallace Monument, for I have never yet seen or heard of anybody who
approve* of it, except, of course, Dr. Rogers. Everybody seems to laugh at and
ridicule the affair, yet a large sum of money has been scraped together, and the
wonder is not that the amount is small, for even so poor a nation as the Scotch, but
wiat so much should have been screwed together by a few eager enthusiasts, who
have as much right to be considered representatives of the nation as the three
iooley Street tailors. It has always been a marvel to me that the good sense of the
Pfopl® has n°t arisen to strangle in its birth this most ridiculous of ridiculous mice,
fhere seems to be no one felicitous or redeeming feature in the case—the idea, the
s te, the proceedings throughout, all seem equally unhappy. The idea seems on all
hands admitted to be a useless mistake, and the localisation of the idea is perhaps
the greatest part of the mistake. To be national, the monument (if monument
there must be) should have been grander in conception, and conducted by more
influential hands—by a body which really would have represented the Scottish
nation, and not only the Stirling portion of it.”
In another article the same unslirinking writer alludes to the cere
monial of the laying the first stone. He speaks of “ that magnificent
piece of tomfoolery, the Wallace monument,”
“ Begun amidst all the petty festive demonstrations of country masonic lodges
and free gardeners. This gigantic mistake and useless commemoration is much
more likely to cause the lion to turn pale that all the sneers of the Times. A noted
denouncer of humbug, whose signature of ‘ Randolph ’ is well kown tc readers of
the Scotsman as a sure token of something at once racy, picturesque, and sensible,
suggests that the Wallace Monument should be immediately followed by erections
to the memory of Noah on Mount Ararat, and of Nebuchadnezzar on the irrigated
meadows near this city 1 Those personages he conceives to stand in need of com-
memoration as much as Wallace.”
And the Scotsman, as even southern readers need hardly be informed,
is the Edinburgh journal which expresses Scottish opinion in the most
reliable manner. Mr. Punch may therefore conclude, first, that he has
completely answered his Correspondents, and concludes, secondly, his
respectful reply by a quotation from a great English poet:—
“ Ye Powers wha mak’ mankind your care.
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Autd Scotland wants na skinkling ware.”
In Omne Volubilis.
“ Mr. Scully, amidst cries of ‘ Oh, Oh 1’ was then proceeding to draw attention
to the condition of Ireland when he was interrupted by the black-rod.”—Times,
Aug. 6.
What ! you would have the last word, my Scully,
Till Clifford’s black-rod stopped your clack !
What a pity, my true Irish Tully,
That the rod wasn’t “ birch,” ’stead of “ black.”
What the Accounts of the Battle of Manassas should bs
Written on.—Elying Sheets !
Yol. 41.
3
Then throwing hack his Jove-like head, the proud Immortal poured
Adown his throat the wine which like a mountain cataract roared,
Nor paused he till the goblet he reared loftily on high,
Reversed, had turned its bottom to the everlasting sky.
Some drops remained which Punch, whose wit no coarseness e’er may sully,
Flung as libation in the face of Mu. Yincent Scully.
Tnen, with a condescending nod that filled their hearts with glee,
(Such power have the Celestials),_ “ Ha, I’m better, boys,” said he.
“ Here shuts the Session’s chronicle, here ends the Tale of Talk,
The sixth of August is a day I mark with whitest chalk,
And truly glad am I to think that with these words is Hone
The Essence of the Parliament op Eighteen Sixty One.”
PLAY.
PINERY IN THE KITCHEN.
We lately called attention to the fact that English maid-
servants have not the very best of education in the world,
and that ladies would do well, when they engage a pretty
china-breaker, to ascertain that she has not been a pupil
at a day-school, where more regard is paid to Crinoline
than cleanliness, and where pocket handkerchiefs are held
of less account than peacock-feathered porkpie hats. This
mania for fine dresses is a sadly growing evil, and ill-
educated minds of course are most affected by it. Many
a servant squanders her savings in cheap finery, and spends
on Sunday shawls and bonnets what would well nigh fur-
nish her a cottage when she married, or at least afford
some shelter against a rainy day. Instead of having fore-
thought for feathering their nests, girls too _ often only
think of feathering themselves, and by dressing far too
finely for their station, they affright the homely lovers
they are anxious to attract.
How far ladies are to blame for the finery and aped
gentility of servants, is a question which, if asked, stands
little chance of being answered, except by misogynic
monsters who are ungallant enough to sneer at the fair sex.
Woman, say the cynics, is an imitative animal, and if a
servant sees her mistress extravagant in dress she herself
becomes infected with the mania, and makes herself ridi-
culous by giving it full vent. Having neither taste nor
money to turn it to advantage, she takes a leaf out of the
fashion book on which her mistress pins her faith; and
walks out of a Sunday like a daw in peacock’s plumage, or
a Swelless in burlesque.
Of course, except to Tyrant Fashion, Britons and
Britonesses never never will be slaves : and now-a-days our
servants are by far too independent to submit to any law
for their sumptuary restraint. It is a pity, nevertheless,
that we have not a national costume for our domestics, as
we have for our Queen’s Ministers and servants of the
State. Our pretty china-breakers would look a vast deal
prettier in suitable attire, than they do now in mock
millinery and Brummagem glass brooches, and cheap cotton
imitations of costly foreign silks.
We women live for each other—that is, for the love of
I criticism of each other.
AN ANSWER TO CORRESPONDENTS.
Some years ago, English notions of expediency induced the authorities
of London to execute a certain Scottish gentleman of title. Since that
time opinions have been a good deal modified, and the individual in
question is now regarded as a patriot, not only in his own country, but
in that of the posterity of those who put him to death. There the
matter might have rested, unanimous sentence being given in favour of
the deceased, and his place in history being assigned him. He was a
very brave, rather ferocious, and occasionally successful retarder of the
process of amalgamation which has fused Scotland and England into
the single nation which now leads the World. However, certain Scots
think that more ought to be done, and have resolved on erecting a
memorial tower to the personage in question. This is their affair, and
not that of the southern portion of the island. Mr. Punch might not
have alluded to the business at all, but from his having received a
reat number of letters from Scotland, a few of a taunting character,
ut not amusing enough to be reprinted, while the large majority call
on him as a Brither Scot to “walk into this absurdity.” Now, he
cannot exactly walk into it, because it is not yet built, and for the
reason above-mentioned, he does not intend to walk into the artificers.
He prefers to let justice be done in the matter by Scotsmen themselves.
Ho! doomster!
He answers his correspondents from the Land of Cakes by the
following paragraphs. They are written in Edinburgh, and published
m Inverness, so may be taken as the sentiments of the Capital of the
Lowlands, and of the Capital of the Highlands:—
“ Stands Scotland where it did ? Has it been raised on the wings of patriotic
enthusiasm high into the empyrean, into the seventh heaven, or has it merely
reached, through the efforts of a few busybodies, the lowest elevation known as a
fool’s paradise ? Nothing is more surprising than the realisation of the so-called
National ’ Wallace Monument, for I have never yet seen or heard of anybody who
approve* of it, except, of course, Dr. Rogers. Everybody seems to laugh at and
ridicule the affair, yet a large sum of money has been scraped together, and the
wonder is not that the amount is small, for even so poor a nation as the Scotch, but
wiat so much should have been screwed together by a few eager enthusiasts, who
have as much right to be considered representatives of the nation as the three
iooley Street tailors. It has always been a marvel to me that the good sense of the
Pfopl® has n°t arisen to strangle in its birth this most ridiculous of ridiculous mice,
fhere seems to be no one felicitous or redeeming feature in the case—the idea, the
s te, the proceedings throughout, all seem equally unhappy. The idea seems on all
hands admitted to be a useless mistake, and the localisation of the idea is perhaps
the greatest part of the mistake. To be national, the monument (if monument
there must be) should have been grander in conception, and conducted by more
influential hands—by a body which really would have represented the Scottish
nation, and not only the Stirling portion of it.”
In another article the same unslirinking writer alludes to the cere
monial of the laying the first stone. He speaks of “ that magnificent
piece of tomfoolery, the Wallace monument,”
“ Begun amidst all the petty festive demonstrations of country masonic lodges
and free gardeners. This gigantic mistake and useless commemoration is much
more likely to cause the lion to turn pale that all the sneers of the Times. A noted
denouncer of humbug, whose signature of ‘ Randolph ’ is well kown tc readers of
the Scotsman as a sure token of something at once racy, picturesque, and sensible,
suggests that the Wallace Monument should be immediately followed by erections
to the memory of Noah on Mount Ararat, and of Nebuchadnezzar on the irrigated
meadows near this city 1 Those personages he conceives to stand in need of com-
memoration as much as Wallace.”
And the Scotsman, as even southern readers need hardly be informed,
is the Edinburgh journal which expresses Scottish opinion in the most
reliable manner. Mr. Punch may therefore conclude, first, that he has
completely answered his Correspondents, and concludes, secondly, his
respectful reply by a quotation from a great English poet:—
“ Ye Powers wha mak’ mankind your care.
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Autd Scotland wants na skinkling ware.”
In Omne Volubilis.
“ Mr. Scully, amidst cries of ‘ Oh, Oh 1’ was then proceeding to draw attention
to the condition of Ireland when he was interrupted by the black-rod.”—Times,
Aug. 6.
What ! you would have the last word, my Scully,
Till Clifford’s black-rod stopped your clack !
What a pity, my true Irish Tully,
That the rod wasn’t “ birch,” ’stead of “ black.”
What the Accounts of the Battle of Manassas should bs
Written on.—Elying Sheets !
Yol. 41.
3