DOI issue:
September 21, 1861
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16868#0125
PUNCH. OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
113
September 21,
1861.]
“CORRECT ‘ CARD’ OF THE REGATTA, SIR?”
MRS. ROCHEFOUCAULD'S MAXIMS.
Women’s feelings are more intense than those of men*
We are happy or miserable : at a ball or at home.
A woman hates a question, hut loves to ask one.
The female mind is too poetical to be tamely methodical.
Who would marry a woman who punctuated her love-
letters ?
Cupid is blind to everything— save pin-money.
In society compliments are loans, which the lenders
expect to be repaid with heavy interest.
Praise a woman’s taste, and you may attack her sense
with impunity.
Your candid friend has never anything pleasant to say
to you. He reminds you of his pet virtue, by wounding you
with it.
If you want to know a woman’s true character, linger
after the guests have gone, and listen to what she has to
say about them.
A woman wins an old man by listening to him; and a
young man by talking to him.
Enjoy to-day, for to-morrow the first grey hair may come.
Hymen is only Cupid in curl papers.
Women confess little faults, that their candour may cover
great ones.
There are no reasons which explain love; but a thousand
which explain marriage.
Age is venerable in man—and would be in woman—
if she ever became old.
When a woman vows that she never flirts— she is flirting.
Maternal Advice.
A Daughter is almost always right when she endeavours
to imitate her mother; but we do not think the mother is
equally right, when, at a certain period of life, she tries ail
she can to imitate her daughter.
OUR ROVING CORRESPONDENT.
“ My dear Punch,
“ During the great autumnal exodus from town, while port-
manteaus are being packed, passports vised, and beards grown, your
‘ Roving Correspondent ’ is reminded of an expedition in which he was
engaged, and which some weeks ago he began to describe in these
pages. It was, if you remember, while on the shores of the Mediter-
ranean, that my narrative was interrupted by the stem duties of a
London season. Be pleased therefore to suppose me returned to
Porto-Eranco, and in the company of Mr. Richard Dewberry, late
of Trim Coll. Cam., my comrade of voyage, as our cicerone (who
fhinks he is up in all the English idioms) insists on calling him.
“ As the weather was still very warm, and walking before sunset
almost impossible, Dick, whose devotion to the_ fair sex interfered
sadly with that proper attention and enthusiasm with which the monu-
ments of antiquity should be studied, Master Dick I say used
frequently at the close of the day to drag me forcibly into the Piazza,
under pretence of looking at the Eontana Yecchia by moonlight; but
in reality to show me how many of our countrywomen he knew, as they
paced up and down in company with their heavy Papas or solemn
whiskered brothers, enjoying the strains of military music by the light
of a thousand brilliant lamps.
“ £ Do you see that tall girl in blue ? ’ said Mr. Dewberry one
evening, ‘ that is Miss Wympole Streete, Lady Lounger’s daughter
by her first husband. She was engaged to young Lord Raikesmere
until he made such an ass of himself at 0-- where his regiment
was quartered. The match is broken off now, and serve him right too;
it is much too good for him. The old fellow hobbling just behind him
is the Marquis oe Drycorn: he comes abroad for Iris gout. That’s
his wife in the hat and feathers, Lady Drycorn, d’ ye see ? and the
young fella she’s talking to is his Lordship’s Secretary, and they do
say that—Why, hillo ! there’s Grindley, of Corpus, what the doose
is he doing here, I should like to know ? and who is that with him ?
By Jove, a nice looking girl though, really. Why, they ’re going in for
ices over there. I say. Jack, let’s have an ice. Here, hi! waiter,
Bgttega, what’s your name, what’s the Italian for ice, Jack ?
Qualche cosa fredda, don’t you know,’ shouted Mr. Dick, in his best
Tuscan. * Non c’e fritta, S’gnor,’ said the waiter in hurried intervals, as
he rushed about, ‘ quest’ un caffe—si trova frittata—nella trattoria,
S’gnor.’ ‘ Oh dam ! ’ remarked Mr. Dewberry, £ Ice—glace you know.’
‘ Yessare, verriwell, cosa desidera, S’gnor ? Gelati di Citrone, vanilla,
marrenna, groseille, fragole, lamponi, arancia, limone, crenia ? ’ said the
waiter in one breath, and then rushed off without waiting for an
answer.
££ £ Always the way here, Sir,’ said a stout gentleman, sitting near,
£ confound the fellows ! Been here three nights running, and haven’t
been able to get an ice yet, nor see the Galignani once. Actually three
nights running,’ continued the stout man, looking round for sympathy.
££ £ Violent exercise, eh ? three nights’ running—too much lor his
weight,’ whispered Dick to me.
“ £ I beg your pardon. Did you speak. Sir ? ’ asked our fat friend.
“ ‘ I say I agree with you, it’s shameful, Sir,’ said Dick, with great
gravity.
££ By the time we had finished our ices, which we obtained after
waiting about three quarters of an hour, the music had. ceased, and we
rose, having made a resolution (for the ninth time since landing) to
keep good hours, and retired to our respective beds.
********0-
“ £ Elirting about the Piazza with pretty girls is all very well,’ said
I, one morning to Mr. Dewberry, £ but as Paterfamilias will naturally
expect you to have done something while you are away, I advise you to
make notes of what you see, or keep a journal.’
££ £ A journal! Oh, bosh! ’ politely answers Master Dick, (who has
a great horror of occupying his time to no profit) £ what on earth is the
good of a journal ? Every muff keeps a journal. I wish you could
have read Scribbleton’s. He went up the Rhine in “the long” last
year. Eorty-five reams, Sir, of closely-written foolscap, with the history
of every insignificant little village he entered, population, so and so,
statistics, staple commodities, situation, height above the level of the
sea, latitude and longitude, average of mortality among the inhabitants,
the deuce knows what, to say nothing of a description of every dinner
he eat, and a register of the civility of the landlord at each inn. He
offered it to thirteen publishers in succession, and was much disgusted
to find it declined. No,’ added Dick, £ I shan’t keep a journal, i
mean to go in for the Italian grammar, and work bke a brick.’
113
September 21,
1861.]
“CORRECT ‘ CARD’ OF THE REGATTA, SIR?”
MRS. ROCHEFOUCAULD'S MAXIMS.
Women’s feelings are more intense than those of men*
We are happy or miserable : at a ball or at home.
A woman hates a question, hut loves to ask one.
The female mind is too poetical to be tamely methodical.
Who would marry a woman who punctuated her love-
letters ?
Cupid is blind to everything— save pin-money.
In society compliments are loans, which the lenders
expect to be repaid with heavy interest.
Praise a woman’s taste, and you may attack her sense
with impunity.
Your candid friend has never anything pleasant to say
to you. He reminds you of his pet virtue, by wounding you
with it.
If you want to know a woman’s true character, linger
after the guests have gone, and listen to what she has to
say about them.
A woman wins an old man by listening to him; and a
young man by talking to him.
Enjoy to-day, for to-morrow the first grey hair may come.
Hymen is only Cupid in curl papers.
Women confess little faults, that their candour may cover
great ones.
There are no reasons which explain love; but a thousand
which explain marriage.
Age is venerable in man—and would be in woman—
if she ever became old.
When a woman vows that she never flirts— she is flirting.
Maternal Advice.
A Daughter is almost always right when she endeavours
to imitate her mother; but we do not think the mother is
equally right, when, at a certain period of life, she tries ail
she can to imitate her daughter.
OUR ROVING CORRESPONDENT.
“ My dear Punch,
“ During the great autumnal exodus from town, while port-
manteaus are being packed, passports vised, and beards grown, your
‘ Roving Correspondent ’ is reminded of an expedition in which he was
engaged, and which some weeks ago he began to describe in these
pages. It was, if you remember, while on the shores of the Mediter-
ranean, that my narrative was interrupted by the stem duties of a
London season. Be pleased therefore to suppose me returned to
Porto-Eranco, and in the company of Mr. Richard Dewberry, late
of Trim Coll. Cam., my comrade of voyage, as our cicerone (who
fhinks he is up in all the English idioms) insists on calling him.
“ As the weather was still very warm, and walking before sunset
almost impossible, Dick, whose devotion to the_ fair sex interfered
sadly with that proper attention and enthusiasm with which the monu-
ments of antiquity should be studied, Master Dick I say used
frequently at the close of the day to drag me forcibly into the Piazza,
under pretence of looking at the Eontana Yecchia by moonlight; but
in reality to show me how many of our countrywomen he knew, as they
paced up and down in company with their heavy Papas or solemn
whiskered brothers, enjoying the strains of military music by the light
of a thousand brilliant lamps.
“ £ Do you see that tall girl in blue ? ’ said Mr. Dewberry one
evening, ‘ that is Miss Wympole Streete, Lady Lounger’s daughter
by her first husband. She was engaged to young Lord Raikesmere
until he made such an ass of himself at 0-- where his regiment
was quartered. The match is broken off now, and serve him right too;
it is much too good for him. The old fellow hobbling just behind him
is the Marquis oe Drycorn: he comes abroad for Iris gout. That’s
his wife in the hat and feathers, Lady Drycorn, d’ ye see ? and the
young fella she’s talking to is his Lordship’s Secretary, and they do
say that—Why, hillo ! there’s Grindley, of Corpus, what the doose
is he doing here, I should like to know ? and who is that with him ?
By Jove, a nice looking girl though, really. Why, they ’re going in for
ices over there. I say. Jack, let’s have an ice. Here, hi! waiter,
Bgttega, what’s your name, what’s the Italian for ice, Jack ?
Qualche cosa fredda, don’t you know,’ shouted Mr. Dick, in his best
Tuscan. * Non c’e fritta, S’gnor,’ said the waiter in hurried intervals, as
he rushed about, ‘ quest’ un caffe—si trova frittata—nella trattoria,
S’gnor.’ ‘ Oh dam ! ’ remarked Mr. Dewberry, £ Ice—glace you know.’
‘ Yessare, verriwell, cosa desidera, S’gnor ? Gelati di Citrone, vanilla,
marrenna, groseille, fragole, lamponi, arancia, limone, crenia ? ’ said the
waiter in one breath, and then rushed off without waiting for an
answer.
££ £ Always the way here, Sir,’ said a stout gentleman, sitting near,
£ confound the fellows ! Been here three nights running, and haven’t
been able to get an ice yet, nor see the Galignani once. Actually three
nights running,’ continued the stout man, looking round for sympathy.
££ £ Violent exercise, eh ? three nights’ running—too much lor his
weight,’ whispered Dick to me.
“ £ I beg your pardon. Did you speak. Sir ? ’ asked our fat friend.
“ ‘ I say I agree with you, it’s shameful, Sir,’ said Dick, with great
gravity.
££ By the time we had finished our ices, which we obtained after
waiting about three quarters of an hour, the music had. ceased, and we
rose, having made a resolution (for the ninth time since landing) to
keep good hours, and retired to our respective beds.
********0-
“ £ Elirting about the Piazza with pretty girls is all very well,’ said
I, one morning to Mr. Dewberry, £ but as Paterfamilias will naturally
expect you to have done something while you are away, I advise you to
make notes of what you see, or keep a journal.’
££ £ A journal! Oh, bosh! ’ politely answers Master Dick, (who has
a great horror of occupying his time to no profit) £ what on earth is the
good of a journal ? Every muff keeps a journal. I wish you could
have read Scribbleton’s. He went up the Rhine in “the long” last
year. Eorty-five reams, Sir, of closely-written foolscap, with the history
of every insignificant little village he entered, population, so and so,
statistics, staple commodities, situation, height above the level of the
sea, latitude and longitude, average of mortality among the inhabitants,
the deuce knows what, to say nothing of a description of every dinner
he eat, and a register of the civility of the landlord at each inn. He
offered it to thirteen publishers in succession, and was much disgusted
to find it declined. No,’ added Dick, £ I shan’t keep a journal, i
mean to go in for the Italian grammar, and work bke a brick.’