DOI Heft:
May 3, 1862
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16869#0181
May 3, 1862.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
173
THE PIONEER.
Mischievous Little Wife. “ Oh, it’s sweetly becoming, Dear, but I’ve just had a
capital Idea, and if you ’ll promise me to take great care of it, I’ll lend you my Garden
Roller / ”
IL PIO NONO.
What operatic people those foreigners are! Ac-
cording to a telegram from Rome on Easter Sunday :—
“ The Pope gave a solemn benediction (urbi et orbi) in the Vati-
can to-day.
“ The whole of the French and Pontifical troops were present
“ An immense crowd assembled, and shouts were raised of
‘ Viva il Papa ! ’ ”
The scene thus described seems exactly like something
that we have often witnessed at Drury Lane or Covent
Garden, or Her Majesty’s Theatre. We imagine the
French and Pontifical troops under arms, represented
by a corps of supernumeraries, with some of the chorus-
singers of the establishment in the front rank, whilst
the rest are stationed at the head of other supernumer-
aries who constitute the crowd; the double chorus
singing at the top of their voices Viva il Papa ! to t he
accompaniment of a noisy orchestra. Then, before our
mind’s eye out in a balcony comes the old Pope in full
costume, accompanied by Cardinals, Officers, Guards, a
Crossbearer, and other attendants. Then the chorus of
soldiers and citizens leave off singing, and the Pontiff,
stretching out his hands, opens his mouth to its utmost
width, and delivers in a deep bass recitative a few words
which we are unable to eaten. Whereupon immediately
the mob and the military again strike up Viva il Papa !
and the supers who are not musical wave their hats, or
throw up their caps; all forming altogether a grand
tableau on which down comes the act-drop.
There, however, the resemblance ends. What would
complete it is the applause of the British Public; but
that is wanting. There are hisses instead. The Pope
may keep the keys of a certain place, but here liis own
performance would be—unsuccessful. John Bull,
however, would willingly shout Viva il Papa / too if bis
Holiness of Rome would confer a real benediction urbi
et orbi, by resigning his temporal dominion over the
former, and leaving the latter to perform its revolutions
in peace.
CONDENSED REPORT OE A CAUSE CELEBRE.
Brevity ’s the soul of wit.
Mires said, quick-witted,.
“ You acquit, or else I split
And Mires is acquitted.
How to make a Perfect Beast of Yourself.—
We have been told of a lawyer’s clerk who has succeeded
in doing so by continually eating Thorley’s Food for
Cattle.
“WE WISH YOU MAY EVER SEE IT AGAIN.”
The following advertisements appeared in the same day’s paper of
the Times:—
so far as to return an umbrella ? The latter must have a sharp point
to it indeed to prick any one to that extent. A child may be clever
that knows his own father, but after all, what is his cleverness com-
pared to that of an umbrella that knows its own owner ?
WERITJi;!—WRITE me, either Jiere or to K. C. Tell me where, when
* I can see thee. The :
i same ever.—C. F.
It is a curious sign of the degenerate age we live in when a person is
obliged to advertise for the Truth. There are many more despairing
individuals, who, like C. F., would like to be told when, and where
they could see la Verite. We wonder how many answers this aspiring
lover received to his advertisement ? However, we have one bit of
consolation for him. H C. F. is so very anxious to see the Truth, why
doesn’t he look in the pages of Punch every week P
The second advertisement tells the truth at once:—
MR. MARSH, 175, Piccadilly, requests the UMBRELLA may be
RETURNED, which was taken, in mistake, from his hair-cutting establish-
ment, by a gentleman, on April 19.
The above may be cited as a proof of the old caution that it is not
advisable to speak the truth at all times. Was it discreet of Mu.
Marsh to let the public into the secret that gentlemen were in the
habit of taking away umbrellas from his establishment, even “in mis-
take P ” We should be rather timid in such a place, lest whilst our
hair was being cut off by one of the oily operators, our parapluie might
be similarly treated behind our back by some other operator not less oily
and cutting in his actions. Besides, there is an absurd hopelessness in
the appeal. We know there are strange, punctilious persons who occa-
sionally send “ Conscience-Money” to the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, but whoever heard of a man’s conscience prompting him
A COCK THAT DIED GAME.
At the Paris International Exliibition of poultry, our farm-wives
will be delighted to hear that the finest cocks and hens came from
England. Amongst the former there was one of the game breed, who
(we are quoting from the Morning Star)—
“ Was pronounced to be a perfect nonpareil. But bearing bis neighbours crow
continually, irritated him to such a degree that be killed himself, trying to break
the bars of his cage, and get out to fight them.”
He must have been playing at the old game of French and English.
As an Englishman in former days fancied he could thrash any three
Frenchmen easily, so you may be sure that this cock, who was evidently
one of the old school, had been brought up with similar prejudices.
Spurred on by ambition, he was anxious to prove that he was game to
fight any number of French cocks—even including the celebrated Cog
Gaulois himself, if he would but come up to the scratch. His pluck,
being bigger than his body, was clearly the death of him. He was the
bravest of the brave, bar none. It was reported that this fine spirited
martyr of the gallinaceous tribe had been bred by Sir Robert Peel,
who plumed himself considerably, it was said, upon its plucky propen-
sities. In our opinion, this pugnacious rocteter is much more likely to
have been contributed by Mr. John Bright. By the bye, the most
appropriate place for this exhibition of poultry'' would have been th e
neighbouring village of Pecq.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
173
THE PIONEER.
Mischievous Little Wife. “ Oh, it’s sweetly becoming, Dear, but I’ve just had a
capital Idea, and if you ’ll promise me to take great care of it, I’ll lend you my Garden
Roller / ”
IL PIO NONO.
What operatic people those foreigners are! Ac-
cording to a telegram from Rome on Easter Sunday :—
“ The Pope gave a solemn benediction (urbi et orbi) in the Vati-
can to-day.
“ The whole of the French and Pontifical troops were present
“ An immense crowd assembled, and shouts were raised of
‘ Viva il Papa ! ’ ”
The scene thus described seems exactly like something
that we have often witnessed at Drury Lane or Covent
Garden, or Her Majesty’s Theatre. We imagine the
French and Pontifical troops under arms, represented
by a corps of supernumeraries, with some of the chorus-
singers of the establishment in the front rank, whilst
the rest are stationed at the head of other supernumer-
aries who constitute the crowd; the double chorus
singing at the top of their voices Viva il Papa ! to t he
accompaniment of a noisy orchestra. Then, before our
mind’s eye out in a balcony comes the old Pope in full
costume, accompanied by Cardinals, Officers, Guards, a
Crossbearer, and other attendants. Then the chorus of
soldiers and citizens leave off singing, and the Pontiff,
stretching out his hands, opens his mouth to its utmost
width, and delivers in a deep bass recitative a few words
which we are unable to eaten. Whereupon immediately
the mob and the military again strike up Viva il Papa !
and the supers who are not musical wave their hats, or
throw up their caps; all forming altogether a grand
tableau on which down comes the act-drop.
There, however, the resemblance ends. What would
complete it is the applause of the British Public; but
that is wanting. There are hisses instead. The Pope
may keep the keys of a certain place, but here liis own
performance would be—unsuccessful. John Bull,
however, would willingly shout Viva il Papa / too if bis
Holiness of Rome would confer a real benediction urbi
et orbi, by resigning his temporal dominion over the
former, and leaving the latter to perform its revolutions
in peace.
CONDENSED REPORT OE A CAUSE CELEBRE.
Brevity ’s the soul of wit.
Mires said, quick-witted,.
“ You acquit, or else I split
And Mires is acquitted.
How to make a Perfect Beast of Yourself.—
We have been told of a lawyer’s clerk who has succeeded
in doing so by continually eating Thorley’s Food for
Cattle.
“WE WISH YOU MAY EVER SEE IT AGAIN.”
The following advertisements appeared in the same day’s paper of
the Times:—
so far as to return an umbrella ? The latter must have a sharp point
to it indeed to prick any one to that extent. A child may be clever
that knows his own father, but after all, what is his cleverness com-
pared to that of an umbrella that knows its own owner ?
WERITJi;!—WRITE me, either Jiere or to K. C. Tell me where, when
* I can see thee. The :
i same ever.—C. F.
It is a curious sign of the degenerate age we live in when a person is
obliged to advertise for the Truth. There are many more despairing
individuals, who, like C. F., would like to be told when, and where
they could see la Verite. We wonder how many answers this aspiring
lover received to his advertisement ? However, we have one bit of
consolation for him. H C. F. is so very anxious to see the Truth, why
doesn’t he look in the pages of Punch every week P
The second advertisement tells the truth at once:—
MR. MARSH, 175, Piccadilly, requests the UMBRELLA may be
RETURNED, which was taken, in mistake, from his hair-cutting establish-
ment, by a gentleman, on April 19.
The above may be cited as a proof of the old caution that it is not
advisable to speak the truth at all times. Was it discreet of Mu.
Marsh to let the public into the secret that gentlemen were in the
habit of taking away umbrellas from his establishment, even “in mis-
take P ” We should be rather timid in such a place, lest whilst our
hair was being cut off by one of the oily operators, our parapluie might
be similarly treated behind our back by some other operator not less oily
and cutting in his actions. Besides, there is an absurd hopelessness in
the appeal. We know there are strange, punctilious persons who occa-
sionally send “ Conscience-Money” to the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, but whoever heard of a man’s conscience prompting him
A COCK THAT DIED GAME.
At the Paris International Exliibition of poultry, our farm-wives
will be delighted to hear that the finest cocks and hens came from
England. Amongst the former there was one of the game breed, who
(we are quoting from the Morning Star)—
“ Was pronounced to be a perfect nonpareil. But bearing bis neighbours crow
continually, irritated him to such a degree that be killed himself, trying to break
the bars of his cage, and get out to fight them.”
He must have been playing at the old game of French and English.
As an Englishman in former days fancied he could thrash any three
Frenchmen easily, so you may be sure that this cock, who was evidently
one of the old school, had been brought up with similar prejudices.
Spurred on by ambition, he was anxious to prove that he was game to
fight any number of French cocks—even including the celebrated Cog
Gaulois himself, if he would but come up to the scratch. His pluck,
being bigger than his body, was clearly the death of him. He was the
bravest of the brave, bar none. It was reported that this fine spirited
martyr of the gallinaceous tribe had been bred by Sir Robert Peel,
who plumed himself considerably, it was said, upon its plucky propen-
sities. In our opinion, this pugnacious rocteter is much more likely to
have been contributed by Mr. John Bright. By the bye, the most
appropriate place for this exhibition of poultry'' would have been th e
neighbouring village of Pecq.