DOI issue:
September 27, 1862
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16870#0140
September 27, 1862.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. _ 135
“ Bachelors’ bosom friend.” Then there is the celebrated chaff-cutter,
OUR OWN CORRESPONDENT.
When Or id sang—
“ Intacta} fueratis aves solatia ruris,’
he may have been a sincere admirer of Nature’s charms, but was cer-
tainly no sportsman. It is in quite another sense that winged creation
becomes a solace to the Cockneys who can manage to get away from
desks and counting-house at this season of the year. Nor is that the
only source of pleasure open to him. Many coves who have no eye for a
covey—many gentlemen who decline to carry a gun, have no objection
to handling a rod—and for those who prefer to let others provide their
trout and partridges are there not bathing machines at Brighton,
Dawlish, Hyde, Llandudno, and a host of other “acres by the sea?”
But the unhappy Londoner who can’t leave town—a miserable wretch
who passes under Temple Bar like the captive beneath his yoke every
morning at 10 a.m.—-what is his “solatium ? ”
The pleasures of Cremorne are brief and hollow. If you dined at
Greenwich every day (I address those whose income is under ten
thousand a year) you would soon have nothing left to pay for breakfasts.
You know the American Cousin by heart, and the Clubs are empty and
cheerless. One comfort alone remains—
you WILL FIND HOOiit AT THE EXHIBITION ON SATURDAYS.
I speak from experience, having just come back from Arcadia—sheep,
shepherdesses, Pan, and piping with infinite regret, and this is really the
only fact which has at all reconciled me to my return.
What a difference a few weeks will make in many matters—the growth
of one’s moustache for instance,—the length of Mr. Butcher’s bill, j
the warmth of Chloe’s letters. A month ago one scarce had elbow room
in Kensington, but now on “ half-crown ” days the World’s Pair seems
haK deserted. An air of listless languor pervades the place. Where is
the bustling crowd that once assembled in the Eastern Dome? Min-
ton’s great fountain—once the rendezvous of countless swells—now
drips lazily down before a few idlers. Our patron-saint George at the
top there, as depressed in his spirits as he is elevated in position, having
been spearing his dragon for four months, feels in his turn a little bored
himself.
Sir Jamsetjee Jeejeebhox, sitting with hands folded on his easy
chair, looks down on us in dignified repose, and calmly awaits the
closing day.
I have two official catalogues with me, which I carry resolutely about
under my arm, just because I have done so on previous occasions, and
because every one does so—not because I ever found them of the
slightest use. I want to see the Reading Girl, the “ Skull of Con-
fucius,” the antediluvian, exhumed and immortal Prog, and can get no
information concerning those objects of interest. I wander carelessly
through the building in the hope that something may turnup to look at,
and come upon a sort of ogre in effigy, suggesting a partial metamor-
phose of Mr. Paul Bedford into a young light-house. It is a French
diving dress for which a medal was awarded to M. Gabirol of Paris.
With heavy leaden boot-soles and a huge lump of the same material
hanging round his neck, the wonder is, not, that the gentleman who
wears this costume can reach the bottom of the ocean, but that he can
ever rise to its surface again.
In Peru there is a large diagram representing a series of portraits of
the Incas, as for instance, Yahvarhvacac Unga the Seventh and
Viracocha Ynga the Eighth, which have evidently escaped the notice
of Mr. Tom Taylor and other Art-critics. In the features of these illus-
trious swells one is struck by an extraordinary family likeness, which is
all the more notable from their general and striking resemblance to
court cards.
If the dried beef from Monte Yideo were a meet subject for descrip-
tion, one might enlarge upon its merits; but in its present condition it
has such a dry geological appearance that the juice is in it, if it won’t
improve by boiling.
What is this singular-looking hut, which seems as if it had been built
of Erobdingnag reels of cotton and roofed like a Swiss cottage ? It is a
larch timber trophy from the river Petchora, which rises in-where
does the river Petchora rise ? I declare I have forgotten, and the only
person I could ask is Miss Arrowsmith Butler, a friend of mine who
keeps a select seminary at St. John’s Wood, where she teaches young
ladies ancient and modern history, calisthenics, caligraphy, all European
languages, and the rudiments of the La"m tongue; arithmetic and
algebra as far as quadratic equations, deportment and potichomanie,
vocal and instrumental music, with the Use of the Globes. Just the
thing ! Let me see, a cab there and back would cost say, four-and-six-
pence, but your typographical messenger is already here waiting for
copy and—never mind—let the devil—the printer’s devil, take the
“proof,” and I dare say a generous public will forgive the omission.
Would that I were scientific enough to describe the various machines
which I saw. The thrashing machine—invaluable to Papas and peda-
gogues. The washing-machine which “gets up” your shirt fronts
with such rapidity and so well that it will probably be known as the
i
warranted to protect its owner against the insolence of London cabbies
and bargemen on the Thames: the mowing-machine, from which the
patentee expects to reap a profit: the portable locomotive which first
carries you, and then may be carried itself: the corn-crusher for refrac-
tory old gentlemen, and the creaming machine from Denmark, interesting
to philanthropists because it enriches the pure milk of human kindness
before it degenerates into the “ butter” of artificial life, or becomes the
cheese in fashionable society.
If the above is not cjuite an accurate description of the ingenious
contrivances aforementioned, I beg leave again to observe that I am
not a scientific man, and really in the Machinery Annexe, what with the
burr of wheels, the bustling of visitors and the plashing of water, I had
but a vague idea of what was going on around me. There are those for
whom the great centrifugal pump has more charms than the Majolica
fountain, who prefer to look on the fly-wheels and cog-wheels of the
engine, rather than the winged angels and floral festoons in Mr. Min-
ton’s work. Por my part, I confess that beyond a momentary and
wisely suppressed impulse to take a ride round in the gigantic wheel ot
a sugar-crushing machine, I experienced no attraction in this depart-
ment, and was glad to forget the smell of oil in the neighbourhood of a
scent fountain.
Our old friend, Johann Maria Farina (who claims in common
with some fifty other gentlemen of the same name, the honour of being
the original inventor of Eau de Cologne) has a stall here bristling wit h
these well-known bottles which bear his stamp and signature. A flue
institution is Eau de Cologne, and nowhere more requisite than in the
highly interesting but mephitic town where it is made.
Passing down long lanes of cloth, tweeds, and “ trouserings,” I pre-
sently emerge in front of M. Bourdon’s gigantic sax-horn, some forty-
five feet long and twenty-three inches in its greatest diameter. To say
that this wind instrument would be instrumental in “winding” any
mortal performer, would occur to all who see it. Yet M. Bourdon
assures us that tins is not the case, and so far from fatiguing the lungs,
he believes they would be improved by it. All this of course may be
very true ; but if I were a musician, I’d see the sax-horn blowed first—
by some one else, before I played on it. 1 retrace my steps to the
nave, and occupying as much of a bench as two full-sized crinolines will
permit, watch country cousins strolling by, and muse upon “ Mossoo ”
and his eccentric hat, and other pomps and vanities of this honest
world, until the clanging of a horrid bell awakes me from a reverie, and
Policeman X. sternly requests that I will leave my seat.
A LABYRINTH OP LANGUAGE.
People fond of puzzies may derive some entertainment from a
| glance at this advertisement :—
A LADY, Residing in a Small Cottage in a pretty village, fifteen miles
from town, containing four good rooms, with servant's room, kitchen, two
I capital cellars, and small garden, and partly furnished, to be TAKEN for four
months at 20s. per week.—Address.
It has been said that language was invented to conceal one’s thoughts,
and certainly this notice is somewhat of an instance of it. Only see in
what a labyrinth of words this lady hides what she has doubtless in her
mind to say, and how difficult it is for one to find a clue to it. _ Pray,
Ma’am, is it the “ small cottage,” or the “ pretty village,” which you
say is partly furnished, and contains a capital cellar as well as a small
garden, in addition to a kitchen and some half_ a dozen rooms? A
garden in a house is somewhat of a novelty, and invalids who can’t go
out of doors might find some comfort in it. But far more puzzling
than this is the problem as to who or what is to be “taken for four
months at 20s. a week.” This momentous question we have vainly
tried to solve, and we now leave it to our readers to think about as
much or as little as they like.
An Exhibition Rhyme.
(Slightly improved from the original.)
What is the truth about Francis Cadogan,
What was the service be did Monsieur Y. ?
Is tiie bankrupt Restaurateur only humbugging.
Or did he retain Master Prank with a fee ?
On his scutcheon there’s just
A smear of rust,
Which he’ll promptly scrub from its face—vje trust,.
POLITICAL PRECAUTION.
Lord Derby has just become a Colonel of Volunteers. Lord
Palmcerston sent his respectful compliments to the Leader of Oppo-
sition, and hoped that he intended to stick to the motto, “ Defence, not
Defiance.”
Vol. 43.
5
“ Bachelors’ bosom friend.” Then there is the celebrated chaff-cutter,
OUR OWN CORRESPONDENT.
When Or id sang—
“ Intacta} fueratis aves solatia ruris,’
he may have been a sincere admirer of Nature’s charms, but was cer-
tainly no sportsman. It is in quite another sense that winged creation
becomes a solace to the Cockneys who can manage to get away from
desks and counting-house at this season of the year. Nor is that the
only source of pleasure open to him. Many coves who have no eye for a
covey—many gentlemen who decline to carry a gun, have no objection
to handling a rod—and for those who prefer to let others provide their
trout and partridges are there not bathing machines at Brighton,
Dawlish, Hyde, Llandudno, and a host of other “acres by the sea?”
But the unhappy Londoner who can’t leave town—a miserable wretch
who passes under Temple Bar like the captive beneath his yoke every
morning at 10 a.m.—-what is his “solatium ? ”
The pleasures of Cremorne are brief and hollow. If you dined at
Greenwich every day (I address those whose income is under ten
thousand a year) you would soon have nothing left to pay for breakfasts.
You know the American Cousin by heart, and the Clubs are empty and
cheerless. One comfort alone remains—
you WILL FIND HOOiit AT THE EXHIBITION ON SATURDAYS.
I speak from experience, having just come back from Arcadia—sheep,
shepherdesses, Pan, and piping with infinite regret, and this is really the
only fact which has at all reconciled me to my return.
What a difference a few weeks will make in many matters—the growth
of one’s moustache for instance,—the length of Mr. Butcher’s bill, j
the warmth of Chloe’s letters. A month ago one scarce had elbow room
in Kensington, but now on “ half-crown ” days the World’s Pair seems
haK deserted. An air of listless languor pervades the place. Where is
the bustling crowd that once assembled in the Eastern Dome? Min-
ton’s great fountain—once the rendezvous of countless swells—now
drips lazily down before a few idlers. Our patron-saint George at the
top there, as depressed in his spirits as he is elevated in position, having
been spearing his dragon for four months, feels in his turn a little bored
himself.
Sir Jamsetjee Jeejeebhox, sitting with hands folded on his easy
chair, looks down on us in dignified repose, and calmly awaits the
closing day.
I have two official catalogues with me, which I carry resolutely about
under my arm, just because I have done so on previous occasions, and
because every one does so—not because I ever found them of the
slightest use. I want to see the Reading Girl, the “ Skull of Con-
fucius,” the antediluvian, exhumed and immortal Prog, and can get no
information concerning those objects of interest. I wander carelessly
through the building in the hope that something may turnup to look at,
and come upon a sort of ogre in effigy, suggesting a partial metamor-
phose of Mr. Paul Bedford into a young light-house. It is a French
diving dress for which a medal was awarded to M. Gabirol of Paris.
With heavy leaden boot-soles and a huge lump of the same material
hanging round his neck, the wonder is, not, that the gentleman who
wears this costume can reach the bottom of the ocean, but that he can
ever rise to its surface again.
In Peru there is a large diagram representing a series of portraits of
the Incas, as for instance, Yahvarhvacac Unga the Seventh and
Viracocha Ynga the Eighth, which have evidently escaped the notice
of Mr. Tom Taylor and other Art-critics. In the features of these illus-
trious swells one is struck by an extraordinary family likeness, which is
all the more notable from their general and striking resemblance to
court cards.
If the dried beef from Monte Yideo were a meet subject for descrip-
tion, one might enlarge upon its merits; but in its present condition it
has such a dry geological appearance that the juice is in it, if it won’t
improve by boiling.
What is this singular-looking hut, which seems as if it had been built
of Erobdingnag reels of cotton and roofed like a Swiss cottage ? It is a
larch timber trophy from the river Petchora, which rises in-where
does the river Petchora rise ? I declare I have forgotten, and the only
person I could ask is Miss Arrowsmith Butler, a friend of mine who
keeps a select seminary at St. John’s Wood, where she teaches young
ladies ancient and modern history, calisthenics, caligraphy, all European
languages, and the rudiments of the La"m tongue; arithmetic and
algebra as far as quadratic equations, deportment and potichomanie,
vocal and instrumental music, with the Use of the Globes. Just the
thing ! Let me see, a cab there and back would cost say, four-and-six-
pence, but your typographical messenger is already here waiting for
copy and—never mind—let the devil—the printer’s devil, take the
“proof,” and I dare say a generous public will forgive the omission.
Would that I were scientific enough to describe the various machines
which I saw. The thrashing machine—invaluable to Papas and peda-
gogues. The washing-machine which “gets up” your shirt fronts
with such rapidity and so well that it will probably be known as the
i
warranted to protect its owner against the insolence of London cabbies
and bargemen on the Thames: the mowing-machine, from which the
patentee expects to reap a profit: the portable locomotive which first
carries you, and then may be carried itself: the corn-crusher for refrac-
tory old gentlemen, and the creaming machine from Denmark, interesting
to philanthropists because it enriches the pure milk of human kindness
before it degenerates into the “ butter” of artificial life, or becomes the
cheese in fashionable society.
If the above is not cjuite an accurate description of the ingenious
contrivances aforementioned, I beg leave again to observe that I am
not a scientific man, and really in the Machinery Annexe, what with the
burr of wheels, the bustling of visitors and the plashing of water, I had
but a vague idea of what was going on around me. There are those for
whom the great centrifugal pump has more charms than the Majolica
fountain, who prefer to look on the fly-wheels and cog-wheels of the
engine, rather than the winged angels and floral festoons in Mr. Min-
ton’s work. Por my part, I confess that beyond a momentary and
wisely suppressed impulse to take a ride round in the gigantic wheel ot
a sugar-crushing machine, I experienced no attraction in this depart-
ment, and was glad to forget the smell of oil in the neighbourhood of a
scent fountain.
Our old friend, Johann Maria Farina (who claims in common
with some fifty other gentlemen of the same name, the honour of being
the original inventor of Eau de Cologne) has a stall here bristling wit h
these well-known bottles which bear his stamp and signature. A flue
institution is Eau de Cologne, and nowhere more requisite than in the
highly interesting but mephitic town where it is made.
Passing down long lanes of cloth, tweeds, and “ trouserings,” I pre-
sently emerge in front of M. Bourdon’s gigantic sax-horn, some forty-
five feet long and twenty-three inches in its greatest diameter. To say
that this wind instrument would be instrumental in “winding” any
mortal performer, would occur to all who see it. Yet M. Bourdon
assures us that tins is not the case, and so far from fatiguing the lungs,
he believes they would be improved by it. All this of course may be
very true ; but if I were a musician, I’d see the sax-horn blowed first—
by some one else, before I played on it. 1 retrace my steps to the
nave, and occupying as much of a bench as two full-sized crinolines will
permit, watch country cousins strolling by, and muse upon “ Mossoo ”
and his eccentric hat, and other pomps and vanities of this honest
world, until the clanging of a horrid bell awakes me from a reverie, and
Policeman X. sternly requests that I will leave my seat.
A LABYRINTH OP LANGUAGE.
People fond of puzzies may derive some entertainment from a
| glance at this advertisement :—
A LADY, Residing in a Small Cottage in a pretty village, fifteen miles
from town, containing four good rooms, with servant's room, kitchen, two
I capital cellars, and small garden, and partly furnished, to be TAKEN for four
months at 20s. per week.—Address.
It has been said that language was invented to conceal one’s thoughts,
and certainly this notice is somewhat of an instance of it. Only see in
what a labyrinth of words this lady hides what she has doubtless in her
mind to say, and how difficult it is for one to find a clue to it. _ Pray,
Ma’am, is it the “ small cottage,” or the “ pretty village,” which you
say is partly furnished, and contains a capital cellar as well as a small
garden, in addition to a kitchen and some half_ a dozen rooms? A
garden in a house is somewhat of a novelty, and invalids who can’t go
out of doors might find some comfort in it. But far more puzzling
than this is the problem as to who or what is to be “taken for four
months at 20s. a week.” This momentous question we have vainly
tried to solve, and we now leave it to our readers to think about as
much or as little as they like.
An Exhibition Rhyme.
(Slightly improved from the original.)
What is the truth about Francis Cadogan,
What was the service be did Monsieur Y. ?
Is tiie bankrupt Restaurateur only humbugging.
Or did he retain Master Prank with a fee ?
On his scutcheon there’s just
A smear of rust,
Which he’ll promptly scrub from its face—vje trust,.
POLITICAL PRECAUTION.
Lord Derby has just become a Colonel of Volunteers. Lord
Palmcerston sent his respectful compliments to the Leader of Oppo-
sition, and hoped that he intended to stick to the motto, “ Defence, not
Defiance.”
Vol. 43.
5