DOI issue:
September 23, 1865
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16876#0132
120
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[September 23, i860.
EULENBURG AND OTT.
(A Song of Sans-Souci.)
Only for killing a mere cook,
Forsooth, they’d have us bring to book
A soldier and a noble lad.
Oh pooh—those people must be mad !
Why punish Eulenburg ? For what F
Because, they say, he murdered Ott.
Well; in a street row, at the town
Of Bonn, he cut the fellow down.
My soldiers have a right divine
To cleave such caitiffs to the chine;
A right to Prussia’s army given,
And through her King derived from Heaven.
No more that youth who slashed Ott’s brains
Hid murder him than 1 the Danes,
Seizing my neighbour’s laud—for why ?
A plea that was—ho ho !—a lie.
I, by my will, if not my hand.
My thousands slew to gain said land,
Then piously thanked Might Divine
For my success in that design.
Miller, poor fellow, did but slay
One man, and took his goods away.
I sought in vain to intercede:
They hanged him for that single deed.
But Fulenburg—why, you might tell
Myself to hang myself as well.
I ’ll slip my own neck in a knot
Ere he shall swing for killing Ott.
Ott was Yictoria’s servant, true;
He was Napoleon’s subject too.
But Europe’s peace to break they’re loath :
I laugh at France and England, both.
NOTHING NEW.
Absent Old Gentleman. u Oh ! Ha ! Postman, eh ? My Name is—er—is—er—”
literal Postman. “ All right, Sir ! Mr. Robinson. No Letter por you, this
Mobning, Sir ! ”
Absent Old Gentleman. “ Deeear me ! Do yon think there will be one—
this Afternoon?”
No Anachronism.
By far the majority of learned Commentators are now
agreed that the words of Horace—
“ Exegi monumentum sere perennius— ”
refer to his having contributed a column to Punch.
FROM A DEAR OLD CORRESPONDENT.
Dear Mr. Punch, Tuesday.
Original composition is, of course, impossible to a man who
has not got his books about him. You know what watering-place
literature is—the Guide, seven odd volumes of bad novels, a resident
doctor’s puff of the locality and sneers at the next towns, libretti of the
Christian Minstrels and Signor Snevellicci’s Concert, Bradshaw,
a tract, and the young ladies’ Common Prayer-Books. Small help can
an original writer get from these sources. And I ought to add, that
the heartlessness that can call on a contributor taking his brief holiday,
for any kind of work is, I would fain hope, rare. But as 1 do not
bathe, because I am afraid to leave my valuable jewellery at home or
in a machine (American burglars are conscientiously visiting all the
houses, and, disguised in bathing-gowns, pop into your bathing-machine
the moment you take your header), and remain at home while my family
is in the sea, I may as well send yon a few lines of the sort of writing
which you may call Pre-Raphaelite, graphic, photographic, or what you
please. Use the letter or not, as you like—all’s one to me, while I can
get a cigar and iced Seltzer.
I perceive that some other young man wrote last week a frivolous
column, evidently intended to record the chatter of some young lady
here. It has given great offence, and I am very glad that I was not the
author. The folks on the Spa, Spaw, Spar, or Spay (Yorkshire pro-
nunciation is charmingly unfettered) consider themselves the cream of
fashion; and the manufacturing swells, with their honest big hands
agonising in yellow gloves, will make short work with that other cor-
' respondent, should he be detected. But I dare say that he has sneaked
away. 1 hope that he has paid his bill, extortionate though it probably
is. Eor the Scarborough folk devote themselves with Apollo-like
energy to the duty of skinning the metropolitan Marsyas. The washer-
women here are the worst in all the world, the dearest, and the most
impudent. I advise ladies to bring, no matter at what cost, all the
garments for which language has no name, in sufficient quantity to
enable them, aided by the lady’s-maid, to defy the coarse-handed old
harpies. Rents are awful, but the manufacturers are rich and the me-
tropolitans are foolish. You can get a very comfortable back bed-
room, however, without a view of the sea, for four guineas and a half,
though, if a handle comes off the rickety chest of drawers, you are
charged fourteen-and sixpence for glue to fasten it on, and abused into
the bargain.
Still, Scarborough is a delightful place, or my own sweet temper
makes all places delightful to me. The bay is pretty, and dear Sir
Joseph Paxton laid out the cliff and Spa to perfection. I never con-
descended to come here before, but I am not sorry to have seen the
place. Having, as you are aware, resided in Paris, Vienna, Berlin,
Constantinople, Grand Cairo, and Gravesend, I am not likely to be
enthusiastic about a third-rate watering -place, crammed with bumpkins.
But it is a pleasing locality. Shakspeare alludes to it in that exqui-
sitely plaintive and touching song sung by Desdemona in her grief:—
“ My mother had a maid called Barbara,
Who afterwards was cook at Scarborough.”
Her history is a legend of the place, and she is buried in Cornelian
Bay, near here, and so called after Cornelius the Centurion, who
landed there with the Eleventh Light Praetorians Blue, in the reign of
Titus, the Delight of Mankind, and Slayer of Jews. But there is
nothing except the Bay and the Spay. There are no walks, and the
roads are so precipitous that no person of ordinary humanity drives.
I may mention Oliver’s Mount, a promontory, on the top of which
rather good ginger-beer is sold. There is a harbour, but he who has
smelt it once smells it all day, and never again. There are boats, but
the owners hate a gentleman for trying to hire one, and prefer to crowd
their dirty vessels with parties called “ Cheap Trippers,” who go to sea
in complete black and beaver hats, lark uproariously until just out of
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[September 23, i860.
EULENBURG AND OTT.
(A Song of Sans-Souci.)
Only for killing a mere cook,
Forsooth, they’d have us bring to book
A soldier and a noble lad.
Oh pooh—those people must be mad !
Why punish Eulenburg ? For what F
Because, they say, he murdered Ott.
Well; in a street row, at the town
Of Bonn, he cut the fellow down.
My soldiers have a right divine
To cleave such caitiffs to the chine;
A right to Prussia’s army given,
And through her King derived from Heaven.
No more that youth who slashed Ott’s brains
Hid murder him than 1 the Danes,
Seizing my neighbour’s laud—for why ?
A plea that was—ho ho !—a lie.
I, by my will, if not my hand.
My thousands slew to gain said land,
Then piously thanked Might Divine
For my success in that design.
Miller, poor fellow, did but slay
One man, and took his goods away.
I sought in vain to intercede:
They hanged him for that single deed.
But Fulenburg—why, you might tell
Myself to hang myself as well.
I ’ll slip my own neck in a knot
Ere he shall swing for killing Ott.
Ott was Yictoria’s servant, true;
He was Napoleon’s subject too.
But Europe’s peace to break they’re loath :
I laugh at France and England, both.
NOTHING NEW.
Absent Old Gentleman. u Oh ! Ha ! Postman, eh ? My Name is—er—is—er—”
literal Postman. “ All right, Sir ! Mr. Robinson. No Letter por you, this
Mobning, Sir ! ”
Absent Old Gentleman. “ Deeear me ! Do yon think there will be one—
this Afternoon?”
No Anachronism.
By far the majority of learned Commentators are now
agreed that the words of Horace—
“ Exegi monumentum sere perennius— ”
refer to his having contributed a column to Punch.
FROM A DEAR OLD CORRESPONDENT.
Dear Mr. Punch, Tuesday.
Original composition is, of course, impossible to a man who
has not got his books about him. You know what watering-place
literature is—the Guide, seven odd volumes of bad novels, a resident
doctor’s puff of the locality and sneers at the next towns, libretti of the
Christian Minstrels and Signor Snevellicci’s Concert, Bradshaw,
a tract, and the young ladies’ Common Prayer-Books. Small help can
an original writer get from these sources. And I ought to add, that
the heartlessness that can call on a contributor taking his brief holiday,
for any kind of work is, I would fain hope, rare. But as 1 do not
bathe, because I am afraid to leave my valuable jewellery at home or
in a machine (American burglars are conscientiously visiting all the
houses, and, disguised in bathing-gowns, pop into your bathing-machine
the moment you take your header), and remain at home while my family
is in the sea, I may as well send yon a few lines of the sort of writing
which you may call Pre-Raphaelite, graphic, photographic, or what you
please. Use the letter or not, as you like—all’s one to me, while I can
get a cigar and iced Seltzer.
I perceive that some other young man wrote last week a frivolous
column, evidently intended to record the chatter of some young lady
here. It has given great offence, and I am very glad that I was not the
author. The folks on the Spa, Spaw, Spar, or Spay (Yorkshire pro-
nunciation is charmingly unfettered) consider themselves the cream of
fashion; and the manufacturing swells, with their honest big hands
agonising in yellow gloves, will make short work with that other cor-
' respondent, should he be detected. But I dare say that he has sneaked
away. 1 hope that he has paid his bill, extortionate though it probably
is. Eor the Scarborough folk devote themselves with Apollo-like
energy to the duty of skinning the metropolitan Marsyas. The washer-
women here are the worst in all the world, the dearest, and the most
impudent. I advise ladies to bring, no matter at what cost, all the
garments for which language has no name, in sufficient quantity to
enable them, aided by the lady’s-maid, to defy the coarse-handed old
harpies. Rents are awful, but the manufacturers are rich and the me-
tropolitans are foolish. You can get a very comfortable back bed-
room, however, without a view of the sea, for four guineas and a half,
though, if a handle comes off the rickety chest of drawers, you are
charged fourteen-and sixpence for glue to fasten it on, and abused into
the bargain.
Still, Scarborough is a delightful place, or my own sweet temper
makes all places delightful to me. The bay is pretty, and dear Sir
Joseph Paxton laid out the cliff and Spa to perfection. I never con-
descended to come here before, but I am not sorry to have seen the
place. Having, as you are aware, resided in Paris, Vienna, Berlin,
Constantinople, Grand Cairo, and Gravesend, I am not likely to be
enthusiastic about a third-rate watering -place, crammed with bumpkins.
But it is a pleasing locality. Shakspeare alludes to it in that exqui-
sitely plaintive and touching song sung by Desdemona in her grief:—
“ My mother had a maid called Barbara,
Who afterwards was cook at Scarborough.”
Her history is a legend of the place, and she is buried in Cornelian
Bay, near here, and so called after Cornelius the Centurion, who
landed there with the Eleventh Light Praetorians Blue, in the reign of
Titus, the Delight of Mankind, and Slayer of Jews. But there is
nothing except the Bay and the Spay. There are no walks, and the
roads are so precipitous that no person of ordinary humanity drives.
I may mention Oliver’s Mount, a promontory, on the top of which
rather good ginger-beer is sold. There is a harbour, but he who has
smelt it once smells it all day, and never again. There are boats, but
the owners hate a gentleman for trying to hire one, and prefer to crowd
their dirty vessels with parties called “ Cheap Trippers,” who go to sea
in complete black and beaver hats, lark uproariously until just out of