DOI Heft:
September 30, 1865
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16876#0135
September 30, 1865,]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARTVART.
133
FROM MANXLAND,
ear Punch,—You,
who know every-
thing, of course
are well aware
that the Arms of
Man are legs, and
that these are
three in number.
“ Quocunque je-
ceris stabit” is
the motto of the
Manxman. Whether the natives of the island have a more than common aptitude
for falling on their feet, wherever fate may throw them, is more than I can say.
The possession of a third leg seems to favour the idea, and many of the Manx folk,
as far as I could learn, are persons of good standing. I pictured to myself a Manx
boy with three legs turning “ Catherine-Wheels ” by dozens, with the help of his
ten fingers and his fifteen toes; and I thought how handy he would find his extra
limb to be at football, though at cricket it would somewhat increase his chance of
being put out “ leg before wicket.” By the way, is this third leg of theirs a left
one or aright one? How a biped London bootmaker would stare at being asked
to sell a pair and half of shoes! And what would Stultz, I wonder, charge to
make a leash of trousers ?
But these are idle fancies. However numerous they may have been in good King
Orry’s reign, the triped Manxmen nowadays are just as scarce as dodos. So far as
I could learn, too, the tailless cats are dying out. I only saw a couple of them
while I was in Manxland, and these possibly had suffered artificial decaudation.
The cats I mostly saw there were like the Ghost in Hamlet, and “ could a tail
unfold” as well as cats in general. So I fear the tailless tribe will soon become
extinct, and naturalists will class them with “ griffins and King’s Arms,” and
the other “ fabulous animals ” that Mr. Weller talks of.
The mention of rare animals reminds me that I did not see a tipsy man in Manx-
land, though the facilities are great there for getting cheap strong drink. There is
less duty upon alcohol than is imposed in England, and what would buy here half
a quartern would there purchase half a quart. You get a pint of Dublin stout in
bottle for five halfpence, and they charge you only threepence for a bottled pint of
Bass. Wine is low-priced also, and every grocer sells it, and you see “ fine fruity
port ” announced at one-and-six per bottle, and “ rare old crusted ditto ” as
low as two-and-nine. About the age of this “old ditto” I confess I have my
doubts, for I chanced one day to get a peep behind the scenes. At a certain Manx
hotel, whose name wild zebras should not draw from me, I one day, while I was
paying for refreshment at the bar, beheld a bottle of old port brought from the
cellar in a jug, and thence poured into a bottle, and so served up with dessert. I
have often drunk draught porter, but I never drank draught port: and how my
head and health would stand it is more than I can tell. I once heard of a farmer
who, being unused to port wine drinking, complained of a slight headache after his
first bout of it, and owned to some surprise at this unusual result; for, being a
careful man, he was sure he “ didn’t take much more nor half-a-gallon of it.”
Perhaps the wine which so upset him had likewise been brought up from the cellar
in a jug, and this may have been the reason why his brains had been affected by it.
When next I visit Manxland, I certainly shall hesitate in ordering old port,
lest I get some which has been as long as ten minutes in bottle, and which.
for aught that I can tell, may then be viewed as rare
old wine.
You are aware, no doubt, that Manxmen enjoy the splen-
did privilege of making their own laws, and that an Act of
Parliament with them has no authority until it has been
“ promulgated ” at Tynwald Hill, a place not far from
Castletown, the Westminster of Man. Thither at set
times, in solemn slow procession, come the constables and
coroners, and councillors and clergy, and House of Keys,
and parish captains (are they beadles, do you think ?) with
his Grace the Lord Bishop and his Excellency the
Lieutenant-Governor, and there they promulgate the
acts of Tynwald by reading out their titles and their mar-
ginal notes. Formerly, the Acts were all read through in
extenso, and being composed with the usual verbosity of
lawyers, they occupied a day or more in being thus read
forth. The last Act thus “ promulgated ” was this summer
spouted out by His Honour Deemster Drinkwater,
who, by the time he ended it, must have found his mouth,
I fancy, water for some drink. The Act which he then
read was entitled in Manx phrase, “ Slattys son caghlaa
yn aght jey Eockley magh slattysyn Tynwald,” which you
will see, at half a glance, simply means, “ An Act to alter
the mode of promulgating Acts of Tynwald,” by rendering
needless the extended reading aforesaid. I wonder how
many more years will pass before we find there has been
promulgated “ An Act to Render Needless the Tynwald
Court and Acts of Tynwald,” to be followed by “ An Act
to Do Without the Governor, Exterminate the Council,
and Shut Up the House of Keys.” What horrible Manx
names I may be called for this suggestion I tremble to con-
ceive ; but I own I can’t help fancying that, were the
Manxlanders to condescend to rank as common English-
their interests would be better served by sending
men.
Members to St. Stephen’s, than by their excellent Go-
vernor Loch, and, “ not to speak profanely,” all the
whole bunch of the Keys. Could Manxland pardon the in-
dignity of being spoken of as Manxshire, and put up with
the affront of being treated and regarded as a simple
English county, the Manxshiremen would soon find English
capital flow in for them more freely than it now does, and
supposing that they felt their hearts made heavy by the
change, they would be consoled by feeling their pockets
heavy too.
It may seem a trifle bold in me to venture this opinion,
and prematurely contemplate the benefits of change. “ Let
well alone,” is a good old-fashioned maxim, and with all the
disadvantage of not being wholly English, the Manxlanders
don’t do so badly after all. Indeed, in many points t hey
are a people to be envied even by ourselves. They have
no Income-Tax, no turnpikes, no beggars, and no barrel-
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARTVART.
133
FROM MANXLAND,
ear Punch,—You,
who know every-
thing, of course
are well aware
that the Arms of
Man are legs, and
that these are
three in number.
“ Quocunque je-
ceris stabit” is
the motto of the
Manxman. Whether the natives of the island have a more than common aptitude
for falling on their feet, wherever fate may throw them, is more than I can say.
The possession of a third leg seems to favour the idea, and many of the Manx folk,
as far as I could learn, are persons of good standing. I pictured to myself a Manx
boy with three legs turning “ Catherine-Wheels ” by dozens, with the help of his
ten fingers and his fifteen toes; and I thought how handy he would find his extra
limb to be at football, though at cricket it would somewhat increase his chance of
being put out “ leg before wicket.” By the way, is this third leg of theirs a left
one or aright one? How a biped London bootmaker would stare at being asked
to sell a pair and half of shoes! And what would Stultz, I wonder, charge to
make a leash of trousers ?
But these are idle fancies. However numerous they may have been in good King
Orry’s reign, the triped Manxmen nowadays are just as scarce as dodos. So far as
I could learn, too, the tailless cats are dying out. I only saw a couple of them
while I was in Manxland, and these possibly had suffered artificial decaudation.
The cats I mostly saw there were like the Ghost in Hamlet, and “ could a tail
unfold” as well as cats in general. So I fear the tailless tribe will soon become
extinct, and naturalists will class them with “ griffins and King’s Arms,” and
the other “ fabulous animals ” that Mr. Weller talks of.
The mention of rare animals reminds me that I did not see a tipsy man in Manx-
land, though the facilities are great there for getting cheap strong drink. There is
less duty upon alcohol than is imposed in England, and what would buy here half
a quartern would there purchase half a quart. You get a pint of Dublin stout in
bottle for five halfpence, and they charge you only threepence for a bottled pint of
Bass. Wine is low-priced also, and every grocer sells it, and you see “ fine fruity
port ” announced at one-and-six per bottle, and “ rare old crusted ditto ” as
low as two-and-nine. About the age of this “old ditto” I confess I have my
doubts, for I chanced one day to get a peep behind the scenes. At a certain Manx
hotel, whose name wild zebras should not draw from me, I one day, while I was
paying for refreshment at the bar, beheld a bottle of old port brought from the
cellar in a jug, and thence poured into a bottle, and so served up with dessert. I
have often drunk draught porter, but I never drank draught port: and how my
head and health would stand it is more than I can tell. I once heard of a farmer
who, being unused to port wine drinking, complained of a slight headache after his
first bout of it, and owned to some surprise at this unusual result; for, being a
careful man, he was sure he “ didn’t take much more nor half-a-gallon of it.”
Perhaps the wine which so upset him had likewise been brought up from the cellar
in a jug, and this may have been the reason why his brains had been affected by it.
When next I visit Manxland, I certainly shall hesitate in ordering old port,
lest I get some which has been as long as ten minutes in bottle, and which.
for aught that I can tell, may then be viewed as rare
old wine.
You are aware, no doubt, that Manxmen enjoy the splen-
did privilege of making their own laws, and that an Act of
Parliament with them has no authority until it has been
“ promulgated ” at Tynwald Hill, a place not far from
Castletown, the Westminster of Man. Thither at set
times, in solemn slow procession, come the constables and
coroners, and councillors and clergy, and House of Keys,
and parish captains (are they beadles, do you think ?) with
his Grace the Lord Bishop and his Excellency the
Lieutenant-Governor, and there they promulgate the
acts of Tynwald by reading out their titles and their mar-
ginal notes. Formerly, the Acts were all read through in
extenso, and being composed with the usual verbosity of
lawyers, they occupied a day or more in being thus read
forth. The last Act thus “ promulgated ” was this summer
spouted out by His Honour Deemster Drinkwater,
who, by the time he ended it, must have found his mouth,
I fancy, water for some drink. The Act which he then
read was entitled in Manx phrase, “ Slattys son caghlaa
yn aght jey Eockley magh slattysyn Tynwald,” which you
will see, at half a glance, simply means, “ An Act to alter
the mode of promulgating Acts of Tynwald,” by rendering
needless the extended reading aforesaid. I wonder how
many more years will pass before we find there has been
promulgated “ An Act to Render Needless the Tynwald
Court and Acts of Tynwald,” to be followed by “ An Act
to Do Without the Governor, Exterminate the Council,
and Shut Up the House of Keys.” What horrible Manx
names I may be called for this suggestion I tremble to con-
ceive ; but I own I can’t help fancying that, were the
Manxlanders to condescend to rank as common English-
their interests would be better served by sending
men.
Members to St. Stephen’s, than by their excellent Go-
vernor Loch, and, “ not to speak profanely,” all the
whole bunch of the Keys. Could Manxland pardon the in-
dignity of being spoken of as Manxshire, and put up with
the affront of being treated and regarded as a simple
English county, the Manxshiremen would soon find English
capital flow in for them more freely than it now does, and
supposing that they felt their hearts made heavy by the
change, they would be consoled by feeling their pockets
heavy too.
It may seem a trifle bold in me to venture this opinion,
and prematurely contemplate the benefits of change. “ Let
well alone,” is a good old-fashioned maxim, and with all the
disadvantage of not being wholly English, the Manxlanders
don’t do so badly after all. Indeed, in many points t hey
are a people to be envied even by ourselves. They have
no Income-Tax, no turnpikes, no beggars, and no barrel-