DOI Heft:
October 14, 1865
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16876#0164
152
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI,
[October 14, 1865.
/ v A'
SWEET DELUSION.
Chorus of Young Ladies {speaking technically). “No Spooning, Mr. Lovel ! No Spooning allowed here!”
Miss Tabitha {with the long Curls). “Those naughty, n-n-naughty Girls! I suppose they allude to you and me, Mr. Lovel.
But, Lor’ ! never mind them !—I don’t.”
MY FOOT IS ON MY NATIVE HEATH,
AND MY NAME TS-Jenkins ! ”
“ Our Jenkins, Punch’s Jenkins, is not dead.” He has neither
been translated into the seventh heavens by chronicling Lord Gran-
ville’s wedding for the Times, nor sunk below the nether deep by
the heavy sarcasms of the Saturday Review. Jenkins is immortal; and
like Brahma hath many avatars. Following the fashion of those nobles
of the land whom he loves, Jenkins is on the moors! Yes, he is at
this present writing incarnate in a Scottish body—called there “buddy”
— and wears the grey kilt and blue bonnet of the Gillie. But even
there and thus attired, instead of rifle or spy-glass, he wields the
immortal pen, wherewith he stalks a statelier game than even the
great red-deer—the princes of the Land! Hark to the crack of the
well-known weapon!
“ On Friday last, a grand deer drive took place in the forest of Abergeldie. To
the wooded profile of Craig Yoniso the antlered monarchs were driven from the
sheltered dales and corries around. Capital sport was had by the Prince of Wales
and party, amongst whom was the Chief of Invercauld, the gallant Colonel Far-
quharson, who shot down two fine stags as the swaying herd swept past. Bang,
hang, went the Prince of Wales's rifle, and other two noble stags bit the dust, and
rolled dead in the blooming purple heather. Other two stags fell, one of which was
killed by the youthful Mr. Phipps. On the home route two pretty roebucks were
shot by the party, which concluded the day’s sport.”
This is something like word-painting. How the scene rises before us.
The “antlered monarchs” driven to “the wooded profile of Craig
Yoniso.”—Ossian, by heavens !—the grim suspense and murderous
aim of the Chief of Invercauld, the gallant Farquharson, “ as the
swaying herd sweeps past”—the “bang! bang!” of the Prince’s
rifle—the noble stags performing that kotow to a Prince which Jenkins
loves, and winding up their rapid act of submission by the well-known
feats of “ biting the dust,” and “rolling over in the purple heather ! ”
Then how instinct with the delicately discriminated Jenkinsian
colour, is the rallentando movement. “ Other two stags fell, one of
which was killed by the youthful Mr. Phipps.” It would take a
column of comment to bring out all the subtlety of compliment, the
latent grace of suggestion, in this short sentence. Observe, the stags
that fall to the rifle of the Prince are “noble;” not so the creatures
that succumb to the more plebeian bullets of the suite— they are “ stags ”
simple, and unadorned. Nor are their deaths of the ornately respectful
kind practised by the happy quadrupeds who are honoured by the Prince’s
ball in their briskets. They “ bite the dust,” and “ roll over in the
purple heather the stags killed by the commonalty content themselves
with “falling.” Then note the sense of that dignified courtesy which
should enshrine all belonging to a Court in “ the youthful Mr. Phipps”
—not “Phipps Junior,” nor “Young Phipps,” nor even “Young
Mr. Phipps,” but “ the Youthful Mr. Phipps ! ”
This is how history should be written ! Touched thus by a master-
hand, what delicacies of respect may be conveyed by language—how
tropes and figures, epithets and idioms, nay plain adjectives and sub-
stantives, may be compelled to pay homage to rank and station, and to-
bow them down at the shrine of Suobocracy, of which Jenkins is the
high-priest,! ^_
Complementary Colours.
The Irish Republic which the Fenian traitors conspired to establish,
may, if regarded with reference to its objects, be considered a Red
Republic. Contemplated, however, with a view to the means and
measures whereby the conspirators proposed to effect their design, the
projected Republic of the Emerald Isle assumes a tint in character with
that of the gem which is associated with the name of Erin. Although
it found no favour with the Irish nation, it wore the national colour.
The Fenian Irish Republic was a Green Republic.
NOT A DRY JOKE.
Moved by the perusal of Dr. Druitt’s Report on Light Wines,
the other day we partook of some excellent Hungarian wine, called
Ofner Auslese. A better judge than joker had the courage to remark
in our hearing, that what he had to say of the Ofner Auslese was, the
oftener a fellow could drink it the better.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI,
[October 14, 1865.
/ v A'
SWEET DELUSION.
Chorus of Young Ladies {speaking technically). “No Spooning, Mr. Lovel ! No Spooning allowed here!”
Miss Tabitha {with the long Curls). “Those naughty, n-n-naughty Girls! I suppose they allude to you and me, Mr. Lovel.
But, Lor’ ! never mind them !—I don’t.”
MY FOOT IS ON MY NATIVE HEATH,
AND MY NAME TS-Jenkins ! ”
“ Our Jenkins, Punch’s Jenkins, is not dead.” He has neither
been translated into the seventh heavens by chronicling Lord Gran-
ville’s wedding for the Times, nor sunk below the nether deep by
the heavy sarcasms of the Saturday Review. Jenkins is immortal; and
like Brahma hath many avatars. Following the fashion of those nobles
of the land whom he loves, Jenkins is on the moors! Yes, he is at
this present writing incarnate in a Scottish body—called there “buddy”
— and wears the grey kilt and blue bonnet of the Gillie. But even
there and thus attired, instead of rifle or spy-glass, he wields the
immortal pen, wherewith he stalks a statelier game than even the
great red-deer—the princes of the Land! Hark to the crack of the
well-known weapon!
“ On Friday last, a grand deer drive took place in the forest of Abergeldie. To
the wooded profile of Craig Yoniso the antlered monarchs were driven from the
sheltered dales and corries around. Capital sport was had by the Prince of Wales
and party, amongst whom was the Chief of Invercauld, the gallant Colonel Far-
quharson, who shot down two fine stags as the swaying herd swept past. Bang,
hang, went the Prince of Wales's rifle, and other two noble stags bit the dust, and
rolled dead in the blooming purple heather. Other two stags fell, one of which was
killed by the youthful Mr. Phipps. On the home route two pretty roebucks were
shot by the party, which concluded the day’s sport.”
This is something like word-painting. How the scene rises before us.
The “antlered monarchs” driven to “the wooded profile of Craig
Yoniso.”—Ossian, by heavens !—the grim suspense and murderous
aim of the Chief of Invercauld, the gallant Farquharson, “ as the
swaying herd sweeps past”—the “bang! bang!” of the Prince’s
rifle—the noble stags performing that kotow to a Prince which Jenkins
loves, and winding up their rapid act of submission by the well-known
feats of “ biting the dust,” and “rolling over in the purple heather ! ”
Then how instinct with the delicately discriminated Jenkinsian
colour, is the rallentando movement. “ Other two stags fell, one of
which was killed by the youthful Mr. Phipps.” It would take a
column of comment to bring out all the subtlety of compliment, the
latent grace of suggestion, in this short sentence. Observe, the stags
that fall to the rifle of the Prince are “noble;” not so the creatures
that succumb to the more plebeian bullets of the suite— they are “ stags ”
simple, and unadorned. Nor are their deaths of the ornately respectful
kind practised by the happy quadrupeds who are honoured by the Prince’s
ball in their briskets. They “ bite the dust,” and “ roll over in the
purple heather the stags killed by the commonalty content themselves
with “falling.” Then note the sense of that dignified courtesy which
should enshrine all belonging to a Court in “ the youthful Mr. Phipps”
—not “Phipps Junior,” nor “Young Phipps,” nor even “Young
Mr. Phipps,” but “ the Youthful Mr. Phipps ! ”
This is how history should be written ! Touched thus by a master-
hand, what delicacies of respect may be conveyed by language—how
tropes and figures, epithets and idioms, nay plain adjectives and sub-
stantives, may be compelled to pay homage to rank and station, and to-
bow them down at the shrine of Suobocracy, of which Jenkins is the
high-priest,! ^_
Complementary Colours.
The Irish Republic which the Fenian traitors conspired to establish,
may, if regarded with reference to its objects, be considered a Red
Republic. Contemplated, however, with a view to the means and
measures whereby the conspirators proposed to effect their design, the
projected Republic of the Emerald Isle assumes a tint in character with
that of the gem which is associated with the name of Erin. Although
it found no favour with the Irish nation, it wore the national colour.
The Fenian Irish Republic was a Green Republic.
NOT A DRY JOKE.
Moved by the perusal of Dr. Druitt’s Report on Light Wines,
the other day we partook of some excellent Hungarian wine, called
Ofner Auslese. A better judge than joker had the courage to remark
in our hearing, that what he had to say of the Ofner Auslese was, the
oftener a fellow could drink it the better.