Punch (51.1866)

160

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[October 20, 1866,

MAKING THE MOST OF IT, AND HOW TO DO IT.

WAS LORD BYRON A SHRITUALIST ?

Pray, Mr. Punch, are Spirits ever resident in things
animate as well as things inanimate ? For instance, do
they dwell in fish as well as furniture ? I am led to
put the question by perusal of a passage in Lord
Byron’s play of Manfred, which in my edition is printed
wrongly thus:—

“ I should be sole in this sweet solitude,

And with the Spirit of the place divide
The sovereignty of these waters."

Clearly, the word “ place ” ought to have an “ i ”
in it. Any one may see that with only half an eye.
From the context it is obvious that “ plaice ” the fish
is here alluded to, and not “ place ” the locality. By
the emphasis which is laid upon the two words “ sole ”
and “plaice,” it is clear that an antithesis is marked
between two fish. Spirits, we know, are often found
in water, and I can see no reason why they should
not exist in fish. At any rate, I fancy that the passage
I have cited is a good proof that Lord Byron fully
entertained the notion that Spirits do exist; and this,
no doubt, will be considered extremely satisfactory to
those who think that Spirits are really

Worth a Rap.

NOTE BY AN EVANGELICAL.

“ Dangerous Crossings.”—Those of the Ritualistic party.

HAPPY THOUGHTS.

{An Intellectual Pinner and Musical Evening at Furze Cottage.)

Notes made at intervals during the evening, collected at night.

At Dinner. In consequence of having to listen to several whispered
observations on the company present from Mrs. Plyte Fraser, who
tells me who every one is, and how clever they all are, I find myself
left alone, eating fish. I make three picks at my fish and finish. The
butler and footman are both in the room, but neither will catch my
eye, and I can’t get my plate removed. The coachman, who comes in
to wait occasionally, ana is very hot and uncomfortable all the time,
does catch my eye, and sees me pointing to my plate. He looks in a
frightened manner at me, as though begging me not to ask him to do
anything on his own account. He is evidently debating with himself
whether he oughtn’t to tell the butler that I’m making signs. I
should say that this coachman is snubbed by the others. His rule for
waiting appears to be, when in doubt play the lobster sauce ; winch he
hands with everything.

Mrs. Fraser whispers to me to draw the American General out.
“ He was in the war,” she says, behind her fan. I say, “ Oh, indeed ! ”
and commence the process of drawing out. It’s a difficult art. The
first question is everything. I ask him, diffidently, “ How he liked the
war P ” Before he can reply, Mrs. Fraser informs the company, as if
she were exhibiting the military hero, “ Ah! General Duncammon

was in all the great engagements-” The General shuts his eye and

nods towards a salt-cellar. “ He knew,” she continues, still exhibiting

him, “ all the leading men there-The General looks round the

table cautiously to see, perhaps, if anybody else did,—“ and he was in the
very centre of the battle, where he received a dreadful sabre wound, at—
at—” she looks for assistance to the General, who seems rather more
staggered than he probably did in the battle, and Plyte Fraser,
from the top of the table, supplies, “ Bull’s Run.” “ Bull’s Run,”
repeats Mrs. Fraser to the General, as if challenging him to con-
tradict it if he dares. “ General Duncamhon’s property,” she goes
on, still lecturing on him as a kind of mechanical wax-work figure,
“ was all—all—all—dear me, what’s the word I want ? ” She turns
to me abruptly. I don’t know. The General doesn’t know. Every-
body being appealed to, separately, “ has the word on the tip of his
tongue! ” ‘ You,” says Mrs. Fraser to me, “ of course have

quite a storehouse of words. I never can imagine an author without a
perfect magazine of words. It must be so delightful always to be able
to say what you want, you know. Now what is the word I’m waiting
for ? You know, when a man has all his property taken by Govern-
ment—taken away—not ‘ compromised’—no—dear me-” All eyes

are upon me. Of course I know. Boldly but with a nervous feeling
that I’m not quite right yet, I say, “ Sequestered,” and lean back in
my chair.

Happy Thought.—Sequestered.

Mrs. Fraser adopts it. “ Sequestered by Government.” Miss
Harding goes into a fit of laughing. I see the mistake, so does
Mrs. Fraser, so does every one. Everyone laughs. They all think
it’s my joke, and Mrs. Fraser taps me on the hand with her fan and

i explains to the General “ sequestered you know for sequestrated;
: Everyone laughs again, except Miss Harding, who, Mrs. Fraser
i keeps whispering to me is “ such a clever girl, so well read. Draw ;
I her out.” She won’t be drawn out any more than the General. The
! party, I subsequently find, has been asked expressly to meet me, and J
the Frasers do their best to give everything a literary turn. Odd; j
I don’t feel a bit brilliant this evening. Yery disappointing this must
be to the guests. I can’t even talk to Miss Harding. In consequence
of what is expected of me, I can’t stoop to talk about the weather, or
what anyone’s “ been doing to-day.” After the haunch of venison I j
am going to begin to Miss Harding about “ the Human Mind in its
several aspects,” when she says, “ I thought you authors were full of
conversation and sparkling wit.” It’s rather rude of her, but Mrs.
Fraser shouldn’t lead her to expect so much. I can only say, “ Did j
you ? ” As an afterthought I ask “ Why F ” She replies, “ Well, one
reads of the meetings or such men as Sheridan, Burke, Grattan,
Dr. Johnson, and they seem to have said witty things every moment,”

I feel that I am called upon to defend the literary character for esprit
hi the present day. I reply, “Well you see,” deliberately, “it’s so
different now, it’s in fact more-” I am interrupted by a gentle-

man, on the other side, in a white waistcoat and iron-grey whiskers, :
“ No wits now-a-days,” he says. “ Why I recollect Coleridge,
Count D’Orsay, Scott, Southey and Tommy Moore, with old ;
Maginn, Sir, at one table. Then, Sir, there was poor Hook, and
Mathews, and Yates. I’m talking of a time before you were born or

thought of-” He says this as if he’d done something clever in

being born when he was, and as if I’d made an entire mistake in
choosing my time for an existence. Every one is attending to the
gentleman in the white waistcoat, who defies contradiction, because
all his stories are of a time before any one at the table “was born
or thought of.” It’s very annoying that there should ever have been
such a period.

Happy Thought.—In Chap. X., Book IX. of Typical Developments. “ The ;
Vanity of Existence.” From literature he gets to the Drama. He seems ;
to remember every actor. According to him, no one ever did anything
in literature or art, without asking his advice. His name is Brounton, j
and he speaks of himself in the third person as Harry. I try to speak
to Miss Harding, but she is listening to a story from Brounton
about “ Old Mathews.” “ You didn’t know old Mathews,” he says
to Fraser, who humbly admits he didn’t. “ Ah, I recollect, before he
ever thought of giving his entertainment, his coming to me and saving,
‘Harry, my boy’—he always called me Harry—‘Harry, my boy,
says he, ‘ I’d give a hundred pounds to be able to sing and speak like
you.’ ‘I wish I could lend it you, Matty,’ I said to him—I used to call
him Matty—‘but Harry Brounton wouldn’t part with ms musmai
ear for’ ”— Here a diversion is created by the entrance of the chil- j
dren. I see the one who made faces at me from the window. |
Ugly boy. The child who would bother me when 1 was dress- (
ing is between Mrs. Fraser and myself. I give him grapes
and fruit to propitiate him: great point to make friends with
juveniles. He whispers to me, presently, “ You don t know what me
and Conny’s done.” I say, cheerfully, “ ho, I cant guess. He
whispers, “ We’ve been playing at going out ot town with your box.

I should like to pinch him. He continues, whispering, I say.