DOI issue:
April 4, 1868
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16881#0161
154
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[April 4, 1868.
FASHIONABLE DEFORMITY.
onsidering that the month
is not November, Guys are
plentiful in Paris. Else we
should not seerecorded such
freaks of dress as this :—
“The latest novelty is a puff
petticoat, which sticks out in a
buDch, and causes the ‘female
form divine ’ to look rather like
the Gnathodon or Dodo.”
Strange are the mandates
of the fashionable modistes !
Here is Beauty ordered to
put on the outward seeming
of Deformity, and Youth
and Loveliness disfigured in
a manner to resemble old
decrepit Mother Bunch!
Beauty, unlike Charity,
must be “puffed up” a little,
if it follows the new mode.
To Mrs. Htjmpty, or Miss D empty, this may matter very little ;
but surely ladies of good figure are much to be condoled with, when
an ugly fashion robs them of the charm of a fair shape. Women are a
race moutonniere, we know, in blindly following the fashion; else we
should say that ladies who wear dresses, deforming them like Dodos,
must really be great geese.
PADDY’S NEW PICTURE-BOOK.
’Twas a sight Saxon eyes to bewilder
John Bull saw through Pat’s cabin-dnor,
Pat, enjoying a pipe with the “childther ”
Round his knees clustered close on the floor.
The boys, with their keen Celtic faces,
The girls, with their sweet Celtic eyes.
And lithe limbs, whose natural graces
Defied tattered linsey and frieze.
By the hearth sat the wife at her stocking.
With her needles in rythmical play,
While her foot kept the rude cradle rocking,
Where a rosy young Celtikin lay.
From the brown hearth the turf-reek ascended
With the blue curls of Paddy’s dudeen,
And cool light, and warm shadow were blended
On the prettiest group ever seen.
Pat was busy, but not upon treason—
Nor pike nor revolver was there—
With a wide-open volume his knees on,
Whose title John read, printed fair:
“ Irish history—People’s edition—
Eighteen sixty-eight—volume two ”—
Volume one, all of wrong and sedition.
On the hearth, burnt to ash, smouldered blue.
Round the new volume, cheap, but clear-lettered.
The children pressed close to his knee.
And the father’s slow spelling was bettered
By his babes, ’cuter scholars than he.
He might trip in his moods and his tenses.
But the import they caught in the rough ;
For those bright Celtic wits and keen senses
E’en half-uttered words were enough.
But the pictures ! Ah, there was the glory
Of the book, to old listeners and young !
’Twas they gave a point to the story.
And a glow, in advance of it, fluDg,
That lit the dark cabin with splendour.
Like the outburst of sun after rain,
Till from hard the old faces waxed tender,
And the young more of youth seemed to gain.
For frontispiece, England and Erin
Crowned with shamrock and oak seemed to stand :
With Justice her sheathed sword bearing,
And her scales, even-poised, in her hand.
And facing this picture of union.
The Heir of the Crown of the Isles,
While Erin, in loyal communion
Of creed and class, brought him her smiles.
A page further on, ’twas a prison
Where law-breakers sat, but the sun.
The great sun of Justice, new-risen.
Had blent “ green” and “ orange” in one.
By an Irish-American plotter,
A Downshire grand-master I saw—
And Ascendency’s pillars a-totter
By the firmly-based columns of law!
And the same sun of Justice whose beaming
No foul party colours could smirch,
A few pages further, its gleaming
Had spread from the Cell to the Church.
And in its fair radiance were clustered.
Unhindered, the Protestant few,
While the Catholic myriads mustered,
To receive, not their dole, bat their due.
No longer sly slave and hard master.
Like lions with lambkins at play,
Walked Popish and Protestant pastor
And worshipper, each his own way
And there Irish landlord and tenant,
By fair-dealing no longer foes.
One grown honest, the other turned clement,
Made the waste places bloom like the rose.
For that new light of Justice in Heaven,
Was reflected by strange light on earth.
As with new peace new plenty was given,
Where lately reigned hatred and dearth.
These things in the new Irish history
That Pat sliowed his children, John saw ;
A morality ’twas—not a mystery—
And John shouted Erin-go-Bragh !
THE FUTURE LOUNGE. (1870.)
Adela to Emmeline,
I cannot write any more at present, dear, as I have only an
hour and a half left for dressing for the Drive on the Thames Embank-
ment. The trees are all out now, reminding one of the charming
Champs Elysees, and the river has lately been scented with some
delicious perfume. The promenaders are not allowed by the Police to
bring ever such tiny bottles to be filled in the river. Tom has a beau-
tiful Gondola, and the Life Guards’ Band plays on the Westminster
Pier in the afternoon. In haste) your ever affectionate,
Adela.
P.S. Papa has now taken one of the new flats, so address to—
3, Buccleu.gh Terrace, Embankment Avenue.
“ The Crisis of England.”
Veil of Isis ! what’s a crisis ?
Double pull on Whip’s devices.
Talk in vein of King Cambyses,
Spouters shouting into phthisis.
Independents raising prices,
Ladies’ gallery cooled with ices,
Caves emitting sly advices,
Bets like “ juvenile Lord Dice’s,”
This is what he calls a Crisis,—
Brothers—teneatis rhus?
All the Difference.
In the future disendowmeut of the Irish Church, among other diffi-
! culties, there will be the case of Mr. Guiness, who did so much for
St. Patrick’s Cathedral. So, at the outset, the question is in this in-
stance less of pounds than of guineas.
A PISCICULTURAL FENIAN.
The Limerick Chronicle describes a “torpedo” found a short time
since in an upper room which had been the lodging of a gentleman
: named Murphy. Mr. Murphy is a reputed “ Head Centre.” His
; torpedo appears to have been a Fenian fish out of water.
A MUMBLE.
“ Azella.” Query, As Ella ?
Caution to Clubs.—You had better get the Select Committee to
smother Smith’s Sunday Liquor Bill. Those who live in glass-houses
should not throw stories,
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[April 4, 1868.
FASHIONABLE DEFORMITY.
onsidering that the month
is not November, Guys are
plentiful in Paris. Else we
should not seerecorded such
freaks of dress as this :—
“The latest novelty is a puff
petticoat, which sticks out in a
buDch, and causes the ‘female
form divine ’ to look rather like
the Gnathodon or Dodo.”
Strange are the mandates
of the fashionable modistes !
Here is Beauty ordered to
put on the outward seeming
of Deformity, and Youth
and Loveliness disfigured in
a manner to resemble old
decrepit Mother Bunch!
Beauty, unlike Charity,
must be “puffed up” a little,
if it follows the new mode.
To Mrs. Htjmpty, or Miss D empty, this may matter very little ;
but surely ladies of good figure are much to be condoled with, when
an ugly fashion robs them of the charm of a fair shape. Women are a
race moutonniere, we know, in blindly following the fashion; else we
should say that ladies who wear dresses, deforming them like Dodos,
must really be great geese.
PADDY’S NEW PICTURE-BOOK.
’Twas a sight Saxon eyes to bewilder
John Bull saw through Pat’s cabin-dnor,
Pat, enjoying a pipe with the “childther ”
Round his knees clustered close on the floor.
The boys, with their keen Celtic faces,
The girls, with their sweet Celtic eyes.
And lithe limbs, whose natural graces
Defied tattered linsey and frieze.
By the hearth sat the wife at her stocking.
With her needles in rythmical play,
While her foot kept the rude cradle rocking,
Where a rosy young Celtikin lay.
From the brown hearth the turf-reek ascended
With the blue curls of Paddy’s dudeen,
And cool light, and warm shadow were blended
On the prettiest group ever seen.
Pat was busy, but not upon treason—
Nor pike nor revolver was there—
With a wide-open volume his knees on,
Whose title John read, printed fair:
“ Irish history—People’s edition—
Eighteen sixty-eight—volume two ”—
Volume one, all of wrong and sedition.
On the hearth, burnt to ash, smouldered blue.
Round the new volume, cheap, but clear-lettered.
The children pressed close to his knee.
And the father’s slow spelling was bettered
By his babes, ’cuter scholars than he.
He might trip in his moods and his tenses.
But the import they caught in the rough ;
For those bright Celtic wits and keen senses
E’en half-uttered words were enough.
But the pictures ! Ah, there was the glory
Of the book, to old listeners and young !
’Twas they gave a point to the story.
And a glow, in advance of it, fluDg,
That lit the dark cabin with splendour.
Like the outburst of sun after rain,
Till from hard the old faces waxed tender,
And the young more of youth seemed to gain.
For frontispiece, England and Erin
Crowned with shamrock and oak seemed to stand :
With Justice her sheathed sword bearing,
And her scales, even-poised, in her hand.
And facing this picture of union.
The Heir of the Crown of the Isles,
While Erin, in loyal communion
Of creed and class, brought him her smiles.
A page further on, ’twas a prison
Where law-breakers sat, but the sun.
The great sun of Justice, new-risen.
Had blent “ green” and “ orange” in one.
By an Irish-American plotter,
A Downshire grand-master I saw—
And Ascendency’s pillars a-totter
By the firmly-based columns of law!
And the same sun of Justice whose beaming
No foul party colours could smirch,
A few pages further, its gleaming
Had spread from the Cell to the Church.
And in its fair radiance were clustered.
Unhindered, the Protestant few,
While the Catholic myriads mustered,
To receive, not their dole, bat their due.
No longer sly slave and hard master.
Like lions with lambkins at play,
Walked Popish and Protestant pastor
And worshipper, each his own way
And there Irish landlord and tenant,
By fair-dealing no longer foes.
One grown honest, the other turned clement,
Made the waste places bloom like the rose.
For that new light of Justice in Heaven,
Was reflected by strange light on earth.
As with new peace new plenty was given,
Where lately reigned hatred and dearth.
These things in the new Irish history
That Pat sliowed his children, John saw ;
A morality ’twas—not a mystery—
And John shouted Erin-go-Bragh !
THE FUTURE LOUNGE. (1870.)
Adela to Emmeline,
I cannot write any more at present, dear, as I have only an
hour and a half left for dressing for the Drive on the Thames Embank-
ment. The trees are all out now, reminding one of the charming
Champs Elysees, and the river has lately been scented with some
delicious perfume. The promenaders are not allowed by the Police to
bring ever such tiny bottles to be filled in the river. Tom has a beau-
tiful Gondola, and the Life Guards’ Band plays on the Westminster
Pier in the afternoon. In haste) your ever affectionate,
Adela.
P.S. Papa has now taken one of the new flats, so address to—
3, Buccleu.gh Terrace, Embankment Avenue.
“ The Crisis of England.”
Veil of Isis ! what’s a crisis ?
Double pull on Whip’s devices.
Talk in vein of King Cambyses,
Spouters shouting into phthisis.
Independents raising prices,
Ladies’ gallery cooled with ices,
Caves emitting sly advices,
Bets like “ juvenile Lord Dice’s,”
This is what he calls a Crisis,—
Brothers—teneatis rhus?
All the Difference.
In the future disendowmeut of the Irish Church, among other diffi-
! culties, there will be the case of Mr. Guiness, who did so much for
St. Patrick’s Cathedral. So, at the outset, the question is in this in-
stance less of pounds than of guineas.
A PISCICULTURAL FENIAN.
The Limerick Chronicle describes a “torpedo” found a short time
since in an upper room which had been the lodging of a gentleman
: named Murphy. Mr. Murphy is a reputed “ Head Centre.” His
; torpedo appears to have been a Fenian fish out of water.
A MUMBLE.
“ Azella.” Query, As Ella ?
Caution to Clubs.—You had better get the Select Committee to
smother Smith’s Sunday Liquor Bill. Those who live in glass-houses
should not throw stories,