Punch: Punch (56.1869)

PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHAPIVAPI. [February 20, 1869.

suppose you are other than thoroughly well
versed in the usual modern languages, and that
all anecdotes, epigrams, and witticisms, parti-
cularly if concealed in verse, circulated in those
tongues, are to be welcomed by you with a
knowing grin, whether understood or not.

You are a little tired of the beautiful Star
case, and Sister Scholastica and her inadequate
sweeping-brush and monotonous mutton, and
skeleton suit, and thimbles, and gooseberries,
and all the rest of the mean and miserable story
of her persecution; and have probably settled
these two things in council with yourself—that
Saurin v. Star and Another must damage
Romanism in England and its base counterfeit
in the English Church, and will necessitate a
stringent inspection of all convents and monas-
teries by Act of Parliament. Parliament! in
that one word lie hints for conversation for
months to come. Are we not all delighted that
the sixteenth of February has come at last, that
the row is going to begin, that “Disestablish-
ment ” and “ Disendowment ” will be spoken
and written, and printed times innumerable
between now and the twelfth of August, that
the Right Hon. Gentleman will resume his seat
amidst loud and reiterated applause, after
speaking two hours and a half, without influ-
encing a single vote or changing a single opinion,
that there will possibly be another Education
Bill, probably another Bankruptcy Bill, and
positively another Abyssinian Bril, and that if
the Lords are very tractable and considerate
the Irish questions may be settled about the
year 1872 ? Who does not envy the Speaker
of the House of Commons ? Or would you
rather be the Lords Lieutenants, and receive
deputations, and reply to addresses; or the
Emperor Napoleon, to enjoy the treat of giving
an audience to the ingenious inventor of a
new system of tin pipes,” or perhaps Colonel
Henderson ?

TERRESTRIAL ANGELS’ TEARS.

You are all aware of the saying that the French capital is the place
of final beatitude reserved for all good Americans. Even to its native
inhabitants Paris, fashionable Paris, seems to be very nearly Paradise.
Very nearly; not quite. In Paradise there is no crying, of the lachry-
mose kind, at least. But in Paris, says the Post’s Correspondent,
there :—

“ The Skating Club people have not recovered from their disappointment at
the sudden break-up of the frost. It is a source of positive unhappiness to
some ladies who had ordered icing costumes. I called to-day on a family, and
found Madame in her drawing-room, gazing sadly on a pair of beautifully
engraved skates and lovely Polish boots. 1 Why so melancholy ? ’ said I.
‘Adieu patins ! ’ she exclaimed, and burst into a flood of tears ! ”

Only think how happy, in general, this lady must have been to be
capable of weeping over the skates to which the mildness of the season
obliged her to bid farewell! What surroundings, what memories, what
prospect could leave her tears for the despair of exhibiting her agility
in ornamental skates and boots ? From four to live, or even six meals
a day, and nearly as many changes of dress in the height of fashion,
are doubtless her portion in this vale of tears, of which vale Paris is a
part, even to her. To all these blessings, house, servants, equipage to
match, and all the other good things of wealthy life, lots of ready
money inclusive, may be supposed to be added ; and Paris, no doubt,
contains legions of equally blessed beings, in respect of their blessed-
ness almost angels. Yet very probably, like herself, they all cry at
times, because something prevents them from showing themselves off
in some special finery, or for some other disappointment or calamity
not more heartbreaking. Therefore even to them Paris is something
short of Paradise—even their own Paradisaical part of it is. For there
are other parts of Paris, where dwell les miserables. If the beautiful
superior beings of that city could only know, and think, what the
wretched classes have to cry for, they themselves would never cry at
being merely precluded from wearing superfluous and fancy clothes.
Paris would then become for them as.nearly as possible the place with
which it is identified in the imagination of good Americans. Almost,
if not quite, all tears would be wiped away from their eyes, had they
any notion of the sorrows of those others.

A Sound Judge.—A Musical Critic.

VERY SERIOUS DANCING.

A short time ago some one ventured to suggest the idea of Ritualist
quadrilles. The following statement, in a published letter from Paris,
announces an advance far beyond that in the cultus of Terpsichore:—

“An Italian composer has published some dance-music under the title of
‘ The Seven Cardinal Sins! ’ This is a new idea, and may even sell bad
music. Here is the original title :—‘ Lest Sept Peches Capitaux, Eanses
Caracteristiques,—‘ L’Orgueil,’ schottisch ; ‘ L’Avarice,’ polka-mazurka ; ‘ La
Luxure,’ valse ; ‘ La Colere,’ galop ; ‘ La Gourmandisc,’ quadrille; ‘ L’ En-
vie,’ polka ; ‘ La Paresse,’ mazurka.”

Hereon observes the letter-writer:—

“ Dance-music is often played in the churches of Italy. Why should not
divinity come to the aid of music ? ”

The divinity that came to the aid of the composer of such dance-
music as that abovenamed can hardly be conceived to bear any relation
to the divinity which “ doth hedge a king.” It may be rather imagined
akin to the divinity apostrophised by Iago. Dance-music really charac-
teristic of the Seven Cardinal Sins would be music to which one might
fancy fools dancing down an inclined plane, on the “ primrose path,” a
“facilis descensus,” down the middle, and not up again.

But perhaps the Cardinal Sin-dances, in spite of the present state of
Parisian society, are not really characteristic. Possibly none of them
are illustrations of wickedness, such as might be, and sometimes, if not
usually, are, presented to the public in the modern ballet. It may be
that pride, avarice, luxury, and so on, as the titles of polkas and waltzes,
no more imply immorality than Sebastopol, Magenta, and Solferino, in
the same connection, do carnage. For aught anybody knows, they
express nothing worse than the condition of mind from which words
that mean the most solemn things are commonly employed,, by some
composers, in the nomenclature of dance-music—idiotic frivolity.

Conundrum.

Why oughtn’t a Boot and Shoemaker to be trusted ?
Because he’s a Slippery Customer.

What Managers, Actresses, and Spectators all Want.--A
good Dressing.

HINTS FOR CONVERSATION.

[| Never show ignorance. If

Sebastian Scales, enthusi-
astic amateur, talks to you of
Schubert and Schumann,
or of Jephtha and the “ normal
diapason,” and imparts his
belief. that “an A of 870
vibrations makes music quite
as enjoyable as one of 910;”
although a series of algebraic
symbols would be fully as
intelligible to you as what he
is saying, do not merely hear
him, but listen to him, and
look knowing, and move your
head acquiescingly. Should
he touch on the prospects of
the Opera, and sound you as
to your opinion of Stacca-
tini’s lovely mezzo-soprano
and wonderful “ register,”
(nothing to do with stoves or
elections,) give to your face
an intense and experienced
expression, even though you
are conscious of some confu-
sion in your mind between
the compositions of Bellini
and Rossini, and are uncer-
tain as to the authorship of 11 Barbiere (always speak as if yon were familiarly acquainted
with this work), and know that you go rarely and inexpensively^ the opera, and that when
you do go you go to sleep, and wish they would omit all the recitative, and relate their
joys and griefs in a language you could understand.

Again, you probably could not tell the difference between hydrogen and oxygen, and
would be puzzled to give an intelligible account of the cause of an eclipse; but for all that,
if Miss Cerulia Stocken chooses to enlarge upon Huxley’s paper and Tyndall’s discourse,
upon molecules and protoplasms, spectrum analysis, and “ Baily’s beads,” ordinary polite-
ness, and the remembrance that you belong to the superior sex, should save you from dis-
closing your ignorance. It seems superfluous to hint that you must never let any one