DOI issue:
January 10, 1874
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16938#0025
January 10, 1874.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Proving, they ’re given to prove too much,
Playing, they ’re apt their hands to show :
’Twixt their two stools of Celt and Dutch *
Too often to the ground they go,
And falling folk the stay they clutch
Will ofttimes with themselves bring low.
No! Give me with one Celtic head—
Two, were case of Kilkenny Cats—
Italian, Gaul and Slave, to shed
Broad-cast the honours of red hats.
Though Church Lords are not what they were,
Cardinal virtues are owned still;
But one the red hat to confer,
Of aU the virtues hath the skill
Virtue to think I cannot err,
That, true and false change as I will,
That Heaven and Hell-gates both I stir
With my cross-keys of good and ill.
What is the head of English mould,
Of size, shape, stuff, to take this in ?
Big enough such beliefs to hold,
Small enough faith thereto to pin :
So strong ’gainst common-sense to stand
So weak with sophistry to war ;
So slavish, where the free join hand ;
So free, where right and reason bar:—
No ! Until Manning is unmanned,
Better no hat than red hat, far !
* In its etymological and ethnological sense of “ Deutsch ”—Teuton.
17
OCCASIONAL HAPPY THOUGHTS.
^~) auntering home after this
Horse trial, which has ended
in my giving up Clumber,
Spoker, and Co., and in
Trott’s promising to send
me word directly he sees
anything likely to suit me,
I find at the garden-gate
a carriage full of people.
Three Ladies and a Clergy-
man. Accompanying them,
and evidently as a detach-
ment of the party, are a
tall gentleman and a young
lady on horseback.
Doddridge, the melan-
choly Doddridge, is evi-
dently explaining to them
that there ’s nobody at
home when I arrive.
The Clergyman, seeing
me, raises his hat. He is
a brown-faced man with a
big nose. His nose strikes
me at once as something
I’ve seen before, and hav-
ing been once seen, not to
be easily forgotten. It’s
a nose that he seems to
use as he would his index finger, to emphasise his remarks with.
Every movement of his head is in his nose, and, I am sure, that, if
his arguments have any force in the pulpit, it must be from the
logical character of his nose. His nose, starting from between the
eyebrows, leads you along a clearly defined line over a difficulty
(the bridge), and then brings you to the point, and then an end,
artistically.
“ Hallo! ” he says, cheerily, “You don’t recollect me.”
“ I smile on him. I ought to recollect him. I do recollect. No,
I don't recollect him. And yet that nose.
“ My name ’sPullinger,” he says.
The three ladies in the carriage and the two equestrians are much
interested. I feel that all eyes are on me to see what I make
of Pullinger.
It flashes across me suddenly, “ Supposing I won’t call to mind a
trace of Pullinger, and reply, sternly, ‘ No, Sir, I do not remember
you,’ What would lie the result ? Would they turn him out of the
carriage ? Would they give him up there and then as an im-
postor, whose social existence had to this moment simply de-
pended upon my recognising him as Pullinger ?”
But I do remember him now. I recall his features gradually,
beginning with the feature, and I say, “Why, so it is ! Pullinger
of course. I was sure I knew your face.” I mean nose, but I
don’t say so.
I go on, “You’ve altered so much since I last saw you. ” If I put
this as it really occurs to me at the moment, I should say, “ Your
nose has grown so tremendously I should hardly have known you
again.”
Won’t he come in, and his friends, in the carriage, and his friends
on horses ? They look at one another dubiously, as if there were
something to pay for admission.
They seem to settle it, tacitly, among themselves, with a sort of
rather patronising air, as if implying, “ Well, you know, we don’t
commit ourselves to anything by going in. Pullinger is a Clergy-
man, and he says he knows all about it. At all events, if we don’t
like it, we can come out again.”
The Mounted Gentleman calls out, “ What shall we do with the
horses ?” as if he expected me to hold them.
There’s such a condescensional air about the whole party, that I
am really inclined to answer the mounted visitor carelessly, and
say, “What’ll you do with your horses? 0, let ’em run about.
You won’t lose ’em, and, if you do, there’s more where they came
from.”
Ilappy Thought (for Proverb).—Better horses in the stable than
ever came out of it. (To be arranged for my New Proverbial
Philosophy Booh.)
I tell Doddridge, who is surveying the scene with a funereal
aspect, to summon the Gardener. She sighs, as though this were
the last straw which would break her back, and goes off resignedly
for the Gardener, who will hold the horses.
The weak part of our cottage is our drawing-room. It is small,
and we are always apologising for it.
I generally explain that “ I’m going to build a new wing,” only
the plans are not finished, or the estimates are not ready, or the
something or the other isn’t done, which simply means that, all
things considered, my Aunt and I do not see the necessity of an
outlay on the drawing-room.
As Chilvern, the Architect, whom I did consult on the matter,
said, “You see, in enlarging an ordinary room, it’s different to
making a concert-hall or a theatre hold more people. In such cases,
more people more money, and it repays you. But you don’t want
that.”
He is right: we don’t. But, at present, five ladies in our draw-
ing-room, if they don’t sit quite still, are really a crowd.
Consequently, by the time Pullinger and the three ladies, and
the two dismounted visitors, are arranged somehow about th«
apartment, there’s hardly any room for me, unless I sit on the
piano.
Another curious fact about my Aunt’s arrangements is, that
whatever the number of visitors in the drawing-room, we are
always one chair short. To make up this deficiency, there is
generally a search all over the house, which results in the ugliest,
oldest, and most eccentric-looking chair being brought down, by
Doddridge, who takes a melancholy pleasure in appearing with it
among the company.
Till this comes I have to stand up, which is awkward.
On this present occasion the chair which Doddridge brings is a
very peculiar uncomfortable-looking chair, with narrow sides (like
an old-fashioned Hall-porter’s chair), and a tall, oval back, made
of cane and straw twisted together as compactly as a beehive.
Happy Thought— If an artist wanted to draw a picture for the
Illustrated London News of “ Granny Knitting,” this is the sort of
chair he would place her in.
We are all seated, smiling. I am waiting for introductions.
Pullinger having introduced himself, seems to have suddenly come
to a stand-still, or a sit-still.
As a commencement he says—
“ Well, and how have you been this long time ? ”
The others (I don’t as yet kno\y who they are) are listening, like
a Committee, to my answer to the first interrogatory.
Happy Thought.—“ Left sitting.” Like a Hen.
To a Correspondent.
The Druid Solicitor-General spoke, the other night, about the
Hydrostatic Paradox, which until you understand it, appears incre-
dible. “AWeak-minded Woman ’ ’ (as she deceitfully signs herself),
writes to ask us to explain Sir Yernon’s meaning. With pleasure.
Water quenches thirst, yet everybody knows that the more water
you drink the thirstier you are. Understanding the paradox means
putting a little brandy into the water. You may put a good deal,
if you like, but that’s a detail.
Proving, they ’re given to prove too much,
Playing, they ’re apt their hands to show :
’Twixt their two stools of Celt and Dutch *
Too often to the ground they go,
And falling folk the stay they clutch
Will ofttimes with themselves bring low.
No! Give me with one Celtic head—
Two, were case of Kilkenny Cats—
Italian, Gaul and Slave, to shed
Broad-cast the honours of red hats.
Though Church Lords are not what they were,
Cardinal virtues are owned still;
But one the red hat to confer,
Of aU the virtues hath the skill
Virtue to think I cannot err,
That, true and false change as I will,
That Heaven and Hell-gates both I stir
With my cross-keys of good and ill.
What is the head of English mould,
Of size, shape, stuff, to take this in ?
Big enough such beliefs to hold,
Small enough faith thereto to pin :
So strong ’gainst common-sense to stand
So weak with sophistry to war ;
So slavish, where the free join hand ;
So free, where right and reason bar:—
No ! Until Manning is unmanned,
Better no hat than red hat, far !
* In its etymological and ethnological sense of “ Deutsch ”—Teuton.
17
OCCASIONAL HAPPY THOUGHTS.
^~) auntering home after this
Horse trial, which has ended
in my giving up Clumber,
Spoker, and Co., and in
Trott’s promising to send
me word directly he sees
anything likely to suit me,
I find at the garden-gate
a carriage full of people.
Three Ladies and a Clergy-
man. Accompanying them,
and evidently as a detach-
ment of the party, are a
tall gentleman and a young
lady on horseback.
Doddridge, the melan-
choly Doddridge, is evi-
dently explaining to them
that there ’s nobody at
home when I arrive.
The Clergyman, seeing
me, raises his hat. He is
a brown-faced man with a
big nose. His nose strikes
me at once as something
I’ve seen before, and hav-
ing been once seen, not to
be easily forgotten. It’s
a nose that he seems to
use as he would his index finger, to emphasise his remarks with.
Every movement of his head is in his nose, and, I am sure, that, if
his arguments have any force in the pulpit, it must be from the
logical character of his nose. His nose, starting from between the
eyebrows, leads you along a clearly defined line over a difficulty
(the bridge), and then brings you to the point, and then an end,
artistically.
“ Hallo! ” he says, cheerily, “You don’t recollect me.”
“ I smile on him. I ought to recollect him. I do recollect. No,
I don't recollect him. And yet that nose.
“ My name ’sPullinger,” he says.
The three ladies in the carriage and the two equestrians are much
interested. I feel that all eyes are on me to see what I make
of Pullinger.
It flashes across me suddenly, “ Supposing I won’t call to mind a
trace of Pullinger, and reply, sternly, ‘ No, Sir, I do not remember
you,’ What would lie the result ? Would they turn him out of the
carriage ? Would they give him up there and then as an im-
postor, whose social existence had to this moment simply de-
pended upon my recognising him as Pullinger ?”
But I do remember him now. I recall his features gradually,
beginning with the feature, and I say, “Why, so it is ! Pullinger
of course. I was sure I knew your face.” I mean nose, but I
don’t say so.
I go on, “You’ve altered so much since I last saw you. ” If I put
this as it really occurs to me at the moment, I should say, “ Your
nose has grown so tremendously I should hardly have known you
again.”
Won’t he come in, and his friends, in the carriage, and his friends
on horses ? They look at one another dubiously, as if there were
something to pay for admission.
They seem to settle it, tacitly, among themselves, with a sort of
rather patronising air, as if implying, “ Well, you know, we don’t
commit ourselves to anything by going in. Pullinger is a Clergy-
man, and he says he knows all about it. At all events, if we don’t
like it, we can come out again.”
The Mounted Gentleman calls out, “ What shall we do with the
horses ?” as if he expected me to hold them.
There’s such a condescensional air about the whole party, that I
am really inclined to answer the mounted visitor carelessly, and
say, “What’ll you do with your horses? 0, let ’em run about.
You won’t lose ’em, and, if you do, there’s more where they came
from.”
Ilappy Thought (for Proverb).—Better horses in the stable than
ever came out of it. (To be arranged for my New Proverbial
Philosophy Booh.)
I tell Doddridge, who is surveying the scene with a funereal
aspect, to summon the Gardener. She sighs, as though this were
the last straw which would break her back, and goes off resignedly
for the Gardener, who will hold the horses.
The weak part of our cottage is our drawing-room. It is small,
and we are always apologising for it.
I generally explain that “ I’m going to build a new wing,” only
the plans are not finished, or the estimates are not ready, or the
something or the other isn’t done, which simply means that, all
things considered, my Aunt and I do not see the necessity of an
outlay on the drawing-room.
As Chilvern, the Architect, whom I did consult on the matter,
said, “You see, in enlarging an ordinary room, it’s different to
making a concert-hall or a theatre hold more people. In such cases,
more people more money, and it repays you. But you don’t want
that.”
He is right: we don’t. But, at present, five ladies in our draw-
ing-room, if they don’t sit quite still, are really a crowd.
Consequently, by the time Pullinger and the three ladies, and
the two dismounted visitors, are arranged somehow about th«
apartment, there’s hardly any room for me, unless I sit on the
piano.
Another curious fact about my Aunt’s arrangements is, that
whatever the number of visitors in the drawing-room, we are
always one chair short. To make up this deficiency, there is
generally a search all over the house, which results in the ugliest,
oldest, and most eccentric-looking chair being brought down, by
Doddridge, who takes a melancholy pleasure in appearing with it
among the company.
Till this comes I have to stand up, which is awkward.
On this present occasion the chair which Doddridge brings is a
very peculiar uncomfortable-looking chair, with narrow sides (like
an old-fashioned Hall-porter’s chair), and a tall, oval back, made
of cane and straw twisted together as compactly as a beehive.
Happy Thought— If an artist wanted to draw a picture for the
Illustrated London News of “ Granny Knitting,” this is the sort of
chair he would place her in.
We are all seated, smiling. I am waiting for introductions.
Pullinger having introduced himself, seems to have suddenly come
to a stand-still, or a sit-still.
As a commencement he says—
“ Well, and how have you been this long time ? ”
The others (I don’t as yet kno\y who they are) are listening, like
a Committee, to my answer to the first interrogatory.
Happy Thought.—“ Left sitting.” Like a Hen.
To a Correspondent.
The Druid Solicitor-General spoke, the other night, about the
Hydrostatic Paradox, which until you understand it, appears incre-
dible. “AWeak-minded Woman ’ ’ (as she deceitfully signs herself),
writes to ask us to explain Sir Yernon’s meaning. With pleasure.
Water quenches thirst, yet everybody knows that the more water
you drink the thirstier you are. Understanding the paradox means
putting a little brandy into the water. You may put a good deal,
if you like, but that’s a detail.