DOI issue:
April 11, 1874
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16938#0154
April 11, 1874.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
149
OU
THE SIMPLICITY OF TRUTH.
“0, WHAT DO YOU THINK, Me. LlLLYBKOW ? THE OTHER DAY I WAS TAKEN FOE
Twenty-Five, and I am only Eighteen ! ”
“ Haw! Wonder what you’ll be taken for when you’re Twenty-Five?”
“Foe Better for Worse, I hope!” [Mr. Lillybrow looks pensive.
FROM OUR OWN “ OCCASIONAL.”
Paris, April 1.
Paris is dull, I am told. And, socially, it may be. Probably I am not a competent
reader of tbe Parisian spirit-level. To me Paris seems, as always, tbe liveliest place in the
world—tbe idlest, and the richest, and the Parisians as incomprehensible and as fascinating
a race as ever. The legacy of “ Imperial Corruption” seems to have been invested at high
interest; though, no doubt, the legacy-duty was heavy.
Is it conceivable, Sir, I ask you, that a Parisian public can already sit to see the siege
of Paris travestied on the stage of the Frangais ? I could scarcely credit my eyes or ears when
x went the other night to “ Jean de Thommeraye,” and saw the actors playing at the
soldiers of that sad and shameful warfare, sitting as I was with real soldiers next me, and,
all around, men and women who should have felt to their heart’s core the shame and the sad-
ness of it. But they delighted in the allu-
sions and applauded the sentiments, and I
went away wondering whether the story of
three years ago was not all a fiction, and
the true history that of Messrs. Augier and
Sandeau!
It is all a mistake! Each individual
Parisian was a patriot and a hero. The
invading forces were driven from the walls
like chaff. The French army, flushed with
victory- But why describe what M.
Philippoteau has painted for his panorama
in the Champs Elysees, where the showman
explains to a sympathising audience how
mean it was of the Prussians to fire from
the higher ground, and to fight at such odds
in the way of numbers, too ?
Basta! All this is too serious. Give
us our panem et circenses, and no more of it.
We are all talking about Croizette, who
is the heroine of Paris to-day. All the critics
abuse her and M. Eeuillet’s Sphinx, which
is silly and unclean enough, certainly. Her
agony is a “rattle attached to the Sphinx's
tail,” says one wit; “there’s an Act missing
at the end,” says another—“the scene of
the dissection! ” Indeed, that it is “ trop
fort ” is the general verdict. May be, but
it is uncommonly fine, and Croizette is a
darling. Would not the young ladies like
to know how she is dressed? “A tunic of
black blonde, over a skirt of lemon-coloured
silk, spaDgled with stars in blue steel, with
coiffure of the same stars.” Good night,
and dream of it, while Your Occasional puts
into rhyme what is left of his reason on
the theme of this fascinating
CROIZETTE.
In the famous palace,
Of the Fields Elysian,
Critics the most callous
Saw a charming vision,—
If a year or two you
Can your memory force back—
Two eyes that shot through you,
From a girl on horseback.
Dainty little dame,
Eairy-like her hand was !
And the painter’s name
Carolus Durand was.
This delicious girl
Had a nose of noses;
Teeth like rows of pearl
Peeping out of roses.
While there shone a light
In the saucy eye, which
Made you pass the night
Dreaming of the sly witch.
Gazers all she drew, this
Prettiest of minxes
Is it she, then, who this
Puzzle of a Sphinx is ?
Changing us to stones,
Chilling all our blood in
All our marrowbones—
Dying on a sudden.
Poisoned in a way,
0 so very dreadful!
Leaving one all day
With one’s heart and head full.
“ Surely as my wife
Wears another’s back tress,”
Quoth I, “on my life,
Ne’er was such an actress.”
And your graceful form
While my greedy eyes ate,
Thus my fancy warm
Bhymed you, pretty Croizei te !
Von. 66.
5—2
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
149
OU
THE SIMPLICITY OF TRUTH.
“0, WHAT DO YOU THINK, Me. LlLLYBKOW ? THE OTHER DAY I WAS TAKEN FOE
Twenty-Five, and I am only Eighteen ! ”
“ Haw! Wonder what you’ll be taken for when you’re Twenty-Five?”
“Foe Better for Worse, I hope!” [Mr. Lillybrow looks pensive.
FROM OUR OWN “ OCCASIONAL.”
Paris, April 1.
Paris is dull, I am told. And, socially, it may be. Probably I am not a competent
reader of tbe Parisian spirit-level. To me Paris seems, as always, tbe liveliest place in the
world—tbe idlest, and the richest, and the Parisians as incomprehensible and as fascinating
a race as ever. The legacy of “ Imperial Corruption” seems to have been invested at high
interest; though, no doubt, the legacy-duty was heavy.
Is it conceivable, Sir, I ask you, that a Parisian public can already sit to see the siege
of Paris travestied on the stage of the Frangais ? I could scarcely credit my eyes or ears when
x went the other night to “ Jean de Thommeraye,” and saw the actors playing at the
soldiers of that sad and shameful warfare, sitting as I was with real soldiers next me, and,
all around, men and women who should have felt to their heart’s core the shame and the sad-
ness of it. But they delighted in the allu-
sions and applauded the sentiments, and I
went away wondering whether the story of
three years ago was not all a fiction, and
the true history that of Messrs. Augier and
Sandeau!
It is all a mistake! Each individual
Parisian was a patriot and a hero. The
invading forces were driven from the walls
like chaff. The French army, flushed with
victory- But why describe what M.
Philippoteau has painted for his panorama
in the Champs Elysees, where the showman
explains to a sympathising audience how
mean it was of the Prussians to fire from
the higher ground, and to fight at such odds
in the way of numbers, too ?
Basta! All this is too serious. Give
us our panem et circenses, and no more of it.
We are all talking about Croizette, who
is the heroine of Paris to-day. All the critics
abuse her and M. Eeuillet’s Sphinx, which
is silly and unclean enough, certainly. Her
agony is a “rattle attached to the Sphinx's
tail,” says one wit; “there’s an Act missing
at the end,” says another—“the scene of
the dissection! ” Indeed, that it is “ trop
fort ” is the general verdict. May be, but
it is uncommonly fine, and Croizette is a
darling. Would not the young ladies like
to know how she is dressed? “A tunic of
black blonde, over a skirt of lemon-coloured
silk, spaDgled with stars in blue steel, with
coiffure of the same stars.” Good night,
and dream of it, while Your Occasional puts
into rhyme what is left of his reason on
the theme of this fascinating
CROIZETTE.
In the famous palace,
Of the Fields Elysian,
Critics the most callous
Saw a charming vision,—
If a year or two you
Can your memory force back—
Two eyes that shot through you,
From a girl on horseback.
Dainty little dame,
Eairy-like her hand was !
And the painter’s name
Carolus Durand was.
This delicious girl
Had a nose of noses;
Teeth like rows of pearl
Peeping out of roses.
While there shone a light
In the saucy eye, which
Made you pass the night
Dreaming of the sly witch.
Gazers all she drew, this
Prettiest of minxes
Is it she, then, who this
Puzzle of a Sphinx is ?
Changing us to stones,
Chilling all our blood in
All our marrowbones—
Dying on a sudden.
Poisoned in a way,
0 so very dreadful!
Leaving one all day
With one’s heart and head full.
“ Surely as my wife
Wears another’s back tress,”
Quoth I, “on my life,
Ne’er was such an actress.”
And your graceful form
While my greedy eyes ate,
Thus my fancy warm
Bhymed you, pretty Croizei te !
Von. 66.
5—2