Universitätsbibliothek HeidelbergUniversitätsbibliothek Heidelberg
Überblick
Faksimile
0.5
1 cm
facsimile
Vollansicht
OCR-Volltext
August 22, 1874.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

81

SCOTCH “WUT”

ressed for his opinion, on the subject of
Marshal Bazaine’s escape from prison,
quoth Sandy McWhallop the other day,
“ Mon, I aye thocht that it wad be ’s ain
fault if he didna gie them the slip some-
time whatever. Besides, hasna the puir
mon been made a scape-goat o’, and why
wadna he scape ? ”

In the hopes of bringing the above jokes down to a level with the perception
of the most hard-headed Scotchman, we have printed in italics the words in
which the “ wut” may be looked for. We shall be glad to hear from any
North Briton who sees the points.

A PLEA FOR FAIR PLAY.

“ Prince Bismarck,” (says the Times') “ has received a letter
from some working men, expressing their determination to avenge
any attempt on his life by murdering a Catholic Bishop for every
bullet which does not hit him, and two Bishops for every bullet
which hits ; while the one that really killed him should cost the
Pope his life.”

We are not told that Prince Bismarck reprobated
the tone and spirit of this document. But reverse the
picture. Suppose it to have emanated from some fanatical
band of Catholic working men, who had addressed the
Pope, telling him “of their determination to murder a
Prussian General for every bullet that did not hit His
Holiness, and two Prussian Generals for every bullet
that did hit; while the one that should kill the Pope
should cost the Emperor William his life,”—what an
outcry there would have been. How many fresh penal
laws would have been enacted in Germany, and how
every journal would have denounced the nefarious
schemes of the Ultramontanes. And if the Pope had
not rebuked these misguided men, what odium would
not Pius the Ninth have incurred: and justly. But
Prince Bismarck has not replied to these fanatics; he is
silent, and silence gives consent. We hope, for the
honour of humanity, and of Bismarck, that the story
is untrue. Still, at present, there it is—uncontradicted.

To a Correspondent.—Are you not mistaken ? We
never understood that Dr. Priestley, to whom a statue
has just been erected at Birmingham, was in any way
connected with the Ritualistic movement.

Song for the Town-tied Sportsman. — “ How
happy could I he with heather ! ”

HOLIDAY HAPPY THOUGHTS.

At Penmaenmawr, North Wales. With a Note-Book, Diary, and

Maps.

Chief Attractions.—Penmaenmawr, the Mountain itself, and Mr.
Gladstone in the neighbourhood.

Happy Thought (something Mahommedan).—If Penmaenmawr
won’t come to Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Gladstone must go to Pen-
maenmawr. Clear and logical reason. The result of reading Van
Espen. _

Standing on the beach, I meet Giggleswade, who’s been here
before, and knows all about it. He says, “ Hallo ! you here! ” as if
I were intruding. Then he asks me, “ Have you been up Penmaen-
mawr ? Have you seen the Druidieal Circle r Have you seen Mr.
Gladstone ? He’s here.”

Meeting several people, one after the other, they ask me, invari-
ably, these three questions. Now, when I come across an acquaint-
ance, I sav to him at once, ‘ I ’ve not been up Penmaenmawr. I ’ve
not seen the Druidieal Circle. Mr. Gladstone is here. I’ve seen
him.”

If I were an American journalist I should interview him, or
write an account of how I interviewed him. I can imagine it—
thus:—

“ I was admitted into the back-kitchen of the small hut mar-
vellously clean farm-cottage where the great ex-Premier usually
puts up during his holidays. The truckle bed was wheeled on one
side into a corner, and covered with a rare piece of genuine old
patch-work. The Right Honourable Gentleman’s travelling-bag
(called after himself ‘ the Gladstone ’) lay in a corner; while his
hair-brushes, comb, sponge, tooth-brush, and other necessaries and
articles de luxe connected with the toilette, were arranged in a most
orderly manner on a chest of drawers, which one glance sufficed to
show me served both for a dressing-table and receptacle for such
linen and clothes as he might have brought with him ” (&c., &c., in
this style for two columns.) Then—

“ The Right Honourable Gentleman was sitting in an old-fashioned
wooden chair, deeply engaged in the perusal of a quaint-looking
volume, which, on his laying it down, I ascertained was labelled
‘ Van Espen.’ On the table, near him, was a book of Lectures by
Canon Llddon, a Greek grammar, a lexicon, a Homer, and a
school translation (known in Welsh as a ‘ Krib ’), while over the
mantel-piece hung a flute, a blunderbuss, and an alpenstock. I
begged him not to move, and inquired whether as yet he had made
the ascent of Penmaenmawr. He replied, ‘ Well, Sir, there are
three courses open to me—either to walk up, or ride up, or stay
where I am.’ I admitted this, but observed that unless the ascent
had been previously made, the descent was almost impossible. He

smiled thoughtfully, and then remarked: ‘ This acute objection of
yours has often occurred to me. Yet were I at the summit of the
mountain, there would be still three courses open to me—either to
walk down on my legs, or to slide down not on my legs, or to remain
on the top.’ After discussing many topics of local interest, and
conversing in the Welsh language, in which I found he was almost
my equal, I inquired—alluding to the instrument over the chimney-
piece—whether he played the flute ? The ex-Premier immediately
took it down, and performed, in a most touching manner, the exqui-
site old Welsh air, ‘ De'wch y Curw.’ I own that I could not
restrain my tears, nor could he; and for some minutes after he had
blown the last note, we sat in silence, weeping copiously. On re-
covering ourselves, I asked him, cheerfully, if he had seen the
Druidieal Stones ? He answered with a sly question, ‘ What would
Cardwell say ? ’ I laughed, and he poked me in the ribs with his
umbrella, which he had playfully passed under the table for that
purpose. He told me he had a Dyn to wait on him, and a Dynes
to cook. In proof that he was not idle, he showed me some Papyr
ysgrifenu, and. said that he was working ‘ naw orian Heddyw.' He
read me a quarter of the first book of the Iliad in Welsh, and ob-
served that he inclined to the theory that Homer was a Welshman.
After sitting with him for four hours, during which time he regaled
me with Bara, ymenyn, Caws, wy, Cig oer, anti Curw, I wished
him ‘ Nosdawch,’ and left him, promising to look in again to-morrow,

‘ when,’ he said, ‘ I will tell you what I intend doing next Session.’ ”
* * * *

I don’t do this, however, but walk about and observe.

Geographical Note.—On the right in the distance is the Great
Orme’s Head. Who was Great Orme ? This question suggests a

Happy Thought.—Write a history of Wales. Once having begun
finding out who Great Orme was, the rest would be easy. Also,
learn Welsh.

Opposite is Puffin Island. Evidently, by its name, the place of
all others for Gigantic Advertisers to live. England is so disfigured
all over with advertisements that it might itself come to be called
“Puffin’ Island.”

Note.—In Penmaenmawr everybody, or nearly everybody, who is
anybody, is named Jones. I shall not he accused of being a Puffin’
Islander if I say that here Mr. Jones is most civil and obliging, and
the presence of Mrs. Jones sheds a lustre over the shop which per-
fectly compensates for gas. Everyone will be delighted, and no one
hurt, when I say that Jones is a capital butcher, a first-rate grocer,
an intelligent banker, a careful flyman, an unexceptionable
chemist, a trustworthy fishmonger, a punctual postman, an ex-
cellent baker, and a generally invaluable person. As a stranger,
and taking only a first superficial view of Penmaenmawr, I cannot
conceive what we should do here without Jones.
Bildbeschreibung
Für diese Seite sind hier keine Informationen vorhanden.

Spalte temporär ausblenden
 
Annotationen