DOI issue:
September 19, 1874
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16939#0125
September 19, 1874.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
117
JEAMES REDIVIVUS.
“ My dear Sir,
I wish you could put this little account of Mine as a Black Evening
Coate about the begining of February in the Duke’s bill ...”
Jeames de la Pluche.
Jeames de la Pluche! are you
with us once more,
The hero below-stairs Punch dealt
with of yore ?
Still ready, ’tis clear, to misspell
and to swindle,
Yet both of those marvellous facul-
ties dwindle.
Why do you write “ Duke,”
Jeames, when “Dook” would
be right ?
And how have you got in such
pitiful plight
That some paltry account, whose
amount we don’t note,
Must be made to appear as a
“ Black Evening Coate ” ?
A fellow like you, Jeames, could
ne’er he the man
To win the affections of poor Mart
Hank :
Still less could your luck and your
pluck have beguiled
The fair HAngelina, the Bare-
acres’ child.
’Tis the day of the decadence, now, of all things,—
As some one or other eternally sings:
We haven’t such Princes or Poets or Peers
As there were in the ancient and chivalrous years.
Our maidens are not what their grandmothers were,
Who used no cosmetics and wore no false hair ;
Our youth think that Darwin and Tyndall are nice,
And haven’t a heart for the duel and dice.
A facile descent! And what must he the end
When Jeames de la Pluche makes the tailor his friend ?
Disestablish the Sovereign, the “ Dook,” and the Priest,
But leave us the Great British Footman, at least!
“ELIZABETH'S RESIDENCE IN A FRENCH
COUNTRY HOUSE.”
It must not be thought that the young woman, who is about to
communicate her experiences to our Readers,. has anything in
common with the heroines whose sorrows and joys have been so
charmingly described by Miss Thackeray and Mrs. Sartoris.
Our Elizabeth is no pale, delicate girl, too timid to assert herself
against a scheming Mother, and an iron-willed domestic. Nor is
she a Governess, careworn, and weary, with a doubtful poitrine,
and an indubitable passion for an, as yet, unbeneficed Clergyman.
On the contrary, she is sturdy, thickset, and square, with no
particular complexion, and with a slight hardness of hearing, and
an air of dogged resolution, on sight of which the hearts of
Mrs. Gilmour and Clementine would have failed them utterly.
Nor have opportunities been wanting to her for the active display
of that which, without offence we will call her ‘‘cussedness.”
A Grandmother, three or four elder Sisters, and a commodity of
Maiden Aunts, have perpetually goaded her to madness. “ It was
their duty, and they didand it is to their strong sense of duty,
on the vexed questions of curled chignons and dress-improvers,
that we owe her departure from home, and her entrance into the
service of the family, by whom she has been taken to “A French
Country House.” At a first glance it would seem that we must not
expect much that is heroical from our Elizabeth, or hope to see in
her the subtle workings of a grand passion ; but who shall say that
a young British housemaid, who struggles with an unknown tongue,
and yearns in vain to comprehend the passionate protestations of a
Voltigeur de la troisieme legere, does not feel as keen a heart-pang
as Elly felt when the Sra John, who came to propose was cozened
from her door ere he had done his errand. It is time, however, to
let Elizabeth speak for herself. It requires no great effort on our
part to remember that, when we were young, our female admirers,
of whom we had great plenty, were wont to give us heart-shaped
pin-cushions as gages d’amour. They were deftly constructed of
card, and covered with coloured silk. Rise! little curtain, rise!
and let Elizabeth show that a heart covered with printed calico
may be equally susceptible of pin-pricks.
FRAGMENT THE FIRST.
I’d better begin by putting down the address of the French
Country House:—
Maison a Louer,
Estaminet du Coin,
Pas De Calais.
When we landed in France, and when our luggage had been
cleared, as they call it (though it’s a wicked shame to make a muddle
of all the things in a young woman’s box, and then talk of its
having been cleared), I was left behind to see that the Baggages
took the luggage safely out to our new house, which is about three
miles away from the sea. The Baggages were all women, and I
never should have forgot myself so far as to miscall my own sex by
giving them such a name, if it had not been printed on a large label
which hung to the neck of each of them. It is true that the French
spell Baggages in this way, “ Bagages ”—but that is their one-eyed
way of doing things, and I knew better. For I must let you know
that I was brought up to be a pupil-teacher, and should have got
the place if it wasn’t for my deafness, which made the Civil Ser-
vice Commissioners think that I shouldn’t be able to hear the
children their lessons. In my present place my deafness doesn’t so
much matter, for there isn’t a great deal of difference between
not hearing a bell and not minding it when you do hear it; and as
everybody gives me credit for not hearing it, I can please myself
about answering it. But, as I’ve said, I hope I know how to spell
Baggages properly, and so in copying the word off the label I have
corrected the bad spelling of the French.
As soon as the Baggages had brought our luggage on trucks to
our house, which they did at a good round trot that would have
astonished a London cab-horse, I looked for the name of the Yilla,
and I saw written up “ Maison d Louer.”
I asked our eldest daughter, who has gone through all the ex-
aminations for the middling classes, what the words meant, and she
said that Maison meant a house, and that Louer meant “to praise,”
and that taken together, the words meant that the house was a
“ House to Praise,” or to be proud of. Ah! thought I, that’s just
the way they go on at Brixton, and Clapham, and Pentonville,
calling a house “ Fairview,” where you can only see across the road
—or “ Brookfields ” where there are no fields, and the nearest ap-
proach to a brook is the main drainage—or “ The Beeches,” when
the only trees about the place are two rose-bushes and a hollyhock
in the front garden. I’m not going to believe, I said, that this is a
“ House to Praise,” merely because they say so. The proof of the
pudding is in the eating, I said; and I’ve found out since with tears
and sorrow that, whether it’s a pudding or a boudin, it’s just the
same. I shall try if I like the house, I said, and if I do, I ’ll praise
it; but in the meantime, that’s its name, and no mistake!
As for the name of the road in which the house stands, it is
written on a house which stands hard by at a spot where two roads
meet. Why they call our road the “Estaminet of Coin” I don’t
know, for all the acquaintance I have made since I came here, and
especially one whose image can’t be banished (for though you may
break your idol, you can’t get rid of the pieces) have been as poor
as poor. The name of our village (Pas de Calais) I copied from the
top of a great board which they call an “ Affichage Public.” I asked
my master what was printed on the board underneath the name of
the village, and he said it was an Officieuse Avis, or offioious advice
from somebody whom he called the “ Perfect.” “ Thank you kindly,
Six,” said I, “ for telling me that; for now I shan’t want to know
anything more about it.” Having a grandmother and three elder
sisters, to say nothing of maiden aunts (who think themselves perfect
enough, goodness knows !), I’ve been very subject to officious advice
all my life, and I didn’t need to come here by what they call the
mal de mer (which is the French, you know, for mail-packet) to get
any more of it, perfect or not perfect.
But here am I, chattering on, and only at the door, whilst the
Baggages are carrying the luggage into the house. The weights
they lifted in doing this would quite remove the scales from the eyes
of those who think that “ woman’s weakness is her strength.” Said
I to myself, when I saw them, “ Woman’s strength is her weak-
ness,” or she wouldn’t be so put upon. “ Bear and Forbear ” is a
very good maxim in our country, I said, but it isn’t so good here,
where the women bear, and the men forbear, I said. For I can
assure you there’s no spoiling of the women here. Nobody makes
dolls of ’em; Nobody makes petted idols of ’em ; Nobody forces them
to spend their useless lives in idleness ; Nobody is jealous of their
doing any work. Oh! No ! Not at all! They do pretty nearly all
the work of the country, and if they could do it all, the men are so
kind and so civil that they might have it all for the asking. But
what I can’t make out is, that in spite of their having their rights
in this noble way, not one of ’em looks any the better for it.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
117
JEAMES REDIVIVUS.
“ My dear Sir,
I wish you could put this little account of Mine as a Black Evening
Coate about the begining of February in the Duke’s bill ...”
Jeames de la Pluche.
Jeames de la Pluche! are you
with us once more,
The hero below-stairs Punch dealt
with of yore ?
Still ready, ’tis clear, to misspell
and to swindle,
Yet both of those marvellous facul-
ties dwindle.
Why do you write “ Duke,”
Jeames, when “Dook” would
be right ?
And how have you got in such
pitiful plight
That some paltry account, whose
amount we don’t note,
Must be made to appear as a
“ Black Evening Coate ” ?
A fellow like you, Jeames, could
ne’er he the man
To win the affections of poor Mart
Hank :
Still less could your luck and your
pluck have beguiled
The fair HAngelina, the Bare-
acres’ child.
’Tis the day of the decadence, now, of all things,—
As some one or other eternally sings:
We haven’t such Princes or Poets or Peers
As there were in the ancient and chivalrous years.
Our maidens are not what their grandmothers were,
Who used no cosmetics and wore no false hair ;
Our youth think that Darwin and Tyndall are nice,
And haven’t a heart for the duel and dice.
A facile descent! And what must he the end
When Jeames de la Pluche makes the tailor his friend ?
Disestablish the Sovereign, the “ Dook,” and the Priest,
But leave us the Great British Footman, at least!
“ELIZABETH'S RESIDENCE IN A FRENCH
COUNTRY HOUSE.”
It must not be thought that the young woman, who is about to
communicate her experiences to our Readers,. has anything in
common with the heroines whose sorrows and joys have been so
charmingly described by Miss Thackeray and Mrs. Sartoris.
Our Elizabeth is no pale, delicate girl, too timid to assert herself
against a scheming Mother, and an iron-willed domestic. Nor is
she a Governess, careworn, and weary, with a doubtful poitrine,
and an indubitable passion for an, as yet, unbeneficed Clergyman.
On the contrary, she is sturdy, thickset, and square, with no
particular complexion, and with a slight hardness of hearing, and
an air of dogged resolution, on sight of which the hearts of
Mrs. Gilmour and Clementine would have failed them utterly.
Nor have opportunities been wanting to her for the active display
of that which, without offence we will call her ‘‘cussedness.”
A Grandmother, three or four elder Sisters, and a commodity of
Maiden Aunts, have perpetually goaded her to madness. “ It was
their duty, and they didand it is to their strong sense of duty,
on the vexed questions of curled chignons and dress-improvers,
that we owe her departure from home, and her entrance into the
service of the family, by whom she has been taken to “A French
Country House.” At a first glance it would seem that we must not
expect much that is heroical from our Elizabeth, or hope to see in
her the subtle workings of a grand passion ; but who shall say that
a young British housemaid, who struggles with an unknown tongue,
and yearns in vain to comprehend the passionate protestations of a
Voltigeur de la troisieme legere, does not feel as keen a heart-pang
as Elly felt when the Sra John, who came to propose was cozened
from her door ere he had done his errand. It is time, however, to
let Elizabeth speak for herself. It requires no great effort on our
part to remember that, when we were young, our female admirers,
of whom we had great plenty, were wont to give us heart-shaped
pin-cushions as gages d’amour. They were deftly constructed of
card, and covered with coloured silk. Rise! little curtain, rise!
and let Elizabeth show that a heart covered with printed calico
may be equally susceptible of pin-pricks.
FRAGMENT THE FIRST.
I’d better begin by putting down the address of the French
Country House:—
Maison a Louer,
Estaminet du Coin,
Pas De Calais.
When we landed in France, and when our luggage had been
cleared, as they call it (though it’s a wicked shame to make a muddle
of all the things in a young woman’s box, and then talk of its
having been cleared), I was left behind to see that the Baggages
took the luggage safely out to our new house, which is about three
miles away from the sea. The Baggages were all women, and I
never should have forgot myself so far as to miscall my own sex by
giving them such a name, if it had not been printed on a large label
which hung to the neck of each of them. It is true that the French
spell Baggages in this way, “ Bagages ”—but that is their one-eyed
way of doing things, and I knew better. For I must let you know
that I was brought up to be a pupil-teacher, and should have got
the place if it wasn’t for my deafness, which made the Civil Ser-
vice Commissioners think that I shouldn’t be able to hear the
children their lessons. In my present place my deafness doesn’t so
much matter, for there isn’t a great deal of difference between
not hearing a bell and not minding it when you do hear it; and as
everybody gives me credit for not hearing it, I can please myself
about answering it. But, as I’ve said, I hope I know how to spell
Baggages properly, and so in copying the word off the label I have
corrected the bad spelling of the French.
As soon as the Baggages had brought our luggage on trucks to
our house, which they did at a good round trot that would have
astonished a London cab-horse, I looked for the name of the Yilla,
and I saw written up “ Maison d Louer.”
I asked our eldest daughter, who has gone through all the ex-
aminations for the middling classes, what the words meant, and she
said that Maison meant a house, and that Louer meant “to praise,”
and that taken together, the words meant that the house was a
“ House to Praise,” or to be proud of. Ah! thought I, that’s just
the way they go on at Brixton, and Clapham, and Pentonville,
calling a house “ Fairview,” where you can only see across the road
—or “ Brookfields ” where there are no fields, and the nearest ap-
proach to a brook is the main drainage—or “ The Beeches,” when
the only trees about the place are two rose-bushes and a hollyhock
in the front garden. I’m not going to believe, I said, that this is a
“ House to Praise,” merely because they say so. The proof of the
pudding is in the eating, I said; and I’ve found out since with tears
and sorrow that, whether it’s a pudding or a boudin, it’s just the
same. I shall try if I like the house, I said, and if I do, I ’ll praise
it; but in the meantime, that’s its name, and no mistake!
As for the name of the road in which the house stands, it is
written on a house which stands hard by at a spot where two roads
meet. Why they call our road the “Estaminet of Coin” I don’t
know, for all the acquaintance I have made since I came here, and
especially one whose image can’t be banished (for though you may
break your idol, you can’t get rid of the pieces) have been as poor
as poor. The name of our village (Pas de Calais) I copied from the
top of a great board which they call an “ Affichage Public.” I asked
my master what was printed on the board underneath the name of
the village, and he said it was an Officieuse Avis, or offioious advice
from somebody whom he called the “ Perfect.” “ Thank you kindly,
Six,” said I, “ for telling me that; for now I shan’t want to know
anything more about it.” Having a grandmother and three elder
sisters, to say nothing of maiden aunts (who think themselves perfect
enough, goodness knows !), I’ve been very subject to officious advice
all my life, and I didn’t need to come here by what they call the
mal de mer (which is the French, you know, for mail-packet) to get
any more of it, perfect or not perfect.
But here am I, chattering on, and only at the door, whilst the
Baggages are carrying the luggage into the house. The weights
they lifted in doing this would quite remove the scales from the eyes
of those who think that “ woman’s weakness is her strength.” Said
I to myself, when I saw them, “ Woman’s strength is her weak-
ness,” or she wouldn’t be so put upon. “ Bear and Forbear ” is a
very good maxim in our country, I said, but it isn’t so good here,
where the women bear, and the men forbear, I said. For I can
assure you there’s no spoiling of the women here. Nobody makes
dolls of ’em; Nobody makes petted idols of ’em ; Nobody forces them
to spend their useless lives in idleness ; Nobody is jealous of their
doing any work. Oh! No ! Not at all! They do pretty nearly all
the work of the country, and if they could do it all, the men are so
kind and so civil that they might have it all for the asking. But
what I can’t make out is, that in spite of their having their rights
in this noble way, not one of ’em looks any the better for it.