Punch (72.1877)

180

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [April 21, 1877.

/ESTHETIC ECONOMY.

last number of " Fors Cla-
vigera " is curious as well as
interesting, on account of
the details there given of
the author's budget. Mr.
Buskin, in his own words,
has '1 unveiled the statue of
his economy," and, though
no one who reads will accuse
him of ostentation, it would
be difficult to say exactly
what it is that has prompted
imitators of the great art-
critic's out - spokenness to
besiege Mr. Punch's letter-
box. Among the letters called
into existence by the example
of this high a;sthetic autho-
rity the following may be
cited:—

To Mr. Punch, Fleet Street.
Sir, April 1.

You will be glad to
hear that, on the death of
my father, who was a cele-
brated Liverpool miser, I
inherited a sum producing
something like £70,000 per
annum, which placed me above.absolute want. My first financial
investment was the purchase of a lovely wife of good family. By this
transaction I realised considerably, as I introduced some excellent
mortgages to my wife's relations, and disposed of much shaky pro-
perty to an immense advantage. I thought it rather hard on my own
family that my father should have left them nothing, and volun-
teered to invest their small fortunes in some excellent Companies of
which I am paid Director. I relieved my conscience at the same
time by purchasing for my wife a splendid suite of diamonds, left in
pawn by a well-known Duchess. I have since assisted a young relation
to a permanent situation in Portland Island, and am serenely happy
in the certainty, so far as anything human is certain, that I shall
die as far from poverty as possible. My annual subscriptions to
various Charities, which advertise once a week the names of their
subscribers in large letters and prominent columns of the public
journals, amount to sixty guineas—in sums of one guinea, and, in
some cases, two guineas, from

Yours faithfully,

Skinflint House, Cheshire. Theophilus Screwdriver.

To — Punch, Esq.

Dear Punch,

" Anch'Io son pittore." I'm an artist, and generally con-
sidered a man of taste. I came in, a few years ago, to a fortune of
£30,000, which I inherited from an uncle who was good enough to
make room for me by joining his ancestors. My first extravagance
was the purchase of a grand collection of spurious Majolica, imita-
tion bronzes, and counterfeit china, for which I gave the modest
sum of £2000. This necessitated naturally the lease of a set of
apartments in the Albany, where I flatter myself the dinners I give
from week to week are already celebrated among the best bon-
vivants in London.

After studying Art and the Museums, my aesthetic tastes would
not permit a man of culture to retain the mass of falsehood on my
walls with which I had been satisfied at starting. When I trans-
ferred my interest in these I lost about £1995 upon the transaction.

However, by the judicious expenditure of £18,000, I soon became
the happy possessor of some of the best examples of the arts of
Cellini, Palissy, Buhl, and others, besides hanging on my walls
several gems of Meissonier, Gebome, &c, &c. I am now in the
hands of several intelligent members of the Lost Tribes ; and I am
persuaded that when I have sold my lease, collections, and plate, I
shall not be in a position—if I satisfy my Israelitish friends—to
leave even hay for life to my Cousin's pet donkey, the only creature
with whom I have any personal sympathy.

I beg to remain, yours, poorer than ever,

Raphael Surface.

mysteries revived.

The Stipendiary Magistrate at Sheffield has inflicted penalties for
performance of an unlicensed drama, on the subject of "Joseph and
his Brethren;" holding, with the Lord Chamberlain, that the
Stage is " not for Joseph "—or any such subject.

A SLAP AT A SATIRIST.

(Mrs. Gingham communicates her Opinions on Plain Cooking, and
the pertness of certain Newspaper Parties.)

" The real difficulty about cooking is that it is in the hands of woman, and
that woman is too ethereal a creature to interest herself in the matter. She
is rather like Calypso, who partook of nectar and ambrosia, while she saw
that her mortal guest had pork, almost always pork, and Pramnian wine.
Woman, for her part, could live on tea and bread-and-butter for ever, with
an occasional egg once or twice a week. These things are her nectar and
ambrosia, and as long as man has his barbaric joint she thinks that all is
well. The English joint is the bane of domestic life. . . . ' Plain cooking,'
says a doctor, ' is an abomination ; avoid it as you would poison. If you are
tired of life, I can find other means of ridding you of it. Plain cooking,' this
outspoken physician goes on, ' brings more grist to our mill than miasmas,
drains, or either extreme of temperature.' "—Daily Hews.

Mrs. Calypso I don't know. (Tom says she's not a Missis,
But a Greek nymph as doted on a party called Ulysses.)
But what I've got to say is this, this chaffy sort of mocking
At "Woman's works and Woman's ways is getting simply shocking.

Housewife or nymph, Calypso found, there's not the slightest
question,

That men are a contrairy lot. But as for that suggestion,
That Woman's too "ethereal"—which what's that?—to care for
dinner,

That's all the writer's artful spite, as sure as I'm a sinner.

They 're always downing on us thus, a hinting round and sneering ;
Better abuse than this 'ere sly and niminy-piminy jeering.
If " nectar " and " ambrosia "'s Greek for tea " and "bread-and-
butter,"

The feller's words is right-down fudge—a falsehood base and utter.

Women ain't butterflies, no fear, nor likeways gals ain't chickings,
Though some of them in public play at bird-like sips and pickings.
But when they on the quiet feed, d'ye think they pick and sip so ?
No, not a bit of it: no more, I '11 warrant, did Calypso.

Barbaric joints, the bane of life ? I do declare it's awful!

Such revolutionary rant should be, if 'tain't, unlawful.

Which our Constitution and our joints are England's greatest glories ;

Leastways, so Tories used to say ; and I say so with the Tories.

That fellow must be kickshaw-mad, a nasty French-fed glutton,
Who feels no respect for sirloin and is rude to leg o' mutton.
Which they're English institutions to be kept in all their purity ;
Or, as Tom says—that lad's so smart—our national joint-security.

Plain Cooking ? It's a precious boon our land alone possesses.
Don't tell me of your German mucks nor yet of your French messes.
This fad for foreign feeding 's rot; the Swells may patronise it,
But no, not me, nor yet my sort—we utterly despise it.

I don't ask John to " live on pork and Pramnian wine for ever."
(Which I wonder what that wine may be ? Must ask young Tom—
he's clever.)

But if an English joint's his bane, plain cooked as I can cook it,
He'd better hire a Parleyvoo, and as for me—I '11 hook it!

Paradise for Paupers.

Mr. Bumble was thrown into a violent fit of indignation by the
following paragraph, which he encountered in a newspaper :—

" Female Guardians.—On Saturday Miss Maud Stanley, cousin of
Dean Stanley, was elected a guardian of St. Anne's, Soho."

The election of Ladies to the office of Guardian is regarded by
Mr. Bumble as a most unporochial innowation. He is highly scan-
dalised to see that it is an increasing 'abit, and thinks the rate-
payers might just as well put themwicious paupers under the wings
of guardian hangels at once ; which would be making the work-
house the wery rewerse of the place as it was intended for.

"should auld acquaintance be eobgot."

Our excellent and enthusiastic friend, Professor Blackie, is
much annoyed at the bad taste of his countrymen in encouraging
Classical Concerts into which no Scotch music is admitted. It is
reported that he has written to Richard Wagner, urging that
great musical reformer to add to his orchestra the Bagpipe and the
Scotch Fiddle.__________

A Counter Irritant.—A Shopman who will insist on knowing if
you want any other article to-day.