DOI Heft:
August 7, 1880
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17764#0057
AUGUST 7, 1880.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
42
“ SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.57
Mr. Punch, jit good Young Friend,
I give you your second title because I would have you
know, Sir, that I was wearing my Sovereign’s uniform and lighting
battles under the shadow of the British Flag long before you were
born, Sir! Zounds, Sir ! you were a baby in your cradle when I led
the forlorn hope at-But there, I won’t tell you where. A warrior
never boasts of his own feats of arms. I am generous to a fault,
and never misrepresented a fact in my whole life! A true old
English gentleman, Sir, from my white locks to my patent leather
boots.
Attention! You want me to give you a few hints on Sporting.
Well, Sir, you could not have come to a better quarter for informa-
tion. I may say, Sir, that I have been born on the turf (the dear
old Irish turf it was, bedad, Sir!), and have lived on it in various
quarters of the world all my life long—as a boy, as a man, as a
veteran. Like every commander, I have seen my ups and downs.
I have made pots of money, and have lived, Sir, in the most elegant
affluence. I have had a Town house in Piccadilly, a couple of stalls
at the Operas, a shooting-box in the Highlands, a villa in the Isle of
Wight, with a yacht moored off the dining-room window, a pied a \
terre at Paris, and a settled-from-the-Conquest family seat (with a
few thousand acres, half a dozen lawn-tennis grounds, an orchid-
house, and a first-class Tudor midnight ghost, all complete) in the
best hunting county in the shires! Yes, Sir, I have known what
our “ lively neighbours ” call the “ High Life.” On the other hand, !
I own (without shame) that I have sometimes been “ in retreat.” i
Before now I have lost everything, yes, Sir, everything—but my
honour!
Was I at Goodwood? Why, Sir, you might as well ask me if I
had ever captured a battery of the enemy single-handed ! Of course
I was at Goodwood ! And a very pleasant party we were, Sir. The
usual four—my Right Hon. Friend (who had actually put off a
Cabinet Council), the Archbishop, the Millionnaire, and myself. My
ecclesiastical colleague (if I may be permitted the expression) -was in
his very best form. His story about the Sultan, the Margate
Bathing-Machine Horse, and Her Majesty’s Consul at-(you know
where), was absolutely screaming ! The practical joke, they tell me,
was contrived by Bismarck—the dog! Ha! ha! I will repeat it.
Well, you must know that when Lord Salisbury was--but of
course you have heard it before, Sir ! If you haven’t, Sir, more
shame to you, Sir, for neglecting the duties of your position ! My
Right Hon. Friend was depressed, and was scarcely equal to dis-
cussing finance (his strong point, you know, Sir), with the Mil-
lionnaire. My protege, the Millionnaire! How much does he not
owe to me! And, if it comes to that, how much do I not owe to
him ! But, with the delicacy of true friendship, Sir, an account has
been kept by neither of us. At least I can answer for myself, Sir.
And now to the racing. Right shoulders forward—quick march!
Well, there was nothing in it 1 Holtow as a drum, Sir. The Good-
wood Cup was a match, Sir! Think of that, Sir—a .match, Sir!
Will you believe it, Sir—a field of two ! Scarcely enough to afford
a cry of “ A thousand to one—bar one,” Sir ! The prize, according
to the Times, was a “ Roman Crater,” Sir! Although I am an
Englishman in the very best sense of the word, I still have a few
drops of Irish blood in me, and I was disgusted to find “ the crater ”
so insulted, Sir ! It was an outrage, Sir—an agrarian outrage, Sir !
But to continue. The favourite was nowhere, and (as the Archbishop
observed) Dresden China was not broken. Good, eh ? A quaint
conceit, Sir ! None of your nonsense, Sir ! I am a simple, guileless
old soldier, Sir, and I tell you it amused me ! Law! how heartily I
laughed as the old ecclesiastic paid me over my little earnings ! To
humour him, I had taken him several times over, Sir, about Chip-
pendale at 10,000 to 30 ! I made the odds for him myself!
But I was so thoroughly disgusted, Sir, with the whole affair that
I gave up Goodwood on Friday in favour of the City. It always
does my heart good, Sir, to see our grand old Metropolis in all the
glory of its Business Pride ! The Home of Enterprise, Sir, the very
Centre of Commerce ! Ah, Sir, a noble thought, a very noble thought
indeed ! And, truth to say, Sir, I had a small commission on hand,
Sir. I am good-natured to a fault, Sir, and can say “ No,” Sir, to
nobody. So you shall hear, Sir!
The aged widow of my deceased uncle had entrusted me with what
she accurately termed her “little all” for investment. A few
hundreds, don’t you know, Sir, just enough to keep the wolf from
the door down at Brixton. Of course, as an officer, a gentleman,
and a relative, my services were given to her gratuitously. 1
insisted that she should have every penny—every penny, Sir—of the
interest accruing from the Bonds. She was to lose nothing-—
absolutely nothing, Sir, unless the Stock (on realisation) happened
to go down. I, on the other hand (as she had a poor head for busi-
ness, and I didn’t want to bother her with details), agreed only to
take something when—mark the when. Sir—the Stocks went up!
Then—but not until then—was I to take the difference. I selected a
good substantial healthy-looking Stock of unquestionable respect-
ability, and—well, as I write, the blessings of my venerable and
venerated connection are ringing in my ears ! Zounds, Sir, I am
affected almost to tears ! The rest is silence !
Yours to command,
The Colonel.
P.S.—By the way, should—I repeat shoidd—you and your friends
(I like to be genial, Sir, and I say the more the merrier, Sir,—the
more the merrier!) want something really safe, why follow me. I
have invested the fortune of my aged Aunt (dear old lady!) in
Turkish Fives!
ART POUR ART.
{From a Parisian point of view.)
The Englishman’s Art! Ah ! mafoi, ’tis ridiculous,
Borne, Boeotian, maudlin, meticulous.
Bon pare de famille and thrall to the dutiful,
He’s quite devoid of true sense of the Beautiful.
Is he not steeped in “propriety ”—soaked in it ?
Pouf! Gallic lungs cannot breathe, they are choked in it.
Ne’er will he rise to the true Ideality
Whilst he is weighted with stupid Morality.
Painter, it hangs on his Philistine neck a log,
Poet, he’s dragged to the earth by the decalogue ;
While he is frightened of Nature and Nudity,
Slave he must be to Convention and Crudity.
Two things are worthy of high Art capacity—
Painting bare limbs and describing salacity.
Art that’s not hinged on these points in banality;
No inspiration is found in Morality !
Bull is so fond of his sweet domesticities,
Calm honied courtships, and baby felicities,
Treackle-pot passion, and coarse cockney drollery.
Art ? A mere compound of clap-trap and foolery !
Art that gives not with minutest explicitness
Details of passion in piquant illicitness,
Virginal vice and mature sensuality,
Can't be true Art, for it smacks of Morality.
Art must he free ; that’s the sine qua non, you see
(Some Britons own it,—they are getting on you see).
Art owneth nought as a bond, chain, or band meant,
Save this,—it must deal with the Seventh Commandment.
Art without that theme to batten and tarry on,
Pines, like a fly in the absence of carrion.
Bondage to dirt ? Not at all. Ideality
Finds nothing borne about ^morality !
The Old Golden Age.—Ladies are wearing “old Gold.” When
husbands grumble at these new cases of waist, their wives, being on,
or rather in, their metal, reply that “ it is good for home trade, the
mode not being French, but thoroughly John-Bullionish.” “ ’Van-
tage they win,” as we say at Lawn-Tennis.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
42
“ SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.57
Mr. Punch, jit good Young Friend,
I give you your second title because I would have you
know, Sir, that I was wearing my Sovereign’s uniform and lighting
battles under the shadow of the British Flag long before you were
born, Sir! Zounds, Sir ! you were a baby in your cradle when I led
the forlorn hope at-But there, I won’t tell you where. A warrior
never boasts of his own feats of arms. I am generous to a fault,
and never misrepresented a fact in my whole life! A true old
English gentleman, Sir, from my white locks to my patent leather
boots.
Attention! You want me to give you a few hints on Sporting.
Well, Sir, you could not have come to a better quarter for informa-
tion. I may say, Sir, that I have been born on the turf (the dear
old Irish turf it was, bedad, Sir!), and have lived on it in various
quarters of the world all my life long—as a boy, as a man, as a
veteran. Like every commander, I have seen my ups and downs.
I have made pots of money, and have lived, Sir, in the most elegant
affluence. I have had a Town house in Piccadilly, a couple of stalls
at the Operas, a shooting-box in the Highlands, a villa in the Isle of
Wight, with a yacht moored off the dining-room window, a pied a \
terre at Paris, and a settled-from-the-Conquest family seat (with a
few thousand acres, half a dozen lawn-tennis grounds, an orchid-
house, and a first-class Tudor midnight ghost, all complete) in the
best hunting county in the shires! Yes, Sir, I have known what
our “ lively neighbours ” call the “ High Life.” On the other hand, !
I own (without shame) that I have sometimes been “ in retreat.” i
Before now I have lost everything, yes, Sir, everything—but my
honour!
Was I at Goodwood? Why, Sir, you might as well ask me if I
had ever captured a battery of the enemy single-handed ! Of course
I was at Goodwood ! And a very pleasant party we were, Sir. The
usual four—my Right Hon. Friend (who had actually put off a
Cabinet Council), the Archbishop, the Millionnaire, and myself. My
ecclesiastical colleague (if I may be permitted the expression) -was in
his very best form. His story about the Sultan, the Margate
Bathing-Machine Horse, and Her Majesty’s Consul at-(you know
where), was absolutely screaming ! The practical joke, they tell me,
was contrived by Bismarck—the dog! Ha! ha! I will repeat it.
Well, you must know that when Lord Salisbury was--but of
course you have heard it before, Sir ! If you haven’t, Sir, more
shame to you, Sir, for neglecting the duties of your position ! My
Right Hon. Friend was depressed, and was scarcely equal to dis-
cussing finance (his strong point, you know, Sir), with the Mil-
lionnaire. My protege, the Millionnaire! How much does he not
owe to me! And, if it comes to that, how much do I not owe to
him ! But, with the delicacy of true friendship, Sir, an account has
been kept by neither of us. At least I can answer for myself, Sir.
And now to the racing. Right shoulders forward—quick march!
Well, there was nothing in it 1 Holtow as a drum, Sir. The Good-
wood Cup was a match, Sir! Think of that, Sir—a .match, Sir!
Will you believe it, Sir—a field of two ! Scarcely enough to afford
a cry of “ A thousand to one—bar one,” Sir ! The prize, according
to the Times, was a “ Roman Crater,” Sir! Although I am an
Englishman in the very best sense of the word, I still have a few
drops of Irish blood in me, and I was disgusted to find “ the crater ”
so insulted, Sir ! It was an outrage, Sir—an agrarian outrage, Sir !
But to continue. The favourite was nowhere, and (as the Archbishop
observed) Dresden China was not broken. Good, eh ? A quaint
conceit, Sir ! None of your nonsense, Sir ! I am a simple, guileless
old soldier, Sir, and I tell you it amused me ! Law! how heartily I
laughed as the old ecclesiastic paid me over my little earnings ! To
humour him, I had taken him several times over, Sir, about Chip-
pendale at 10,000 to 30 ! I made the odds for him myself!
But I was so thoroughly disgusted, Sir, with the whole affair that
I gave up Goodwood on Friday in favour of the City. It always
does my heart good, Sir, to see our grand old Metropolis in all the
glory of its Business Pride ! The Home of Enterprise, Sir, the very
Centre of Commerce ! Ah, Sir, a noble thought, a very noble thought
indeed ! And, truth to say, Sir, I had a small commission on hand,
Sir. I am good-natured to a fault, Sir, and can say “ No,” Sir, to
nobody. So you shall hear, Sir!
The aged widow of my deceased uncle had entrusted me with what
she accurately termed her “little all” for investment. A few
hundreds, don’t you know, Sir, just enough to keep the wolf from
the door down at Brixton. Of course, as an officer, a gentleman,
and a relative, my services were given to her gratuitously. 1
insisted that she should have every penny—every penny, Sir—of the
interest accruing from the Bonds. She was to lose nothing-—
absolutely nothing, Sir, unless the Stock (on realisation) happened
to go down. I, on the other hand (as she had a poor head for busi-
ness, and I didn’t want to bother her with details), agreed only to
take something when—mark the when. Sir—the Stocks went up!
Then—but not until then—was I to take the difference. I selected a
good substantial healthy-looking Stock of unquestionable respect-
ability, and—well, as I write, the blessings of my venerable and
venerated connection are ringing in my ears ! Zounds, Sir, I am
affected almost to tears ! The rest is silence !
Yours to command,
The Colonel.
P.S.—By the way, should—I repeat shoidd—you and your friends
(I like to be genial, Sir, and I say the more the merrier, Sir,—the
more the merrier!) want something really safe, why follow me. I
have invested the fortune of my aged Aunt (dear old lady!) in
Turkish Fives!
ART POUR ART.
{From a Parisian point of view.)
The Englishman’s Art! Ah ! mafoi, ’tis ridiculous,
Borne, Boeotian, maudlin, meticulous.
Bon pare de famille and thrall to the dutiful,
He’s quite devoid of true sense of the Beautiful.
Is he not steeped in “propriety ”—soaked in it ?
Pouf! Gallic lungs cannot breathe, they are choked in it.
Ne’er will he rise to the true Ideality
Whilst he is weighted with stupid Morality.
Painter, it hangs on his Philistine neck a log,
Poet, he’s dragged to the earth by the decalogue ;
While he is frightened of Nature and Nudity,
Slave he must be to Convention and Crudity.
Two things are worthy of high Art capacity—
Painting bare limbs and describing salacity.
Art that’s not hinged on these points in banality;
No inspiration is found in Morality !
Bull is so fond of his sweet domesticities,
Calm honied courtships, and baby felicities,
Treackle-pot passion, and coarse cockney drollery.
Art ? A mere compound of clap-trap and foolery !
Art that gives not with minutest explicitness
Details of passion in piquant illicitness,
Virginal vice and mature sensuality,
Can't be true Art, for it smacks of Morality.
Art must he free ; that’s the sine qua non, you see
(Some Britons own it,—they are getting on you see).
Art owneth nought as a bond, chain, or band meant,
Save this,—it must deal with the Seventh Commandment.
Art without that theme to batten and tarry on,
Pines, like a fly in the absence of carrion.
Bondage to dirt ? Not at all. Ideality
Finds nothing borne about ^morality !
The Old Golden Age.—Ladies are wearing “old Gold.” When
husbands grumble at these new cases of waist, their wives, being on,
or rather in, their metal, reply that “ it is good for home trade, the
mode not being French, but thoroughly John-Bullionish.” “ ’Van-
tage they win,” as we say at Lawn-Tennis.