Puck — January 22, 1879 — page 10: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

| Io. PUCK. “APPROBATION FROM SIR HUBERT STANLEY.” Ir is with pleasure that we reprint from a San Francisco family journal the following chaste and delicate compli- ment. We need make no com- ment on the remarks of our contemporary. They speak for themselves. Nor need we call attention to the fact that they emanate from a Christian and a gentleman, We copy them in full, merely omitting such ex- pressions as could not but bring a blush to our cheek—and might have the same effect on our readers: B***Y PUCK. When a journal surrenders its soul to vulgar- ity and indecency it is lost, no matter how cle- verly it may be illustrated or how wittily it may be written. Dirt will crumble, be it never so brightly gilded, and the p****r is sure to meet with contempt though his tailor and barber may excel. ‘These remarks, we regret to say, are applicable to a certain New York weekly, named Puck. We used to admire this. bright little sheet for the excellence of its illustrations, the sparkle of its text, and the keenness of its satire, We regarded it as a kind of literary brother, and were glad to see it lift its lance ainst all manner of atominatiohs. But Lu- cifer has fallen; and once more we scour the field of American journalism in vain for a pa- per that can be pungent and clean at one and the same time. Some time ago Puck began to give itself up to legs, breasts and b******s, The cloven-hoof of the Day's Doings, the Fo- fice Gasette, and the rest of that libidinous tribe, began to peep from under the decent robe of the social critic, and our little friend of the dress-coat and crayon came to confound —as the ignorant so often do—satire with satyr. This went from bad to worse, until now there is only an imaginary line between Puck and any other obscene publication, In the number that reaches us this week there is a good oppor- tunity to view the abyss of p***hood into which the paper has fallen. The illustrations anent Talmage are indecent enough, Heaven kuows, but we recognize the fact that it needs a hot iron to effectually cauterize such a phari- saical knave as that same gentleman. What we refer more particularly to is the illustration concerning the Marquis of Lorne and his wife. It is beastly in detail and suggestion, even if it represented scenes in a b****0; but when we consider that it is intended for a “‘satire” (God help us!) upon the viceregal Court of a neigh- boring and friendly power, its indecency is eclipsed by its vulgarity and coarseness. ‘The man who conceived and drew it is a black- d, but the man who bought and published it is a soulless ****, for he purchased a silly, slanderous lie, and p*********q an otherwise well-favored journal for a few pieces of silver. It is our habit (and a sad habit it is) to carica- ture our own ipapiic men, from the President down, with ill-bred and offensive familiarity; but the journal that represented Mrs. Hayes dancing the can-can in tights would arouse the spirit of the thinnest blooded Yankee among <us. Yet here we have a representation of Queen tune that Bismarck may order to be played. Victoria's daughter, with a crown-cocked on the side of her head, indulging in **** gam- bols with her husband, while scattered all over the page are still more conciusive proofs that both artist and publisher are week-kneed 1****rs of the lowest type. This may be an advertise- ment, but if it is, Puck may congratulate him- self on the fact that we shall not send in our bill. Tuere is evidence that Mr. Dennis Kearney has gone into journalism in San Francisco. Even in San Francisco differences of opin- ion exist, as the following article from our bright ‘contemporary, the San Francisco IMlus- trated Wasp, shows: MODESTY, THY NAME IS HUMBUG. One of the ablest cartoons which it has been our lot to see for some time past, was published by our contemporary Puck in the issue of De- cember 18th ult. It presents in a graphic man- ner the various aspects of the recent “Court” order by which our blue-nosed cousins—of the female persuasion—are compelled to arpear before deputy-royalty in—a—the dre:s most af- fected by the frail inhabitants of Morton street and Waverly Place, or not at all. It is a noto- rious fact that the female aristocracy of the British Colonies—Australia, Africa and Canada —for the most part commenced life at the wash-tub, the cook-stove, or somewhere adja- cent thereto, While the male aristocracy, for the most part can trace their pedigree back one generation to a person who, if not noble, at least baked bread or soldered tin-pots for no- bility. And often a search into the mysteries of another generation fetches up in the name- less ward in the poor house. Under the cir- cumstances, therefore, we do not doubt but that the deputy-royal command will receive that prompt obedience which always charac- terizes snobocracy. We have seen, somewhere or other, what urported to a criticism of our New York neigh- r, in which the words “indecency” and “blackguard” are used with recklessness. Hard names are, to a certain class of minds, as con- vincing as the most logical argument. In fact, in the Billingsgate fish market they are said to be more so. Besides, the modesty which is shocked at the pictorial representation of a woman dancing the can-can, and sees nothing wrong in a woman walking around with about half of her person stark naked is—wonderful, but, under the circumstances, slightly syco- phantic. THE GREAT GERMAN RINGMASTER. Mr. Bisstarck always manages to occupy a large share of public attention, but his last par- ticular move has excited even more than usual amount of interest. Some members of the Reichsrath have got into the awkward habit of saying what the: mean, which does not exactly suit Mr. Bismarcl —that is to say, he doesn’t mind their express- ing opinions, provided the opinions coincide with his. This is not always the case, and then Bismarck gets mad—the iron enters into his soul and the blood rushes to his head. Puck charitably supposes that it was in a paroxysm of this kind that Mr. Bismarck in- troduced that celebrated muzzling bill of his. By all means let it pass. It will effectually put a stop to any more shots at the Emperor Wil- liam, prevent socialism, abolish poverty, make the land flow with milk, honey, beer, and per- haps another fluid, a little redder. Then will Bismarck be happy, and the free and independent representative canines pleas- antly muzzled, will be able to. dance to any ONE MAN PLEASED. Bostox, January 17, 1879. My dear Puck. Iam so glad you have opened a puzzle de- partment. It was the only thing needed to make ‘‘the little boy” a success, except, per- haps, a pair of breeches; and then, too, your prizes are so grand. Couldn't you throw ina copy of the Beecher trial to the individual who solves every one correctly? I succeeded in all but the last, and have got most of that. I read it to my wife, and she is now an invalid, and you will have to pay the doctor's bill. Yours truly, C.W.S. THE THEATRES. “HL. M.S, Pinafora,” a grand Italian opera in 2 acts, was produced at the STANDARD ‘Theatre on Wednesday last. The piece made a hit, owing to the supremely artistic acting of Signor Tommaso Whiffenoni, and Signora Blancia Galtoni, assisted by Signor Makino. Signor Whiffenoni assumed the part of #2 Mar- chese Giuseppe Portero; and his impersonation was simply thrilling in its grandeur and pathos. His rendering of the aria “Tam the Monarch of the Sea, The ruler of the Queen's Navee!” was a marvel of tenderness and power. Signora Galtoni, as 4a Donna degli Bumboati, revealed unexpected depths of infantine grace. She was ably seconded by Signorina Jarbeau, who, with Signor Makino, inspired a choicely bad chorus with some little pretense of animation. Signornina Eva Millsi came within an ace of knocking the whole performance into eternal oblivion. If it had n't been that Signori Gil- berti e Sullivani had written a stronger opera than any one young woman could possibly spoil, Signornina Millsi would have spoiled it. There are many touching and beautiful gems in ‘ Pinafora,” among which may be mentioned the divine solo for baritone: “E Anglicano, Ipse enim dixit” and “Nein, niemals! Was, niemals ? Well, kaum jemals!” “« Les Fourchambault,” at the Broapway, is doing well, despite the fact that it is the next worst version of the play in the English lan-” guage. It fits the Lingards well, and fills the theatre, which is about all that can be asked of a-play now adays. The characteristics of the Lingard family are too well known to need any remarks here, It is generally understood that Miss Alice Dunning Lingard is beautiful, that Mr, William Horace Lingard isn’t; and that Miss Dickie Lingard is something between the two, “Les Fourchambault” is to be followed by Mr. Edgar's début upon the stage. He will attend to Xing Lear to begin with, Answeys for the Auvions. Has. tine.—She was tossed way up—way up in G, Turrurre.—No, sir, we don’t want a sporting editor. We don’t care a continental flip whether Mr. McHurdle’s b. g. Damfino beat Mr. O’Hobblehem's ch. m. by half- a-neck—and we don't belleve he did. We don’t care who makes the best double-barreled-English-twist shot- guns, and we don’t believe he does. We don’t know whether it is the custom to troll for blackfish with a ten- foot pole, or whether you pick them off trees, and we don’t think it is so, No, there is no room for a sporting editor here. comicbooks.com