Punch, or the London Charivari. Vol. 1, July 31, 1841 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari. Vol. 1, July 31, 1841
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 1.
FOR THE WEEK ENDING JULY 31, 1841.
* * * * *
POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE.
Let me earnestly implore you, good Mr. PUNCH, to give publicity to a new
invention in the art of poetry, which I desire only to claim the merit of
having discovered. I am perfectly willing to permit others to improve upon
it, and to bring it to that perfection of which I am delightedly aware, it
is susceptible.
It is sometimes lamented that the taste for poetry is on the decline--that
it is no longer relished--that the public will never again purchase it as a
luxury. But it must be some consolation to our modern poets to know (as no
doubt they do, for it is by this time notorious) that their productions
really do a vast deal of service--that they are of a value for which they
were never designed. They--I mean many of them--have found their way into
the pharmacopoeia, and are constantly prescribed by physicians as
soporifics of rare potency. For instance--
"---- not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world.
Shall ever usher thee to that sweet sleep"
to which a man shall be conducted by a few doses of Robert Montgomery's
Devil's Elixir, called "Satan," or by a portion, or rather a potion, of
"Oxford." Apollo, we know, was the god of medicine as well as of poetry.
Behold, in this our bard, his two divine functions equally mingled!
But waiving this, of which it was not my intention to speak, let me remark,
that the reason why poetry will no longer go down with the public, _as
poetry_, is, that the whole frame-work is worn out. No new rhymes can be
got at. When we come to a "mountain," we are tolerably sure that a
"fountain" is not very far off; when we see "sadness," it leads at once to
"madness"--to "borrow" is sure to be followed by "sorrow;" and although it
is said, "_when_ poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the
window,"--a saying which seems to imply that poverty _may_ sometimes enter
at the chimney or elsewhere--yet I assure you, in poetry, "the poor"
_always_ come in, and always go out at "the door."
My new invention has closed the "door," for the future, against the vulgar
crew of versifiers. A man _must_ be original. He must write common-sense
too--hard exactions I know, but it cannot be helped.
I transmit you a specimen. Like all great discoveries, the chief merit of
my invention is its simplicity. Lest, however, "the meanest capacity"
(which cannot, by the way, be supposed to be addicted to PUNCH) should
boggle at it, it may be as well to explain that every letter of the final
word of each alternate line must be pronounced as though Dilworth himself
presided at the perusal; and that the last letter (or letters) placed in
_italics_ will be found to constitute the rhyme. Here, then, we have
A RENCONTRE WITH A TEA-TOTALLER.
On going forth last night, a friend to see,
I met a man by trade a s-n-o-_b_;
Reeling along the path he held his way.
"Ho! ho!" quoth I, "he's d-r-u-n-_k_."
Then thus to him--"Were it not better, far,
You were a little s-o-b-e-_r_?
'Twere happier for your family, I guess,
Than playing off such rum r-i-g-_s_.
Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see 'em,
Are taken up at once by t-h-_e_-_m_."
"Me drunk!" the cobbler cried, "the devil trouble you!
You want to kick up a blest r-o-_w_.
Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby,
If drain I've had!" (the lying s-n-o-_b_!)
"I've just return'd from a tee-total party,
Twelve on us jamm'd in a spring c-a-_r_-_t_.
The man as lectured, now, _was_ drunk; why, bless ye,
He's sent home in a c-h-a-i-_s_-_e_.
He'd taken so much lush into his belly,
I'm blest if he could t-o-dd-_l_-_e_.
A pair on 'em--hisself and his good lady;--
The gin had got into her h-e-_a_-_d_.
(My eye and Betty! what weak mortals _we_ are;
They said they took but ginger b-e-_e_-_r_!)
But as for me, I've stuck ('twas rather ropy)
All day to weak imperial p-o-_p_.
And now we've had this little bit o'sparrin',
Just stand a q-u-a-r-t-e-_r_-_n_!"
* * * * *
A man in New-York enjoys such very _excellent spirits_ that he has only to
drink water to intoxicate himself.
* * * * *
TO JOBBING PATRIOTS.
MR. GEORGE ROBINS.
with unparalleled gratification, begs to state that he has it in
Command
to announce, that in consequence of
LORD JOHN RUSSELL'S LETTER
to the citizens of London having satisfactorily convinced her
MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY
that a change of ministry
CANNOT
be productive of a corresponding transformation of measures, and that
the late
POLITICO-GLADIATORIAL STRUGGLE
for the guerdon of office could only have emanated from a highly
commendatory desire on the part of the disinterested and patriotic
belligerents
TO SERVE THEMSELVES
or their country,
HIS ROYAL MISTRESS,
ever solicitous to enchain the hearts of her devoted subjects, by an
impartial exercise of her prerogative, has determined to submit to the
ARBITRATION OF HIS HUMBLE HAMMER,
some of those desirable _places_, so long known as the _stimuli_ to the
LACTANT LYCURGI
of the nineteenth century.
LOT 1.
FIRST LORD OF THE TREASURY,
at present in possession of Lord Melbourne. This will be found a most
eligible investment, as it embraces a considerable extent of female
patronage, comprising the appointments of those valuable legislative
adjuncts,
THE LADIES OF THE BEDCHAMBER,
AND THE ROYAL NURSES, WET AND DRY;
together with those household desiderata,
COALS AND CANDLES,
and an unlimited
RUN OF THE ROYAL KITCHEN.
LOT 2.
SECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE COLONIAL DEPARTMENT,
at present occupied by Lord John Russell. This lot must possess
considerable attraction for a gastronomical experimentalist, as its
present proprietor has for a long time been engaged in the discovery
of how few pinches of oatmeal and spoonsful of gruel are sufficient
for a human pauper, and will be happy to transfer his data to the
next fortunate proprietor. Any gentleman desirous of embarking in the
manufacture of
SUGAR CANDY, MATCHES, OR CHEAP BREAD,
would find this a desirable investment, more particularly should he
wish to form either
A PAROCHIAL OR MATRIMONIAL UNION,
as there are plans for the one, and hints for the other, which will
be thrown into the bargain, being of no further use to the present
noble incumbent.
LOT 3.
SECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE HOME DEPARTMENT,
at present the property of Lord Normanby. Is admirably calculated for
any one of a literary turn of mind, offering resources peculiarly
adapted for a proper cultivation of the Jack Sheppard and James
Hatfield "men-of-elegant-crimes" school of novel-writing--the
archives of Newgate and Horsemonger-lane being open at all times to
the inspection of the favoured purchaser.
"YES" OR "NO"
will determine the sale of this desirable lot in a few days.
LOT 4.
SECRETARY OF STATE FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS,
now in the occupancy of Lord Palmerston. Possesses advantages rarely
to be met with. From its connexion with the continental powers, Eau
de Cologne, bear's grease, and cosmetics of unrivalled excellence,
can be procured at all times, thus insuring the favour of the divine
sex,
"From the rich peasant-cheek of bronze,
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley
Of rays, that say a thousand things at once,
To the high dama's brow more melancholy."
The only requisite (besides money) for this desirable lot is, that
the purchaser must write a bold round hand for
PROTOCOLS,
understand French and Chinese, and be an
EXPERT TURNER.
LOT 5.
SEVERAL UNDER SECRETARYSHIPS,
admirably adapted for younger sons and poor relatives.
The whole of the proceeds (by the advice of her Majesty's Cabinet
Council) will be devoted to the erection of a
UNION FOR DECAYED MINISTERS.
Cards to view may be had at the Treasury any day after the meeting of
Parliament.
* * * * *
"Very like a whale!" as the schoolmaster said when he examined the boy's
back after severely flogging him.
* * * * *
THE DIARY OF A LORD MAYOR.
All the world is familiar with the "Diary of a Physician," the "Diary of an
Ennuyee," the "Diary of a Lady of Rank," and Heaven knows how many other
diaries besides! but who has ever heard of, or saw, the "_Diary of a Lord
Mayor_,--that day-book, or blotter, as it may be commercially termed, of a
gigantic mind? Who has ever perused the autobiography of the Lama of
Guildhall, Cham of Cripplegate, Admiral of Fleet Ditch, Great Turtle-hunter
and Herod of Michaelmas geese? We will take upon ourselves to answer--not
one! It was reserved for PUNCH to give to his dear friends, the public, the
first and only extract which has ever been made from the genuine diary of a
_late_ Lord Mayor of London, or, as that august individual was wont, when
in Paris, to designate himself on his visiting tickets--
"Mr. ----
"FEU LORD MAYOR DE LONDRES."
How the precious MS. came into our possession matters little to the reader;
suffice it to say, it is a secret which must ever remain confined to the
bosoms of PUNCH and his cheesemonger.
DIARY.
_Nov. 10, eight o'clock._--Dreamed a horrid dream--thought that I was
stretched in Guildhall with the two giants sitting on my chest, and
drinking rum toddy out of firemen's buckets--fancied the Board of Aldermen
were transformed into skittle-pins, and the police force into bottles of
_Harvey's sauce_. Tried to squeak, but couldn't. Then I imagined that I was
changed into the devil, and that Alderman Harmer was St. Dunstan, tweaking
my nose with a pair of red-hot tongs. This time, I think, I _did_ shout
lustily. Awoke with the fright, and found my wife pulling my nose
vigorously, and calling me "My Lord!" Pulled off my nightcap, and began to
have an idea I was somebody, but could not tell exactly who. Suddenly my
eye rested upon the civic gown and chain, which lay upon a chair by my
bed-side:--the truth flashed upon my mind--I felt I was a _real_ Lord
Mayor. I remembered clearly that yesterday I had been sworn into office. I
had a perfect recollection of the glass-coach, and the sheriffs, and the
men in armour, and the band playing "Jim along Josey," as we passed the
Fleet Prison, and the glories of the city barge at Blackfriars-bridge, and
the enthusiastic delight with which the assembled multitude witnessed--
[Illustration: THE LORD MAYOR TAKING WATER.]
I could also call to mind the dinner--the turtle, venison, and turbot--and
the popping of the corks from the throats of the champagne bottles. I was
conscious, too, that I had made a speech; but, beyond this point, all the
events of the night were lost in chaotic confusion. One thing, however, was
certain--I was a _bona fide_ Lord Mayor--and being aware of the arduous
duties I had to perform, I resolved to enter upon them at once. Accordingly
I arose, and as some poet says--
"Commenced sacrificing to the Graces,
By putting on my breeches."
Sent for a barber, and authorised him to remove the superfluous hair from
my chin--at the same time made him aware of the high honour I had conferred
upon him by placing the head of the city under his razor--thought I
detected the fellow's tongue in his cheek, but couldn't be certain. _Mem._
Never employ the rascal again.
_9 o'clock._--Dressed in full fig--sword very troublesome--getting
continually between my legs. Sat down to breakfast--her ladyship
complimented me on my appearance--said I looked the _beau ideal_ of a
mayor--took a side glance at myself in the mirror--her ladyship was
perfectly right. Trotter the shoemaker announced--walked in with as much
freedom as he used to do into my shop in Coleman-street--smelt awfully of
"best calf" and "heavy sole"--shook me familiarly by the hand, and actually
called me "Bob." The indignation of the Mayor was roused, and I hinted to
him that I did not understand such liberties, upon which the fellow had the
insolence to laugh in my face--couldn't stand his audacity, so quitted the
room with strong marks of disgust.
_10 o'clock._--Heard that a vagabond was singing "Jim Crow" on
Tower-hill--proceeded with a large body of the civic authorities to arrest
him, but after an arduous chase of half-an-hour we unfortunately lost him
in Houndsditch. Suppressed two illegal apple-stalls in the Minories, and
took up a couple of young black-legs, whom I detected playing at
chuck-farthing on Saffron-hill. Issued a proclamation against mad dogs,
cautioning all well-disposed persons to avoid their society.
_12 o'clock._--Waited upon by the secretary of the New River Company with a
sample of the water they supply to the City--found that it was much
improved by compounding it with an equal portion of cognac--gave a
certificate accordingly. Lunched, and took a short nap in my cocked hat.
_1 o'clock._--Police-court. Disposed of several cases summarily--everybody
in court amazed at the extraordinary acuteness I displayed, and the
rapidity with which I gave my decisions--they did not know that I always
privately tossed up--heads, complainant wins, and tails, defendant--this is
the fairest way after all--no being humbugged by hard swearing or innocent
looks--no sifting of witnesses--no weighing of evidence--no
deliberating--no hesitating--the thing is done in an instant--and, if the
guilty should escape, why the fault lies with fortune, and not with
justice.
_3 o'clock._--Visited the Thames Tunnel--found Brunel a devilish _deep_
fellow--he explained to me the means by which he worked, and said he had
got nearly over all his difficulties--I suppose he meant to say he had
nearly got _under_ them--at all events the tunnel, when completed, will be
a vast convenience to the metropolis, particularly to the _lower_ classes.
From the Tunnel went to Billingsgate-market--confiscated a basket of
suspicious shrimps, and ordered them to be conveyed to the Mansion-house.
_Mem._ Have them for breakfast to-morrow. Return to dress for dinner,
having promised to take the chair at the Grand Annual Metropolitan
Anti-Hydro-without-gin-drinking Association.
* * * * *
Here a hiatus occurs in the MS.; but from cotemporary authorities we are
enabled to state that his lordship was conveyed home at two o'clock on the
following morning, by some jolly companions.
"Slowly and sadly they smoothed his bed,
And they told his wife and daughter
To give him, next day, a couple of red-
Herrings and soda-water."
* * * * *
THE LOVES OF THE PLANTS.
The gay _Daffodilly_, an amorous blade,
Stole out of his bed in the dark,
And calling his brother, _Jon-Quil_, forth he stray'd
To breathe his love vows to a _Violet_ maid
Who dwelt in a neighbouring park.
A spiteful old _Nettle-aunt_ frown'd on their love;
But _Daffy_, who laugh'd at her power,
A _Shepherd's-purse_ slipp'd in the nurse's _Fox-glove_,
Then up _Jacob's-ladder_ he crept to his love,
And stole to the young _Virgin's-bower_.
The _Maiden's-blush Rose_--and she seem'd all dismay'd,
Array'd in her white _Lady's-smock_,
She call'd _Mignonette_--but the sly little jade,
That instant was hearing a sweet serenade
From the lips of a tall _Hollyhock_.
The _Pheasant's eye_, always a mischievous wight,
For prying out something not good,
Avow'd that he peep'd through the keyhole that night;
And clearly discern'd, by a glow-worm's pale light,
Their _Two-faces-under-a-hood_.
Old Dowager _Peony_, deaf as a door,
Who wish'd to know more of the facts,
Invited Dame _Mustard_ and Miss _Hellebore_,
With Miss _Periwinkle_, and many friends more,
One evening to tea and to tracts.
The _Butter-cups_ ranged, defamation ran high,
While every tongue join'd the debate;
Miss _Sensitive_ said, 'twixt a groan and a sigh,
Though she felt much concern'd--yet she thought her dear _Vi_--
Had grown rather bulbous of late.
Thus the tale spread about through the busy parterre:
Miss _Columbine_ turn'd up her nose,
And the prude Lady _Lavender_ said, with a stare,
That her friend, _Mary-gold_, had been heard to declare,
The creature had toy'd with the _Rose_.
Each _Sage_ look'd severe, and each _Cocks-comb_ look'd gay,
When _Daffy_ to make their mind easy,
Miss _Violet_ married one morning in May,
And, as sure as you live, before next Lady-day,
She brought him a _Michaelmas-daisy_.
* * * * *
NOTHING WONDERFUL.
The Duke of Normandie accounts for the non-explosion of his
percussion-shells, by the fact of having incautiously used some of
M'Culloch's pamphlets on the corn laws. If this be the case, no person can
be surprised at their _not going off_.
* * * * *
MODERN WAT TYLERS.
The anxiety of the Whigs to repeal the timber duties is quite pardonable,
for, with their _wooden heads_, they doubtlessly look upon it in the light
of a _poll-tax_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Head of a Botecudo previous to disfigurement.]
[Illustration: Head of a Butecudo disfigured by chin and ear pendants.]
[Illustration: Head of a Botecudo disfigured by civilisation.]
CIVILISATION.
"If an European," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, in one of his Discourses, "when
he has cut off his beard, and put false hair on his head, or bound up his
own hair in formal, hard knots, as unlike nature as he can make it, and
after having rendered them immoveable by the help of the fat of hogs, has
covered the whole with flour, laid on by a machine with the utmost
regularity--if, when thus attired, he issues forth and meets a Cherokee
Indian who has bestowed as much time at his toilet, and laid with equal
care and attention his yellow and red ochre on such parts of his forehead
and cheeks as he judges most becoming, whichever of these two despises the
other for this attention to the fashion of his country, whichever first
feels himself provoked to laugh, is the barbarian."
Granting this, the popular advocates of civilisation certainly are not the
most civilised of individuals. They appear to consider yellow ochre and
peacocks' feathers the climax of barbarism--marabouts and kalydor the acme
of refinement. A ring through the nose calls forth their deepest pity--a
diamond drop to the ear commands their highest respect. To them, nothing
can show a more degraded state of nature than a New Zealand chief, with his
distinctive coat of arms emblazoned on the skin of his face; nor anything
of greater social elevation than an English peer, with the glittering label
of his "nobility" tacked to his breast. To a rational mind, the one is not
a whit more barbarous than the other; they being, as Sir Joshua observes,
the real barbarians who, like these _soi-disant_ civilisers, would look
upon their own monstrosities as the sole standard of excellence.
The philosophy of the present age, however, is peculiarly the philosophy of
outsides. Few dive deeper into the human breast than the bosom of the
shirt. Who could doubt the heart that beats beneath a cambric front? or who
imagine that hand accustomed to dirty work which is enveloped in white kid?
What Prometheus was to the physical, Stultz is to the moral man--the one
made human beings out of clay, the other cuts characters out of
broad-cloth. Gentility is, with us, a thing of the goose and shears; and
nobility an attribute--not of the mind, but (supreme civilisation!) of _a
garter_!
Certain modern advocates appear to be devout believers in this external
philosophy. They are touchingly eloquent upon the savage state of those who
indulge in yellow ochre, but conveniently mute upon the condition of those
who prefer carmine. They are beautifully alive to the degradation of that
race of people which crushes the feet of its children, but wonderfully dead
to the barbarism of that race, nearer home, which performs a like operation
upon the ribs of its females. By them, also, we are told that "words would
manifestly fail in portraying _so low a state of morals as is pictured in
the lineaments of an Australian chief_,"--a stretch of the outside
philosophy which we certainly were not prepared to meet with; for little
did we dream that this noble science could ever have attained such
eminence, that men of intellect would be able to discover immorality in
particular noses, and crime in a certain conformation of the chin.
That an over-attention to the adornment of the person is a barbarism all
must allow; but that the pride which prompts the Esquimaux to stuff bits of
stone through a hole in his cheek, is a jot less refined than that which
urges the dowager-duchess to thrust coloured crystals through a hole in her
ear, certainly requires a peculiar kind of mental squint to perceive.
Surely there is as great a want of refinement among us, in this respect, as
among the natives of New Zealand. Why rush for subjects for civilisation to
the back woods of America, when thousands may be found, any fine afternoon,
in Regent-street? Why fly to Biddy Salamander and Bulkabra, when the Queen
of Beauty and Count D'Orsay have equally urgent claims on the attention and
sympathies of the civiliser?
On the subject of civilisation, two questions naturally present
themselves--the one, what _is_ civilisation?--the other, have we such a
superabundance of that commodity among us, that we should think about
exporting it? To the former question, the journal especially devoted to the
subject has, to the best of our belief, never condescended a reply;
although, like the celebrated argument on the colour of the chameleon, no
two persons, perhaps, have the same idea of it. In what then, does
civilisation consist, and how is it to be generally promoted? Does it, as
Sir E.L. B---- would doubtlessly assure us, does it lie in a strict
adherence to the last month's fashions; and is it to be propagated
throughout the world only by missionaries from Nugee's, and by the
universal dissemination of curling-tongs and Macassar--patent leather boots
and opera hats--white cambric pocket-handkerchiefs and lavender-water? Or,
does it consist, as the Countess of B---- would endeavour to convince us,
in abstaining from partaking twice of fish, and from eating peas with the
knife? and is it to be made common among mankind only by distributing
silver forks and finger-glasses to barbarians, and printing the Book of
Etiquette for gratuitous circulation among them? Or, is it, as the mild and
humane Judge P---- would prove to us, a necessary result of the Statutes at
Large; and can it be rendered universal only by sending out Jack Ketch as a
missionary--by the introduction of rope-walks in foreign parts, and the
erection of gallows all over the world? Or, is it, as the Archbishop of
Canterbury contests, to be achieved solely by the dissemination of bishops,
and by diffusing among the poor benighted negroes the blessings of sermons,
tithes, and church rates? Christianity, it has, on the other hand, been
asserted, is the only practical system of civilisation; but this is
manifestly the idea of a visionary. For ourselves, we must confess we
incline to the opposite opinion; and think either the bishops or Jack Ketch
(we hardly know which we prefer) by far the more rational means. Indeed,
when we consider the high state of civilisation which this country has
attained, and imagine for an instant the awful amount of distress which
would necessarily accrue from the general practice of Christianity among
us, even for a week, it is clear that the idea never could be entertained
by any moral or religious, mind. A week's Christianity in England! What
_would_ become of the lawyer, and parsons? It is too terrible to
contemplate.
* * * * *
NOUVEAU MANUEL DU VOYAGEUR.
These are the continental-trip days. All the world will be now a-_tour_ing.
But every one is not a Dr. Bowring, and it is rather convenient to be able
to edge in a word now and then, when these rascally foreigners will chatter
in their own beastly jargon. Ignorant pigs, not to accustom themselves to
talk decent English! Il Signor Marchese Cantini, the learned and
illustrious author of "Hi, diddlo-diddlino! Il gutto e'l violino!", has
just rendered immense service to the trip-loving natives of these lovely
isles, by preparing a "Guide to Conversation," that for utility and
correctness of idiom surpasses all previous attempts of the same kind. With
it in one hand, and a bagful of Napoleons or Zecchini in the other, the
biggest dunce in London--nay, even a schoolmaster--may travel from Boulogne
to Naples and back, with the utmost satisfaction to himself, and with
substantial profit to the people of these barbarous climes. The following
is a specimen of the way in which Il Signor has accomplished his
undertaking. It will be seen at a glance how well he has united the
classical with the utilitarian principle, clothing both in the purest
dialect; ex. gr.:--