Punch (35.1858)

LONDON CHARIVARI. |November 6, 1858.

A ROYAL CADET.

Prince Alfred has joined the Euryalus for his first trip. The
report tells us, that the Prince (to whom Admiral Punch wishes all
kinds of Trafalgars and Aboukirs) is "to enjoy no immunity from his
royal rank." Highly proper; the youngster is to be treated like any
other youngster; there is not to be the smallest distinction between his
berth and that of the humblest cadet. However, our eyes travelling
on, we were startled to read that, as the Prince joined his ship, the
yards were manned, a salute was fired, and a grand luncheon laid out
for him in the state-cabin. Hence, we conclude that, when Master
Dumpling, or any other cadet, goes to sea for the first time, the yards
are always manned, salutes are invariably fired, all hands are piped on
deck, and the honours of the reception are generally wound up by the
lad's receiving an invitation to lunch with the Captain in his cabin.
No wonder our English boys are all so eager to go to sea!

A BUSTER FROM GARDEN.

One of Dr. Watts's beautiful poems for children has been brought
forcibly to our mind by the behaviour of our admirable Sovereign,
the Mayor Carden, Baronet. That glorious orb is within a few hours
of setting; and the Mayoral splendour will soon merge in the
Aldermanic wave:—

" But when he comes nearer to finish his race,
Like a fine settiug sun he looks richer in grace."

Scarcely a day passes but Carden distinguishes himself by some
superhuman display. We would try to chronicle his brilliancies ; but
nothing less than a weekly supplement would hold one-half of them.
Still, we must preserve some record of the Great Mayoralty; and
perhaps the following oration, delivered by Sir R. W. C. in a bigamy
case, is as worthy of his transcendant genius as any of his magnificent
outpourings.

To understand the first sentence (though, like the old Scotch lady
and her admired preacher, we wad no ha' the presumption to attempt
to understand Carden), it should be said, that one of the young ladies
who had been victimised by the bigamist was very pretty. Thus spoke
Sir Robert :—

" i wonder the fellow got tired so soon of his marriage with you, Mrs. Geer. It
must be a hard-hearted wretch to run away after only five days of married life with
you. I wish I had him here. If I could do with him what I should like, he never
should have another wile. i Bhould not mind hanging such a fellow. i'think if
ever a man deserved hanging, it is for deceiving a woman, particularly under such
circumstances as have been disclosed here to-day. .it is the vilest act of which a.
man can be guilty. It will be some satisfaction probably to each of you to see him
in the dock on a charge of bigamy. I certainly should like to see him tried upon
that charge at the Old Bailey. I trust that what has occurred here to-day will appear
in the Newspapers, and I have no doubt its publication wid bring half a dozen
other young ladies here. I will lend every assistance I possibly can to briog such
a vile wretch to justice. He will have no mercy at my hands if he comes into thena.
I feel deeply for the situation of Mrs. Geer, and cannot help congratulating Miss
-upon her fortunate escape."

Certain productions of great men have been in reverent affection
christened by their adorers. A Symphony of Mozart's is called the
Jupiter. Bacon's Summary of Argument is termed the Vintage.
Punch's diamond annual of wit is called the Pocket Book (and wid be
published on the Ninth of November, together with Lord Mayor
Wire, price two-and-six,—the book we mean), and Garden's con-
densation of all that is manly, vehement, and noble, should have a
name. Let us call it the Buster.

We despair of adding effect to such a superlative harangue by any
remark of ours. But, if we recollect aright, it was thought fine in
Cicero, when opening fire upon L. Calpurnius Piso, to dash at him
with a Jamne vides, Belltja, jamne sentis? "Don't you see yet, don't
you feel yet, you Beast ? " Unless a typographic caprice has happily
snatched for Lord Carden a grace beyond the reach of art, he has
unconsciously, we are quite certain, imitated Cicero. Look at the
second sentence. "It must be a hard-hearted wretch"—it, a neuter
pronoun, and applying therefore to a Beast, by implication. Here is
the true artist. The fiery appeal, the swelling period, the appalling
stamp, to entrance and enchain the million—the exquisite and classical
grace, thrown in without effort, to delight the scholar. Eor the many,
the gigantic and glowing picture—for the few, the elegant and delicate
cameo.

Mr. Punch has done the State a service in embalming this precious
relic. It will be cited in after ages, perhaps in some distant age when
Civic Magistrates shall be wise men, as a specimen of

'* The large utterance of the Early Mayors."

It may be well, however, that Mr. Punch's sentiments should simul-
taneously descend to posterity. He humbly and respectfully comments
upon the speech, but he cordially concurs in the wishes that it
expresses. So far from " minding " hanging the fellow denounced by
the Major, Mr. Punch would rather like to do it, except that he
fancies he could find in a very long imprisonment, dotted with an
occasional and very sound flogging, a somewhat fitter means of casti-
gating so dastardly a creature. So, thus tucking the Mayor under his
wing, Mr. Punch projects his soul into futurity.

Assurance for Husbands.

Some of the principal capitalists of London are engaged in the for-
mation of a new Company for Insurance from Damage by Eire. In
consequence of the constantly occurring accidents, by which ladies,
owing to the immensity of their dresses, are either burnt to death, or
have a large portion of the valuable and extensive stock of drapery
which they carry about with them destroyed, those eminent financial
gentlemen have determined to establish a Wife Insurance Company.

Via Media.

Between two stools

A seat is not to be found;
Between High and Low fools

Mother Church may come to the ground.

Shoe d' Esprit.

In one of our old English novels a yeoman says, "I hate the Erench,
your Honour, because they are all slaves,—and wear wooden shoes."
ft is gratifying to think that a modern novelist cannot so write.
Erance has made great progress. The Erench do not wear wooden shoes.