Punch (45.1863)

August 15, 1863. j

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

71

SPLITTING ’AIRS.

jeb, and over again Sir, I
have read your admirable
article. I may say 1 have
read all your admirable arti-
cles ; bur, the one to which
1 specially rel'er was on the
Organ N uisauce. Sir, I am
by profession a Mathemati-
cian, and for the pursuit of
my studies a quiet street
seemed to offer unusual
advantages. Unusual! 1
trust they are unusual. My
studies are indeed pursued
—yes, pursued by Bands,
literally Bands of inharmo-
nious Blackguards. There’s
a title for a descriptive
work by any composer,4 The
Inharmonious Blackguard!’
Sir, the Poet has said some-
thing severe about the man
‘ who has not music in his
soul.’ Good Heavens 1 this
could not be a Poet’s or
any one else’s opinion of me, who am .overwhelmed in music, covered
with music from the top of my head to the sole of my foot, until I
wonder that I do not break out in Lucy Neals. and Mary Blanes all
over. I will break out, though, and between the spaces of this
Music (!) write a few lines. While Evelina, my daughter, Sir, an
engaging child of tender years,—how tender by the way are my
ears!—is taking her matutionai music lesson from Signor Solea-
liini, there comes a set of Niggers, who in the middle ot La ci darem
or some other beautiful melody, suddenly strike up / would I were in
Ole Virginny. How devoutly I would that they were. A struggle
commences between the piano and the serenaders. What is one
against so many! The piano grows fainter and fainter and at
length yields. 1 go out on my door-step and address the sooty troupe.
What do they? Sir, their villain leader, who, I regret to say, impu-
dently assumes an imitation of your own honoured attire, but 4 no more
like to Punch than I to Hercules,’ waves his baton, and the demons in
the Air commence Out ob the way, Ole Ban Tucker, doubtlessly alluding
to myself as Dan Tucker, and unwilling to be the Volunteer Butt of
some fifty Tag, Rag, and Bobtail (say twenty-five of each sort), i do at
length feebly imitate the venerable Daniel, and get out ob de way
accordingly.

44 Sir, I am preparing a work on the Differential Calculus. No sooner
do I sit down and attempt the solution of a stiff Problem, than two
hulking (I’d ‘Hulk’ them if was a Judge and Jury) fellows m the garb
of Highlandmen stop to play on the bagpipes. One of these idiots
dances. Why do not these men do real, instead of reel, work? Why
do they nor, become the Busy Bees instead of the Abominable Drones
of Society ! At my feeding time they allow me no peace. The donkey
and woman with the organ—I mean the two donkeys with the organ,
take up position in front of my window. ‘Enough is as good as a
feast; ’ aud is it not sufficient to have one good dinner on the table
without having another horrid dinner in the street? Ay, and more
than enough. Let me go out as Don Quixote against the wind instru-
ments, those brazen bands and organised destroyers of my happiness.
Let me reduce them to powder and scatter their organic remains to the
wind. Apologising for taking up so many hues with one note,

“ I remain, Yours Distractedly,

“ Archimedes Screwster.”

“ P.S. I ask as a Mathematician why, or rather y, does not Police-
man x interfere and put these Male-Eactors into vmclis or brackets ?
Why ? Because, Sir, I believe he’s x2, that is x squared.”

Cockney Sport Extraordinary.

Well-known Sporting character, residing at Putney, being unable
to reach the Moors this Season, and having lost his gun, has lately
amused himself by bringing down several brace of grouse by means of
the Brompton omnibus.

[ A DVERT1SEMENT. ]

U ANTED.—A Travelling Companion, to be in perpetual good spirits,
* ' and warranted to defray all the expenses ofthe longest journey. The Adver-
tiser proposes adopting the plans of Tours, suggested by the How, When, and Where
Guide. The Companion must be amiable, only five feet four in height, and physically
weak in case of a quarrel. The Advertiser is fond of Change, and the Companion
therefore must have plenty of it in his pockets.

BRUTUS AND CkESAR.

{From the American Edition of Shakspeare.)

The Tent of Brutus (Lincoln). Night. Enter an Ethiopian Serenader

with a Banjo.

Serenader. You sent for me, my lord?

Brutus. Jerusalem!

I calculate, Siree, I did that same.

Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile,

And touch thine instrument a strain or two ?

Serenader. Ay, my lord, au’t please you.

Brutus. It does, my b’hoy.

I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing.

Sing me a soothing song, yet sensible.

Serenader Sings.

Bold Mass a Lee, him coming after we,

Whack, jack, crack, jibble obble lack,

Brave Massa Meade, him berry strong indeed,

Whack, jack, crack, jibble obble lack.

&c. &e. &c. [Serenaded falls asleep.

Brutus. ’Tis a sweet tune, yet sleepy. He is fast,

I will not do him so much wrong to wake him.

I ’ll rather read. Where is the noble work
Whence I cull anecdotes and jocund jests
Wherewith to ornament my statesmanship,

Making smooth Seward smile, stiff Stanton scowl ?

0, Joseeh Miller, thou art mighty yet.

W here was I ? Ha! “ A lawyer met a clown \Ee reads.

Driving a pig to market, and observed,

‘ Why, thereby hangs a tail,’ to which,”—By gosh,

This darned eternal moderator burns
As badly as--

Enter the Ghost of C^sar.

Wall, now ! Do tell 1 Who’s you ?

Gcesar. I am dy ebil genus, massa Linking.

Dis child am awful Inimpressional,

As massa did obserb.

Brutus. I never did.

My word was Irrepressible, base nigger.

Ccesar. All de same, massa, in one hundred year.

Brutus. Be off, black spectre. How 1 hate thy looks!

Thou art the cause of all my allfire bother:

Would every Black were deep in the Black Sea,

Or every son of Ham were cut so thin
Thai I could eat him up in sangwidges.

Ccesar. More bother yet for massa, for dis child
Stick close to him like wax, eh, golly, iss.

Brutus. Begone, 1 say.

Ccesar. Massa am not polite :

Him call him up, him call him man and brudder.

Him give him Mancipation, and a gun
To shoot at massa Davy.

Brutus Davis, fool.

Davis’s Straits are not as great as mine,

But Davy—would thou wert in Davy’s Locker
Ccesar. Him ’tick to massa.

Brutus. ' Tick. Thou may’st say that.

How’s massa to get tick ? (That’s none so bad.)

Ccesar. Hal massa’s business. Eor one little time
Dis child be off, but soon him come again,

And play de Debbil looking over Lincoln.

Brutus. Vamoose ! Go ! Slope to him whom thou hast named,
Aud whom J’ve raised in this here blessed war.

Away, black cuss ! [Cjesar vanishes.

Serenaded Axoakes, and Sings.

Massa Bennett Gordon ’fraid to stick a sword on,

Whack, jack, crack, jibble obble lack,

Massa Horace Greeley look a Utile mealy,

Wtiack, jack, crack, jibble obble lack,—

[Brutus gives him a violent kick, which sends him flying out
of the tent.

Brutus. Darn thy brute jargon! {laughs.) Hooker fled not quicker.
Rebellion’s dead, or ought to be. Let’s liquor. [Exit.

Horticultural.

What at this Season of the year is a more soothing position to the
lover of luscious juices than to lie under the shade of a boot-tree from
whence depend bunches of the choicest keys !