DOI Heft:
June 4, 1870
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16885#0227
June 4, 1870.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
219
BORN NOVEMBER 30, 1809. DIED MAY 23, 1870.
He who wrote the first article in this Journal, who from its establishment has been its conductor, and whose provident
suggestions take effect in the very pages now before the reader, has ceased from this and all other earthly care and labour.
" I, pete ooelestes, ubi nulla est cura, recessus,
Et tibi sit, nullo mista labore, quies."
There is need that this record of his gain, but of grievous loss to those in whose name this is said, should be prepared
too early to permit its being aught but a most imperfect and inadequate expression of our love and of our sorrow. The
last rite has been this day paid, in the quiet burial-place by the village church, dear to him in his later years, where he was
gladdened by the voices of his children, joining in the melodies of the religion never forgotten by him when — and it was
often—he had friend to aid, or when, and it was rarely—he had enemy to pardon.
Neither to the mental nor the loving nature of the man whom we are mourning, and shall, while we survive him,
mourn, do we attempt to do justice here. We do but inscribe a memorial without which we should reluctantly permit
our Journal of this date to issue.
But it is of no stranger that we are speaking to friends known and unknown. For nearly thirty years he has guided
this periodical; and few who read it know not something of him, and of the firm, but gentle influence which he exercised
as our director. But if this Journal has had the good fortune to be credited with habitual advocacy of truth and justice, if
it has been praised for abstinence from the less worthy kind of satire, if it has been trusted by those who keep guard over
the purity of womanhood and of youth, we, the best witnesses, turn for a moment from our sorrow to bear the fullest and the
most willing testimony that, the high and noble spirit of Mask Lemon ever prompted generous championship, ever made
unworthy onslaught or irreverent jest impossible to the pens of those who were honoured in being coadjutors with him.
Of the deep affectionateness of his character, of the kindliness of his counsels, of the brotherly regard in which he held us,
of the gracious tact with which he encountered and smoothed away the difficulties incident to work like ours, of his genial
nature and of his modesty and self-abnegation, this is indeed a time to think, but not a time to write.
Nearly enough, indeed, of words of him over whose mortal remains the turf is newly laid. We feel that the best homage
which we can pay to him who is gone before, the one tribute which, had he foreseen this early summons to his rest, he would
have desired or permitted, is to declare our united resolve that, to the best of our ability, our future work for this Journal
shall be done in the spirit long and lovingly taught us by the loved and revered friend who has passed to the reward of a
noble life.
May 27tk, 1870.
He had been absent: but was with us still
In letters, messages of wonted cheer:
We drank a quick recovery from his ill;
Asked, and were answered, " He will soon be here."
His kindly eyes looked on us from the wall:
In spirit at our board he seemed to sit,
Back into bounds too reckless mirth to call,
To quicken seemly fun and decent wit.
Little we thought the time was near at hand,
When we no more should meet those honest eyes:
Return no more that welcome blithe and bland,
Take counsel of that spirit, kind and wise!
Death has been frequent in our fellowship :
Where is A'Beckett's Rabelaisian style;
Where Jerrold's wrath 'gainst wrong, and lightning quip;
Where Thackeray's half-sad, half sunny, smile;
Where Leech's facile hand and faithful brain,
The truest, tersest, abstract of the time ?
All memories ! And he that linked the chain,
Now theme of my obituary rhyme!
Never did brethren of the pen owe more
To elder brother, than we owed to him:
* " Sotto l'usbergo del'
Still his wit's weapon like a Knight he bore—
Would never poison point, nor polish dim:
And 'twas his pride to teach us so to bear
Our blades as he bore his—keep the edge keen,
But strike above the belt: and ever wear
The armour of a conscience clear and clean.*
The while he sat among us there was none
But felt the kindlier for his kindliness :
Jealousy seemed his genial smile to shun ;
Failure was soothed; more modest grew success.
Never self-seeking, keen for others' rise
And gain, before his own, he loved to see
Young wrestlers of his training win the prize,
Nor asked what his part of the prize should be.
His memory will not die out of ours
For many a year to come: the thought of him,
Erewhile associate with our merriest hours,
Will be a sad one, till all thought grows dim.
But what our loss to theirs, who with sick hearts
Sit in the darkened house, whence he has past :
Till new life shall unite whom death disparts,
Where tears are dried, and grief turns joy at last!
sentirsi puro."—Dante.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
219
BORN NOVEMBER 30, 1809. DIED MAY 23, 1870.
He who wrote the first article in this Journal, who from its establishment has been its conductor, and whose provident
suggestions take effect in the very pages now before the reader, has ceased from this and all other earthly care and labour.
" I, pete ooelestes, ubi nulla est cura, recessus,
Et tibi sit, nullo mista labore, quies."
There is need that this record of his gain, but of grievous loss to those in whose name this is said, should be prepared
too early to permit its being aught but a most imperfect and inadequate expression of our love and of our sorrow. The
last rite has been this day paid, in the quiet burial-place by the village church, dear to him in his later years, where he was
gladdened by the voices of his children, joining in the melodies of the religion never forgotten by him when — and it was
often—he had friend to aid, or when, and it was rarely—he had enemy to pardon.
Neither to the mental nor the loving nature of the man whom we are mourning, and shall, while we survive him,
mourn, do we attempt to do justice here. We do but inscribe a memorial without which we should reluctantly permit
our Journal of this date to issue.
But it is of no stranger that we are speaking to friends known and unknown. For nearly thirty years he has guided
this periodical; and few who read it know not something of him, and of the firm, but gentle influence which he exercised
as our director. But if this Journal has had the good fortune to be credited with habitual advocacy of truth and justice, if
it has been praised for abstinence from the less worthy kind of satire, if it has been trusted by those who keep guard over
the purity of womanhood and of youth, we, the best witnesses, turn for a moment from our sorrow to bear the fullest and the
most willing testimony that, the high and noble spirit of Mask Lemon ever prompted generous championship, ever made
unworthy onslaught or irreverent jest impossible to the pens of those who were honoured in being coadjutors with him.
Of the deep affectionateness of his character, of the kindliness of his counsels, of the brotherly regard in which he held us,
of the gracious tact with which he encountered and smoothed away the difficulties incident to work like ours, of his genial
nature and of his modesty and self-abnegation, this is indeed a time to think, but not a time to write.
Nearly enough, indeed, of words of him over whose mortal remains the turf is newly laid. We feel that the best homage
which we can pay to him who is gone before, the one tribute which, had he foreseen this early summons to his rest, he would
have desired or permitted, is to declare our united resolve that, to the best of our ability, our future work for this Journal
shall be done in the spirit long and lovingly taught us by the loved and revered friend who has passed to the reward of a
noble life.
May 27tk, 1870.
He had been absent: but was with us still
In letters, messages of wonted cheer:
We drank a quick recovery from his ill;
Asked, and were answered, " He will soon be here."
His kindly eyes looked on us from the wall:
In spirit at our board he seemed to sit,
Back into bounds too reckless mirth to call,
To quicken seemly fun and decent wit.
Little we thought the time was near at hand,
When we no more should meet those honest eyes:
Return no more that welcome blithe and bland,
Take counsel of that spirit, kind and wise!
Death has been frequent in our fellowship :
Where is A'Beckett's Rabelaisian style;
Where Jerrold's wrath 'gainst wrong, and lightning quip;
Where Thackeray's half-sad, half sunny, smile;
Where Leech's facile hand and faithful brain,
The truest, tersest, abstract of the time ?
All memories ! And he that linked the chain,
Now theme of my obituary rhyme!
Never did brethren of the pen owe more
To elder brother, than we owed to him:
* " Sotto l'usbergo del'
Still his wit's weapon like a Knight he bore—
Would never poison point, nor polish dim:
And 'twas his pride to teach us so to bear
Our blades as he bore his—keep the edge keen,
But strike above the belt: and ever wear
The armour of a conscience clear and clean.*
The while he sat among us there was none
But felt the kindlier for his kindliness :
Jealousy seemed his genial smile to shun ;
Failure was soothed; more modest grew success.
Never self-seeking, keen for others' rise
And gain, before his own, he loved to see
Young wrestlers of his training win the prize,
Nor asked what his part of the prize should be.
His memory will not die out of ours
For many a year to come: the thought of him,
Erewhile associate with our merriest hours,
Will be a sad one, till all thought grows dim.
But what our loss to theirs, who with sick hearts
Sit in the darkened house, whence he has past :
Till new life shall unite whom death disparts,
Where tears are dried, and grief turns joy at last!
sentirsi puro."—Dante.