Punch (7.1844)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

55

PUNCH'S COMPLETE LETTER-WRITER.

LETTER IX.

FROM AN ELECTOR TO A MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT, SOLICITING HIS
INTEREST FOR A PLACE.

Honoured Sir,

According to my promise, when I last liad the pleasure of
shaking your worthy and high-minded hand, I take up my pen to
let you know how matters go on in our borough of Pottlepot. Oh,
6ir ! the Blues are done for ever ! They ought, if they had any
sense of their littleness, to crawl upon all fours the rest of their
natural lives: it's downright impudence of 'em to think of walking
upright on two legs, like incorruptible, indepeudeut voters. But, sir,
they are done for ever ! As 1 said at the club on Saturday, where
we always drink your honoured health standing with nine times
lime, as I said, after we had toasted your patriotism and all your
public and private virtues,—Sir Curtius Turnstile, says I, sits for
Pottlepot for life; it's as good as his own freehold. And so it is,
sir. Be sure of it, there isn't a Yellow that wouldn't die for you,
with all their wives and families included. You have touched their
hearts, Sir Curtius, in the proper way, and there isn't a man
that wouldn't bleed for you in return. And then for the women ;
why, 1 'm a sinner, if last Sunday there weren't six babies every
one of 'em christened Curtius. There they were, sir—bless the

little cherubs !—with yellow ribands in their caps, and ribands hung
all over them, and their mothers and fathers smiling on the colours
with all a parent's fondness. Ha, sir ! it would have done your noble
heart good to hear how the same night we drank the healths of the
young Curtiusks—the baby Yellows—the future free and inde-
pendent voters of Pottlepot.

But how, sir, should it be otherwise ? Who can forget your kind-
ness when you came among us to canvass \ What condescension—
what liberality! There's poor Mrs. Spriggs, the good soul who
sells cakes ; she never speaks of you without tears in her eyes ; and
as for her husband—a rascally Blue !—whom the kind creature made
so drunk, and then shut the shutters on the day of poll, that when
he woke he thought it was still night, and so went to sleep again,—
dear Mrs. Spriggs says she can't enough bless you. Though
you bought her jackdaw for ten pounds, she's got another ; and for
all her husband—like a brutal Blue as he is !—beats her once a week
for't, the public-spirited, patriotic soul, will teach the bird to cry out,
" Turnstile for ever ! Down with the Blues !"

You '11 be glad to hear, Sir Curtius, that little Bobby Windfall,
the bellows-mender's child, has got over the small-pox, and won't be
very much marked. I'm sure you 'il be glad of this, from the kind
manner with which I saw you kiss the suffering babe when it was so
very bad indeed.

The organ that you sent down to the chapel plays very beautifully
—very ! It quite melts the heart of every true Yellow to listen to
it. But I am sorry to say—I blush for my species while I write it—
that several stiff-necked Blues stay away from chapel because of that
organ : whilst one of 'em, with a sneer that meant I know not what,
said, " The organ was a most appropriate gift from you, as no sinner
could listen to it without thinking of corruption." What he meant
by this 'twould puzzle me to discover.

\our kind hospitality in inviting all of us to your mansion in town
whenever we should come to London, will in a few days be rewarded.
Chops the pork-butcher, with Brads the blacksmith, and Strong-
i -th'-arm the farrier, will be with you—they desire me to say—
next week. But pray, Sir Curtius, don't give Chops too much
champagne, as he is apt to be very unruly. And Mrs. Brads hopes

you'll not let Brads stir in London without you're by his side ; she
says she depends upon you. As for the farrier's wife, she says you're
welcome to keep her husband for a month ; only when he conies
back, she says she shall expect to see what sort of caps they wear
in London.

We are all on the look out for your first speech, as you promised
us on the hustings that it should be a teazer.

I am, Sir Curtius,

Your obedient Servant,

And very humble Voter

Hampden Brick.

P.S.—I had almost forgotten to say, that my son Brutus—the
youth to whom you jokingly gave a five-pound note to light a cigar
with—is now anxious to enter upon the world. Forgive the feelings
of a father ; but please to write by return of post whether his place
will be in the Excise, the Customs, or the Treasury, I suppose we
mustn't expect more than two hundred a-year to be<jin with f

LETTER X.

ANSWER OF SiR CURTIUS TURNSTILE, M.P., TO HIS CONSTITUENT,

HAMPDEN BRICK.

Mv dear Sir,

It gives me the deepest pleasure to learn the happiness
and tranquillity of the favoured borough of Pottlepot. Bound up as
my future public life is with the sympathies of the noble-minded and
incorruptible men by whose votes 1 hold my present exalted situa-
tion—my present enviable prominence in the eye of the world—
it must be to me a vital felicity to know of their felicity. As for
the Blues—that desperate faction—that band of little Neros preying

on the vitals of their mother-country-but I dismiss them from my

thoughts. Contempt relieves me from the excess of indignation.

It is to me a deep happiness to find that 1 am remembered at your
hebdomadal meetings at the Angel. Believe me that every Saturday
night 1 shall spiritually return thanks for the honour that you do me.

The thought that I have awakeued a feeling of respect in the
bosoms of my fair well-wishers and active supporters of Pottlepot,
awards to me the proudest moment of my life. That, with a delicacy
which peculiarly distinguishes the disinterested excellence of their sex
from the too frequent selfishness of ours, they should give my name
to the pledges of their hallowed love, produces feelings in my breast
much more easily conceived than described. Tell them from me,
good Mr. Brick, that whilst they have complimented me, they have
imposed a task upon me—yes, sir, a task ; for, henceforth, it must be
the peculiar study of life to do nothing that shall be in the least
unworthy of my interesting namesakes. It would, I assure you,
have given me great pleasure to be their godfather, but—another
time.

I am delighted to learn that the excellent Mrs. Spriggs is in
good health. Though decidedly not a woman of high education, she
has that instinctive patriotism which made the glory of the ancient
matron. She might, without a blush, call the mother of the Gracchi
sister. I am more than amused to hear of her jackdaw ; and, for
her sake, hope for better things from her husband.

Believe me, you only do justice to my feelings when you say that
I shall be happy to hear of the recovery of Master Robert Wind-
fall. Though asleep, and in a sad condition when 1 saw him, I do
think I never looked upon a more intelligent child. I trust he will
become a blessing to his parents, and an honour to the ancient
mystery of bellows-mending.

What you tell me respecting the organ, shocks me. That the
spirit of party can, in such a subject, find matter for its bitterness,
makes one almost despair of human nature. Alas ! alas ! that even
the humble present of a church organ cannot escape the ribaldry of
party malice. But nothing, sacred or profane, does escape it !

You speak of a projected visit to town by Chops, Brads, and
Strong-i'-th'-arm, my worthy and indefatigable constituents.
There are no men for whose honesty—whose singleness of purpose
—whose primitive simplicity of character—I have a higher admira-
tion ; but was there ever anything so unfortunate \ At present my
mansion is undergoing a thorough repair ; filled with carpenters,
bricklayers, plasterers—in fact, turned inside out. Hence, to my
inexpressible annoyance, I shall not have the pleasure of seeing
them under my own roof; and what is worse, I fear—I say, I fear—
that unavoidable business will, for a week at least, take ine from