DOI Heft:
July to December, 1844
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16520#0104
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 97
PUNCH'S COMPLETE LETTER-WRITER.
LETTER XVII.
from a gentleman to his friend, entreating him
to renounce the bottle.
upon whom can you pass it ? From the mouth of a drunkard, tim
most solemn promise is no better than the best-made bad money : it
may pass for a time, but is certain to be nailed to the world's counter
at last.
You had friends. But there is a mortal fevor in the reputation ol
a drunkard, and sober men wisely avoid it.
You have a wife. Has she a husband ? No. She vowed to love a
man, and you are a liquor-cask. Can you expect her affection ? You
might as reasonably expect her wedding-ring to hoop a wine-barrel.
You have children. Poor things! They see a satyr sprawl and
reel before them ; and, in their innocence, blush not as yet to call
the creature father !
But, my dear Peter, there is yet hope. Learn to love home.
Avoid the tavern. It is in the tavern-cellar that the devil draws up
his army array against the brains and good resolves of men. It is
there that he reviews his legions of bottles, and prepares them fcr
the attack upon weak humanity. But, arm yourself, Peter ; meet
the assailants with cold water; and, in the fight, you shall have the
earnest prayers of your old friend,
Cosvdon Rivers.
My dear Peter,
May I, by a friendship of thirty years'
growth, be permitted to address you on your
faults—or, rather, your fault; for it is so capa-
cious that it swallows every other error ; in the
same way that boa constrictors gulp toads and
other unsightly creatures of smaller dimensions.
May I venture to remonstrate with you on—well,
it must be said — your habitual drunkenness?
Alas ! my friend, to what a condition has this
folly, this wickedness, reduced you ! This morning
only, I saw a full-grown cucumber in a bottle :
there is nothing in the object ; it is a common-
place, to be seen in the windows of every pickle-
merchant: and yet did that imprisoned cucumber
touch my heart, and bring pathetic moisture into
my eyes ; for by the tyranny of association, it made me think of
my forlorn friend. Yes ; looking at that cucumber, trained to
grow in its glass prison, did I behold in it the hopeless condition
of Peter Eubygill ! There be is—thought I—there is Peter,
and who shall deliver him ? And how, alas ! does that plethoric
gourd fully declare the story of my friend ! How, like him, was it
insinuated in its green youth—a very sucker—into the bottle's
throat ; and how, when there, was it made to grow and swell, until
far too large to be withdrawn, it possessed the whole of the bottle,
and was then cut off for ever from the vine that had cherished it!
LETTER XVIII.
the answer.
My dear Corydov,
You talk of the beauty of the earth—you talk of tlie mag-
nificence of the world ! Why, then, let moles sing psalms to the
moon, and that hermit in feathers, the screech-owl, tune a ditty to
the noonday sun. The bottle is the true philosopher's microscope,
and shows him worlds within worlds that you, poor naked-eyed
wretches, never had the heart to dream of.
You say that you have seen me with my brain in a fog. Pooi
ignorance ! After a night's—say three nights'—continual happiness,
you little know the bliss I walk in. You little think of the genius
within me, that turns your scoundrel streets of London into the
abodes of the blessed. What see I there but love and truest brother-
hood ? The very knockers wink and laugh at me ; and roses and
honeysuckles grow about every lamp-post. There are, I know, weak,
puling creatures, who talk of headaches ; but these are milk-sop
neophytes, not yet of the true priesthood of our order. What \t
now and then I have a twinge ? Think you I accuse the bottle '. E
should be a villain to do so. No : it's the d—d east wind.
As for the fortune that was left me, it is true I have invested it in.
the bottle ; and, oh ! what compound interest have I had for my
money ! Whilst you would count every rascal guinea, and, after you
had counted all, broke into a cold sweat to think there was no more,
/—seated on my tavern-throne—have had wealth that would con-
found all arithmetic. All about me has been glorious riches 1 I ha\ e
drunk out of hollowed diamonds, and spat in gold-dust.
It is my darling faith that every bottle contains in it a pair of
And *is it not thus, Peter, with a doomed drunkard ? Dees he not | beautiful wings, to lift poor man above the gutter-mud which this
enter the bottle in the greenness of his days, and though he may
again and again escape from the thing that threatens to inclose him,
at length is it not impossible for him to get away? Habit makes him
swell, and there is no hope for him ; cut off from the genial world,
he has no other dwelling-place than a bottle. Verily, Peter Ruby-
gill, Bacchus—like a pickle-merchant—has his bottled cucumbers,
and you are of them !
And yet, Peter, I would fain hope for you. In the name of all
that is great and beautiful in the world, why seal your eyes to its
grandeur and loveliness, why walk with your drowsy brain in a fog,
when, touched by the light of beauty, it might answer the touch with
most delicious music ? What, in truth, can you know of the bounty
and magnificence showered about you ? No more than a silly fly, that,
finding itself in the palace of a king, sips and sips, and tumbles
headlong into the first syrup it may light upon. Have I not seen you
ieaden-eyed—clayr-pated—almost dumb with pain hammering at
your temples—degraded by nausea tugging at your stomach—your
sober world is made of. A pair of wings ! And I, like Mebcubi
can't do without three pair.
I have somewhere read it at school—ha! Rivers, sometimes at
the heel of the night I see you again in your green jacket, and I sit
and enjoy myself, and let the sweetest of tears run down my nose—■
well, never mind that—I read it at old Canetwig's—that. Jupiteb
fastened the earth to heaven with a gold chain. All a. flam, my
dear boy ! It was no chain, but a splendid, a most magnificent line
of linked bottles. The higher you climb, the further you are from >
this vagabond world. Pity, my dear fellow—pity it is, that the road i
is so devilish slippery !
You say I had friends. Had .' I have millions. Ha ! my good
creature—for you are good, I believe, sober and stupid as you are—
you don't know the philanthropy that a corkscrew let3 out upon me. j
I may have been ruffled ; may I be pardoned for it, I may now and j
then have thought harshly of my poor erring fellow-creatures, but-— j
pop .' — out comes the cork, and the wine, as it bubbles forth, speaks j
hand shaking like a leaf—your mouth like the mouth of an oven— ! pacifyingly, soothingly. Again—again ! The bottle coos like any
and your tongue, I am sure of it, like burnt shoe-leather ? And for dove ; and I have not listened to it above two or three hours, when I
what, Peter Rubygill ? For some six hours' madness the night j feel myself turned into one large lump of human honey ! And then
before ? these two hands of mine are multiplied ten million times, and I shako
You were left a comfortable competence. TVhere is it now ? Gone. | hands with every man, woman, and child upon this beautiful earth,
The bottle is the devil's crucible, and melts all!
You were tolerably good-looking. And now is your countenance
but as a tavern sign ; where numberless little imps—liberated by
drawn corks—continue to give a daily touch and touch of red, proud
if their work, as portrait-painters to the devil himself.
There was a time when your word was true as gold. And now,
my creditors included.
But all this, though much, is nothing to the wisdom—the know-
ledge—that drink so subtly lets in upon poor, darkened man. What
is it ? You have studied these things ; but then you have studied j
them with a dry, dusty throat; and so, can know no more of the
true operations of the intellect—glorious intellect—of majestic maiij
Vol. 7.
4
PUNCH'S COMPLETE LETTER-WRITER.
LETTER XVII.
from a gentleman to his friend, entreating him
to renounce the bottle.
upon whom can you pass it ? From the mouth of a drunkard, tim
most solemn promise is no better than the best-made bad money : it
may pass for a time, but is certain to be nailed to the world's counter
at last.
You had friends. But there is a mortal fevor in the reputation ol
a drunkard, and sober men wisely avoid it.
You have a wife. Has she a husband ? No. She vowed to love a
man, and you are a liquor-cask. Can you expect her affection ? You
might as reasonably expect her wedding-ring to hoop a wine-barrel.
You have children. Poor things! They see a satyr sprawl and
reel before them ; and, in their innocence, blush not as yet to call
the creature father !
But, my dear Peter, there is yet hope. Learn to love home.
Avoid the tavern. It is in the tavern-cellar that the devil draws up
his army array against the brains and good resolves of men. It is
there that he reviews his legions of bottles, and prepares them fcr
the attack upon weak humanity. But, arm yourself, Peter ; meet
the assailants with cold water; and, in the fight, you shall have the
earnest prayers of your old friend,
Cosvdon Rivers.
My dear Peter,
May I, by a friendship of thirty years'
growth, be permitted to address you on your
faults—or, rather, your fault; for it is so capa-
cious that it swallows every other error ; in the
same way that boa constrictors gulp toads and
other unsightly creatures of smaller dimensions.
May I venture to remonstrate with you on—well,
it must be said — your habitual drunkenness?
Alas ! my friend, to what a condition has this
folly, this wickedness, reduced you ! This morning
only, I saw a full-grown cucumber in a bottle :
there is nothing in the object ; it is a common-
place, to be seen in the windows of every pickle-
merchant: and yet did that imprisoned cucumber
touch my heart, and bring pathetic moisture into
my eyes ; for by the tyranny of association, it made me think of
my forlorn friend. Yes ; looking at that cucumber, trained to
grow in its glass prison, did I behold in it the hopeless condition
of Peter Eubygill ! There be is—thought I—there is Peter,
and who shall deliver him ? And how, alas ! does that plethoric
gourd fully declare the story of my friend ! How, like him, was it
insinuated in its green youth—a very sucker—into the bottle's
throat ; and how, when there, was it made to grow and swell, until
far too large to be withdrawn, it possessed the whole of the bottle,
and was then cut off for ever from the vine that had cherished it!
LETTER XVIII.
the answer.
My dear Corydov,
You talk of the beauty of the earth—you talk of tlie mag-
nificence of the world ! Why, then, let moles sing psalms to the
moon, and that hermit in feathers, the screech-owl, tune a ditty to
the noonday sun. The bottle is the true philosopher's microscope,
and shows him worlds within worlds that you, poor naked-eyed
wretches, never had the heart to dream of.
You say that you have seen me with my brain in a fog. Pooi
ignorance ! After a night's—say three nights'—continual happiness,
you little know the bliss I walk in. You little think of the genius
within me, that turns your scoundrel streets of London into the
abodes of the blessed. What see I there but love and truest brother-
hood ? The very knockers wink and laugh at me ; and roses and
honeysuckles grow about every lamp-post. There are, I know, weak,
puling creatures, who talk of headaches ; but these are milk-sop
neophytes, not yet of the true priesthood of our order. What \t
now and then I have a twinge ? Think you I accuse the bottle '. E
should be a villain to do so. No : it's the d—d east wind.
As for the fortune that was left me, it is true I have invested it in.
the bottle ; and, oh ! what compound interest have I had for my
money ! Whilst you would count every rascal guinea, and, after you
had counted all, broke into a cold sweat to think there was no more,
/—seated on my tavern-throne—have had wealth that would con-
found all arithmetic. All about me has been glorious riches 1 I ha\ e
drunk out of hollowed diamonds, and spat in gold-dust.
It is my darling faith that every bottle contains in it a pair of
And *is it not thus, Peter, with a doomed drunkard ? Dees he not | beautiful wings, to lift poor man above the gutter-mud which this
enter the bottle in the greenness of his days, and though he may
again and again escape from the thing that threatens to inclose him,
at length is it not impossible for him to get away? Habit makes him
swell, and there is no hope for him ; cut off from the genial world,
he has no other dwelling-place than a bottle. Verily, Peter Ruby-
gill, Bacchus—like a pickle-merchant—has his bottled cucumbers,
and you are of them !
And yet, Peter, I would fain hope for you. In the name of all
that is great and beautiful in the world, why seal your eyes to its
grandeur and loveliness, why walk with your drowsy brain in a fog,
when, touched by the light of beauty, it might answer the touch with
most delicious music ? What, in truth, can you know of the bounty
and magnificence showered about you ? No more than a silly fly, that,
finding itself in the palace of a king, sips and sips, and tumbles
headlong into the first syrup it may light upon. Have I not seen you
ieaden-eyed—clayr-pated—almost dumb with pain hammering at
your temples—degraded by nausea tugging at your stomach—your
sober world is made of. A pair of wings ! And I, like Mebcubi
can't do without three pair.
I have somewhere read it at school—ha! Rivers, sometimes at
the heel of the night I see you again in your green jacket, and I sit
and enjoy myself, and let the sweetest of tears run down my nose—■
well, never mind that—I read it at old Canetwig's—that. Jupiteb
fastened the earth to heaven with a gold chain. All a. flam, my
dear boy ! It was no chain, but a splendid, a most magnificent line
of linked bottles. The higher you climb, the further you are from >
this vagabond world. Pity, my dear fellow—pity it is, that the road i
is so devilish slippery !
You say I had friends. Had .' I have millions. Ha ! my good
creature—for you are good, I believe, sober and stupid as you are—
you don't know the philanthropy that a corkscrew let3 out upon me. j
I may have been ruffled ; may I be pardoned for it, I may now and j
then have thought harshly of my poor erring fellow-creatures, but-— j
pop .' — out comes the cork, and the wine, as it bubbles forth, speaks j
hand shaking like a leaf—your mouth like the mouth of an oven— ! pacifyingly, soothingly. Again—again ! The bottle coos like any
and your tongue, I am sure of it, like burnt shoe-leather ? And for dove ; and I have not listened to it above two or three hours, when I
what, Peter Rubygill ? For some six hours' madness the night j feel myself turned into one large lump of human honey ! And then
before ? these two hands of mine are multiplied ten million times, and I shako
You were left a comfortable competence. TVhere is it now ? Gone. | hands with every man, woman, and child upon this beautiful earth,
The bottle is the devil's crucible, and melts all!
You were tolerably good-looking. And now is your countenance
but as a tavern sign ; where numberless little imps—liberated by
drawn corks—continue to give a daily touch and touch of red, proud
if their work, as portrait-painters to the devil himself.
There was a time when your word was true as gold. And now,
my creditors included.
But all this, though much, is nothing to the wisdom—the know-
ledge—that drink so subtly lets in upon poor, darkened man. What
is it ? You have studied these things ; but then you have studied j
them with a dry, dusty throat; and so, can know no more of the
true operations of the intellect—glorious intellect—of majestic maiij
Vol. 7.
4