DOI Heft:
July to December, 1844
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16520#0146
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARTVAM.
139
PUNCH'S COMPLETE LETTER-WRITER.
LETIER XXV.
JTROM A CLERGYMAN TO A CHURCHWARDEN, ECCENTRIC IN HIS
ACCOUNTS.
Dear Si a,
It is now two years since the horrors of
fiscal war broke out in our once peaceful parish of
Wholehog-cum-Applesauce. For two years, sir, have
the affrighted parishioners had their souls and pockels
torn by thoughts of mammon—for two years have
they nightly fallen to sleep to groan and writhe beneath a nightmare
sitting on their breasts in the horrid shape of a Churchwarden,
grinning and hugging in his arms an iron-clasped account-book !
Neither sex nor age has escaped the evil influence of the time : old
women wax older when they talk of Churchwarden Gripps ; and the
faces of little children become sharp and thin as sixpences when
they stammer out his name. True it is, the parishioners have pur,
you in the cage of Chancery ; nevertheless, with a magnanimous
philosophy, you do nothing but make mouths at them through the
bars !
Dear sir, pause—consider. Have you not done enough for history ?
Is it possible, think you, that the fame—such as it is—of Church-
warden Gripps can die whilst the parish of Wholehog-cum-Apple-
sauce shall endure ! Will not its annals preserve until the latest day
a thousand memoranda of the peculiar reputation of Gripps ? Whilst
arithmetic shall remain to man, can they ever be forgotten ! Why,
then, be thus gluttonous of glory ? Why crave for more renown, when
some folks vow it is impossible for you to stand upright with the
load already on your shoulders ?
Dear Churchwarden, consider the danger of your present con-
dition. For years and years have you borne the bag of Wholehog-
cum-Applesauce. You have been the depository of the hopes of
the parish ; and if—as with a golden tongue you have declared
it—the people owe you monies, blush not, hut take the balance.
Let your mystic books be opened ; call in pundits for the work, and
let the Cabala of Wholehog-cum-Applesauce be revealed to the
vulgar. Then, how joyfully will your debtors pay their dues to the
Churchwarden ; while, on the other hand, if you should have
slumbered in error—for even Churchwardens are men—with what
serene delight will you pen a cheque upon the fortunate banker who
b"ids in trust the hoard of Gripps !
Dear sir, you have been abused— so'ely abused. You say it—all the
world know it. Unhappily, it is the infirmity of men to throw any-
thing but crowns of flowers upon him they deem their debtor ; and
true it is, you do not walk in the odour of roses. It was one of the
thousand fallacies by which the Romans hectored it over the world,
that u money has no smell." Never believe it, dear Gripps. There
is some money that will turn the sweetest Christian into a human
pole-cat.
Consider what a plight are we all brought into by these pestilent
accounts ! Enter the Church of Wholehog-cum-Applesauce—survey
its wants—take some leisure solemn half-hour, and pace up and
down its aisles ! Tears will trickle down your nose, and your noble
heart will lie melting in your breast like green fat in the platter
of an alderman. You will weep, sir—[ am sure of it—you will
weep, and your trembling and repentant hand will, with awakened
instinct, unbutton for once your breeches' pocket.
Give ear to the sorrows of the people of the church. Myself, sir,
its unworthy minister, would be very happy to hand you a receipt for
arrears of salary. You are my debtor ; but I pass my own claim,
and implore for others.
Our organist, sir—our tuneful musician—lacks paymentof some five
! quarters. Every touch of his subtle fingers has been for fiftecd
' months a touch upon credit. Can you think of this, sir, and surrender
up your Sabbath heart to the solemnity of pealing fugues ? Alas,
sir ! with these teazing accounts upon your mind, does not some
evil genius strike all religious harmony from out the music—dues it
not to ) our ear profanely change the hundredth psalm into the
worldly discord of The Miser thus a Shilling sees ? And then our church
| bells that should call like comforting angels to your Sabbath sold—
alas, sir, and alas !—what do you hear in them ? Nothing, but three
horrid, clanging notes—£ s. d. £ s. d. £ s. d. ?
Our sexton, sir—poor, patient creature !—for a year and a half he
has not known the sweets of income. Consider it, dear sir, consider
it ; a day must come, when you will need his service. Therefore,
that you may meet that day with Christian peace, ponder on the
troubles of Wholehog-cum-Applesauce — allay the tumults—pay
arrears—cure all heart-burnings—make straight your accounts, and
believe me,
Your earnest well-wisher,
Gilead Balm.
LETTER XXYT.
THE CHURCHWARDEN'S ANSWER.
Sj r,
As I consider your letter a very great impertinence, you
will take any answer to it as, upon my part, a remarkable condescen-
sion. I had made up my mind to go out of the world without ever
deigning to write or speak again of the accounts of Wholehog-cum-
Applesauce. I i eel that they ought to be beneath my notice : but so
it is—throughout the whole of this fiscal war, as you are pleased to
call the present atheistic revolution of the parish—1 have been over-
flowing with a courtesy, a gentleness, that has only increased the
audacity of my slanderers. I have been meek and unresisting, and
so I have been trampled upon. But, sir, a worm will turn, and, by
consequence, so will the Churchwarden of Wholehog-cum-Appie-
sauce !
The parishioners have certainly put me into Chancery. WThat of
it ? The people at the Zoological Gardens have put a brown beat
into a pit ; and the fine fellow still climbs to the top of his pole, and
squatting there, looks with surly contempt upon the poor creatures
who, whatever they may say of him, dare not come to close quarters.
Take your answer out of that, sir.
I have law upon my side—law, sir, which I should hope is stronger
than any arithmetic you may please to talk of. I am Churchwarden
of Wholehog-cum-Applesauce for life : for there is a divine right of
churchwardens as well as of kings. As a scholar and a man of some
sense, you ought to know that I was born for the office. At all
events, come what may, I intend to die in it.
You ask me to throw open my books to the vulgar eyes of the
whole world ! What next ? No, sir, it is enough for me to know that
the parish is in my debt ; and if I do not arrest every man, woman,
and child in it for the arrears, I only show a considerateness and a
humanity for which myself to myself has always been distinguished.
I know nothing about the Romans, and want to know nothing.
They were, I believe, a set of heathens, who never knew the blessings
of a Churchwarden. I believe, however, with you, that money has <%
smell, and a sweet smell too, or how, as a man of wealth, should I
still be hugged and caressed by so many friends in the City 1
You invite me to take a turn in your church. No, sir ; until the
brawls which now disturb it shall have ceased, I will never enter it.
I shall perform my devotions in a place where parishioners are
obedient, and churchwardens are respected.
As for your claim, sir, I wonder at the hardihood with which you
make it, when you consider the heavy balance there is between the
parish and myself. Decency should have taught you better.
As for the organist, I very much doubt whether a parish that is in
debt should encourage such a luxury. I know that I should never
think of spending my money in music whilst I owed money to a
living soul.
Your se.xton, too, has claims for wages. Poor mau ! I am sorry—
very sorry for him ; but as 1 have made up my mind to have a public
funeral in either Westminster Abbey ur Saint Paul's, I shall, ot
139
PUNCH'S COMPLETE LETTER-WRITER.
LETIER XXV.
JTROM A CLERGYMAN TO A CHURCHWARDEN, ECCENTRIC IN HIS
ACCOUNTS.
Dear Si a,
It is now two years since the horrors of
fiscal war broke out in our once peaceful parish of
Wholehog-cum-Applesauce. For two years, sir, have
the affrighted parishioners had their souls and pockels
torn by thoughts of mammon—for two years have
they nightly fallen to sleep to groan and writhe beneath a nightmare
sitting on their breasts in the horrid shape of a Churchwarden,
grinning and hugging in his arms an iron-clasped account-book !
Neither sex nor age has escaped the evil influence of the time : old
women wax older when they talk of Churchwarden Gripps ; and the
faces of little children become sharp and thin as sixpences when
they stammer out his name. True it is, the parishioners have pur,
you in the cage of Chancery ; nevertheless, with a magnanimous
philosophy, you do nothing but make mouths at them through the
bars !
Dear sir, pause—consider. Have you not done enough for history ?
Is it possible, think you, that the fame—such as it is—of Church-
warden Gripps can die whilst the parish of Wholehog-cum-Apple-
sauce shall endure ! Will not its annals preserve until the latest day
a thousand memoranda of the peculiar reputation of Gripps ? Whilst
arithmetic shall remain to man, can they ever be forgotten ! Why,
then, be thus gluttonous of glory ? Why crave for more renown, when
some folks vow it is impossible for you to stand upright with the
load already on your shoulders ?
Dear Churchwarden, consider the danger of your present con-
dition. For years and years have you borne the bag of Wholehog-
cum-Applesauce. You have been the depository of the hopes of
the parish ; and if—as with a golden tongue you have declared
it—the people owe you monies, blush not, hut take the balance.
Let your mystic books be opened ; call in pundits for the work, and
let the Cabala of Wholehog-cum-Applesauce be revealed to the
vulgar. Then, how joyfully will your debtors pay their dues to the
Churchwarden ; while, on the other hand, if you should have
slumbered in error—for even Churchwardens are men—with what
serene delight will you pen a cheque upon the fortunate banker who
b"ids in trust the hoard of Gripps !
Dear sir, you have been abused— so'ely abused. You say it—all the
world know it. Unhappily, it is the infirmity of men to throw any-
thing but crowns of flowers upon him they deem their debtor ; and
true it is, you do not walk in the odour of roses. It was one of the
thousand fallacies by which the Romans hectored it over the world,
that u money has no smell." Never believe it, dear Gripps. There
is some money that will turn the sweetest Christian into a human
pole-cat.
Consider what a plight are we all brought into by these pestilent
accounts ! Enter the Church of Wholehog-cum-Applesauce—survey
its wants—take some leisure solemn half-hour, and pace up and
down its aisles ! Tears will trickle down your nose, and your noble
heart will lie melting in your breast like green fat in the platter
of an alderman. You will weep, sir—[ am sure of it—you will
weep, and your trembling and repentant hand will, with awakened
instinct, unbutton for once your breeches' pocket.
Give ear to the sorrows of the people of the church. Myself, sir,
its unworthy minister, would be very happy to hand you a receipt for
arrears of salary. You are my debtor ; but I pass my own claim,
and implore for others.
Our organist, sir—our tuneful musician—lacks paymentof some five
! quarters. Every touch of his subtle fingers has been for fiftecd
' months a touch upon credit. Can you think of this, sir, and surrender
up your Sabbath heart to the solemnity of pealing fugues ? Alas,
sir ! with these teazing accounts upon your mind, does not some
evil genius strike all religious harmony from out the music—dues it
not to ) our ear profanely change the hundredth psalm into the
worldly discord of The Miser thus a Shilling sees ? And then our church
| bells that should call like comforting angels to your Sabbath sold—
alas, sir, and alas !—what do you hear in them ? Nothing, but three
horrid, clanging notes—£ s. d. £ s. d. £ s. d. ?
Our sexton, sir—poor, patient creature !—for a year and a half he
has not known the sweets of income. Consider it, dear sir, consider
it ; a day must come, when you will need his service. Therefore,
that you may meet that day with Christian peace, ponder on the
troubles of Wholehog-cum-Applesauce — allay the tumults—pay
arrears—cure all heart-burnings—make straight your accounts, and
believe me,
Your earnest well-wisher,
Gilead Balm.
LETTER XXYT.
THE CHURCHWARDEN'S ANSWER.
Sj r,
As I consider your letter a very great impertinence, you
will take any answer to it as, upon my part, a remarkable condescen-
sion. I had made up my mind to go out of the world without ever
deigning to write or speak again of the accounts of Wholehog-cum-
Applesauce. I i eel that they ought to be beneath my notice : but so
it is—throughout the whole of this fiscal war, as you are pleased to
call the present atheistic revolution of the parish—1 have been over-
flowing with a courtesy, a gentleness, that has only increased the
audacity of my slanderers. I have been meek and unresisting, and
so I have been trampled upon. But, sir, a worm will turn, and, by
consequence, so will the Churchwarden of Wholehog-cum-Appie-
sauce !
The parishioners have certainly put me into Chancery. WThat of
it ? The people at the Zoological Gardens have put a brown beat
into a pit ; and the fine fellow still climbs to the top of his pole, and
squatting there, looks with surly contempt upon the poor creatures
who, whatever they may say of him, dare not come to close quarters.
Take your answer out of that, sir.
I have law upon my side—law, sir, which I should hope is stronger
than any arithmetic you may please to talk of. I am Churchwarden
of Wholehog-cum-Applesauce for life : for there is a divine right of
churchwardens as well as of kings. As a scholar and a man of some
sense, you ought to know that I was born for the office. At all
events, come what may, I intend to die in it.
You ask me to throw open my books to the vulgar eyes of the
whole world ! What next ? No, sir, it is enough for me to know that
the parish is in my debt ; and if I do not arrest every man, woman,
and child in it for the arrears, I only show a considerateness and a
humanity for which myself to myself has always been distinguished.
I know nothing about the Romans, and want to know nothing.
They were, I believe, a set of heathens, who never knew the blessings
of a Churchwarden. I believe, however, with you, that money has <%
smell, and a sweet smell too, or how, as a man of wealth, should I
still be hugged and caressed by so many friends in the City 1
You invite me to take a turn in your church. No, sir ; until the
brawls which now disturb it shall have ceased, I will never enter it.
I shall perform my devotions in a place where parishioners are
obedient, and churchwardens are respected.
As for your claim, sir, I wonder at the hardihood with which you
make it, when you consider the heavy balance there is between the
parish and myself. Decency should have taught you better.
As for the organist, I very much doubt whether a parish that is in
debt should encourage such a luxury. I know that I should never
think of spending my money in music whilst I owed money to a
living soul.
Your se.xton, too, has claims for wages. Poor mau ! I am sorry—
very sorry for him ; but as 1 have made up my mind to have a public
funeral in either Westminster Abbey ur Saint Paul's, I shall, ot