DOI issue:
January to June, 1845
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16521#0073
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
77
"THE HEALTH OF THE LABOURER."
The great social difficulty that has beset us in the amelioration of
the condition of the labourer, is at length solved. To the Duke of
Richmond, we believe, is to be attributed the happy discovery.
Doubtless, when the full success of the plan is made manifest; when
throughout the length and breadth of England, its wondrous agency
is turning the huts of the labouring poor into abiding-places of sub-
stantial comfort—when it is calling smiles into the labourer's cheek,
and putting flesh upon his bones, and giviDg him the erect bearing
and independent look of God's primest work,—Man ; then, we doubt
it not, other claimants of the discovery will rise up, contesting with
the Noble Duke of Richmond the originality of that stroke of
philanthropic genius which has worked such blessed wonders. It
has been so with the inveutor of printing ; with the discoverer of the
motive principle of steam. Be it then our rewarding task at once to
claim for Richmond his inalienable right to the gratitude of
England's labourers. He has discovered the infallible remedy for all
their social ills. It is simply this : It is to drink their Health.
Mr. Lane tells us, that the Egyptian magicians enact their greatest
wonders with merely a bowl of water. The Duke of Richmond
performs his benevolent hocus-pocus with a glass of wine !
Oh, it is soothing to the soul, wearied and desponding from a con-
templation of the crushing ills that press the very manhood out of
thousands, to see a nobleman—philanthropic as Prometheus—rise
in a tavern hall ; and with a voice melodious as ten silver trumpets,
give—" The Health of the Labourer !" There is no mistaking
the look, the presence of the man. He is rapt, sublimated by the
greatness of his mission ; by the almost divine power of his discovery.
" The Health of the Labourer !"
Magical are the syllables ! "What are they, in truth, but as the
words of some spirit-compelling wizard—some political Prospero—
that are no sooner dropt from the lips of the speaker than they
arouse a swarm of genii—working vassals of benevolence !—and
away they fly to carry on their wings a healing balm to thousands
and thousands ! 80 mighty is the necromancy of the toast, that when
uttered, it is easy for imagination to behold a very cloud of Ariels
rising from the Freemasons' Tavern. East, west, north, and south
they separate upon their glad mission. Some, carrying loaves—
some, meat—some, kegs of nut-brown ale—some, new raiment,—and
all of them alighting at the labourer's fireless hearth, and calling
cheerfulness and hope into his face, and making his gaunt wife and
pallid little ones smile at the miracle of sudden plenty. "What
benevolent magic lies in that little sentence, " The Health of
the Labourer !" It is the " Open Sesame" to the heart of the
country.
And even when the labourer fails to receive the substantial
sweetness of these fairy gifts, it is plain he is largely benefited,
though all unconsciously, by the magical toast. Therefore, let him
take heart. True it is, he may wither on seven shillings a week ;
but then, does not a Duke drink his health ? and such condescension
must more than double the miserable stipend.
Consider this, 0 labourer ! It is possible that all day you have
wanted food—at night you need shelter and firing. There are sullen
thoughts clouding your brain ; there is, too, a slow, withering heat
at your vitals ; night is coming on, and you know not where to lay
your head. This, it must be owned, is an uncomfortable plight;
nevertheless, you may shake off the misery like an ugly dream ; for
know, you have been toasted in a London tavern. Yes; at the Free-
masons' the Duke of Richmond has given—"The Health of
the Labourer!"
You are breaking stones in a Union yard. Let the thought of the
toast touch your brain with music, and somehow try and hammer on
the granite a grateful accompaniment to—"The Health of the
Labourer!"
Well, labourer, you fall sick ; it may be in the parish of Iver, in
Buckinghamshire ; in the county of " the farmer's friend." You are
carted to Isleworth, and you ask for bread for yourself and wife.
You cannot move ; but your wife, poor wretch ! has yet some
strength, and so she is ordered to trudge from Hillingdon to UxbHdge
—and from Uxbridge back to Isleworth, having walked in tho. cut-
ting winter air, only one-and-twenty miles, before melting charity
gives her an order for grocery, price three shillings ! It is very
wearying, it is sickening to the heart, it is enough to make you call
upon death to take you from that despot, fellow-man; it is very
wretched for you to wait the return of your wife on her hard pil-
grimage of three-and-twenty miles. But take heart ! Be of good
cheer ! Disease and famine have hold upon you ; but let this thought
make them powerless—all that can be done, is done for you ; for
amidst hurrahs and cheering clamorous, somewhere in London,
they drink " The Health of the Labourer!"
And, labourer, it maybe you are just turned in howling winter
time from a comfortable jail. You were sent thither for straying
in search of work, that you might take your wife and offspring from
the Union. You could not make out the offence ; but the magistrates,
hawk-eyed, saw it, and you were sent to jail. There, you slough
your labourer's rags, and are warmly clothed. Your sentence is
suffered, and you are discharged ; the warm convict clothing taken
from you, and your labourer's tatters restored. You shiver at the
jail's threshold: for the icy wind makes you know the difference
between the snug garments of a felon, and the threadbare raiment
of a working-man. Well, you trudge on : but you have palpitation
at the heart; and it is sore travelling with you. At length you crawl
into a wayside hovel; and with one loaf, in withering December,
you fight famine for three days ; your feet becoming gangrened
with the blighting cold. Terrible thoughts must visit you in that
lone hovel ; you cannot but hold awful communings with the mid-
night blast, howling, to your ears, like humanity alout you. Never-
theless, you are not forgotten. No : wrong not humanity—landlord-
humanity7, and all its gushing impulses ; for though you are starving,
perishing ; though you are a piece of numbed, mortified, human
refuse—a Duke remembers you, and gives " The Health of the
Labourer !"
And, labourer, you crawl from your hovel, and are taken to the
Union. You die. You have been killed—murdered—by want and
winter's cold. You are at length at peace ; and sleep the sweet
sleep of death in a pauper's shell. You are carried to the pauper's
ground ; and whilst the priest utters the words that confound all
things in one undistinguished heap of clay—the pomp and the
poverty of life ; its emblazonments and its miseries ; while he utters
—" Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," let your spirit in its upward flight
be comforted for those of your earthly fellows you have left behind ;
for still—still will be drunk—"The Health of the Labourer !"
As some ducal landlords drink the health of the labourer while
living, so to make the heartfelt solemnity complete, a Doctor Cantwell
should bury him when dead. Q.
wakley'S address to his profession.
Ye who have for Science bled,
Ye whom Waki.ey oft has led,
Who by Medicine earn your bread,
Or by Surgery :
Now's the day and now's the" hour,
Don't you find your prospects low'r ?
See approach gross Humbug's power ;
Graham and Quackery !
Who would be so green and base,
As to Pabr to yield his case ;
Or to Holloway give place ?
Let his patients flee.
Who's for Medicine's rights and claims ?
Who will vote against Sir James ?
Who would " burke " that bill of Graham's t
Large his practice be.
Down with our Profession's foe !
Tooth and nail against him go ;
Quacks are floored at every blow j
At him, then, with me !
Sinful Sabbath Oranges !
Daniel Crawlet, a little hoy, was charged at the Southwark office
before Mr. Traill with selling oranges on Sunday. Mr. Traill dis-
charged the offender with an admonition, telling him that " by selling
fruit on Sunday he was breaking the Sabbath, and for which he wan
liable to be committed for a month to jail." This is nothing but righ*.
We have only to reflect upon the number of West-end fishmongers and
confectioners at this moment in jail for selling their goods on a Sunday,
to feel that Daniel Crawlet, the orange-boy, has had a very fortunate
escape.
77
"THE HEALTH OF THE LABOURER."
The great social difficulty that has beset us in the amelioration of
the condition of the labourer, is at length solved. To the Duke of
Richmond, we believe, is to be attributed the happy discovery.
Doubtless, when the full success of the plan is made manifest; when
throughout the length and breadth of England, its wondrous agency
is turning the huts of the labouring poor into abiding-places of sub-
stantial comfort—when it is calling smiles into the labourer's cheek,
and putting flesh upon his bones, and giviDg him the erect bearing
and independent look of God's primest work,—Man ; then, we doubt
it not, other claimants of the discovery will rise up, contesting with
the Noble Duke of Richmond the originality of that stroke of
philanthropic genius which has worked such blessed wonders. It
has been so with the inveutor of printing ; with the discoverer of the
motive principle of steam. Be it then our rewarding task at once to
claim for Richmond his inalienable right to the gratitude of
England's labourers. He has discovered the infallible remedy for all
their social ills. It is simply this : It is to drink their Health.
Mr. Lane tells us, that the Egyptian magicians enact their greatest
wonders with merely a bowl of water. The Duke of Richmond
performs his benevolent hocus-pocus with a glass of wine !
Oh, it is soothing to the soul, wearied and desponding from a con-
templation of the crushing ills that press the very manhood out of
thousands, to see a nobleman—philanthropic as Prometheus—rise
in a tavern hall ; and with a voice melodious as ten silver trumpets,
give—" The Health of the Labourer !" There is no mistaking
the look, the presence of the man. He is rapt, sublimated by the
greatness of his mission ; by the almost divine power of his discovery.
" The Health of the Labourer !"
Magical are the syllables ! "What are they, in truth, but as the
words of some spirit-compelling wizard—some political Prospero—
that are no sooner dropt from the lips of the speaker than they
arouse a swarm of genii—working vassals of benevolence !—and
away they fly to carry on their wings a healing balm to thousands
and thousands ! 80 mighty is the necromancy of the toast, that when
uttered, it is easy for imagination to behold a very cloud of Ariels
rising from the Freemasons' Tavern. East, west, north, and south
they separate upon their glad mission. Some, carrying loaves—
some, meat—some, kegs of nut-brown ale—some, new raiment,—and
all of them alighting at the labourer's fireless hearth, and calling
cheerfulness and hope into his face, and making his gaunt wife and
pallid little ones smile at the miracle of sudden plenty. "What
benevolent magic lies in that little sentence, " The Health of
the Labourer !" It is the " Open Sesame" to the heart of the
country.
And even when the labourer fails to receive the substantial
sweetness of these fairy gifts, it is plain he is largely benefited,
though all unconsciously, by the magical toast. Therefore, let him
take heart. True it is, he may wither on seven shillings a week ;
but then, does not a Duke drink his health ? and such condescension
must more than double the miserable stipend.
Consider this, 0 labourer ! It is possible that all day you have
wanted food—at night you need shelter and firing. There are sullen
thoughts clouding your brain ; there is, too, a slow, withering heat
at your vitals ; night is coming on, and you know not where to lay
your head. This, it must be owned, is an uncomfortable plight;
nevertheless, you may shake off the misery like an ugly dream ; for
know, you have been toasted in a London tavern. Yes; at the Free-
masons' the Duke of Richmond has given—"The Health of
the Labourer!"
You are breaking stones in a Union yard. Let the thought of the
toast touch your brain with music, and somehow try and hammer on
the granite a grateful accompaniment to—"The Health of the
Labourer!"
Well, labourer, you fall sick ; it may be in the parish of Iver, in
Buckinghamshire ; in the county of " the farmer's friend." You are
carted to Isleworth, and you ask for bread for yourself and wife.
You cannot move ; but your wife, poor wretch ! has yet some
strength, and so she is ordered to trudge from Hillingdon to UxbHdge
—and from Uxbridge back to Isleworth, having walked in tho. cut-
ting winter air, only one-and-twenty miles, before melting charity
gives her an order for grocery, price three shillings ! It is very
wearying, it is sickening to the heart, it is enough to make you call
upon death to take you from that despot, fellow-man; it is very
wretched for you to wait the return of your wife on her hard pil-
grimage of three-and-twenty miles. But take heart ! Be of good
cheer ! Disease and famine have hold upon you ; but let this thought
make them powerless—all that can be done, is done for you ; for
amidst hurrahs and cheering clamorous, somewhere in London,
they drink " The Health of the Labourer!"
And, labourer, it maybe you are just turned in howling winter
time from a comfortable jail. You were sent thither for straying
in search of work, that you might take your wife and offspring from
the Union. You could not make out the offence ; but the magistrates,
hawk-eyed, saw it, and you were sent to jail. There, you slough
your labourer's rags, and are warmly clothed. Your sentence is
suffered, and you are discharged ; the warm convict clothing taken
from you, and your labourer's tatters restored. You shiver at the
jail's threshold: for the icy wind makes you know the difference
between the snug garments of a felon, and the threadbare raiment
of a working-man. Well, you trudge on : but you have palpitation
at the heart; and it is sore travelling with you. At length you crawl
into a wayside hovel; and with one loaf, in withering December,
you fight famine for three days ; your feet becoming gangrened
with the blighting cold. Terrible thoughts must visit you in that
lone hovel ; you cannot but hold awful communings with the mid-
night blast, howling, to your ears, like humanity alout you. Never-
theless, you are not forgotten. No : wrong not humanity—landlord-
humanity7, and all its gushing impulses ; for though you are starving,
perishing ; though you are a piece of numbed, mortified, human
refuse—a Duke remembers you, and gives " The Health of the
Labourer !"
And, labourer, you crawl from your hovel, and are taken to the
Union. You die. You have been killed—murdered—by want and
winter's cold. You are at length at peace ; and sleep the sweet
sleep of death in a pauper's shell. You are carried to the pauper's
ground ; and whilst the priest utters the words that confound all
things in one undistinguished heap of clay—the pomp and the
poverty of life ; its emblazonments and its miseries ; while he utters
—" Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," let your spirit in its upward flight
be comforted for those of your earthly fellows you have left behind ;
for still—still will be drunk—"The Health of the Labourer !"
As some ducal landlords drink the health of the labourer while
living, so to make the heartfelt solemnity complete, a Doctor Cantwell
should bury him when dead. Q.
wakley'S address to his profession.
Ye who have for Science bled,
Ye whom Waki.ey oft has led,
Who by Medicine earn your bread,
Or by Surgery :
Now's the day and now's the" hour,
Don't you find your prospects low'r ?
See approach gross Humbug's power ;
Graham and Quackery !
Who would be so green and base,
As to Pabr to yield his case ;
Or to Holloway give place ?
Let his patients flee.
Who's for Medicine's rights and claims ?
Who will vote against Sir James ?
Who would " burke " that bill of Graham's t
Large his practice be.
Down with our Profession's foe !
Tooth and nail against him go ;
Quacks are floored at every blow j
At him, then, with me !
Sinful Sabbath Oranges !
Daniel Crawlet, a little hoy, was charged at the Southwark office
before Mr. Traill with selling oranges on Sunday. Mr. Traill dis-
charged the offender with an admonition, telling him that " by selling
fruit on Sunday he was breaking the Sabbath, and for which he wan
liable to be committed for a month to jail." This is nothing but righ*.
We have only to reflect upon the number of West-end fishmongers and
confectioners at this moment in jail for selling their goods on a Sunday,
to feel that Daniel Crawlet, the orange-boy, has had a very fortunate
escape.