DOI issue:
January to June, 1846
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16542#0012
4
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
PUNCH TO PEEL.
eloved Peel,—When you
were popular in Downing
Street I never spared
you. I never scrupled
to turn you and your
measures inside out, and
say my say of you and
them. And this, I did,
without one drop of gall
in my ink ; for I felt no
malice towards you. You
never denied me any-
thing, for I never asked
aught at your hands.
Although I have a hun-
dred poor relations—at
least, a hundred who
have claimed kin with
me since I have been
a prosperous authority
in the world, though I
never heard of them
whilst I was compelled
to get my bread in the
street,—yet have I never
listened to their prayers
to ask of you even a
crumb of the loaves, or so much as a tail of one of the fishes. I have
at least half-a-dozen nephews who have panted for tide-waiterships,
and—you know it—I have never asked you to take pity on one of
them. " No," I have said, magnanimously tossing a half-crown to
one, a dollar to another,—" go and trade with lncifers, buy yourself
a net of oranges, set up a walking penny sandwich shop ; but do not
hope to make me bother the Minister. Punch will be independent,
and ask nothing of Peel."
Well, it is only the self-same generous nature that now
sympathises arid condoles with you. " By yon marble heaven,"
my heart bleeds for you! Yes, Sir Robert, it shall not be said
that in this, the day of your tribulation, you have not a friend.
Punch slaps you on your shoulder, and cries " be of good heart."
Mercy upon us ! What a shower of ink is falling upon you on all
sides ! What scores aud scores of pens—goose-quill and steel—
are stabbed at you ! The Post lies before me. What stale eggs—
what exanimate cats and dogs—what foul cabbage-stumps from the
garden of rhetoric—what muddy dregs of an inkhorn are flung at
you ! Flung, too, with a joyousness, a glee, never exceeded in the
neighbourhood of the pillory !
And have you deserved this ? Can men have no compassion—no
pity for what you have undergone ? Can they not conceive the more
than Vulcanic labour to attempt to melt a cast-iron Duke \ Have
they no thought of the terrors of that ferrea vox f Are they incapable
of a single touch of sympathy for the man who has laboured to trans-
form the sow's ears of landed dukes into silk purses for the manu-
facturers ? Are they reckless of the baiting, the badgering, the
bullying that, for weeks past, you have endured at the Council ?
Well, we have seen the dens of the lions, the tigers, the hyaenas at
the Zoological Gardens. Rather would we select any one of those
nooks, with a cheerful trust in the merciful amiability of any one of
the tenants, than live your late life—dear Sir Robert !—at the
royal council table. But what cares the world for this—for all your
days of turmoil—your nights of sleeplessness—with now and then
trie nightmare, in the form of "the Duke," sitting astride on a forty-
two pounder, weighing a mountain on your breast ?
And is it true, Sir Robert, that you have no friend \ Have you
lost all—" all that were most dear to you ? " Yes ; it is the fero-
cious exultation that you are a friendless politician ! For how
many weary years have you laboured, only at last to stand alone ?
In the shades of Tarn worth only do you find sympathy and solicitude!
And still, day after day, is your reputation tattooed. All sorts of
monstrous forms are pricked into it by five hundred quills. This it
is to be a chief! We are much more cruel than the New Zealanders ;
for when they would mark a leader they employ only one agent—the
priest—who, says a late authority, " performs the operation with a
pointed bone instrument, the juice of a particular treebeing imerted in
the cuts, to give the blue tinge." Now—hapless Sir Robert !—who
shall count the number of pointed instruments at this moment
piercing the cuticle of your fame ? Not the Post alone, the Corn-
Law priest, digs its quill, or iron, into you, "inserting in the cuts"
vinegar and the juice of aloes, to give them, to all posterity, a blue
tinge ; but there are hundreds of pointed weapons pricking at you :
and—so horribly fantastic is the work—who shall clearly make out
all the fancy dragons, and monsters, and reptiles made indelible upon
you ? Poor Sir Robert !
And therefore do we, at this festive season of the year, write you
this little note of consolation. Because so many other pens are
piercing you, we would fain let fall from our quill some few drops of
balm. Therefore, good Sir Robert, do we hope that—ftxv Christ-
mas, at least, you will be tranquil—happy. And to that end may
your beef sit lightly on your stomach; may your plum-pudding melt
deliciously in your mouth ; your mince-pies dissolve like honey-
dew ! May you enjoy your roasted chesnuts; and—without burnt
fingers—come off well at snapdragons ! And, should destiny deter-
mine you to take a hand at a round game—say speculation—may you
never turn up a knave, or—again sinking under agricultural weapons,
—be beaten by spades !
Keep your spirits up, Sir Robert—kill an ox, and give it to the
poor, add thereto a few hogsheads of Tarn worth ale, and believe me,
Yours in sympathy,
STEAM UP THE TIBER.
The 'Journal des Dtbats states that the Government of Rome, "in
order to benefit the interior, has resolved to double the number of its
steamers on the Tiber." The classic indignation excited by this announce-
ment, has relieved itself ia the following
sonnet.
Shade of Great Gesar ! Is it come to this,
On Tiber's yellow wave that steamers ply,
Cutting up memories of days gone by
With plashing paddle-wheels, and phiz, and hiss ;
Smirching with smoke the lapis lazuli
Ultramarine of fair Italia's sky 1
Dost thou not, Pompey, take it much amiss,
That cries of " Ease her !" « Stop her !" " She's afloat ! "
And pop of ginger and of bottled beer
Should wake the echoes of old Tiber's shores ?
Patres Conscripti, when ye took the boat
That bore ye to Philippi, oh how queer,
Impelled by steam instead of good old oars,
Would ye have looked, ye reverend Governors !
THE BAL MASQUE.
" Well, Samaul, what caraktnr was you at the Bal Maskey ?n
" Oh ! I went as Hivanoe. What was yon ?"
" Why, a pent, of the time of Charley-Mang."
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
PUNCH TO PEEL.
eloved Peel,—When you
were popular in Downing
Street I never spared
you. I never scrupled
to turn you and your
measures inside out, and
say my say of you and
them. And this, I did,
without one drop of gall
in my ink ; for I felt no
malice towards you. You
never denied me any-
thing, for I never asked
aught at your hands.
Although I have a hun-
dred poor relations—at
least, a hundred who
have claimed kin with
me since I have been
a prosperous authority
in the world, though I
never heard of them
whilst I was compelled
to get my bread in the
street,—yet have I never
listened to their prayers
to ask of you even a
crumb of the loaves, or so much as a tail of one of the fishes. I have
at least half-a-dozen nephews who have panted for tide-waiterships,
and—you know it—I have never asked you to take pity on one of
them. " No," I have said, magnanimously tossing a half-crown to
one, a dollar to another,—" go and trade with lncifers, buy yourself
a net of oranges, set up a walking penny sandwich shop ; but do not
hope to make me bother the Minister. Punch will be independent,
and ask nothing of Peel."
Well, it is only the self-same generous nature that now
sympathises arid condoles with you. " By yon marble heaven,"
my heart bleeds for you! Yes, Sir Robert, it shall not be said
that in this, the day of your tribulation, you have not a friend.
Punch slaps you on your shoulder, and cries " be of good heart."
Mercy upon us ! What a shower of ink is falling upon you on all
sides ! What scores aud scores of pens—goose-quill and steel—
are stabbed at you ! The Post lies before me. What stale eggs—
what exanimate cats and dogs—what foul cabbage-stumps from the
garden of rhetoric—what muddy dregs of an inkhorn are flung at
you ! Flung, too, with a joyousness, a glee, never exceeded in the
neighbourhood of the pillory !
And have you deserved this ? Can men have no compassion—no
pity for what you have undergone ? Can they not conceive the more
than Vulcanic labour to attempt to melt a cast-iron Duke \ Have
they no thought of the terrors of that ferrea vox f Are they incapable
of a single touch of sympathy for the man who has laboured to trans-
form the sow's ears of landed dukes into silk purses for the manu-
facturers ? Are they reckless of the baiting, the badgering, the
bullying that, for weeks past, you have endured at the Council ?
Well, we have seen the dens of the lions, the tigers, the hyaenas at
the Zoological Gardens. Rather would we select any one of those
nooks, with a cheerful trust in the merciful amiability of any one of
the tenants, than live your late life—dear Sir Robert !—at the
royal council table. But what cares the world for this—for all your
days of turmoil—your nights of sleeplessness—with now and then
trie nightmare, in the form of "the Duke," sitting astride on a forty-
two pounder, weighing a mountain on your breast ?
And is it true, Sir Robert, that you have no friend \ Have you
lost all—" all that were most dear to you ? " Yes ; it is the fero-
cious exultation that you are a friendless politician ! For how
many weary years have you laboured, only at last to stand alone ?
In the shades of Tarn worth only do you find sympathy and solicitude!
And still, day after day, is your reputation tattooed. All sorts of
monstrous forms are pricked into it by five hundred quills. This it
is to be a chief! We are much more cruel than the New Zealanders ;
for when they would mark a leader they employ only one agent—the
priest—who, says a late authority, " performs the operation with a
pointed bone instrument, the juice of a particular treebeing imerted in
the cuts, to give the blue tinge." Now—hapless Sir Robert !—who
shall count the number of pointed instruments at this moment
piercing the cuticle of your fame ? Not the Post alone, the Corn-
Law priest, digs its quill, or iron, into you, "inserting in the cuts"
vinegar and the juice of aloes, to give them, to all posterity, a blue
tinge ; but there are hundreds of pointed weapons pricking at you :
and—so horribly fantastic is the work—who shall clearly make out
all the fancy dragons, and monsters, and reptiles made indelible upon
you ? Poor Sir Robert !
And therefore do we, at this festive season of the year, write you
this little note of consolation. Because so many other pens are
piercing you, we would fain let fall from our quill some few drops of
balm. Therefore, good Sir Robert, do we hope that—ftxv Christ-
mas, at least, you will be tranquil—happy. And to that end may
your beef sit lightly on your stomach; may your plum-pudding melt
deliciously in your mouth ; your mince-pies dissolve like honey-
dew ! May you enjoy your roasted chesnuts; and—without burnt
fingers—come off well at snapdragons ! And, should destiny deter-
mine you to take a hand at a round game—say speculation—may you
never turn up a knave, or—again sinking under agricultural weapons,
—be beaten by spades !
Keep your spirits up, Sir Robert—kill an ox, and give it to the
poor, add thereto a few hogsheads of Tarn worth ale, and believe me,
Yours in sympathy,
STEAM UP THE TIBER.
The 'Journal des Dtbats states that the Government of Rome, "in
order to benefit the interior, has resolved to double the number of its
steamers on the Tiber." The classic indignation excited by this announce-
ment, has relieved itself ia the following
sonnet.
Shade of Great Gesar ! Is it come to this,
On Tiber's yellow wave that steamers ply,
Cutting up memories of days gone by
With plashing paddle-wheels, and phiz, and hiss ;
Smirching with smoke the lapis lazuli
Ultramarine of fair Italia's sky 1
Dost thou not, Pompey, take it much amiss,
That cries of " Ease her !" « Stop her !" " She's afloat ! "
And pop of ginger and of bottled beer
Should wake the echoes of old Tiber's shores ?
Patres Conscripti, when ye took the boat
That bore ye to Philippi, oh how queer,
Impelled by steam instead of good old oars,
Would ye have looked, ye reverend Governors !
THE BAL MASQUE.
" Well, Samaul, what caraktnr was you at the Bal Maskey ?n
" Oh ! I went as Hivanoe. What was yon ?"
" Why, a pent, of the time of Charley-Mang."