Punch: Punch (21.1851)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 105

FROM OUR LONDON CORRESPONDENT.

(For the Kilkenny Cat.)

F course you will not be sur-
prised at another attack by
the Saxon upon the last shred
of prosperity that, fluttering,
hangs upon our insulted coun-
try. Yes; the measure of our
wrongs is now full arid run-
ning over. The emerald—like
the pearl of old—is dissolved
in the nitric acid of England.
Was it likely that the Crystal
Palace, as it is called, would
have passed away, without
leaving another wound on the
bleeding breast of Ireland ?
It was not enough that that
fabric was raised by Irish skill
— that Irishmen hammered
the iron—and Irish glaziers,
as our own Moore sings, "cut
their bright way through " a
million panes of glass ;—not
enough that, to the very struc-
ture of the shamrock, Mb.
Paxton owed his notion of
the form of his Crystal Temple
—(though, of course, all the
honour and glory of the idea
was given to the Victoria Lily)
—but, that a new prize ex-
pressly awarded by the Com-
missioners should be added to
the list, in order to outrage our beloved country !

Will it be believed—but why do I ask ?—that a prize of enormous
value has been adjudged to a person of the name of—I forget, but no
doubt of an Irishman—for the invention of a machine (an infernal
machine!) to be worked by steam; a machine that, in one day, shall
reap as much corn as would fall beneath the sinewy arms of a hundred-
power Irishman ? Yes ; the corn of the Saxon is to be cut by steam;
and loud is the brutal rejoicing at the fireside of every Saxon farmer.
At every harvest-home, the most exulting speeches have been made—
the most insolent toasts drunk to the success of the steam-labourer, and
the consequent and well-understood confusion of the outraged Irish
reaper.

To Irish industry and Irish benevolence, the Scotch and English
farmers have owed the gathering of a thousand harvests. Irish riches
have gleamed like sunbeams in the corn-fields of the despoiler,—but
wait awhile, and " no Irish need apply." The armies of Ceres that,
for many a season, have landed at Liverpool, and Bristol, and Glasgow,
spreading themselves over the breadth and length of the land ; econo-
mizing their wages, on their return, by condescending to sleep at nights
from Union to Union,—these armies will be disbanded by the mechanical
reaper. The Saxon farmer is delighted with the prospect; and—I
speak upon the best authority, or would I speak at all ?—every night
drinks success to the mechanical reaper, and confusion to the Celt.

Our venerable Doctor Cahill has, of course, been outraged at
Leeds. _ Benevolently disposed to teach the benighted Englishman the
true principles of astronomy—as set forth by the College of Rome, and
about to prove the sun one mile and a half in diameter, according to
the authority of His Holiness—that astral luminary was attacked by
the bigots, but has since come out from the contest in all the triumph
of intelligence and purity; having eaten his words like a mess of
buttered beans, to the confusion of his accusers. Oh! it was a
beautiful scene to behold—a great moral aspect to contemplate—to
think of Doctor Cahill, as an astronomical lecturer, teaching the
bigotted Saxon t he machinery of the heavenly bodies, as accredited by
the Court of Rome !

I have also to inform you—and I do.it rejoicingly—that Lord John
Russell has already directed a Government prosecution of Doctor
Cullen ! The Premier will have his £100; and if it were a hundred
hundred, all the better ; for wouldn't the money leap from the pockets
of the flocks for the honour and glory of the martyr? Of eourse, the
jury will be packed. I may next week send you the names of the
Protestant slaves selected by the Government for the dirty doing!

If I must—in my duty of your own reporter—allude to other matters,
I must tell you that London is flat, collapsed, dead, laid out, after the
Glass Show. The greatest news, is a giantess from Lapland; she has
only been here a week or two, but I understand contemplates an imme-
diate return to her own country, finding London so mighty dull.

And I had nearly forgot—the drama is taking a start. Mr. Barntjm
has enriched the stage with two little girls of the name of Bateman :

they play, among other things, Richard III. and Richmond, and make
the very least of them. The public is further assured that the little
girls can neither read nor write; a fact at which the public must
rejoice mightily. I have heard that the way to improve the notes of
singing-birds is to put out their eyes ; and, in like manner, to keep an
actor in the dark may be the best way of teaching acting. Mr. Barntjm:
has, however, delicately suppressed one fact—it is this :—He might, if
he liked—(and, for all I'd answer to the contrary, may do so now)—
prove the little Batemans to be lineally descended from the distin-
guished Lord Bateman, " who was a noble peer," and who? in his
pilgrimage to various countries, contracted a private marriage in
America; from which union have descended Richard III. and Richmond.
There can be no doubt, had Barntjm minded, he might have proved
this; and have further illustrated the fact, by showing the Batuman
family arms marked in the nape of the neck of either actress. Perhaps,
however, this may remain over untii the " benefit."

SAMBO TO THE " GREEK SLAVE."

You a berry pretty image; ob dat dere am no doubt;

And Hiram Powers him clebber chap, de man dat cut you out;

And all de people in de world to look at you dey go,

And say you am de finest ting dat 'Merica can show.

But though you am a lubly gal, I say you no correct;

You not at all de kind ob slave a nigger would expect:

You never did no workee wid such hands and feet as dose;

You different from Susannah, dere,—you not like coal-black Rose.

Dere's not a mark dat I see ob de cow-hide on your back;
No slave hab skin so smooth as yourn—dat is, if slavee black.
Gosh ! if I war a slave again, all down in Tennessee,
In such a skin as that of yourn is where I'd like to be.

I 'spose de reason why your face look mellumcholly sad,
Is 'cause dey gone and torn you from your lubber and your dad.
How hard ! say Massa Jonathan—oh, what a cruel shame !
Ob course you'know him nebber serve a nigger gal de same.

But now no fear of floggee, nor from lubly wife to part,
And here I stands and speaks my mind about de work ob Art;
De nigger free de minute dat him touch de English shore,
Him gentleman ob colour now, and not a slave no more !

MASTER JOHN BULL IN TROUBLE.

Mr. Punch. " Why, Johnny, what's the matter?"

Johnny. " If you please, Sir, there 's a nasty ugly American been

beating me."

New Title.—Lord Arundel goes by the name, now, of "The Great
Toe-toe-taller."

Vol. 21.