Punch: Punch (21.1851)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. Ill

THINGS WHICH MR. HOBBS IS AT PERFECT LIBERTY

TO PICK.

O Pick all the undeserving
Lords and Ladies out of the
Pension List.

To Pick the Locks of the
Prisons that confine Abd-el-
kader, Kossuth, and the poor
Hungarian exiles.

To Pick as many holes as he pleases in
the holy Coat of Treves, and all other false
habits of the Romish Church, or other-
wise.

To Pick the Locke on the Irish Under-
standing, if it has not been too much
hampered by the keys of St. Peter.

To Pick the Padlocks that fetter poli-
tical prisoners to felons and criminals at
Naples.

To Pick as many of the Wards in
Chancery as are likely to fall into the
hands of Priests, and Mothers, and
Sisters, for the enrichment of Roman Catholic Convents and
Nunneries.

To Pick a Quarrel with Lord John Russell, if something is not
done by Government to check the sedition of the Cullens and Cahixls,
and other would-be enthusiastic martyrs in Ireland.

To Pick a good opportunity—and the earlier the better—for stopping
the trade of Agitation that is pursued, in all religious and political
matters, in the Sister Kingdom, to its ruin and degradation.

To Pick a Capital out of Europe that contains as many bad Statues
and Public Monuments as London.

To Pick the Irish Thorn out of the British Lion's Poot.

And lastly—to jump from painful subjects to comic—to Pick all over
the world a better Periodical, if he can, than PUNCH !

A NOBLE NOVELIST.

Mr. Shoberl has reason to be proud of at least one of his noble
authors. Our friend the Post speaks of Percy Hamilton, a novel from
the head of Lord William Lennox. It must be now some seven
years since Punch honoured that distinguished writer by a peculiar
notice of his merits. It would appear from the Post—for Punch is not
a cannon-ball, and cannot go through every book—that the bold Lennox
is as original as ever.

" He [saith the Post] plagiarises right and left, and stows the stolen goods of other
writers into his own book with as little conscience as Oliver Cromwell thrust the key
of the House -of Commons into his breeches pocket, after sending the Barebones
Parliament about their business."

That a noble lord should stow stolen goods into " his own book" is
an original way of making a book "his own;" pocket-handkerchiefs
may become personal property by the like process. However, some-
thing, it appears, must be admitted ; and it is this :—

" It must be admitted, however, that he often throws a new grace around an old story
by his free and graphic manner of narration, and that many a gem, whose lustre had
been clouded by long usage, shines out with fresh brilliancy when set off by his lucid and
easy dialogue."

In the like manner that stolen jewels—many a pilfered gem—are set
off at the receiver's by the free and graphic manner of the would-be
vendor. Happy the man—and especially valuable to the tradesman in
noble brains—who, by his lucidity and ease, can turn an old story into
a new one. By these means, the oldest Joe Miller becomes the
youngest Bill Lennox.

Alexander the Little.

Alex. Dumas, fils, writes in this jaunty fashion to the French
journals:—

^ " Plusieurs journaux annoncent que m. Alexandre Dumas se porte candidat a
l'Academie. Mon pere, qui n'apas le temps de s'occuper de ces choses-ld, me charge de
vous prier d'annoncer que ce n'est pas lui ni moi non plus quoique je termine cette
lettre par une faute de 1'rancais.

" A vous, Alex. Dumas, fils."

" Who has not time "—my illustrious father—" to occupy himself with
such things " as the French Academy. We always thought Alexander
pere, Alexander the Little; but Alexander fils is Alexander the
Very Least.

Some Maniac's Last.—An ordinary domestic clock having unfor-
tunately run down, it was observed that it had come to an untimely
end!

CAHILL/S TRAVELS.

A godly pilgrim, meek and poor,
I traveli'd France from end to end:

I rapp'd at many a cottage door,
For France was ever Erin's friend.

The farmer's cot, the noble's hall,
The curate's comfortable thatch,—

They gave me shelter, one and all—
I needed but to lift the latch.

I knew the rich and poor, and ate
The farmer's soup, the noble's feast;

A kindly welcome ever met
The poor and friendless Irish priest.

And Erin ever was my song,

And often (after dinner-time)
1 've told the tale of Erin's wrong,

And bloody England's guilt and crime.

And pray'd a curse—as who would not ?—
On them that holds the tyrant's rod—

That sent the fell potato-rot,
And persecutes the men of God.

And as I did my grief assuage,

And, sobbing, told my country's fate,

My audience wept with honest rage,
Their gentle bosoms thrill'd with hate.

Yes, lovely France is Erin's friend ;

And from Marseilles to Finisterre,
(I seen the land from end to end)

By all the blessed Saints I swear,

There 's not a man in lovely France—
That peaceful land, so full of charms,

With billions of inhabitants,
All bold in war, and bred to arms—

There is not, from Burdeaux to Par's,
(I tell ye, for I seen the town,)

There's not an honest Son of Mars
But wants to shoot the English down.

There's not a lady, soft and mild,
A speechless baby at the nurse,

Or blessed priest, or lisping child,
But does the bloody English curse.

There's not a lovely maid or wife,

Or lady there of any note,
But she would take a carving-knife,

And cut a bloody English throat.

And this is what I seen abroad,
When far away from Innisfail,

As sure as I'm a man of God,
By name the Reverend Doctor Cahill.

A QUESTION OF STALE EGGS.

Months, in these rapid times, become centuries, and therefore we
may ask, as a question of archaeological interest, what has become of
the Oobali? The Oobali were certain persons, or, to speak more
correctly, a set of fellows, whose name is derived from the Greek words
ahv an egg, and /3aAAa> to throw, by reason of their having distinguished
themselves by throwing foul eggs at people in returning from the Oaks,
last Epsom races. One of their number, it was understood, was to have
been tried for this outrage at the Old Bailey—but the trial has not yet
taken place. We repeat, then, what has become of the egg-throwers ?
for, as their offence was not only filthy in itself, but followed by conduct
of equally disgusting baseness, they ought by this time to be all of
them at work picking oakum.

Not Going, but Gone.

The papers stated, that during the Lord Mayor's late visit to
Paris he had arranged to sell by auction many of the French articles
in the Crystal Palace. We could not believe that his Lordship so far
combined business with pleasure, as to make his visit the medium of a
job, or that he would knock down with the hammer of the auctioneer
the whole of his civic dignity. It so happens, moreover, that his Lord-
ship has retired from the rostrum, as the advertisements of " Mr.
Gadsden (late Mltsgrove and Gadsden) " will testify, and he
S accordingly has ceased to put anything up, but his brother Aldermen.