Punch: Punch (21.1851)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

133

And the two are reading the story old,
"Wherein of Cinderella is told
How she crouch'd at the kitchen fender,
And how, in her poor clothes and worn
She was fairer than in their splendour

Her sisters, stately and full of scorn ;
For loveliness lives not with hearts untender;

And how, with their plumes and trains a-sweeping,
They drove to the ball, and she went creeping
Back to her ashes, and there sat weeping;
And how, to the maiden all forlorn,

Came the fairy godmother true;

And then—oh, wonders ever new !—

Of the pumpkin-coach, and the mice that drew it,

With its old grey-whisker'd coachman rat,
And the green-coat lizards for footmen to it;

And how in the ball-room, where she sat,
She was the fairest, and never knew it;

And how, of Time's flight, Twelve struck, to remind her,
And she fled, and left her glass-slipper behind her,
And the Prince sought the wearer, and did find her,
And she lived a Queen ever after that!

Oh, blessed Fancy, that chases the gloom
Even of that blank workhouse room!
Their little heads and hearts are working,
And wond'ring if fairy god-mothers now
In chimney-corners may be lurking—

When comes the sharp word and sharper blow :
" Drat you! take that, your tasks for shirking!"
Alas ! the chiding and cane so ready
Are Fact's stern warning to fancies heady.
That back to the workhouse jog-trot steady
The world's poor paupers is quick to cow.

THE SLEEPING-ROOM.

Little breaths come hot and hard
In the crowded children's ward.

Fountains of glass in sun-light glowing,
Great green trees and bright flowers growing,
And beautiful men and women flowing
In an endless stream from aisle to aisle !

Wonder on wonder—more and more
Gems, and jewels, and sparkling ore—
Is it real, or is it seeming,

This world of marvels they wander through ?
" Oh yes! I know we are not dreaming ;—

The book we yesterday read is true:
'Tis Fairy-land, so bright and beaming;
The fairy god-mother of the story,
Because we are friendless, and sad, and sorry
Has changed the workhouse into a glory,
For pauper children like me and you."

FLOWERS OF THE ORATORY.

newspaper readers are
aware that there was held,
the other day, at Birming-
ham, a Roman Catholic
meeting in honour and glory
of the Very Rev. Dr. New-
man; that Dr. Newman
did thereat deliver himself
of a speech, and that the
subjoined is an extract from
the reported oration of the
Father of the Oratory:—

" It was a curious thing for him
to say, though he was now of
mature age, and had been very
busy in many ways, yet this was
the first time in his life that he
had ever received any praise. He
had been in other places, and done

Where three and four in a bed are sleeping ; v%^«4;^M|l|ll lllft WL < E^VT^ before being

nn 'i c • -j j • 16 ' \ ^Sfeta JM1 m\\\\ \'M( r^aJ Catholic, but there was no re-

WMe Our fairy-ridden pair T^jfflll M C| spouse, no sympathy; it was not

Vigils of the bram are keeping, >|]|! W n^^^WWm Wim |i the fault of the people> for they

For the fays are busy there, >f i|ilb «j| il mv ,11 could not respond-"

And in night-long revel sweeping, ifflPk ill ill ill Newman, in this ob-

Scatter Fancy s treasures hoarded , » W servation, affords a singular

Lithe workhouse sad and sordid, instance of the truth lhat

w \H a, } \ i afforded- extreme simplicity may ac-

Wealth of dream-land, rich and rare! \ Wll > company, great abilities.

_„„ „ 2> 1W\\^M¥K^^~---. Considering what the great

THE WAKING. Y\wl Tractarian leader had been

Hark ! the workhouse clock strikes five, \ x % <lV> doing ail along at Oxford,

And the crowded room's alive • can xt ?e wonderful to any-
body but Dr. Newman that he met with no approbation until he found
himself at Rome ?

The Very Reverend Father is represented as having proceeded to
say-

Careless hands of pauper nurses
Shake the sleepers out of bed,
And that done, with cuffs and curses

Bows each little pauper's head,
And its parrot-prayer rehearses •

Then, their breakfast bolted, wandering,
The half-conquer'd slumber blundering,
To the yard they 're march'd, while thundering
Through the gate the vans are led.

THE RIDE.

What the journey they 're to go,
Little do they care to know,—
Blunted by their workhouse training;

So the vans they roll along,
Without question or complaining;

But the power of sleep is strong,
And, as now the Park they 're gaining,
Half the troop is sunk in slumber,
(Our two friends among the number),
Denser crowds the way encumber,
Scarce the vans can cleave the throng.

THE VISION.

The vans have come to a sudden stop,

And theirsleepy freight they drop ;

And our little ones' eyes, in blank amazement,

Open upon a wondrous pile—
A range of glittering crystal casement,

Stretching along for mile on mile;
Within all is wonder, from crown to basement;

" Some instruments could only make beautiful music, and some from their very
nature could only make a noise. So it was with such a body as that to which he once
belonged—they could only make a noise—no echo, no response, no beautiful music.
But it was quite different when a person went into the Catholic Church."

What does Ds. Newman think of moans from Neapolitan dun-
geons ? What of howls of sedition, rancour, and malice from a
certain party in Ireland ? The body to which he now belongs has made
some noise in the world ; has it at all resembled these noises ? There is
a very general impression that it decidedly has; but Da. Newman
appears to have closed his ears to the noise, and to hear a singing m
them instead, which he mistakes for beautiful music. _ When we re-
member, also, his extraordinary confession of faith in relics and modern
miracles, we cannot but entertain a serious apprehension that he is
labouring under a delusion which may be termed New—mania.

Uniform Friendship.

The imperial Ego—Franz Joseph of Austria and Hungary, the self-
appointed soul-and-body Keeper of a few millions of featherless bipeds
—has met and embraced William the Mystic, of Prussia; Yalorous
Promise-Breaker, Press-Compelling King. Beautiful must both
potentates have looked, mirrored in the eyes of one another. For, says
the account, " the Emperor wore the Prussian uniform, while the King
wore an Austrian uniform." The Austrian colour is white—the Prussian,
blue. Could their Majesties appear turned inside out, we doubt not
they would be both of the same colour; both wear indelible court-
mourning for murdered constitutions.