DOI issue:
July to December, 1851
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16608#0260
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
249
going to put it on herplale.) No, here, please. {Presents the plate with the
mess intended for Scamp.) Here, Scamp, poor fellow, come here !
Mr. Baker. Now, my dear, you'd really belter not feed the dog here—
he'll dirty all the carpet. It's a nasty habit. 1 can't bear having
animals fed at table.
Mrs. Baker {insidiously). Oh, my dear, he's strange, you know, now;
when he knows us, they can feed him in the kitchen.
[Puts down the plate. Scamp immediately nuzzles into it, thrusting
the greater part of the contents on the carpet, and then selecting
the largest bone, carries it off to the centre of the hearth-rug, and
commences gnawing it, with the aid of his fore-paws,
Mr. Baker {sharply). Now, look at the dirty beast, greasing the
hearth-nig. It's really very nasty {testily).
Mrs. Baker (cajolingly). Well, my dear, he's strange now. We'll
teach him better when lie knows us a little.
[Scamp, having gnawed his bone bare, returns to the plate, and begi?is
scattering the contents under the table, in an apparent embarrass-
ment between morsels of nicely-balanced attractiveness.
Mr. Baker. Now, there, all under the table—fat, and potatoes, and
things : one won't be able to walk across the room without treading it
into the carpet.
Mrs. Baker {to the old tune). Oh, my dear, he's strange, yon know.
Very tenderly.) Oh, you naughty dog, to spill the things on the carpet.
(Scamp pauses, to look Mrs. Baker in the face, and wags his tail
gratefully.) 1 declare he seems getting quite attached already. Do
look, my dear—he's wagging his tail, I declare.
Mr. Baker (between his teeth). Dirty beast! {He perceives that Mrs
Baker, absorbed in the dog, has quite forgotten the duties of the dinner-
table.—Sternly.) Are you going to help that puddiue, Mrs. Baker?
Mrs. Baker. Oh, I beg your pardon, my love {helps him.—Musingly.)
I suppose he won't eat sweet pudding ?
Mr. Baker {puts down his fork violently, for Mm). Really, my dear, I
must insist on your not making the experiment.
[Dinner proceeds and concludes—much interrupted by Mrs. Baker's
viva voce studies of canine character.
Enter Mary, to take away.
Mr. Baker {whose dinner has not been a great success). And just bring
in a dust-pan and a broom, and sweep up the mess that dog's been
making under the table.
[A lapse of four hours; during which Mr. Baker, after several
attempts to read, which have been utterly dejeated by Mrs.
Baker's conversation with Scamp, has given himself up to a
snooze in his arm-chair, leaving Mrs. Baker to a tete-a-tete
with her four-legged friend, which has been amazingly successful
in all but Mrs. Baker's efforts to kindle an enthusiasm on the
subject of the dog in Mr. Baker, like that which she is already
giving fearful way to.
Mr. Baker {waking up). Well, my dear, I think it's about time for
bed. {Rings.)
Enter Mary, with bed-candles.
Mr. Baker {taking his caudle). Are you coming, my dear?
Mrs. Baker {pausing). Directly, my love. By-the-bye, about the dog i
—I suppose you wouldn't like him to sleep in our bed-room?
Mr. Baker {breaking out, and peremptorily). Certainly not; I'll put
him out into the yard.
Mrs. Baker. Into the yard ! Oh! Mr. Baker ! on such a night as
this, and while he's strange to the place, too ! Oh! it's cruel; it
really is quite cruel!
Mr. Baker {in a tone that admits of no argument). I insist upon it, my
dear. In fact, I won't allow of his staying in-doors—he can go into
the knife-house, if he's cold. Come here, you brute ! (He roughly seizes
the unhappy Scamp by the neck, and proceeds to carry his intentions into
execution.)
Mrs. Baker {to herself). Well! I never thought Mr. Baker a hard-
hearted man, before. [She retires in a saddened mood.
******
[A lap-e of three-quarters of an hour. Scene changes to the Bed-
room of Mr. and Mrs- Baker.
Mrs. Baker {in bed, and after a long interval of silence, during which
the subject has been fermenting in her mind). Yes, Mr. Baker, you
really ought to be ashamed of yourself, turning that poor dumb animal
out of the ''ouse into the cold !
\_A prolonged howl heard under the window, which looks on the back-
yard, shows that Scamp is of the same way of thinking.
Mr. Baker. It's that d—d dog.
Mrs. Baker. St-rves you right, Mr. Baker !
[Howl repeated^ through every note of the canine gamut.
Mr. Baker {turning restlessly over, and drawing the counterpane over
his ears). Confound the noisy brute !
[Scamp runs up and down the howling scale, winding up with a pro-
longed shake in c above the line. * * * * A lapse of several
hours, during which Mr. Baker's broken slumbers are made
miserable by the continuous and agonising wail of his victim,
to which Mrs, Baker, who is equally prevented from sleeping,
listens with a mixture of malicious satisfaction and pity. The
windows of the neighbours are heard violently lifted, and slammed
down savagely at intervals.
WHAT'S THE USE OE THE GAZETTE?
Somebody has lately asked the question, whether there is any par-
ticular use in continuing that celebrated periodical called the London
Gazette? which it is admitted, on all hands, that nobody ever looks
into. As a newspaper, it may be wor'h preserving, as a curiosity in
these days; for a journal without leading articles, without reviews,
without dramatic notices, without accidents or offences, without police
reports, and, indeed, without everything in the shape of information or
instruction, is to the newspaper press what Hamlet, with the part of
Hamlet left out, is to the drama.
The Editor of the London Gazette must be a very remarkable indi-
vidual ; and, indeed, we know of no journal, except our old friend,
Lloyd's LAst, that can be at all put in competition with it. The literary
staff of Lloya's List do occasionally get an opportunity of showing what
they can do with the pen, for they are suffered now and then to grow
eloquent upon the state of the wind; but the corps of the London
Gazette can never be permitted to make a remark on ry subject
whatever.
If the publication is to be continued, we think something ought to
be done to render it amusing; and we would suggest, therefore, that
the Bankrupts should be done in blank verse; that a man should b«
permitted to declare his insolvency in a song, or that a lively duet,
with original music, should be the medium of announcing a dissolution
of partnership. Unless something is done to give vitality to the London
Gazette, it must eventually die away ; for a journal, with nobody to write
h, and nobody to read it, is an anomaly in literature which cannot long
exist in the present advanced state of society.
OUR CITY AND OUR COALS.
As coals supply the wherewithal for the civic improvements^ it is.
not, perhaps, too much to say, that the Corporation's new buildings
will be rubbishing affairs; seeing that the principal material to be
employed in their construction will be Wall's End.
The Great Eire of London stands every chance of being repeated ;
for, instead of rendering their architecture fire-proof, as modern science
would enable them to do, the City authorities are rearing their edifices
out of coals.
Within a circle extending twenty miles round London, the cry is,
that the City Barge is a mere coal-barge, and ought to be scuttled.
It is also loudly declared that the brightest jewel in the crown of the
City monarch is a black diamond.
In fine, the general opinion is, that the Lord Mayor and Aldermen
must be called over the coals.
Don't do it Again.
We understand the hackney and job interest in the Celestial Empire
would oppose any proposition for railways, on the ground that if the
system were to be adopted, there would be no Co(a)ch-in-China
required.
249
going to put it on herplale.) No, here, please. {Presents the plate with the
mess intended for Scamp.) Here, Scamp, poor fellow, come here !
Mr. Baker. Now, my dear, you'd really belter not feed the dog here—
he'll dirty all the carpet. It's a nasty habit. 1 can't bear having
animals fed at table.
Mrs. Baker {insidiously). Oh, my dear, he's strange, you know, now;
when he knows us, they can feed him in the kitchen.
[Puts down the plate. Scamp immediately nuzzles into it, thrusting
the greater part of the contents on the carpet, and then selecting
the largest bone, carries it off to the centre of the hearth-rug, and
commences gnawing it, with the aid of his fore-paws,
Mr. Baker {sharply). Now, look at the dirty beast, greasing the
hearth-nig. It's really very nasty {testily).
Mrs. Baker (cajolingly). Well, my dear, he's strange now. We'll
teach him better when lie knows us a little.
[Scamp, having gnawed his bone bare, returns to the plate, and begi?is
scattering the contents under the table, in an apparent embarrass-
ment between morsels of nicely-balanced attractiveness.
Mr. Baker. Now, there, all under the table—fat, and potatoes, and
things : one won't be able to walk across the room without treading it
into the carpet.
Mrs. Baker {to the old tune). Oh, my dear, he's strange, yon know.
Very tenderly.) Oh, you naughty dog, to spill the things on the carpet.
(Scamp pauses, to look Mrs. Baker in the face, and wags his tail
gratefully.) 1 declare he seems getting quite attached already. Do
look, my dear—he's wagging his tail, I declare.
Mr. Baker (between his teeth). Dirty beast! {He perceives that Mrs
Baker, absorbed in the dog, has quite forgotten the duties of the dinner-
table.—Sternly.) Are you going to help that puddiue, Mrs. Baker?
Mrs. Baker. Oh, I beg your pardon, my love {helps him.—Musingly.)
I suppose he won't eat sweet pudding ?
Mr. Baker {puts down his fork violently, for Mm). Really, my dear, I
must insist on your not making the experiment.
[Dinner proceeds and concludes—much interrupted by Mrs. Baker's
viva voce studies of canine character.
Enter Mary, to take away.
Mr. Baker {whose dinner has not been a great success). And just bring
in a dust-pan and a broom, and sweep up the mess that dog's been
making under the table.
[A lapse of four hours; during which Mr. Baker, after several
attempts to read, which have been utterly dejeated by Mrs.
Baker's conversation with Scamp, has given himself up to a
snooze in his arm-chair, leaving Mrs. Baker to a tete-a-tete
with her four-legged friend, which has been amazingly successful
in all but Mrs. Baker's efforts to kindle an enthusiasm on the
subject of the dog in Mr. Baker, like that which she is already
giving fearful way to.
Mr. Baker {waking up). Well, my dear, I think it's about time for
bed. {Rings.)
Enter Mary, with bed-candles.
Mr. Baker {taking his caudle). Are you coming, my dear?
Mrs. Baker {pausing). Directly, my love. By-the-bye, about the dog i
—I suppose you wouldn't like him to sleep in our bed-room?
Mr. Baker {breaking out, and peremptorily). Certainly not; I'll put
him out into the yard.
Mrs. Baker. Into the yard ! Oh! Mr. Baker ! on such a night as
this, and while he's strange to the place, too ! Oh! it's cruel; it
really is quite cruel!
Mr. Baker {in a tone that admits of no argument). I insist upon it, my
dear. In fact, I won't allow of his staying in-doors—he can go into
the knife-house, if he's cold. Come here, you brute ! (He roughly seizes
the unhappy Scamp by the neck, and proceeds to carry his intentions into
execution.)
Mrs. Baker {to herself). Well! I never thought Mr. Baker a hard-
hearted man, before. [She retires in a saddened mood.
******
[A lap-e of three-quarters of an hour. Scene changes to the Bed-
room of Mr. and Mrs- Baker.
Mrs. Baker {in bed, and after a long interval of silence, during which
the subject has been fermenting in her mind). Yes, Mr. Baker, you
really ought to be ashamed of yourself, turning that poor dumb animal
out of the ''ouse into the cold !
\_A prolonged howl heard under the window, which looks on the back-
yard, shows that Scamp is of the same way of thinking.
Mr. Baker. It's that d—d dog.
Mrs. Baker. St-rves you right, Mr. Baker !
[Howl repeated^ through every note of the canine gamut.
Mr. Baker {turning restlessly over, and drawing the counterpane over
his ears). Confound the noisy brute !
[Scamp runs up and down the howling scale, winding up with a pro-
longed shake in c above the line. * * * * A lapse of several
hours, during which Mr. Baker's broken slumbers are made
miserable by the continuous and agonising wail of his victim,
to which Mrs, Baker, who is equally prevented from sleeping,
listens with a mixture of malicious satisfaction and pity. The
windows of the neighbours are heard violently lifted, and slammed
down savagely at intervals.
WHAT'S THE USE OE THE GAZETTE?
Somebody has lately asked the question, whether there is any par-
ticular use in continuing that celebrated periodical called the London
Gazette? which it is admitted, on all hands, that nobody ever looks
into. As a newspaper, it may be wor'h preserving, as a curiosity in
these days; for a journal without leading articles, without reviews,
without dramatic notices, without accidents or offences, without police
reports, and, indeed, without everything in the shape of information or
instruction, is to the newspaper press what Hamlet, with the part of
Hamlet left out, is to the drama.
The Editor of the London Gazette must be a very remarkable indi-
vidual ; and, indeed, we know of no journal, except our old friend,
Lloyd's LAst, that can be at all put in competition with it. The literary
staff of Lloya's List do occasionally get an opportunity of showing what
they can do with the pen, for they are suffered now and then to grow
eloquent upon the state of the wind; but the corps of the London
Gazette can never be permitted to make a remark on ry subject
whatever.
If the publication is to be continued, we think something ought to
be done to render it amusing; and we would suggest, therefore, that
the Bankrupts should be done in blank verse; that a man should b«
permitted to declare his insolvency in a song, or that a lively duet,
with original music, should be the medium of announcing a dissolution
of partnership. Unless something is done to give vitality to the London
Gazette, it must eventually die away ; for a journal, with nobody to write
h, and nobody to read it, is an anomaly in literature which cannot long
exist in the present advanced state of society.
OUR CITY AND OUR COALS.
As coals supply the wherewithal for the civic improvements^ it is.
not, perhaps, too much to say, that the Corporation's new buildings
will be rubbishing affairs; seeing that the principal material to be
employed in their construction will be Wall's End.
The Great Eire of London stands every chance of being repeated ;
for, instead of rendering their architecture fire-proof, as modern science
would enable them to do, the City authorities are rearing their edifices
out of coals.
Within a circle extending twenty miles round London, the cry is,
that the City Barge is a mere coal-barge, and ought to be scuttled.
It is also loudly declared that the brightest jewel in the crown of the
City monarch is a black diamond.
In fine, the general opinion is, that the Lord Mayor and Aldermen
must be called over the coals.
Don't do it Again.
We understand the hackney and job interest in the Celestial Empire
would oppose any proposition for railways, on the ground that if the
system were to be adopted, there would be no Co(a)ch-in-China
required.