Punch (25.1853)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

177

DRAT THE EASTERN QUESTION !

To my Son Punch.

here now. Punch !
Drat this nasty
stupid good-for-
nothing Eastern
Question. I am
sick and sorry of
hearing it talked
of, din, din, din,
bother, bother, bo-
ther, every day,
and all day long.
Drat the Russians
and Turks both,
one’s barbarians
and the other’s sa-
vages. I wouldn’t
give a fig for
either of ’em; the
Russians are just
as bad as the
Turks, and the
Turks every bit

as bad as the Russians, there isn’t a pin to choose between ’em, six
of one and half-a-dozen of the other. The Turks commit double
and treble bigamy, and the Russians drink train oil; the Russians
are beaten with the knout, and the Turks with the bastinado, and
deserve to be, both alike. Oh, I know all about it, although I am
only an old woman ! and what’s the whole to-do. about but a parcel
of nonsense, ambassadors niggling with their diplomatic notes, and
quibbling backwards and forwards because an i wasn’t dotted on
one side and a t crossed on the other. Hity tity ! I’ve no patience
with ’em. Of course, if our bounden duty is to interfere, we must;
but it’s a great plague, and sickness in the land, and raining cats
and dogs, and bread up and meat up, and how much higher they’ll
go goodness knows, but it will be beyond everything if there, should
be a war. Drat it! we can’t help pestilence and famine, bat it’s our
own doings if we add war. Not that I’m for Mb. Cobden and your
‘No Soldiers’ people that want to do away with the army and
navy, and leave their sisters and mothers to invasion. Drat them,
too—I despise sach dirty drabs. But I do think it’s such annoyance
to be drawn in and forced to fight when you’ve no heart in the
quarrel. What a pity it is we can’t leave ’em alone and let ’em
fight it out. Neither of’em is our fellow Christians, Turks being
Mahometans, and Russians Greek, which is as bad as Latin ; and what
I should dke would be to see them left to themselves and eat each
other up, like the Irish cats—poor things ! Drat the ultimatums,
drat the Phosphorus—which is always causing a combustion—drat the
Dardanelles which I am sure they must be some forward husseys—drat
the whole business, it’s altogether a bad job from beginning to end,
if there is to be any end, which if the scrimmage goes on I’m afraid
will be the end of everything. Drat it all I say ! I wish I had a
good large broom, and power to sweep both your Sultan and your
Emperob, and all their forces into the Red Sea, or Black Sea, or any
sea deep enough to drown ’em out of the way, interfering, by their
nasty trumpery tiffs and tantrums, with progress and civilisation, and
arts and sciences, and the Crystal Palace at Sydenham, and the comfort
and happiness of everybody, to say nothing of a poor old lady like me.

THE EINE OLE ENGLISH INNKEEPER.

Aib—Sufficiently Obvious.

I ’ll sing you a new song on a theme much stirred of late,

Of a fine old English Innkeeper, grown rather out of date.

Who keeps up his establishment in almost princely state.

And don't forget to charge you there at quite a princely rate.

Like a fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

His house, you ’re told, is fitted up “ regardless of expense,”
Although one half is obsolete, and t’other make-pretence;

Exploded old four-posters, built in George the Second’s reign,
Mock plate to serve mock-turtle in, sham ice-pails for champagne :
At this fine old English Innkeeper’s, one of the olden time.

The swipes he draws is sour enough to turn a navvy pale,

Tho’ by a bitter raillery he calls it bitter ale;

And tho’ perhaps you don’t see half a waiter all the day,

Eor “ attendance ” quite as much as for a lawyer’s you must pay
To this fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

Then if to wine your tastes incline some home-made Cape you’ll get,
Served up in a decanter like a vinegar-cruet,

As a “ bottle of Madeira” this will in the bill be set,

And however nasty it may be a nice sum you ’re in debt

To the fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

And if your wife be with you, you must have a private room.

And use a pair of “ wax-lights ” (with a muttony perfume),

Eor which you ’ll pay a crown a day, and ’tis a burning shame
That whether they be lit or not they ’re charged for just the same
By this rare old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

But soon these fine old Innkeepers will find their race is run,

Eor men are up and doing, and no longer will be done :

And shortly we may hope to see a really good hotel,

Where we may be admitted, and not taken in as well,

As we were by our old Innkeeper, one of the fleecing time.

The Common, October, 1853.”

‘ Your affectionate,

“Mother Goose.’

Great Theatrical Strike.

It is reported that Mb. Chables Kean the actor has struck for an
idvance of salary from Mb. Chables Kean the manager. Mb. Chables
Kean refuses to advance another shilling to Mb. Chables Kean,
actor, desiring him to act his worst. It is believed that the actor has
taken the manager at his word. We deplore all strikes; especially
one like the above, in which the public are the greater sufferers. When
bad’s the best, what must the worst be ?

THE FASHIONABLE STRIKE AMONGST THE LOWEST CLASSES.

A Bbute of a Husband is one who fancies, when he marries, that
he is at perfect liberty to treat his wife as if she were no better than
a street-door, on which there was nailed the polite request: “ Please
to Ring and Knock.”

Beware the Beak.—Let Abd-ul-Medjid and Nicholas make it
up, if possible—but not embrace. The Sultan must not trust himself
fo the hug.

THE STARYED-OUT COMMISSION OE SEWERS.

Everybody is attacking the unfortunate Commissioners of Seweis,
who are said to be standing still with their hands in their pockets, and
who reply that they are obliged to stand still because they have nothing
in their pockets but their hands. It is true their hands seem to get
very deeply into the public pocket occasionally, but however large the
sum that may be extracted, the cry of the Commissioners is “We have
no funds.” If a neighbourhood, thirsty for a good, wholesome fall
of water, applies to the Commissioners, their answer is “ We can’t
stand a drain.” Their song is always to one tune, and that is the
tune of “ I’ve no Money.”

I 're no money ! so you see
Nothing can be done by me ;

I own it to my sorrow ;

But if I were rich, you’d see
Wonders would be done by me;

So call again to-morrow.”

The fact is that the Commissioners of Sewers have such grand ideas
that execution is impossible. The imagination of the Commissioners
riots in such a sea of sullage, that nothing short of an arched ava-
lanche of refuse water presents itself to the minds of the functionaries
who will not stoop to anything short of an aqueduct, and consequently
have souls above the making of a common useful drain. Everything
must be on such a scale of grandeur, that unless London can be
altogether excavated a few serviceable pipes cannot be laid down. W e
are quite willing to admit the difficulties of the position of the Com-
missioners with all the sewage of London on their hands, and some
people feel naturally tempted to throw mud upon those who are in a
degree responsible for getting rid of it. The Chairman, however,
seems to take the affair with a sort of philosophic good nature, as if
he felt himself somewhat in the position of a glass bottle or a plaster
bust perched on an eminence for everybody to take a shy at him.

Art in the City.

Why not—if Temple Bar must be removed—why not to mark and
preserve the sacred boundary of the City, bring bodily Gog and
Magog from Guildhall to either side of Eleet Street ? They would
only make two ugly statues the more : and in so large and such a city,
what are two ?

A Hint eok the Consumebs of Coal.—The most cheerful kind
of fuel:—Keeping up a constant fire—of jokes