DOI issue:
July to December, 1853
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16612#0248
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
237
THE SCOTCH PEERAGE IN PERIL.
cotland, having begun
to complain of it s wron gs,
seems in danger of being
inundated by incessant
showers of grievances.
We cannot be surprised
that Scotland should
itch to have her injuries
redressed ; and we have
now another to add to
the long catalogue of
complaints that have
recently issued from the
North Britishers. The
following paragraph
from the Spectator of
last week brings to light
a new calamity :—-
“ The floor of the picture
gallery in Holyrood Palace is
become so rotten and unsafe,
that when Peers assemble to
elect a representative, the
greatest caution is requisite
to prevent disaster. The
Commissioners of Woods and
Forests are about to provide
the proper remedy of a new
floor.”
It is evident from the above account, that there is something very rotten in
the foundation which the Scotch Peers have to rest upon. It would seem that
when the Scotch lairds assemble to elect a representative, they are obliged to “tread
softly,” not because theirs is “ hallowed ground,” but because it is crumbling away
like the rottenest specimen of a Pierage which the banks of the Thames, with
its tottering tiers of worn-out barges, could furnish. We can imagine the heavy
Scotch Peers proceeding to an election with such caution, as to be compelled to
avoid every hole in the floor, lest any of them should inadvertently put their foot
in it. We shall not be surprised to hear, some day, that when the^ members had
assembled on the floor of the house for the despatch of business, they went com-
pletely through with it.
THE “FUSION” OF THE BEER-BUNG COUSINS.
(From our RotherJiithe Correspondent.)
“ I hastes' to inform you of an event, which, if the estimate of the actors them-
selves is to be taken, will cause the utmost excitement throughout this country
and the Continent. On this subject your readers will be judges—in a petty
locality small things seem large—- and the preternatural importance which is here
given to it may deceive me into false calculations.
“ You, like the rest of the world, are well aware that a feud of no ordinary
virulence has subsisted between the elder and younger branches of the house
of Beerbung, which so long supplied all the Publicans (and a good many of the
sinners) to this locality, and indeed dictated to the magistrates of Limehouse, and
defied the authorities of the Commercial Docks. You remember that when Lewis
Beerbung lost his licence, and the ‘ King’s Head’ was shut up, things went on any-
how in the parish; everybody opened pubhc-houses, keeping the shutters down
Sunday and week-day alike, and at last we hardly knew whether our heads were
on our shoulders or not. Then the military came in, and we got on better; and,
subsequently, the other Lewis Beerbung (who was given to oysters) and his
brother, Charles Dicks, had the ‘ King’s Head’ again. Dicks took in preachers,
and cheated in his measures, and at last ran off to Scotland ; and then the house
was let to a third Lewis, who was son to the first Lewis Beerbung’s younger
brother, a very bad fellow, of whom Jack Ketch had the last accounts. The
Beerbungs were always a queer set, and this third Lewis, though a clever fellow,
could not keep the house (which he had named the ‘ Pear and Umbrella ’), but
had to run for it, and was made bankrupt under the name of Smith. Then the
whole affair was altered: a committee was appointed to manage the house, which
had a new sign, the ‘Three Jolly Colours:’ and since that the chairman has
kicked out the rest of the managers, and has got the licence transferred to himself.
The house is now the ‘ Bee and Bayonet,’ and seems to be carried on to the
satisfaction of the neighbourhood. Yery good order is kept; the chairman, who
was formerly in the Ham, and, indeed, sausage line, has married a very nice woman,
and tries to keep friends with the most respectable people about. Indeed, his
behaviour to a rich and rascally tallow-monger, who has been trespassing on the
land of some poor neighbours, and stealing their turkey, has sent up Unlimited
Loo, as he’s called, in the estimation of all decent folks. Anyhow, lie has got
the house which was the ‘ King’s Head,’ and, while he gives Imperial measures,
will keep it.
“ But as the Beerbungs are irrevocably kicked out of the house, they comfort
themselves by squabbling with one another, and talking as if the question was
which had a right to the fixtures. Smith, the bankrupt, is dead, but has left a
lot of sons, not bad fellows, but with very little brains among them. And there
is a cousin of their’s, who at present calls himself Sham-
bore (but I am told is a real bore to any one who has to
spend the evening with him), and he comes from the elder
branch of the Beerbungs, and claims to be the head of
the family. Shambore and Smith’s boys have hitherto
been at daggers drawn, and making everybody laugh at
their absurd quarrels. Shambore has settled just outside
the parish, and is always sticking up placards, some of
them very profane, abusing Loo, or anybody who happened
for the time to have the ‘ King’s Head.’ He lives at a
place called Prowsy Wharf, and behaves as stuck-up as if
the parish belonged to him ; sees people with his hat on;
and has got a long story about some miraculous hair oil
which he says will never dry off his head. Some think
he is cracked. The Smith boys used to make all sorts of
game of him, and call him ‘ Batty,’ and, when their father
had the house, they used to stone any one who went to
see him.
“ But somehow, Shambore and the Smiths have made
it up. Why, nobody knows; but it is thought that the
tallow-monger has been at them, and has promised to
stand something handsome if they will unite to bring
actions of trespass against Loo. However, be this as it
may, last week down comes one of Smith’s sons—who
calls himself (for they have all aliases) Knee Moore—to
Browsy Wharf, in his best clothes, and ah being arranged,
knocks three knocks—no more nor less—at Shambore’s
front door. He would not knock two knocks, for fear of
being thought a postman; and Shambore would not let
him knock four, because that would be coming the swell
too much. Shambore was peeping over the blind (which
had crochet lilies on it), but of course Moore pretended
not to see him. The maid opened the door, and Moore
asked if Mr. Shambore was in. ‘ What name. Sir P ’ says
the girl. But Shambore had bolted through the back
parlour, and was standing on the stairs. ‘ What do I see P ’
he shouts out. ‘ Come in by all means; ’ and he comes
down exactly four stairs—no more—and waits for the other.
Moore will not take off his hat until the door is shut, for
fear the neighbours should think he’s nobody, but he
hangs it on a peg, and makes Shambore a bow.
“ ‘ 1 am glad to call on the head of my family,’ says
Moore, kicking out his leg behind, and making the girl
laugh. Shambore makes him say it again, pretending to
be deaf. Then they shake hands, and the girl is sent out
for beer, and they sit down and drink bad luck to Unli
mited Loo, and may he soon lose his licence. And it seems
they have arranged that, if they can kick Loo out, and
get the house, Shambore’s to keep it for the good of the
family, until a boy—a son of Moore’s elder brother—is
old enough to take the licence ; and, to prevent danger, it
Shambore’s wife dies he is not to marry again. The
precious couple sat a long time, and Moore brought in
Mrs. Moore, and they all grew as thick as thieves; and
when going away, Moore, who was tipsy, said he had made
a bridge, or was going over the bridge, or something which
could not quite be understood. Meantime, Loo has told
the police to keep a sharp look-out on the cousins, and it
will be wiry times for them if they are laid hold of.”
Two Great Questions.
There are two great questions which at present address
themselves to the political mind, and they are both in
connexion with wages. Without entering into the merits
of either, we may say that in England the great question is,
“ How wages are ? ” and in Turkey, “ How wages war ? ”
LOVE IN LOW LIFE.
Whether much love prevails on both sides between
husband and wife among the inferior classes, properly so
called, of this country, may be questioned, but there is
no doubt that the wives, at least, are much smitten.
THE PORTE IN BOTTLE.
Ie Turkey can be enabled to hold her own a few years
longer, she will, there are good reasons for hoping, arrive
at a high state of civilization. There is little doubt that
the Ottoman Porte will improve by keeping.
Bood for Improvement.—A certain Mare in London
must be rather badly off; for its chief present nourishment
is chaff.
Vol. 25.
8—2
237
THE SCOTCH PEERAGE IN PERIL.
cotland, having begun
to complain of it s wron gs,
seems in danger of being
inundated by incessant
showers of grievances.
We cannot be surprised
that Scotland should
itch to have her injuries
redressed ; and we have
now another to add to
the long catalogue of
complaints that have
recently issued from the
North Britishers. The
following paragraph
from the Spectator of
last week brings to light
a new calamity :—-
“ The floor of the picture
gallery in Holyrood Palace is
become so rotten and unsafe,
that when Peers assemble to
elect a representative, the
greatest caution is requisite
to prevent disaster. The
Commissioners of Woods and
Forests are about to provide
the proper remedy of a new
floor.”
It is evident from the above account, that there is something very rotten in
the foundation which the Scotch Peers have to rest upon. It would seem that
when the Scotch lairds assemble to elect a representative, they are obliged to “tread
softly,” not because theirs is “ hallowed ground,” but because it is crumbling away
like the rottenest specimen of a Pierage which the banks of the Thames, with
its tottering tiers of worn-out barges, could furnish. We can imagine the heavy
Scotch Peers proceeding to an election with such caution, as to be compelled to
avoid every hole in the floor, lest any of them should inadvertently put their foot
in it. We shall not be surprised to hear, some day, that when the^ members had
assembled on the floor of the house for the despatch of business, they went com-
pletely through with it.
THE “FUSION” OF THE BEER-BUNG COUSINS.
(From our RotherJiithe Correspondent.)
“ I hastes' to inform you of an event, which, if the estimate of the actors them-
selves is to be taken, will cause the utmost excitement throughout this country
and the Continent. On this subject your readers will be judges—in a petty
locality small things seem large—- and the preternatural importance which is here
given to it may deceive me into false calculations.
“ You, like the rest of the world, are well aware that a feud of no ordinary
virulence has subsisted between the elder and younger branches of the house
of Beerbung, which so long supplied all the Publicans (and a good many of the
sinners) to this locality, and indeed dictated to the magistrates of Limehouse, and
defied the authorities of the Commercial Docks. You remember that when Lewis
Beerbung lost his licence, and the ‘ King’s Head’ was shut up, things went on any-
how in the parish; everybody opened pubhc-houses, keeping the shutters down
Sunday and week-day alike, and at last we hardly knew whether our heads were
on our shoulders or not. Then the military came in, and we got on better; and,
subsequently, the other Lewis Beerbung (who was given to oysters) and his
brother, Charles Dicks, had the ‘ King’s Head’ again. Dicks took in preachers,
and cheated in his measures, and at last ran off to Scotland ; and then the house
was let to a third Lewis, who was son to the first Lewis Beerbung’s younger
brother, a very bad fellow, of whom Jack Ketch had the last accounts. The
Beerbungs were always a queer set, and this third Lewis, though a clever fellow,
could not keep the house (which he had named the ‘ Pear and Umbrella ’), but
had to run for it, and was made bankrupt under the name of Smith. Then the
whole affair was altered: a committee was appointed to manage the house, which
had a new sign, the ‘Three Jolly Colours:’ and since that the chairman has
kicked out the rest of the managers, and has got the licence transferred to himself.
The house is now the ‘ Bee and Bayonet,’ and seems to be carried on to the
satisfaction of the neighbourhood. Yery good order is kept; the chairman, who
was formerly in the Ham, and, indeed, sausage line, has married a very nice woman,
and tries to keep friends with the most respectable people about. Indeed, his
behaviour to a rich and rascally tallow-monger, who has been trespassing on the
land of some poor neighbours, and stealing their turkey, has sent up Unlimited
Loo, as he’s called, in the estimation of all decent folks. Anyhow, lie has got
the house which was the ‘ King’s Head,’ and, while he gives Imperial measures,
will keep it.
“ But as the Beerbungs are irrevocably kicked out of the house, they comfort
themselves by squabbling with one another, and talking as if the question was
which had a right to the fixtures. Smith, the bankrupt, is dead, but has left a
lot of sons, not bad fellows, but with very little brains among them. And there
is a cousin of their’s, who at present calls himself Sham-
bore (but I am told is a real bore to any one who has to
spend the evening with him), and he comes from the elder
branch of the Beerbungs, and claims to be the head of
the family. Shambore and Smith’s boys have hitherto
been at daggers drawn, and making everybody laugh at
their absurd quarrels. Shambore has settled just outside
the parish, and is always sticking up placards, some of
them very profane, abusing Loo, or anybody who happened
for the time to have the ‘ King’s Head.’ He lives at a
place called Prowsy Wharf, and behaves as stuck-up as if
the parish belonged to him ; sees people with his hat on;
and has got a long story about some miraculous hair oil
which he says will never dry off his head. Some think
he is cracked. The Smith boys used to make all sorts of
game of him, and call him ‘ Batty,’ and, when their father
had the house, they used to stone any one who went to
see him.
“ But somehow, Shambore and the Smiths have made
it up. Why, nobody knows; but it is thought that the
tallow-monger has been at them, and has promised to
stand something handsome if they will unite to bring
actions of trespass against Loo. However, be this as it
may, last week down comes one of Smith’s sons—who
calls himself (for they have all aliases) Knee Moore—to
Browsy Wharf, in his best clothes, and ah being arranged,
knocks three knocks—no more nor less—at Shambore’s
front door. He would not knock two knocks, for fear of
being thought a postman; and Shambore would not let
him knock four, because that would be coming the swell
too much. Shambore was peeping over the blind (which
had crochet lilies on it), but of course Moore pretended
not to see him. The maid opened the door, and Moore
asked if Mr. Shambore was in. ‘ What name. Sir P ’ says
the girl. But Shambore had bolted through the back
parlour, and was standing on the stairs. ‘ What do I see P ’
he shouts out. ‘ Come in by all means; ’ and he comes
down exactly four stairs—no more—and waits for the other.
Moore will not take off his hat until the door is shut, for
fear the neighbours should think he’s nobody, but he
hangs it on a peg, and makes Shambore a bow.
“ ‘ 1 am glad to call on the head of my family,’ says
Moore, kicking out his leg behind, and making the girl
laugh. Shambore makes him say it again, pretending to
be deaf. Then they shake hands, and the girl is sent out
for beer, and they sit down and drink bad luck to Unli
mited Loo, and may he soon lose his licence. And it seems
they have arranged that, if they can kick Loo out, and
get the house, Shambore’s to keep it for the good of the
family, until a boy—a son of Moore’s elder brother—is
old enough to take the licence ; and, to prevent danger, it
Shambore’s wife dies he is not to marry again. The
precious couple sat a long time, and Moore brought in
Mrs. Moore, and they all grew as thick as thieves; and
when going away, Moore, who was tipsy, said he had made
a bridge, or was going over the bridge, or something which
could not quite be understood. Meantime, Loo has told
the police to keep a sharp look-out on the cousins, and it
will be wiry times for them if they are laid hold of.”
Two Great Questions.
There are two great questions which at present address
themselves to the political mind, and they are both in
connexion with wages. Without entering into the merits
of either, we may say that in England the great question is,
“ How wages are ? ” and in Turkey, “ How wages war ? ”
LOVE IN LOW LIFE.
Whether much love prevails on both sides between
husband and wife among the inferior classes, properly so
called, of this country, may be questioned, but there is
no doubt that the wives, at least, are much smitten.
THE PORTE IN BOTTLE.
Ie Turkey can be enabled to hold her own a few years
longer, she will, there are good reasons for hoping, arrive
at a high state of civilization. There is little doubt that
the Ottoman Porte will improve by keeping.
Bood for Improvement.—A certain Mare in London
must be rather badly off; for its chief present nourishment
is chaff.
Vol. 25.
8—2