DOI issue:
Volume XXVI
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16613#0060
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
53
STICKING UP FOR TEMPERANCE.
UR leaders of the Teetotal
Movement are calling upon
the friends of Temperance to
stick up for the cause in a
rather unusual manner. Cir-
culars have been addressed to
the nobility and clergy, in-
viting their “earnest co-opera-
tion in giving publicity to an
illustrated placard,” containing
a fearful picture of the re-
sults of strong drink, as shown
by a woman with her face be-
smeared with blood, a few
children scattered about the
room with broken heads and
bleeding noses, while in the
foreground stands the husband,
brandishing the instrument of
destruction in the shape of a
huge gin-bottle. This picture
is, we fear, terribly true to
nature; but we think it is
asking too mucli of the digni-
taries of the Church and the
Senate to go about, with an
utter disregard of the injunc-
tion which bids “ Billstickers
beware ! ” and deface the walls of the Metropolis with unsightly placards.
If the call of the Temperance body should be responded to, we may expect a party of the
Peerage to be seen sallying forth, pastepot in hand, looking out for dead walls, and “ doing
a bill” wherever an opportunity may offer. The circular promises to furnish a supply of
copies to “those who will assist in placing them where they may be extensively seen and
read; ” so that if the Bishop of London will kindly turn billsticker in St. James’s Square,
he may expect to be favoured with a quire of the Temperance posters. We do not wish to
damp the ardour of the aristocratic friends of Temperance, but we think it an act of
kindness to call to their minds the fact, that “Stick No Bills!” is a common notification
m the public thoroughfares.
GALLANT BLAST FROM THE
GOLDEN HORN.
“ A Turkish Poet, Halil Effendi, has composed a war-
song for his countrymen. It is somewhat in the style of
the ‘JUarseiUaise,’ and has created the utmost furor in
Constantinople.”—French Journal.
“ It is not in the least like the ‘ Marseillaise' but is, not-
withstanding, a very beautiful and spirited affair, and her*
it is.”—Punch.
THE HORRORS OF FREEDOM.
We have often heard of the horrors of slavery, but it remained for the City Corporation
Commission to reveal to us the horrors of freedom, which have been declared in evidence to
be sensibly felt by a large portion of the community. The objectionable kind of freedom is
“ the Breedom of the City,” which is generally spurned, notwithstanding the profit that
accompanies it in the shape of exemption from toll, which does not prevent its being regarded
as—to use the wretched pun of a City wag—“ an in-tol-erable nuisance.” The cause of the
contempt into which this freedom has fallen is the fearful possibility that he who accepts civic
freedom may have civic honours thrust upon him ; and this it is universally felt would be an:
amount of degradation that few could exist under. There is many a decent tradesman of
London, or even merchant, who would consent to the position of a freeman, but recoils from
the idea of becoming a Lord Mayor—or even an Alderman—which might be the unpleasant
consequence of his having, in an evil hour, become Tree of the City.
One of the witnesses distinctly told the Commissioners now conducting the Corporation
inquiry, that there would be no difficulty in getting the inhabitants of the City to take up
their freedom, were it not for the insuperable dread they feel of being selected for City
dignities. Freedom would be acceptable to many, were it not for the remote possibility
ot their being ultimately hung in chains—the golden chains of Aldermen. Perhaps, if a
guarantee could be given that the Freedom of the City should lead to nothing beyond, there
are many who would pay the few necessary pounds for the privilege of driving a cart through
Temple Bar, without being pulled up by the oil-skin hatted functionary, whose duty it is
to. shriek out “Now then!” and demand a few coppers in the name of the City from the
drivers of all waggons or carts—not adorned with the City arms—that enter the realms
of Cocknevdom. I
SOFTNESS OF HARDWICKE.
We find the following passage in a six-line burst of eloquence, from the Earl or
Hardwicke in the House of Lords, on the day of the opening of Parliament.
“ He could safely say himself, that he had never written or dictated any article in any paper whatever.”
We nave much pleasure in bearing out the noble Earl in this rather unnecessary assertion,
and we have no hesitation in saying that we believe him wholly incapable of writing any
article in any paper whatever. No one ever suspected his Lordship—as far as we know—
pf having put his pen to paper with a view to publication, and we therefore fully acquiesce
in the Noble Earl’s avowal of his literary innocence. The Hardwickes are not among
the wicks to which the public looks for enlightenment, through the medium of the newspapers.
As one of the luminaries of the House of Lords, the Hardwicke in question is one whom we
nhould be sorry to snuff out, or otherwise extinguish.
Up, wearers of fezzes !
Up, owners of turbans !
You, dwellers iu Stamboul,
You, Pera suburbans !
Prepare to take part
In the battle’s concussions.
And walk, like red thunderbolts,
Into these Russians.
Waves on the standard
The Shirt of the Prophet,
At least, to speak properly.
All that’s left of it.
So, swords by your sides.
And your hands on their handles,
March out and demolish
The eaters of candles.
Come, from the Mosque,
Cutting short genuflexion.
Come, from the slave girls
Awaiting inspection.
Come, from the coffee-house,
Leave the tobacconist’s,
Put your own pipes out,
And then your antagonists’.
Come, from the bath,
Where the grim grinning nigger
Scrapes off your skin
At a very low figure.
Quit the hareem,
With its smiles and its cushions,
And make up your minds
To astonish these Rooshians.
Come, from your nooks
In the Island of Princes,
Where you eat such nice lunches
Of sherbet and quinces.
Come, from the banks
By the Sweet Waters yonder.
Where the matrons of Stamboul
Talk double entendre.
O Father of Cannons,
(I wouldn’t be personal.
But mean Mr. Taylor,
Who casts for the arsenal)
Soon shall your handiwork,
Blackened with powder,
Answer loud Dannenburg,
Perhaps rather louder.
Up with the horse-tails!
And up with the Crescent'
We ’ll cure the Czar
Of behaving unpleasant.
Who’s he that fancies
The Moslem to frighten ?
The son of burnt fathers !
We’ll blow him to Sheitan.
A Vocalist in Danger.
A Musical Periodical has an announcement,
intimating that
“Mb. Sims Reeves will be concluded next week.”
We trust nothing serious is intend d, though
it will be a loss to the public if the extent of
the contemplated design on the vocalist is to
bring him to a conclusion by simply shutting
him up.
53
STICKING UP FOR TEMPERANCE.
UR leaders of the Teetotal
Movement are calling upon
the friends of Temperance to
stick up for the cause in a
rather unusual manner. Cir-
culars have been addressed to
the nobility and clergy, in-
viting their “earnest co-opera-
tion in giving publicity to an
illustrated placard,” containing
a fearful picture of the re-
sults of strong drink, as shown
by a woman with her face be-
smeared with blood, a few
children scattered about the
room with broken heads and
bleeding noses, while in the
foreground stands the husband,
brandishing the instrument of
destruction in the shape of a
huge gin-bottle. This picture
is, we fear, terribly true to
nature; but we think it is
asking too mucli of the digni-
taries of the Church and the
Senate to go about, with an
utter disregard of the injunc-
tion which bids “ Billstickers
beware ! ” and deface the walls of the Metropolis with unsightly placards.
If the call of the Temperance body should be responded to, we may expect a party of the
Peerage to be seen sallying forth, pastepot in hand, looking out for dead walls, and “ doing
a bill” wherever an opportunity may offer. The circular promises to furnish a supply of
copies to “those who will assist in placing them where they may be extensively seen and
read; ” so that if the Bishop of London will kindly turn billsticker in St. James’s Square,
he may expect to be favoured with a quire of the Temperance posters. We do not wish to
damp the ardour of the aristocratic friends of Temperance, but we think it an act of
kindness to call to their minds the fact, that “Stick No Bills!” is a common notification
m the public thoroughfares.
GALLANT BLAST FROM THE
GOLDEN HORN.
“ A Turkish Poet, Halil Effendi, has composed a war-
song for his countrymen. It is somewhat in the style of
the ‘JUarseiUaise,’ and has created the utmost furor in
Constantinople.”—French Journal.
“ It is not in the least like the ‘ Marseillaise' but is, not-
withstanding, a very beautiful and spirited affair, and her*
it is.”—Punch.
THE HORRORS OF FREEDOM.
We have often heard of the horrors of slavery, but it remained for the City Corporation
Commission to reveal to us the horrors of freedom, which have been declared in evidence to
be sensibly felt by a large portion of the community. The objectionable kind of freedom is
“ the Breedom of the City,” which is generally spurned, notwithstanding the profit that
accompanies it in the shape of exemption from toll, which does not prevent its being regarded
as—to use the wretched pun of a City wag—“ an in-tol-erable nuisance.” The cause of the
contempt into which this freedom has fallen is the fearful possibility that he who accepts civic
freedom may have civic honours thrust upon him ; and this it is universally felt would be an:
amount of degradation that few could exist under. There is many a decent tradesman of
London, or even merchant, who would consent to the position of a freeman, but recoils from
the idea of becoming a Lord Mayor—or even an Alderman—which might be the unpleasant
consequence of his having, in an evil hour, become Tree of the City.
One of the witnesses distinctly told the Commissioners now conducting the Corporation
inquiry, that there would be no difficulty in getting the inhabitants of the City to take up
their freedom, were it not for the insuperable dread they feel of being selected for City
dignities. Freedom would be acceptable to many, were it not for the remote possibility
ot their being ultimately hung in chains—the golden chains of Aldermen. Perhaps, if a
guarantee could be given that the Freedom of the City should lead to nothing beyond, there
are many who would pay the few necessary pounds for the privilege of driving a cart through
Temple Bar, without being pulled up by the oil-skin hatted functionary, whose duty it is
to. shriek out “Now then!” and demand a few coppers in the name of the City from the
drivers of all waggons or carts—not adorned with the City arms—that enter the realms
of Cocknevdom. I
SOFTNESS OF HARDWICKE.
We find the following passage in a six-line burst of eloquence, from the Earl or
Hardwicke in the House of Lords, on the day of the opening of Parliament.
“ He could safely say himself, that he had never written or dictated any article in any paper whatever.”
We nave much pleasure in bearing out the noble Earl in this rather unnecessary assertion,
and we have no hesitation in saying that we believe him wholly incapable of writing any
article in any paper whatever. No one ever suspected his Lordship—as far as we know—
pf having put his pen to paper with a view to publication, and we therefore fully acquiesce
in the Noble Earl’s avowal of his literary innocence. The Hardwickes are not among
the wicks to which the public looks for enlightenment, through the medium of the newspapers.
As one of the luminaries of the House of Lords, the Hardwicke in question is one whom we
nhould be sorry to snuff out, or otherwise extinguish.
Up, wearers of fezzes !
Up, owners of turbans !
You, dwellers iu Stamboul,
You, Pera suburbans !
Prepare to take part
In the battle’s concussions.
And walk, like red thunderbolts,
Into these Russians.
Waves on the standard
The Shirt of the Prophet,
At least, to speak properly.
All that’s left of it.
So, swords by your sides.
And your hands on their handles,
March out and demolish
The eaters of candles.
Come, from the Mosque,
Cutting short genuflexion.
Come, from the slave girls
Awaiting inspection.
Come, from the coffee-house,
Leave the tobacconist’s,
Put your own pipes out,
And then your antagonists’.
Come, from the bath,
Where the grim grinning nigger
Scrapes off your skin
At a very low figure.
Quit the hareem,
With its smiles and its cushions,
And make up your minds
To astonish these Rooshians.
Come, from your nooks
In the Island of Princes,
Where you eat such nice lunches
Of sherbet and quinces.
Come, from the banks
By the Sweet Waters yonder.
Where the matrons of Stamboul
Talk double entendre.
O Father of Cannons,
(I wouldn’t be personal.
But mean Mr. Taylor,
Who casts for the arsenal)
Soon shall your handiwork,
Blackened with powder,
Answer loud Dannenburg,
Perhaps rather louder.
Up with the horse-tails!
And up with the Crescent'
We ’ll cure the Czar
Of behaving unpleasant.
Who’s he that fancies
The Moslem to frighten ?
The son of burnt fathers !
We’ll blow him to Sheitan.
A Vocalist in Danger.
A Musical Periodical has an announcement,
intimating that
“Mb. Sims Reeves will be concluded next week.”
We trust nothing serious is intend d, though
it will be a loss to the public if the extent of
the contemplated design on the vocalist is to
bring him to a conclusion by simply shutting
him up.