DOI issue:
Volume XXVI
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16613#0186
PUNCH, GR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
179
THE POETRY OF POTATOS.
There is not, at first sight, any very natural affinity between
potatos and poetry; but we have received a circular from a potato
salesman in Newington who has, evidently, so much sensibility that
we should expect all his potatos to have watery eyes, from the sheer
force of sympathy.
His circular opens with a business-like avowal of his determination
to sell at a moderate profit, and we detect no gleam of fancy in the
first paragraph beyond a playful allusion to the superiority of “a
nimble ninepence ” over “ a slow shilling,” and a quaint offer to provide
“bags” for families to carry home their potatos in. Up to this point
the potato salesman alone is manifest; but, suddenly, the poet bursts
forth in allusion to his “ mother,” his “ boyhood,” and his “ father’s
homestead near the New Forest, in Hampshire.” It seems that his
childish recollections cling round an old saucepan in which his mother
was in the habit of cooking potatos; and, after exclaiming paren-
thetically, but rather prosaically “ (Please to remember that it must be
an iron saucepan),” he goes into a rapturous strain on the mode in
which his mother used to “ strain the water off her taturs.”
Having indulged the “ pleasures of memory,” our potato poetaster
proceeds to give utterance to the following gush of feeling, which
would melt or mash the hardest heart, and might extort a pensive sigh
from the most mealy-mouthed of critics. Speaking of his mother, the
potato-poet says :
“ But she is no longer occupied in the homestead, for her silvery hair tells me she
is not far from a better home. Well indeed do I remember the old farm house ; there
I see my father still—the quiet village, with its humble swain,” &c. &c.
There is much more in a similarly touching style; but we feel we
caunot do justice to the potato poet in comparatively lifeless prose,
and we therefore will suppose that we have entered the -warehouse,
drawn forward two chairs, taken our seat by the dealer’s side, and
entered on the following dramatic dialogue :
CHARACTERS.
Potato Pokt. Stranger.
Stranger. How much are those ?
Potato Poet. They ’re a superior sort,
Grown in a garden where I passed my youth—
(Three pound for twopence)—’twas my boyhood’s home !
Stranger. I ’il take sixpennorth. But you spoke of home—
Potato Poet. Oh, ’twas a lovely spot! (weigh out nine pounds.)
Well I remember how my father sat
In his arm-chair—(now, can’t you find the weights)—
He was the village Hampden.
Stranger. (That’s a bad un;
I’m not a goin’ to take that speeky tatur).
Proceed. I love to hear romantic tales
Of youth’s bright holiday—(That weight looks light.)
Potato Poet. (It’s a good ounce in favour of the buyer).
The village bell is ringing in mine ears—
(Bill, there’s a customer in the front shop);—
My footsteps press again the village green—
(Them cabbages must go to Number Six).
Stranger. How fresh the verdure of your youth appears;
How thickly memory is planted out
With roots whose seeds were sown in infancy.
(I’ll pay for the potatos).
Potato Poet. (Thank you, Sir).
If that potato hath a watery eye,
Start not to see in such an eye as mine
The gushing tear; for I have recollections
Which fill the bursting warehouse of my heart.
Bear with me, Sir, I pray thee.
Stranger. That I will.
But, though I bear with thee, there’s something yet
'that I must with myself contented bear—
(1 ’ll carry these potatos home myself).
Potato Poet. (I ’ll send them, if you jjiease).
Stranger. I’d rather not.
Who’s born to bear, must bear what’s to be borne. (Rising.)
Potato Poet {rising). I thank you, Sir.
Stranger. At parting, take my hand.
Potato Pod. Most willingly. And, in return, I offer
This hand of mine—a market-hand of radishes.
[The Stranger exit as the Potato Poet retires into his Ware-
house torapped in thought.
A Good Omen.
The first Russian prizes taken are vessels laden with salt: the very
article that we propose to put upon the tail of the eagle.
A MODERN MYSTERY.
aleb Rolleston, a well-dressed but strangc-looking
man, having a huge red beard and bear-bkin coat,
was charged with loitering and sleeping in St.
James’s Park, and refusing to give any account of
himself.—The Defendant had been remanded for a
week, to enable Inspector W apker, of the A Divi-
sion of Police, to ascertain if anything was known
respecting him. It was proved that for some time
past he had obstinately persisted in remaining in
the open park—literally taking up his residence
there; and, as he always appeared attracted towards
the royal carriages when they passed, the Police
had felt it their duty repeatedly to order him off;
but he invariably returned, and at length, being
unable or unwilling to state how he got his living,
or what were his motives for sleeping in the open
air, he was taken into custody.
The Magistrate cautioned him that he was liable
to a term of imprisonment as a rogue and vagabond
for sleeping in the open air, and advised him there-
fore not to repeat the offence, desiring the Police,
at the same time, to apprehend him if he did. For
this once he might be discharged —Police Report.
Oh, who is this stranger so dark,
With heard so suspiciously red,
Who spends all his days in the Park,
And never goes home to a bed F
His object there’s none can divine ;
Though harmless his manner and mien,
Some mischief he sure must design.
For he looks at the coach of the Queen.
To prison they lead him away;
Of course they are perfectly right:
His crime—doing nothing by day,
And sleeping alfresco at night.
Of punishment still to be feared,
The Magistrate, shaking Ills head.
Has warned the strange man with the beard,
If he does not go home to a bed.
But oil, beak ! of conviction beware,
Lest judges of learning and worth
Shall hold on appeal—None can sleep in the air
As long as he lives on the earth.
SCENES AT ST. PAUL'S, KNIGHTSBRIDGE.
From a memorial addressed by Mr. Westerton, the Churchwarden
of St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, to the Bishop of London, it appears that
the performances of which that church was some time ago the theatre
are still going on to a great extent under the auspices of the Hon. and
Bev. R. Liddell, the incumbent; ceremonies and observances being
practised, and use being made of ecclesiastical “properties,” in such a
manner as to impart a Romanesque character to the services. It is
due to the Bishop to say that he does express his disapproval ol many
of the papistical monkeyisms denounced by the churchwarden; but it
is equally due to truth to add that he disapproves ol them with evident
reluctance. The subjoined allusion to the cross on the communion
table will exemplify the spirit of his lordship’s reply to the memorial
11 As this cross (which is not large and massive as you describe it, but small and
light) was on the table when the church was consecrated, though not seen by me, a large
offertory dish being on part of it, I am not satisfied that I have authority to direct its
removal without consent of the churchwardens and parishioners except by a formal
decree of the Consistorial Court. I certainly wish it to be removed, and should be
glad if the parishioners would agree to its removal without such authoritative
| sanction.”
The Bishop op London is said to be a wag, and no doubt he reads
his Punch—which is not the same thing with reading Joe Miller ; as is
too generally the case in perusing jocular publications. Were the
right reverend prelate indeed familiar with the class or witticisms
denominated “ Old Joes,” it is not likely that he would have penned
the above parenthesis of apology for the Puseyitic*. cross an apology
which is identical with the celebrated plea, “ ’Tis only a little one.
The same excuse will cover the introduction of diminutive images,
tiny wafers, and infinitesimal beads, to which if there be added a few
indulgences and a little auricular confession, we shall have a totality
which may be regarded as a sort of petty popery.
Criticism for the Author of Evil.
Though not present at the grand Review in honour of the Duke
op Cambridge that lately took place in the Champ tie Mars, we
may observe- that we hope the contributors to that Review will join
effectually with the United Service in cutting up Nicholas.
179
THE POETRY OF POTATOS.
There is not, at first sight, any very natural affinity between
potatos and poetry; but we have received a circular from a potato
salesman in Newington who has, evidently, so much sensibility that
we should expect all his potatos to have watery eyes, from the sheer
force of sympathy.
His circular opens with a business-like avowal of his determination
to sell at a moderate profit, and we detect no gleam of fancy in the
first paragraph beyond a playful allusion to the superiority of “a
nimble ninepence ” over “ a slow shilling,” and a quaint offer to provide
“bags” for families to carry home their potatos in. Up to this point
the potato salesman alone is manifest; but, suddenly, the poet bursts
forth in allusion to his “ mother,” his “ boyhood,” and his “ father’s
homestead near the New Forest, in Hampshire.” It seems that his
childish recollections cling round an old saucepan in which his mother
was in the habit of cooking potatos; and, after exclaiming paren-
thetically, but rather prosaically “ (Please to remember that it must be
an iron saucepan),” he goes into a rapturous strain on the mode in
which his mother used to “ strain the water off her taturs.”
Having indulged the “ pleasures of memory,” our potato poetaster
proceeds to give utterance to the following gush of feeling, which
would melt or mash the hardest heart, and might extort a pensive sigh
from the most mealy-mouthed of critics. Speaking of his mother, the
potato-poet says :
“ But she is no longer occupied in the homestead, for her silvery hair tells me she
is not far from a better home. Well indeed do I remember the old farm house ; there
I see my father still—the quiet village, with its humble swain,” &c. &c.
There is much more in a similarly touching style; but we feel we
caunot do justice to the potato poet in comparatively lifeless prose,
and we therefore will suppose that we have entered the -warehouse,
drawn forward two chairs, taken our seat by the dealer’s side, and
entered on the following dramatic dialogue :
CHARACTERS.
Potato Pokt. Stranger.
Stranger. How much are those ?
Potato Poet. They ’re a superior sort,
Grown in a garden where I passed my youth—
(Three pound for twopence)—’twas my boyhood’s home !
Stranger. I ’il take sixpennorth. But you spoke of home—
Potato Poet. Oh, ’twas a lovely spot! (weigh out nine pounds.)
Well I remember how my father sat
In his arm-chair—(now, can’t you find the weights)—
He was the village Hampden.
Stranger. (That’s a bad un;
I’m not a goin’ to take that speeky tatur).
Proceed. I love to hear romantic tales
Of youth’s bright holiday—(That weight looks light.)
Potato Poet. (It’s a good ounce in favour of the buyer).
The village bell is ringing in mine ears—
(Bill, there’s a customer in the front shop);—
My footsteps press again the village green—
(Them cabbages must go to Number Six).
Stranger. How fresh the verdure of your youth appears;
How thickly memory is planted out
With roots whose seeds were sown in infancy.
(I’ll pay for the potatos).
Potato Poet. (Thank you, Sir).
If that potato hath a watery eye,
Start not to see in such an eye as mine
The gushing tear; for I have recollections
Which fill the bursting warehouse of my heart.
Bear with me, Sir, I pray thee.
Stranger. That I will.
But, though I bear with thee, there’s something yet
'that I must with myself contented bear—
(1 ’ll carry these potatos home myself).
Potato Poet. (I ’ll send them, if you jjiease).
Stranger. I’d rather not.
Who’s born to bear, must bear what’s to be borne. (Rising.)
Potato Poet {rising). I thank you, Sir.
Stranger. At parting, take my hand.
Potato Pod. Most willingly. And, in return, I offer
This hand of mine—a market-hand of radishes.
[The Stranger exit as the Potato Poet retires into his Ware-
house torapped in thought.
A Good Omen.
The first Russian prizes taken are vessels laden with salt: the very
article that we propose to put upon the tail of the eagle.
A MODERN MYSTERY.
aleb Rolleston, a well-dressed but strangc-looking
man, having a huge red beard and bear-bkin coat,
was charged with loitering and sleeping in St.
James’s Park, and refusing to give any account of
himself.—The Defendant had been remanded for a
week, to enable Inspector W apker, of the A Divi-
sion of Police, to ascertain if anything was known
respecting him. It was proved that for some time
past he had obstinately persisted in remaining in
the open park—literally taking up his residence
there; and, as he always appeared attracted towards
the royal carriages when they passed, the Police
had felt it their duty repeatedly to order him off;
but he invariably returned, and at length, being
unable or unwilling to state how he got his living,
or what were his motives for sleeping in the open
air, he was taken into custody.
The Magistrate cautioned him that he was liable
to a term of imprisonment as a rogue and vagabond
for sleeping in the open air, and advised him there-
fore not to repeat the offence, desiring the Police,
at the same time, to apprehend him if he did. For
this once he might be discharged —Police Report.
Oh, who is this stranger so dark,
With heard so suspiciously red,
Who spends all his days in the Park,
And never goes home to a bed F
His object there’s none can divine ;
Though harmless his manner and mien,
Some mischief he sure must design.
For he looks at the coach of the Queen.
To prison they lead him away;
Of course they are perfectly right:
His crime—doing nothing by day,
And sleeping alfresco at night.
Of punishment still to be feared,
The Magistrate, shaking Ills head.
Has warned the strange man with the beard,
If he does not go home to a bed.
But oil, beak ! of conviction beware,
Lest judges of learning and worth
Shall hold on appeal—None can sleep in the air
As long as he lives on the earth.
SCENES AT ST. PAUL'S, KNIGHTSBRIDGE.
From a memorial addressed by Mr. Westerton, the Churchwarden
of St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge, to the Bishop of London, it appears that
the performances of which that church was some time ago the theatre
are still going on to a great extent under the auspices of the Hon. and
Bev. R. Liddell, the incumbent; ceremonies and observances being
practised, and use being made of ecclesiastical “properties,” in such a
manner as to impart a Romanesque character to the services. It is
due to the Bishop to say that he does express his disapproval ol many
of the papistical monkeyisms denounced by the churchwarden; but it
is equally due to truth to add that he disapproves ol them with evident
reluctance. The subjoined allusion to the cross on the communion
table will exemplify the spirit of his lordship’s reply to the memorial
11 As this cross (which is not large and massive as you describe it, but small and
light) was on the table when the church was consecrated, though not seen by me, a large
offertory dish being on part of it, I am not satisfied that I have authority to direct its
removal without consent of the churchwardens and parishioners except by a formal
decree of the Consistorial Court. I certainly wish it to be removed, and should be
glad if the parishioners would agree to its removal without such authoritative
| sanction.”
The Bishop op London is said to be a wag, and no doubt he reads
his Punch—which is not the same thing with reading Joe Miller ; as is
too generally the case in perusing jocular publications. Were the
right reverend prelate indeed familiar with the class or witticisms
denominated “ Old Joes,” it is not likely that he would have penned
the above parenthesis of apology for the Puseyitic*. cross an apology
which is identical with the celebrated plea, “ ’Tis only a little one.
The same excuse will cover the introduction of diminutive images,
tiny wafers, and infinitesimal beads, to which if there be added a few
indulgences and a little auricular confession, we shall have a totality
which may be regarded as a sort of petty popery.
Criticism for the Author of Evil.
Though not present at the grand Review in honour of the Duke
op Cambridge that lately took place in the Champ tie Mars, we
may observe- that we hope the contributors to that Review will join
effectually with the United Service in cutting up Nicholas.