DOI Heft:
July to December, 1854
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16614#0093
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
85
LATEST FROM PRUSSIA.
{From our own Detective.)
ecently the war has given
great employment to the
Gobemouches, and one of its
heaviest taxes, perhaps, has
been the tax. which they have
laid upon our patience by
the absurd reports they
have "contrived to circulate.
Stories without end have
been raised upon the flim-
siest foundation, and as pro-
lific writers of fiction, "our
own Correspondents" may
be almost said to have
rivalled Mb. James the
Novelist, or Alexandre
Dumas. The news they tell
us in the newspapers of
to-day is pretty nearly sure
to turn out nonsense in
those of to-morrow, and
scarcely any of their letters
can be regarded wholly as
letters of credit.
As a sample of the stuff which the " constant readers " lately have been called
upon to swallow, it was the other morning stated, " on the most reliable authority "
(an authority which we usually have found the most liable), that the King or
Prussia had at length " given a convincing proof of his adhesion to the English."
Being of course extremely suspicious of this " fact," we considered it our duty
as Reviser-General of the Press to dispatch at once a Special Hoax-Detective
to the Court of that (frequently) elevated Monarch, with instructions to sift out
the truth of the matter through the sieve of his experience. Thanks to the Post
Office his despatch has been characterised by the very reverse of that quality,
but the explanation we have been so long in receiving we will in brief communicate.
It appears then that his Majesty has lately, in his more sober moments, been trying
to cultivate an acquaintance with our language, and his " adhesion to the English "
is, therefore, only a politer phrase to express his recent sticking to the study of
that tongue. The "proof" which was spoken of is discovered to have been merely
the printer's "proof" of some lines which his Majesty did lately by way of an
exercise, and which, although printed " for private circulation only," we do not
scruple in the least to make as fully public as a place in Punch is certain to
ensure.—
Air—"A Bumper of Burgundy fill, Jill for me."
A bumper of Clicquot come fill, fill for me,
There's no drink can compare with Champagne ;
With the head that is empty 'twill ne'er disagree,
Since it only affecteth the brain.
When war puts the people of peace in a funk,
And friendly states claim our assistance,
We '11 show that a king may get royally drunk.
And keep sober sense at a distance !
Then a bumper of Clicquot, &c.
CELTICISM ALL HOT.
No person expresses himself with more real strength than Mr. Punch, and
although he is not absurd enough to expect that the writings of anybody else should
exhibit that exquisite mixture of intensity and elegance which renders his teaching
at once the instruction and the delight of mankind, he is never displeased, in a
superficial age, to see energetic sentiments put forth. But there is a limit to all
things, and he cannot but think that the editor of the Shropshire newspaper, out
of which Mr. Punch extracts the following declaration, is inclined to infuse almost
too much fire into his diction. The writer in question is complaining that a certain
Mr. Hay's Musical Entertainments were not sufficiently patronised in Shrewsbury.
vV nether Hay did not make himself when the sun shone, or whether those
who took the LiND-fever are proof against all other complaints, including the
Hay fever, we are not aware, but Mb. Hay was not successful, and thus the
delinquents are castigated:—
" The proud Salopians must be very poor, or very shabby, to hold back under these circumstances,
or there is an absence of all spirit in Shropshire, except where eating and drinking are concerned.
The mind appears to be quite a secondary consideration, and the belly the all-absorbing object of the
affections. These are plain -words, but not one whit the less true. Were we Mb. Hay, we would see
the town of Shrewsbury, and the county, d-, before we would toil, and sustain loss, for such an
illiberal-minded set."
Now, we are not, of course, so well informed as the Salopian journalist, as
to what kind of remonstrance is most effective with readers in the proximity
of the Wrekin, but brief sojourns in the county of Salop have left upon our
minds the impression that somewhat more gracious words might be appropriately
used upon such an occasion. The proud Salopians seemed to us to be, generally
speaking, affable, courteous to strangers, and as intelligent
as provincials are likely to be; and really, even though one
of their own body chastises them with scorpions after this
fashion, we feel inclined to protest against such merci-
less treatment. The punishment proposed certainly exceeds
the offence, which we take to be the staying away from
some concert. Now our friend the indignant " Man from
Shropshire " may take it from us, that any entertainment
which the public does not, patronise is not worth the
patronage of the public. The business of the contriver of
an entertainment is to entertain, and people know quite
well whether they are likely to be entertained or not.
And so, if we are not taking too great a liberty, we would
respectfully hint that the Shropshire critic would better
serve Mr. Hay, by pointing out to him the most likely
mode to please the Shrewsburians, than by suggesting
to him to obtain a previous sight which we trust is not
in store for him. It is just possible that the character
of provincial journalism might be improved by a little
more general adoption of the amenities cultivated by the
metropolitan press. Imagine the Times, or the Chronicle,
some morning, making such a recommendation as the
above to an unlucky be'neficiare at the Hanover Square
Rooms. And are not provincials our fellow-creatures, and
entitled to be treated with as much humanity as we demand
for ourselves ? Echo answers in the affirmative, and we beg
to transmit her answer for the consideration of our Shrop-
shire contemporary.
A PLEA FOR THE PEWTER,
Some folks have a skin that's marvellous thin,
And Barebones they revere :
And it's sinful they say to moisten one's clay
With a drop of Sunday beer.
Eor my part I ain't so severe,
And at this hot time of the year,
On my Sundays out, I can't do without
My modest allowance of beer.
Some folks, it's true, prefer to look blue
When a joke or a laugh they hear;
Their house of call is Exeter Hall,
And their tipple is tea, not beer.
Now I'm no teetotallere,
Though a temperance course I'd steer,
And down I'll cough Mr. Orator Gough,
Whenever he talks against beer.
Some folks at their feasts will make themselves beasts,
And home zig-zag will steer :
Bands of Hope let them follow, and pledges swallow,
And Orator Gough go hear;
But as I can enjoy good cheer,
And yet keep my noddle clear,
I can't understand why you thrust your hand
Betwixt me and my Sunday beer.
All the week at my work I stand like a Turk
Erom beginning to end of the year;
And on Sundays I rest, and put on my best,
And at church I always appear.
But the parson I go to hear
Don't feel called to interfere
With my afternoon walk, and tea-garden talk
With a friend or two over our beer.
Heaven gave malt and hops, as well as slops,
And to me it's perfectly clear,
As the rich have their wine, so the poor, when they dine
Were meant to enjoy their beer.
The Vine Rhenish folks may cheer,
And Hollands is good for Mynheer;
And the Briton bold shall never be told
There's sin in a drop of good beer !
Eor my part I think both in meat and drink,
'Tis abuse, not use, we should fear ;
Enjoying of each what's within our reach.
With thankfulness sincere.
So as I don't mean to come near
Your cordials and compounds queer;
Live and let live, pray; and go your own way,
But don't come between me and my beer.
85
LATEST FROM PRUSSIA.
{From our own Detective.)
ecently the war has given
great employment to the
Gobemouches, and one of its
heaviest taxes, perhaps, has
been the tax. which they have
laid upon our patience by
the absurd reports they
have "contrived to circulate.
Stories without end have
been raised upon the flim-
siest foundation, and as pro-
lific writers of fiction, "our
own Correspondents" may
be almost said to have
rivalled Mb. James the
Novelist, or Alexandre
Dumas. The news they tell
us in the newspapers of
to-day is pretty nearly sure
to turn out nonsense in
those of to-morrow, and
scarcely any of their letters
can be regarded wholly as
letters of credit.
As a sample of the stuff which the " constant readers " lately have been called
upon to swallow, it was the other morning stated, " on the most reliable authority "
(an authority which we usually have found the most liable), that the King or
Prussia had at length " given a convincing proof of his adhesion to the English."
Being of course extremely suspicious of this " fact," we considered it our duty
as Reviser-General of the Press to dispatch at once a Special Hoax-Detective
to the Court of that (frequently) elevated Monarch, with instructions to sift out
the truth of the matter through the sieve of his experience. Thanks to the Post
Office his despatch has been characterised by the very reverse of that quality,
but the explanation we have been so long in receiving we will in brief communicate.
It appears then that his Majesty has lately, in his more sober moments, been trying
to cultivate an acquaintance with our language, and his " adhesion to the English "
is, therefore, only a politer phrase to express his recent sticking to the study of
that tongue. The "proof" which was spoken of is discovered to have been merely
the printer's "proof" of some lines which his Majesty did lately by way of an
exercise, and which, although printed " for private circulation only," we do not
scruple in the least to make as fully public as a place in Punch is certain to
ensure.—
Air—"A Bumper of Burgundy fill, Jill for me."
A bumper of Clicquot come fill, fill for me,
There's no drink can compare with Champagne ;
With the head that is empty 'twill ne'er disagree,
Since it only affecteth the brain.
When war puts the people of peace in a funk,
And friendly states claim our assistance,
We '11 show that a king may get royally drunk.
And keep sober sense at a distance !
Then a bumper of Clicquot, &c.
CELTICISM ALL HOT.
No person expresses himself with more real strength than Mr. Punch, and
although he is not absurd enough to expect that the writings of anybody else should
exhibit that exquisite mixture of intensity and elegance which renders his teaching
at once the instruction and the delight of mankind, he is never displeased, in a
superficial age, to see energetic sentiments put forth. But there is a limit to all
things, and he cannot but think that the editor of the Shropshire newspaper, out
of which Mr. Punch extracts the following declaration, is inclined to infuse almost
too much fire into his diction. The writer in question is complaining that a certain
Mr. Hay's Musical Entertainments were not sufficiently patronised in Shrewsbury.
vV nether Hay did not make himself when the sun shone, or whether those
who took the LiND-fever are proof against all other complaints, including the
Hay fever, we are not aware, but Mb. Hay was not successful, and thus the
delinquents are castigated:—
" The proud Salopians must be very poor, or very shabby, to hold back under these circumstances,
or there is an absence of all spirit in Shropshire, except where eating and drinking are concerned.
The mind appears to be quite a secondary consideration, and the belly the all-absorbing object of the
affections. These are plain -words, but not one whit the less true. Were we Mb. Hay, we would see
the town of Shrewsbury, and the county, d-, before we would toil, and sustain loss, for such an
illiberal-minded set."
Now, we are not, of course, so well informed as the Salopian journalist, as
to what kind of remonstrance is most effective with readers in the proximity
of the Wrekin, but brief sojourns in the county of Salop have left upon our
minds the impression that somewhat more gracious words might be appropriately
used upon such an occasion. The proud Salopians seemed to us to be, generally
speaking, affable, courteous to strangers, and as intelligent
as provincials are likely to be; and really, even though one
of their own body chastises them with scorpions after this
fashion, we feel inclined to protest against such merci-
less treatment. The punishment proposed certainly exceeds
the offence, which we take to be the staying away from
some concert. Now our friend the indignant " Man from
Shropshire " may take it from us, that any entertainment
which the public does not, patronise is not worth the
patronage of the public. The business of the contriver of
an entertainment is to entertain, and people know quite
well whether they are likely to be entertained or not.
And so, if we are not taking too great a liberty, we would
respectfully hint that the Shropshire critic would better
serve Mr. Hay, by pointing out to him the most likely
mode to please the Shrewsburians, than by suggesting
to him to obtain a previous sight which we trust is not
in store for him. It is just possible that the character
of provincial journalism might be improved by a little
more general adoption of the amenities cultivated by the
metropolitan press. Imagine the Times, or the Chronicle,
some morning, making such a recommendation as the
above to an unlucky be'neficiare at the Hanover Square
Rooms. And are not provincials our fellow-creatures, and
entitled to be treated with as much humanity as we demand
for ourselves ? Echo answers in the affirmative, and we beg
to transmit her answer for the consideration of our Shrop-
shire contemporary.
A PLEA FOR THE PEWTER,
Some folks have a skin that's marvellous thin,
And Barebones they revere :
And it's sinful they say to moisten one's clay
With a drop of Sunday beer.
Eor my part I ain't so severe,
And at this hot time of the year,
On my Sundays out, I can't do without
My modest allowance of beer.
Some folks, it's true, prefer to look blue
When a joke or a laugh they hear;
Their house of call is Exeter Hall,
And their tipple is tea, not beer.
Now I'm no teetotallere,
Though a temperance course I'd steer,
And down I'll cough Mr. Orator Gough,
Whenever he talks against beer.
Some folks at their feasts will make themselves beasts,
And home zig-zag will steer :
Bands of Hope let them follow, and pledges swallow,
And Orator Gough go hear;
But as I can enjoy good cheer,
And yet keep my noddle clear,
I can't understand why you thrust your hand
Betwixt me and my Sunday beer.
All the week at my work I stand like a Turk
Erom beginning to end of the year;
And on Sundays I rest, and put on my best,
And at church I always appear.
But the parson I go to hear
Don't feel called to interfere
With my afternoon walk, and tea-garden talk
With a friend or two over our beer.
Heaven gave malt and hops, as well as slops,
And to me it's perfectly clear,
As the rich have their wine, so the poor, when they dine
Were meant to enjoy their beer.
The Vine Rhenish folks may cheer,
And Hollands is good for Mynheer;
And the Briton bold shall never be told
There's sin in a drop of good beer !
Eor my part I think both in meat and drink,
'Tis abuse, not use, we should fear ;
Enjoying of each what's within our reach.
With thankfulness sincere.
So as I don't mean to come near
Your cordials and compounds queer;
Live and let live, pray; and go your own way,
But don't come between me and my beer.