DOI Heft:
July to December, 1854
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16614#0196
18S
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
to myself—and although a mighty Emperor, after all what a real
gentleman !
" Your Imperial Majesty went away, and there wasn't a dry eye in
Windsor. Yon might have walked over us in your boots, and hardly a
soul but would have blessed your spurs. I 'na bold enough to write
this, to show you what you've lost '• to bring you back to the paths of
virtue and peace, if I'm not too bold in mentioning such things to your
Majesty.
" A small reward for my attention ! They were your Royal words,
when you put the brooch into my hand. Small or otherwise, it was
more than enough for my deserts ; for what had I done, but seen that
your Majesty's Russian leather bed was shaken, and your pillow
smoothed! Still, that brooch I carried in my bosom ; and still, what-
ever I heard against you, I believed in Lord Aberdeen (as steady-
going nobleman as ever slept), and smiled in scorn. You go to war
with England! The Emperor Nicholas that had given his arm to-
our gracious Queen, and smiled so with his mild eyes at every word—
he to draw the sword, and nourish it in the face of Her blessed
Majesty. He who had slept upon our iron bedstead—slept sweetly as
any baby—under the banner of Royal Windsor,—he to bring his
Cossacks into the Castle, and to give us all up to the proud invader !
" No, your Imperial Majesty, I wouldn't believe it. I read the
speeches of Lord Aberdeen—upon my word and honour every word
of 'em—and was I not a female, would say, I still swore by you. When
people here called you names, I would look down upon the brooch in
my bosom, and just pity 'cm.
" But the scales have fallen from my eyes, and now I see the truth.
I've struggled, but at last give up. That brooch has got hotter and
hotter, and at last began to scorch and burn me like burning coal. I
began at first to think I couldn't wear it without being a traitor to my
Royal Mistress—(I hope she'll never believe in an Emperor again,
wherever he may come from !)—but now have snatched the burning'
thing away, and return into your Majesty's hands the snake I have too
long warmed. •' 1
" (Prince Pickle herring er, one of the Cousin-Germans to the
King of Prussia, has promised to get his Royal Master to send the
brooch back to you. And so I've done my duty to my Queen, Windsor
Castle, my country, and myself 7)
"And now, Nicholas—for I've dropped the Emperor, and come
without ceremony to the man—now, Nicholas ; tremble and be warned
by what I'm going to tell you. Last night as ever was I had a
dream. I thought you were once again in the Castle; I thought you'd
once again gone to bed upon the old iron: and I thought I was neither
asleep nor awake; nor full-dressed, nor undressed, but as I may say,
between the two. And then I dreamt I went right off asleep, when I
was awoke, as I thought still in my dream, by a dreadful smell of
something burning—burning like roasting. Still dreaming, I jumped
up, my flannel gown—(which in case of fire I always have)—wrapped
about me, and went with great presence of mind to your room !
" Nicholas, there you lay, upon that iron bedstead : every bit of the
iron, red-hot ! There you lay, and ground your teeth, and looked at me,
and couldn't SDeak outright, but t thought you said something that
sounded like Sigh No Pay—Sigh No Pay ; as much, perhaps, as to say
that no amount, of sighs were then of any use. Well, the bedstead
still glared redder and redder, and you seemed turning into tinder,—
when I thought all the dead gold eagles from the state bed gave, with
their double heads, a double scream, and I, trying to scream also—I
then awoke !
" Nicholas, think of the iron bedstead that a wicked Emperor's sins
may, at his last hour, make red hot, and
" Believe me,
" Still your Well-wisher and Adviser,
"The Housekeeper."
" P.S. As I've sent back the brooch, don't you think you'd better
return the garter ! Your banner still hangs in St. George's Hall, but,
since the war—I don't know what can have put it in their heads—the
flies have used it shockingly."
HUSH, BOYS, HUSH!
by an enraged musician.
Hush, boys, hush ! pray co give over singing
That plaguy tune, pray hold jour tiresome breath :
That song for ever in my head is ringing,
And very soon will worry me to death.
1 do not quarrel with its sense or grammar,
But that perpetual air annoys my ear,
Ring, ding, ding, ding, and hammer, hammer, hammer,
Oh what a horrid bore is Cheer ! boys, Cheer !
Hush, boys, hush ! that song desist from shouting ;
Hush, boys, hush ! oh cease to make that noise !
Hush, boys, hush ! I cannot stand it longer,
Hush, boys, hush! be quiet can't you, boys ?
Hush, boys, hush ! especially Italian,
Who that hack tune from morn to midnight grind,
Far, far away, move on, each young rascalion,
You '11 drive me, else, completely out of mind.
Butchers' boys, too, at area gate attending,
Whistle no longer that tormenting strain;
And let me never hear that never ending
Measure, you idle bakers' boys, again.
Hush, boys, hush! you vagabonds, you varlets,
Hush, boys, hush ! or make some other noise ;
Bush, boys, hush ! you youthful ragamuffins,
Hush, boys, hush !—be quiet, all you boys !
following, the device was changed to an anchor, with a motto com-
plimentary to the British Navy. It is to be lamented that such genius
should be provided with no better School of Design than the street,
and that such fertile invention should have no other bank than a bank of
road-dirt to draw upon. We recommend the patrons of art to keep their
e\es on the crossing, lest some incipient Wflkie should be nipped in
the bud, or only live to be " blowed" by some insensible policemm.
CROSSING SWEEPING AS A FINE ART.
It is said that "New brooms sweep clean," but a new spirit will
do more with even an old broom, than could be effected by the newest
of birches in the hands of one who keeps to the ordinary track of
Crossing Sweepers.
We have noticed a genius in the neighbourhood of St. James's
Palace, in the shape of a ragged boy, who has started in the rather
startling line of an "Artist in Crossing Sweeping." There are some
people who adorn every thing they touch, and here is an instance of an
urchin who, while touching mud, invests it with a grace and a senti-
ment not exactly "beyond the reach of art," but within its legitimate
precincts. He has converted Crossing Sweeping into one of the Fine
Arts, for he has decorated his crossing with various devices, in which
loyalty is the dominant feature, though patriotism sometimes enjoys
the ascendancy. A few days ago the " artist" had arranged the super-
fluous mud swept from the crossing into the form of a crowm, sur-
rounded by the words, "God save the Queen;" and on the day
NOTHING LIKE BEING IN THE FASHION.
Exasperated Mother. "Wot ake yer hat—yer young Hdssy? and
NOT a m1ndin THE CllOSSIN, AS I TOLD TER."
Daughter. "Hat? Why a doin some Croshay frillin for my
trowsers TO be SURE. You WOULD'nT ave mk dressed like no
one else—would iek '! "
A Dreadful Blow and Discouragement to tue Porte.—
Gentlemen, Tea's readi
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
to myself—and although a mighty Emperor, after all what a real
gentleman !
" Your Imperial Majesty went away, and there wasn't a dry eye in
Windsor. Yon might have walked over us in your boots, and hardly a
soul but would have blessed your spurs. I 'na bold enough to write
this, to show you what you've lost '• to bring you back to the paths of
virtue and peace, if I'm not too bold in mentioning such things to your
Majesty.
" A small reward for my attention ! They were your Royal words,
when you put the brooch into my hand. Small or otherwise, it was
more than enough for my deserts ; for what had I done, but seen that
your Majesty's Russian leather bed was shaken, and your pillow
smoothed! Still, that brooch I carried in my bosom ; and still, what-
ever I heard against you, I believed in Lord Aberdeen (as steady-
going nobleman as ever slept), and smiled in scorn. You go to war
with England! The Emperor Nicholas that had given his arm to-
our gracious Queen, and smiled so with his mild eyes at every word—
he to draw the sword, and nourish it in the face of Her blessed
Majesty. He who had slept upon our iron bedstead—slept sweetly as
any baby—under the banner of Royal Windsor,—he to bring his
Cossacks into the Castle, and to give us all up to the proud invader !
" No, your Imperial Majesty, I wouldn't believe it. I read the
speeches of Lord Aberdeen—upon my word and honour every word
of 'em—and was I not a female, would say, I still swore by you. When
people here called you names, I would look down upon the brooch in
my bosom, and just pity 'cm.
" But the scales have fallen from my eyes, and now I see the truth.
I've struggled, but at last give up. That brooch has got hotter and
hotter, and at last began to scorch and burn me like burning coal. I
began at first to think I couldn't wear it without being a traitor to my
Royal Mistress—(I hope she'll never believe in an Emperor again,
wherever he may come from !)—but now have snatched the burning'
thing away, and return into your Majesty's hands the snake I have too
long warmed. •' 1
" (Prince Pickle herring er, one of the Cousin-Germans to the
King of Prussia, has promised to get his Royal Master to send the
brooch back to you. And so I've done my duty to my Queen, Windsor
Castle, my country, and myself 7)
"And now, Nicholas—for I've dropped the Emperor, and come
without ceremony to the man—now, Nicholas ; tremble and be warned
by what I'm going to tell you. Last night as ever was I had a
dream. I thought you were once again in the Castle; I thought you'd
once again gone to bed upon the old iron: and I thought I was neither
asleep nor awake; nor full-dressed, nor undressed, but as I may say,
between the two. And then I dreamt I went right off asleep, when I
was awoke, as I thought still in my dream, by a dreadful smell of
something burning—burning like roasting. Still dreaming, I jumped
up, my flannel gown—(which in case of fire I always have)—wrapped
about me, and went with great presence of mind to your room !
" Nicholas, there you lay, upon that iron bedstead : every bit of the
iron, red-hot ! There you lay, and ground your teeth, and looked at me,
and couldn't SDeak outright, but t thought you said something that
sounded like Sigh No Pay—Sigh No Pay ; as much, perhaps, as to say
that no amount, of sighs were then of any use. Well, the bedstead
still glared redder and redder, and you seemed turning into tinder,—
when I thought all the dead gold eagles from the state bed gave, with
their double heads, a double scream, and I, trying to scream also—I
then awoke !
" Nicholas, think of the iron bedstead that a wicked Emperor's sins
may, at his last hour, make red hot, and
" Believe me,
" Still your Well-wisher and Adviser,
"The Housekeeper."
" P.S. As I've sent back the brooch, don't you think you'd better
return the garter ! Your banner still hangs in St. George's Hall, but,
since the war—I don't know what can have put it in their heads—the
flies have used it shockingly."
HUSH, BOYS, HUSH!
by an enraged musician.
Hush, boys, hush ! pray co give over singing
That plaguy tune, pray hold jour tiresome breath :
That song for ever in my head is ringing,
And very soon will worry me to death.
1 do not quarrel with its sense or grammar,
But that perpetual air annoys my ear,
Ring, ding, ding, ding, and hammer, hammer, hammer,
Oh what a horrid bore is Cheer ! boys, Cheer !
Hush, boys, hush ! that song desist from shouting ;
Hush, boys, hush ! oh cease to make that noise !
Hush, boys, hush ! I cannot stand it longer,
Hush, boys, hush! be quiet can't you, boys ?
Hush, boys, hush ! especially Italian,
Who that hack tune from morn to midnight grind,
Far, far away, move on, each young rascalion,
You '11 drive me, else, completely out of mind.
Butchers' boys, too, at area gate attending,
Whistle no longer that tormenting strain;
And let me never hear that never ending
Measure, you idle bakers' boys, again.
Hush, boys, hush! you vagabonds, you varlets,
Hush, boys, hush ! or make some other noise ;
Bush, boys, hush ! you youthful ragamuffins,
Hush, boys, hush !—be quiet, all you boys !
following, the device was changed to an anchor, with a motto com-
plimentary to the British Navy. It is to be lamented that such genius
should be provided with no better School of Design than the street,
and that such fertile invention should have no other bank than a bank of
road-dirt to draw upon. We recommend the patrons of art to keep their
e\es on the crossing, lest some incipient Wflkie should be nipped in
the bud, or only live to be " blowed" by some insensible policemm.
CROSSING SWEEPING AS A FINE ART.
It is said that "New brooms sweep clean," but a new spirit will
do more with even an old broom, than could be effected by the newest
of birches in the hands of one who keeps to the ordinary track of
Crossing Sweepers.
We have noticed a genius in the neighbourhood of St. James's
Palace, in the shape of a ragged boy, who has started in the rather
startling line of an "Artist in Crossing Sweeping." There are some
people who adorn every thing they touch, and here is an instance of an
urchin who, while touching mud, invests it with a grace and a senti-
ment not exactly "beyond the reach of art," but within its legitimate
precincts. He has converted Crossing Sweeping into one of the Fine
Arts, for he has decorated his crossing with various devices, in which
loyalty is the dominant feature, though patriotism sometimes enjoys
the ascendancy. A few days ago the " artist" had arranged the super-
fluous mud swept from the crossing into the form of a crowm, sur-
rounded by the words, "God save the Queen;" and on the day
NOTHING LIKE BEING IN THE FASHION.
Exasperated Mother. "Wot ake yer hat—yer young Hdssy? and
NOT a m1ndin THE CllOSSIN, AS I TOLD TER."
Daughter. "Hat? Why a doin some Croshay frillin for my
trowsers TO be SURE. You WOULD'nT ave mk dressed like no
one else—would iek '! "
A Dreadful Blow and Discouragement to tue Porte.—
Gentlemen, Tea's readi