DOI issue:
December 11, 1858
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16622#0241
234 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [December 11, 1858.
u No Collars, Sir ? It must he Miss Julia, for she sent fifteen to wash only last week."
SIR BENJAMIN.
Don't you observe the vulgar sneer
On the thin lip of fawning toady ?
" O law, my Lady, listen here,
They 're going to make a peer of Brodie !
" He was a doctor, near the Park,
Some kind of surgeon or physician;
How true your ladyship's remark,
' The country's in a sad condition!'"
But no, your fright is premature.
You ancient, toad-devouring virgin,
The Peerage will be still kept pure
From contact with a titled surgeon.
It 'a not to be; but if it were,
While men are born, men live, and men die,
Some recognition might be fair
Of those who use the ars medendi.
Lords from hereditary trees
(My lady's gone : we've sadly shocked her),
Where were your lengthening pedigrees,.
If vain the cry " Fer opem, Doctor ! "
If the good Sword may claim its fee
In titles, as our codes determine,
'Twere no unseemly thing to see
The Scalpel laid away in ermine.
You, Peer, for having understood
All the dark labyrinths that OHr laws have,
What Saving Clause has done the good
That Brodie's forceps' saving claws have?
To cut bad throats, and stretch bad necks
Are claims on Fortune's purblind goddess,
But clear-eyed Honour gladly decks
The man who heals good people's bodies.
But, wise and kind old man, you know,
A bauble's, what the thing will fetch, worth,
And Punch still bows to you, although
Ee greets Sir B., and not Lord Betchworth.
"a hall of dazzling light."
My friend Shorthorns, an amiable agriculturist from whom I have
expectations, haying suddenly, to my great discomfiture, arrived to
"stop a week," it became evident that something must be done, both
to amuse S. and to prevent, the writer being utterly bored to death, by
that intelligent but not cheerful individual. What was to be done ?
We had on the occasion of his last week in town, explored the Poly-
technic, Madame Tussaud's, the Colosseum, and other exhilarating
haunts of pleasure.
It was over that peculiar pint of port at the Rainbow's cheeriest of
hostelries, that this question presented itself most forcibly to us. We
had dined well (I took care of that, and Shorthorns invariably, under
protest from me, paid the bill), and S. was thirsting and raging for
pleasure. I felt that unless something were done shortly, my chance
of a legacy (may the day of its receipt be far distant!) would be small.
I took a bold resolve. Yes. We would go to the theatre. Con-
sidering the general state of the drama, Mr. Punch, you will own that
this was suicidal. But we did it, and were agreeably disappointed.
The temple of the drama we selected, on account of its being in the
neighbourhood, was rather of the bandbox order of architecture; small,
but very clean, very neat, very pretty, and most curiously, very full.
The entertainment, a pretty little comedy or vaudeville, the best bur-
lesque this child ever had the pleasure of seeing, with a bunch of
pretty girls in it that—well, never mind, we will not confide our love-
secrets to the general public.
We left the bandbox in rather a pleasant frame of mind. Of course we
wanted refreshment, bodily and mentally. What should it be ? Bodily ?
Beer,r of course. Mentally ? Not so easy to decide, let's see, eh ?
what ? of course! we could arrive at but one conclusion. British
melody. " Come," we cried, " follow us, O Shorthorns, and we
will take you to the abode of bliss. Have you not heard of that famous
Cave of Harmony, in which we are inclined to think, and most cer-
tainly hope, Captain Costigan sang that song which drove our dear
Colonel Newcome s way ? We will take you there, my boy ; but be
not afraid, strict propriety is the law. Decorum reigns in the halls of'
BrviNs, and though it has been pulled down and rebuilt, still it is the
tave." Shorthorns being too much surprised at our rhapsody to |
make any objection, we carried him across the Strand, up Wellington
Street, through cabbagy, dull, dreary, Covent Garden, to the entrance
of the modern Cave of Trophonius. Not dull though is our Cave's
entrance, but cheerfully lighted, and with a convivial air about it, very
promising. Not so convivial however in appearance is an inscription
relative to "Pay here," observing which, we inquire of the policeman
standing by, " How much ? " The municipal replies, " Sixpence."
Which we pay and enter.
Bah! What a puff of hot air comes out to meet us as we push
through the spring door ! What a combination of chops and stout, and
" grogs," cigars, gas, and harmony. Listen! They are singing that
most beautiful of all beautiful madrigals, " Down in a Flowery Vale."
It ceases, and several hundred maniacs at once proceed to batter the
tables with pewter noggins and heads of sticks. Let us sit down,
Shorthorns, at one of these little marble-topped tables. We can
hear the music quite well here, and are besides out of the way of the
demonstrative applauders, who are, between ourselves, rather a nui-
sance. We will order our suppers, and then take a survey. " Waiter!
Chops and stout."
Now, Shorthorns, use your eyes. Look at the pictures first.
Theatrical you will observe, and mostly good. Everybody is here. It
is the Walhalla of the drama. Mr. Garrick_ as Richard III. you will
please notice, all his fingers stretched out in impossible positions;
Miss Mellon behind you; on your right, Macready, with an in-
human scowl, not the least like him we are delighted to see ; and on
your left, Sheridan Knowles. Good company, you think P Well,
not bad. Hark ! The president raps with his hammer, and lo! on the
stage appears a group of small boys, all of whom instantly place their
hands behind their backs, and survey the company. (Why do the little
boys at Bivins's always do this ? Nobody can tell, but it is their con-
stant habit.) To them enter various gentlemen elaborate as to whiskers,
curly as to hair, evening as to dress. These forthwith begin the
selection from "Euryanthe" which they sing, to do them justice, with
much effect. " That little boy in the corner has a splendid voice."
So he has, and doubtless when the wicked week is over, he forgets
Bivins's, and you may hear him in the choir at one of the cathedral
churches. Here are the chops, however, and straightway we fell to,
! and forgot Master What's-his-naiae.
u No Collars, Sir ? It must he Miss Julia, for she sent fifteen to wash only last week."
SIR BENJAMIN.
Don't you observe the vulgar sneer
On the thin lip of fawning toady ?
" O law, my Lady, listen here,
They 're going to make a peer of Brodie !
" He was a doctor, near the Park,
Some kind of surgeon or physician;
How true your ladyship's remark,
' The country's in a sad condition!'"
But no, your fright is premature.
You ancient, toad-devouring virgin,
The Peerage will be still kept pure
From contact with a titled surgeon.
It 'a not to be; but if it were,
While men are born, men live, and men die,
Some recognition might be fair
Of those who use the ars medendi.
Lords from hereditary trees
(My lady's gone : we've sadly shocked her),
Where were your lengthening pedigrees,.
If vain the cry " Fer opem, Doctor ! "
If the good Sword may claim its fee
In titles, as our codes determine,
'Twere no unseemly thing to see
The Scalpel laid away in ermine.
You, Peer, for having understood
All the dark labyrinths that OHr laws have,
What Saving Clause has done the good
That Brodie's forceps' saving claws have?
To cut bad throats, and stretch bad necks
Are claims on Fortune's purblind goddess,
But clear-eyed Honour gladly decks
The man who heals good people's bodies.
But, wise and kind old man, you know,
A bauble's, what the thing will fetch, worth,
And Punch still bows to you, although
Ee greets Sir B., and not Lord Betchworth.
"a hall of dazzling light."
My friend Shorthorns, an amiable agriculturist from whom I have
expectations, haying suddenly, to my great discomfiture, arrived to
"stop a week," it became evident that something must be done, both
to amuse S. and to prevent, the writer being utterly bored to death, by
that intelligent but not cheerful individual. What was to be done ?
We had on the occasion of his last week in town, explored the Poly-
technic, Madame Tussaud's, the Colosseum, and other exhilarating
haunts of pleasure.
It was over that peculiar pint of port at the Rainbow's cheeriest of
hostelries, that this question presented itself most forcibly to us. We
had dined well (I took care of that, and Shorthorns invariably, under
protest from me, paid the bill), and S. was thirsting and raging for
pleasure. I felt that unless something were done shortly, my chance
of a legacy (may the day of its receipt be far distant!) would be small.
I took a bold resolve. Yes. We would go to the theatre. Con-
sidering the general state of the drama, Mr. Punch, you will own that
this was suicidal. But we did it, and were agreeably disappointed.
The temple of the drama we selected, on account of its being in the
neighbourhood, was rather of the bandbox order of architecture; small,
but very clean, very neat, very pretty, and most curiously, very full.
The entertainment, a pretty little comedy or vaudeville, the best bur-
lesque this child ever had the pleasure of seeing, with a bunch of
pretty girls in it that—well, never mind, we will not confide our love-
secrets to the general public.
We left the bandbox in rather a pleasant frame of mind. Of course we
wanted refreshment, bodily and mentally. What should it be ? Bodily ?
Beer,r of course. Mentally ? Not so easy to decide, let's see, eh ?
what ? of course! we could arrive at but one conclusion. British
melody. " Come," we cried, " follow us, O Shorthorns, and we
will take you to the abode of bliss. Have you not heard of that famous
Cave of Harmony, in which we are inclined to think, and most cer-
tainly hope, Captain Costigan sang that song which drove our dear
Colonel Newcome s way ? We will take you there, my boy ; but be
not afraid, strict propriety is the law. Decorum reigns in the halls of'
BrviNs, and though it has been pulled down and rebuilt, still it is the
tave." Shorthorns being too much surprised at our rhapsody to |
make any objection, we carried him across the Strand, up Wellington
Street, through cabbagy, dull, dreary, Covent Garden, to the entrance
of the modern Cave of Trophonius. Not dull though is our Cave's
entrance, but cheerfully lighted, and with a convivial air about it, very
promising. Not so convivial however in appearance is an inscription
relative to "Pay here," observing which, we inquire of the policeman
standing by, " How much ? " The municipal replies, " Sixpence."
Which we pay and enter.
Bah! What a puff of hot air comes out to meet us as we push
through the spring door ! What a combination of chops and stout, and
" grogs," cigars, gas, and harmony. Listen! They are singing that
most beautiful of all beautiful madrigals, " Down in a Flowery Vale."
It ceases, and several hundred maniacs at once proceed to batter the
tables with pewter noggins and heads of sticks. Let us sit down,
Shorthorns, at one of these little marble-topped tables. We can
hear the music quite well here, and are besides out of the way of the
demonstrative applauders, who are, between ourselves, rather a nui-
sance. We will order our suppers, and then take a survey. " Waiter!
Chops and stout."
Now, Shorthorns, use your eyes. Look at the pictures first.
Theatrical you will observe, and mostly good. Everybody is here. It
is the Walhalla of the drama. Mr. Garrick_ as Richard III. you will
please notice, all his fingers stretched out in impossible positions;
Miss Mellon behind you; on your right, Macready, with an in-
human scowl, not the least like him we are delighted to see ; and on
your left, Sheridan Knowles. Good company, you think P Well,
not bad. Hark ! The president raps with his hammer, and lo! on the
stage appears a group of small boys, all of whom instantly place their
hands behind their backs, and survey the company. (Why do the little
boys at Bivins's always do this ? Nobody can tell, but it is their con-
stant habit.) To them enter various gentlemen elaborate as to whiskers,
curly as to hair, evening as to dress. These forthwith begin the
selection from "Euryanthe" which they sing, to do them justice, with
much effect. " That little boy in the corner has a splendid voice."
So he has, and doubtless when the wicked week is over, he forgets
Bivins's, and you may hear him in the choir at one of the cathedral
churches. Here are the chops, however, and straightway we fell to,
! and forgot Master What's-his-naiae.