Punch: Punch (36.1859)

122

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[March 2G, 1859.

Manly as he is, even Mr. Punch shrinks at the thought of the scenes!
he will have to describe when next he takes pen in hand. A refresh- MINISTERIAL EPITAPHS,

ing week in cheerful society in the country is absolutely necessary as I

a preparative; and he therefore states to the World, that not the j As tae Cabinet seems on the point of giving up the ghost—the only

slightest attention will be given by him to any business whatever
until further notice. Toby, a Hansom! Brighton Railway !

THE GROWING LIBERTIES OF THE PRESS.

More than one of our weekly contemporaries—including some
country papers—have of late betaken themselves to the supply of a
want that had long been felt on this side of the Atlantic—had been
felt ever since the extinction of the Satirist. Personal remarks rela-
tive to authors and artists of repute, or any other gentlemen whose
names are before the world; details respecting then- private trans-
actions, offensive, and, for the most part, imaginary;—such are the
materials constituting the kind of newspaper article which those
journals purvey to that public which they natter by the supposition
that it craves this sort of provender. Each of them appears to have
engaged a contributor on whose shoulders has fallen a rag of the
torn-up mantle of Mr. Barnard Gregory, of putrid memory.

Not to be behind our contemporaries, we have hired a monstrous
blackguard, a native of Bohemia, to supply a lower class of readers
than any that we at present have with the kind of entertainment which
the scum of the earth, and the dregs of society, derive from scandal
and slander. Our infamous Contributor will supply this species of
stuff from time to time, as occasion may serve. He calls himself
" Our Eavesdropper;" and we subjoin a taste of his quality under the
plain, unvarnished title of—

A COLUMN OF LIES.

here is now no doubt that
Higgins, the historian,

thing, apparently, it has any difficulty about giving up,-—Mr. Punch u
his usual character of Cock Robin,hega leave to strew a few leaves over
the body ot the dear departed.

They may grumble at him for not waiting till they are dead. But
we would say to them (as the African captain said to the moribund
sailor, whom he had ordered to be thrown overboard, and who observed
deprecatingly that "the captain might wait till a fellow was dead")
iou needn't be so nasty partic'lar to a few minutes." So without
further apology, Mr. Punch begs to submit his—

MINISTERIAL EPITAPHS.
1. For the Tomb of the Cabinet in General.
" I was Conservative : I would be Liberal: and here I lie."

2. For the Tombstone of Lord Derby {on a brass plate).
Stay, traveller! Beneath this plate,
Still sleeps the Rupert of Debate ;
Like that hot prince he wildly warred,
And ne'er fought battle but lie marred.
Like him too (as Art-hist'ries print),
He found an Art of Mezzo-tint,
A something of the middle-kind,
Tory and Radical combined ;
Rash as the first, blind as the second,
In strong effects, bold contrasts fecund;
Ingredients so mixed have seldom
Eailed to blow up the things that held 'em:
So fared it now: their mutual fret
Blew up the Derby Cabinet,
And crushed by an untimely blow,
The gallant chief who sleeps below.

banks at Trotter's. As May peace be his : and lightly rest

he was walkmg the other The Turf he loved upon his breast,
day m Regent Street, in

pulling out his pocket- 3. For the Tombstone of the Eight Honourable B. Disraeli.

handkerchief, he dropped Beneath this stone a Son of Isiimael lies,

his pass-book. Erom per- All hands against him and his hand 'gainst all;

sonal inspection of its con- At the pen's point, up from low destinies,

tents, I can attest the trutli He fought his way, not recking check or fall.

of the report that he has „ , , ,

overdrawn his account. All creeds political by turns he held;

Sharpe who writes in Knocked at all doors that,to preferment lead;
the Razor generally dines Eat his own heart—his pride and temper quelled,
at the Feathers out of -^Jlt^ anc^ formed his tongue, to stab at need,
which tavern, late at night, The moment came. a traitor ^ the rauks .
he may often be seen reel- The dumb bucolicals required a tongue :
ing. He has now a score He offere(1 his . ed it. and earu'd their thanks,
there three months long. The gladlier ld the more he stubbed. and stmig.
He does not get quarrel-
some when drunk, but By many arts he raised himself to power;
only talks maudlin, and The world by turns abashed, alarmed, amused;

Till the bucolicals, late waxing sour,
Elung in the dust the dagger they had used.

cries.

It is true that Van-
dyke Brown's pictures
sell well; but I have rea-
son to know that he lives
beyond his income. I saw,
the other day, a bill which
he has lately accepted for £50 ; it was shown me by my friend Levi.

Jackson, the poet, is not worth dining with at his own table. His
conversation is slow, and his wine bad. I have dined at his house.
His spoons are electrotype : his wife was a scullion.

A case will come on next week for trial in the County Court, in
which Scissors, the dramatic author, is the defendant, and the plaintiff j Manners won t make the Minister S

is Mr. Scissors's tailor. 5# Qn Mr. Walpole {sleeping, not on the Treasury Bench).

Before Cockroach took to journalism he had run through a large w t f Disraeli dear:

fortune, great part of which he lost on the Turf. He then became a j j 1 t (TOue ^ 4eeT)ing uear

billiard-marker; when I first had the honour of making his acquaint-
ance. He has been several times through the Insolvent Court. He
smokes an undeniable cigar, and is one of the best fellows that I know.

The last thing Bradshaw has written is a note to Ruggles, asking
him to lend him ten pounds.

Beaumont was seen the other day coming out of Snaggs, the
dentist's. He has had two teeth out, and several more stopped, which,
I believe, Mrs. B. is not aware of.

Morley is not the author of the Tribute to Truefitt; but there is no S^m^nd^rnei^great oTsfilT:

doubt that he wears a wig, and likewise dyes his whiskers. jn objections greater still:

Excuse the brevity of this communication, occasioned, partly by a
violent ear-ache, which I caught in listening at a key-hole, and partly
by a severe personal chastisement which I have lately received, and which
renders a long continuance in a sedentary position extremely painful.

The father of Young England lies below;

Old England in the riddance joys indeed;
Of all Caucasian myst'ries worst to know;

A Sphynx, whom his own Sibyl could not read.

4. On Lord John Manners.
That " Manners make the Man" we know.

Will Punch be blamed as sinister,
Eor saying, here lies one who proved

If I am out, you soon will be ;
Your pension earn, then follow me.

6. On Mr. Henley.

Here, like Love among the roses,
Henley the exact reposes.
He loved crotchets : he loved quibbles:
Quillets, quiddets, prabbles, pnbbles.

Into six he 'd split a hair
And each sixth in sixths would share:
He was rusty, he was restive,
Eminently unsuggestive;