Punch (37.1859)

July 23, 1859.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

33

OH, HOW JOLLY!

THE MOMENTOUS QUESTION.

What is the Momentous Question ? It is not Reform. The little interest that
anybody might ever have felt in that, died away when the word had been used for
the last election cry. The War had some claim to pre-eminence; and the individual
who lias recently invested capital in Knickerbockers, would naturally make out
a strong case to show that the formation of Rifle Corps bore off the palm.

But if we go to that never failing index of public opinion, the youth of London,
we shall find that the momentous question is of a personal nature, that it is one
which must stir instantly the inmost recesses of all hearts. It must cause equal
anxiety to the prince and the peasant, the daughter and the diplomatist, the
minister and the mamma.

A dark cloud of suspicion appears to have fallen on candid and confiding
England, for daily ten thousand Britons insinuate the existence of a sinister pur-
pose in the bosoms of their brethren, by asking in melo-dramatic tones the awful
question, What’s your little game ?

The history of Europe during the months of May and June, 1859, might have
been altered, if some six months ago, that munificent nobleman who represents
our country at the court of Paris, upon receiving assurances more fervid than
usual of the goodwill borne by a great personage towards all mankind, had sud-
denly administered an interrogative thrust to the imperial ribs (such as his Excel-
lency of (P.) Bedford might give to his bland Majesty under similar circumstances),
and popped the question. Or if court etiquette forbade a direct interrogation being
put to a sovereign, the effect would scarcely have been diminished, if he had
adopted the equally popular form of observation, “ I knows your little game.”

When a noble leader of the Liberal party submitted a certain resolution to the
consideration of another noble leader—a resolution which ultimately caused some
small expense to the members of the legislature, and some little delay in the
business of the country—it can scarcely be doubted that the statesman who gave
L-is approval, knew pretty well his friend’s “little game.” Perhaps he thought he
would not win after all. Perhaps he thought, that if he did, he would not get the
stakes. _ Perhaps that the other party would insist on the game being played
over again, and with fresh umpires.

Let us leave politics and descend to the purer atmosphere of private life.

When our young friend Robinson, after having experienced various phases of
London business life, having been successively clerk to an auctioneer, walking
gentleman in a fleecing hosiery establishment, and out-door agent to an eminent
photographic artist, suddenly burst into full bloom as Secretary to “The Metro-
politan black condensing Tooth Powder Company.” with a commencing salary of
E500 per annum, many of his friends kindly recalled him to their memory. Mrs.
Smith the mother of his old school-fellow George, after ignoring him for five
years, _ invites him once more. When that gracious matron advanced to meet
him with a pretty girl hanging on her arm, to whom she drew his attention by the

observation, “Surely, Mr. Robinson, you have not for-
gotten your old playfellow, Nancy Clementina;” nothing
but politeness could have prevented him from informing
those fair ladies, that he knew their little game.

The world goes round, and the little games are finished
then the cards are shuffled, and the partners changed, and
we begin again, for who can deny that he takes a hand in
one occasionally.

If we must join in them, let us at least endeavour to
play fairly, like men and women of honour, never with
loaded dice or marked cards, or the mirror too carefully
arranged behind our partner’s hand.

QUOTH EATHEE THAMES.

All London bullying me,

All London sullying me,

Insult to injury adding thereby;

Steamers up-churning me,

Quick-lime up-burning me—

Never was river so ill-used as I.

Sewage and slaughter-lymphs
Kill off my water-nymphs,

Ail between Teddington Lock and the Nore;

Swans growing dim in me,

No more will swim in me,—

Birds—save the mud-lark—abandon my shore.

Sewage-stained sedges all,

Sewage-clad ledges all,

Sewage-filled urn upon which I recline !

Sewage-crammed eyes and nose—

Blind eyes and pisoned nose—

Stink, steam, and swelter these sighings of mine !

Rouse near and far lament,

Breathe into Parliament,

Poison each Yestry and stink out each Board;

Creep in each water-main,—

Crush IIarte and Quatebmaine,—

Make white-bait dinners a nuisance abhorred.

Pill the low fever-nests,

Huddled like beaver-nests,

Lnder my level, soaked green with my slime;

Flavour for Bumbledom,

Eat pies of Humbledom,

For laches that’s murder, neglect that is crime.

Never did preacher preach,

Never did teacher teach,

Sermon so wakening, or lesson so deep.

As the whiff from my waters,

That tells in high quarters

Facts ignored till my stmk roused nobs’ noses from sleep.

Cinders and stone-heaps.

Churchyards and bone-heaps,

Sewers and cesspools, have sermons to preach;

Yain, though, their urgin’,

Till Thames, a la Spukgeon,

’Gins, through their noses, the million to teach.

Thanks to Apollo,

Good’s sure to follow

When the hot summer sets Thames in a blaze,

In strong effervescence
Freeing the essence

Of wisdom deep stored in my silent highways.

Odours less vagrant,

Breathings more fragrant,

Ne’er would scare Bumble, or stink out M.P.;

Lesser stinks come
To humble back-slum,

Leave the great folks and fine houses to me!

eefects of the heat.

The weather has been so melting that all the 6-?. S^.’s of
a certain Lawyer in Chancery Lane wrnre found the next
morning to have been reduced into 35. 4A’s !