Punch (37.1859)

254

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[December 24, 1859.

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ROYAL CHILD’S PLAY IN SPAIN.

ee how pretty all this is!

“ The Madrid journals of the
10th say that on the preceding
day two flags, offered by the ,
Queen and King to the array in
Morocco, were solemnly conse- i
crated in the Royal Chapel, in
presence of their Majesties. One
of these flag*, that oflered by the
Queen, has embroidered on one
side an image of the Immaculate
Conception, and on the other the
Royal arms ; the flag offered by
the King bears on one s;de the
images of Our Lady of Forget-
fulness, Our Lady of Triumph, J
and Our Lady of Mercy ; and on j
the other a crucifix.”

The picture, presented in
the above extract from
recent foreign intelligence,!
of the Queen and King!
of Spain united in playing
at religion and soldiers,
must be contemplated with
pleasure by every amiable
mind. Joining their little
flags, all worked in fine
colours, as a present to their
little army, they seem to
resemble a little brother
and sister rather than a man and wife, and exhibit an edifying spectacle
of innocence. What delightful unsuspicion of the horror's and atroci-
ties of war is betokened in the standards embroidered with images of
the “Immaculate Conception” and “Our Lady !” What a t,ruly_lady-
like idea of things of that sort—things the least horrible of which is
the death of men who are lucky enough to have their brains dashed to
atoms by a cannon-ball. What would her Spanish Majesty say to
“ Our Lady of Amputation?” The pretty pictures are funny as well
as pretty— funny, of course, only in a lovely infantile way. What sort
of an image that of the “ Immaculate Conception ” can be, it is hard to
conjecture, since what is meant by the words is itself entirely incon-
ceivable in any physical form. The symbol is probably. some play-
thing which the Queen of Spain was pleased, in giving it that title,
to christen by one of those odd names which we are wont to hear our
youthful daughters or nieces give their toys. The images on her
Royal Consort’s flag are also delightfully funny, regarded as orna-
mental figures chosen to decorate a bawble by a great baby. Their
names also appear to be the inventions of undeveloped intellect.
“Our Lady of Mercy” is charmingly out of place on the banner
under which the Spanish forces will march to slaughter the Moors if
successful, and, if not, perhaps to fall into the hands of their enemies.
“ Our Lady of Triumph” may prove an emblem of reckoning chickens
before they are hatched. What “Our Lady of Forgetfulness ” may.
be supposed to mean, we are at a loss to divine. “ Onr Lady of
Remembrance” would be more to the purpose of recalling the glories
of Spanish chivalry. “ Let by-gones be by-gones,” is a very Christian
sentiment; but one does not see what it can have to do on his Spanish
Majesty’s war-flag. If the King of Spain were a great man, cf
course we should say that he is the best judge of his own colours; and
but that he is manifestly a nice little man, and his spouse a sweet
little woman, there would not perhaps be wanting those who might
suggest that “Our Lady of Forgetfulness” may be considered as
synonymous with “ Our Lady of Condonation.”

SETTLERS FOR SHAKESPEARIAN^.

Is it reasonable to suppose that Othello was out fishing when he
remarked to Desdemona, “Perdition catch thy sole” ?

“Then let the kettle to the trumpet speak!” Is this reading
correct? Should it not be rather, “Then let the trumpet to the kettle
speak!” Speaking-trumpets are, and long have been, quite common.
But what grounds have we for believing that in the time when
Shakespeare wrote, any more than in our own, there was such an
instrument as a speaking kettle ?

“My tables! meat it is, I set it down.” May this be cited as a
proof that Hamlet was a butcher ?

What authorities can you quote for the popular belief t hat the mail
Macbeth called “ whey-face ” was in reality a Kurd ?

A COUGII IN THE HOUSE.

A-iiack! That cough! Ack-ack ! That cough again!
Oh, how it tears through my distracted brain!

Yack ! Mercy Heaven ! how can I read or write !
Ack-kack-kack-kack ! noise seems made out of spite,
Ahacka—hash ! mine ear what tortures rack !

My shattered nerves ! their tender threads will crack.
A-hawk ! Oh, don’t! Those thorns mine ear-drums prick.
Yawk! Ack ! Yaw—hawk ! Eorbear! I shall be sick!
Ahawm ! Ahack ! This torment is too bad !

Ahash! Hack ! Hash ! That row will drive me mad !

So it goes on. I stamp—I tear my hair—

I yell—I shriek—forgive me, if I swear !

My groans and cries, if heard my room without,
Pass for the screams of toothache or the gout,
Or by the hearer are perchance divined
To speak mysterious agonies of mind.

What if their cause my fell tormentor knows ?
I’m sure she could control it if she chose:
'thought, if allowed, to fury which will lash
Mine irritated soul! Another crash !

My senses whirl. Ye Powers, preserve my wits,
And let me not be worried into fits :

Oh spare my reason!—take me to your care,

Or else I shall be goaded to despair!

^ I stop mine ears with cotton to exclude
Those dreadful sounds which still, alas! intrude;

I bind my kerchief round my throbbing brow,

And tighten it in vain—I hear them now!—

Ah! blessed are the Deaf, I moan, with tears,

And wish I had old Surd’s unfeeling ears.

Oh, I exclaim, for some less painful sound
Wherein those hideous noises might be drowned!
Ob, for the crowing of a neighbour’s fowl!

Oh, for ten thousand mongrel dogs to howl!

Oh, for that greatly preferable bore,

A knocking carpenter at work next door!

For some harmonious blacksmith o’er the way,

Pig killed close by, or hungry donkey’s bray,

E’en for an organ-grinder, I could pray,

Out in the street to stand before my house, and play.

“Pulmonic Wafers” I would fain implore
To stay that plague, or stuff called “ Cough No More;”
A doctor, nay, a quack, I’d richly fee
From such a nuisance to deliver me.

Ob, you who may these frantic verses scan,

And have a cough—restrain it if yon can.

Sad is a sore affection of the chest,

As sad are peace disturbed, and broken rest.
Expectoration’s grievous need I know:

But think, oh, think upon the hearer’s woe !

Relieve the bosom with an effort mild :

Drive not your nervous fellow-creature wild.

THE BELLS ON BIG BEN.

Big Ben’s case looks scaly, say the bells of Old Bailey;

Ills voice is quite gone, say the bells of St. John;

He’s chock full of holes, peal the bells of All Souls;

Must go to the forge, chime the bells of St. George ;

Even my voice is sweeter, sneer the bells of St. Peter;

He ain’t worth two fardens, snarl the bells of St. Martin’s;
Case of too many cooks, growl the bells of St. Luke’s ;

Don’t know what they’re about, howls St. Botolph Without;
Mears, Denison chides, say the bells of St. Bride’s;

Well, d’ ye think Mears is wrong? asks St. Mary’s ding-dong;
I don’t, if you do, says the belfry at Kew;

It’s a great waste of tin, tolls St. Botolph Within ;

And the cash must come from us, growl the bells of St. Thomas;
Aye, every shilling, add the bells of St. Helen ;

And we’re not over-rich, groan the bells of Shoreditch;

It makes one feel rane’rous, say the bells of St. Pancras ;

Yes, that’s for sartin, again rings St. Martin;

But what’s to be done, once more peals St. John;

Bang’d if I know, tolls the big bell of Bow.

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Consolation under Criticism. (By a pachydermatous author.)—

After all, according to Sir Emerson Tennent, the elephant has no What the Italian Boot does not Want.—More Austrian welting
real enemy but the fly. or new French binding.