Punch: Punch (38.1860)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[January 7, I860.

Sister Emily. “ Oh! here you are, Freddy! Why, what’s the matter
with your face, Dear,—how miserable you look V’

Freddy. “ Boo-hoo.-—Cousin Harry says they won’t take vie into his
Rifle Corps, because my whiskers haven’t grown.”

[/So the brave Boy has resorted to a popular but objectionable forcing process.

THE BARD OF BICESTER.

Most of us have in our youth been delighted with the brief but
pleasantly flowing narrative of the fate of the lady commemorated in
the beautiful lines :—

“ There was an Old Tailor of Bicester,

He went out to walk with his sister,

When a bird called a Jay,

Took the old girl away,

Before the old gentleman missed her.”

Many, of course, have been our speculations as to the real character
ct this event. When very young, we accepted it in its literalit.y, and
as thoroughly believed that the lady had been borne away by the bird,
as we believed that Ganymede was carried to Olympus by one eagle, or
Teddy O’Rourke to the moon by another. Later in life, we began
to reflect that the age of miracles was past, and that for a bird called
a jay—which we had seen among our noble father’s ancestral woods,
and also at the Zoological Gardens for sixpence (on Mondays)—to
carry away a nubile maiden, would be a marvel for which even an anti-
Mosaic geologist would hardly have swallow enough. We therefore
surmised that the bird was an ardent admirer of the lady’s, and that
his name was Jay—not an uncommon name (there was a Reverend
Mr. Jay, of Bath, much respected)—and that it was he who had
snatched the damsel, playfully called an Old Girl, from the protection
of her careless brother. Later still, we decided—as one does in the
case of most miraculous stories—that nobody knew whether the tale
were true or false, and that it did not much matter which it was.
And in that negative atmosphere we reposed.

But a revival of our old sensations has taken place, and a gush of
child-like faith has returned upon us, swamping at once our rationalism
and our apathy. We have had news from Bicester. Some ignorant
persons may want to know where Bicester is. To such—for we must
be rude to none—we reply, that Bicester, Bisetter, or Burchester, is
in Oxfordshire. It was founded under Birinus (bishop of Caer Dor,
which of course is Dorchester), and is noted for its ale. A lively and
not over-grown print called the Bicester Herald is an organ of the
place, and a highly respectable organ; and Mr. Bunch is happy to
acknowledge that in the journal in question he has made the discovery
that not only is the Sister of the Old Tailor of Bicester still alive, but
that she is still blooming in beauty. A young and ardent Bard of
Bicester, perhaps the Coming Man of the Age, has just addressed to
her some verses which Mr. Bunch insists on transplanting from their
modest Oxfordshire parterre to his own garden—Paxtonia and Ver-
sailles in one. Here they are, in all their grace and beauty:—

' Bicester.”

TO M.

Dear M., I have read with delight in extreme.
The lines dedicated to me,

W bieh tell of the dreams of happiness.

Thou art wont to indulge in, of me.

“ I was not aware, there was ought in the squeeze
Of thy haitd, when I parted from thee :

I cannot say that a sigh, stray word, or a tear—
Ever fell yet unbidden from me.

“ Why should’st thou bear for me this secret love,.
Unchanging, deep, and true?

If f were not engaged, perhaps then it m:ght be;
That I would fall on my knees before you.

“ Oh ! say not woman’s lot is silence—

She has many means to try ;—

And oft in muteness gains her point—

To wit—the language of the eye—

” But could’st thou love me then as well—
(Know'st thou ? ‘ Tnie love changeth not
Where I to basely spurn a heart.

And deem it then forgot.

“ I trust at Love’s Tribunal when arraigned,

‘ Not Guilty ’ I shall prove.

Thus convince the world I have not raised.

This charge of unrequited love.”

At last, then, the veil rises once more on the history of the lovely
lady of the song. The jay did her no harm. He restored her to the
roof of her sires, and she has resided there in peace. But that peace
is now broken. Some one whose name is spelt with six letters—can it
be T*pp*r ?—has crossed her path, and she has loved him. But, alas!'
he is “engaged,” and, like a true but gentle knight, he discourages
her attentions, and tenderly chides her advances. He “was not
aware ” that he had given her any encouragement, and he hopes to be-
able to show that he has not, as, with slight obscurity, he puts it,,
“raised the charge of unrequited love.” His words may De meaning-
less, judged by grammar, but they are full of meaning in a legal point
of view—it is useless for “M.” to bring an action for breach of;
promise. Well, well; surely it is better that she should know this at-
once than be left to feed herself with false hopes, and at length waken-
from the sweet dream of years io the chill morning of desolation. He:
of the six stars has done well not to “ fall on his knees ’’—firstly,,
because doing so would have spoiled his Sunday trousers, and,
secondly, because it would have imperilled the happiness of a life.
Sister of the aged Sartor, bear as best thou mayest what the Parcst
have sent thee. There may be (to speak as tby brother might) a silver
lining to the black cloud. Some other youth may come, with as-
elegant Sunday trousers and more elegant grammar, and thou mayesfc
“ squeeze ” his hand, and not receive a lawyer’s letter in return-
Meantime, Bunch blesseth thee, for having called up, for him, the-
inemories of his youth, and for having called up. for the Bicester
Herald, the most extraordinarily abominable rubbish with which a
respectable compositor’s eyes were ever insulted. We now know the
very worst a Poet can do.

THE HOME MARKET.

By the late mail from Hong Kong, we are informed, in the midst of
the commercial intelligence, as follows :—

“ American Drills.—Nothing doing and very large stocks on hand.”

It is quite different with the British Drills in our Volunteer Market,
we rather guess. Here the Drills could not be firmer uot steadier,
and if the stocks of the guns are rather heavy on hand, still they will
be found to go off very Briskly whenever a demand shall arise for
them. They will not hang fire then, you may be sure of it. We are
glad to state that the utmost confidence prevails in the English Drill
Market, and that not a single step has been taken in that direction
but what has been of a forward and most cheering nature. Numerous
as the British Drills now are, and they have spread so quickly and so
universally all over the country that there is scarcely an Englishman’s
leg that by this time has not gone through some sort of drill, it gives us
great and unmixed satisfaction to remark, that there is scarcely a bit
of bad stuff amongst the whole lot of them. It is also a new feature
in these British Drills, that there is not the least shrinking about
them. The more they are tried, the stouter they stand.

He's not Everybody.

M. de Walewskt, who is a Pole, threatens to resign office if the
Pope’s despotism is not to be upheld. Suppose he did resign ?_ There
are still two other Poles, on which we almost venture to believe the
world would still revolve.