DOI issue:
February 18, 1860
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16865#0073
February 18, I860.]
€5
PUNCH, Oil THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Active Cad (Playfully Metaphorical). “ Let me cut you off Twopenn’orth, Mum.”
THE SOLDIER’S LIFE PRESERVER.
One of the most efficient weapons of the British soldier
is his belt. It is a heavy leather strap, armed with a
massive buckle, and, when wielded by the strong arm of
a grenadier, will cut an enemy’s head open, and indict upon
him other dreadful injuries. Its efficiency is most remark-
able in a melee, wherein it enables a powerful man to pros-
trate surrounding adversaries right and left, mutilating and
maiming them with the severest lacerated wounds. At the
Middlesex Sessions, the other day, two privates in the
Guards, George Hales and Charles Humphreys, were
convicted of demonstrating the effects of these weapons
on the persons of certain policemen and others, and have,
consequently, obtained twelve months’ release from mili-
tary duty and the same period of employment in hard
labour. The gallant fellows mistook surrounding circum-
stances for those of the field of battle, or the storming of
a town, whilst in a state of intoxication. Had they hap-
pened to be wearing their bayonets, they would no doubt
have used them instead of their belts, and it would have :
been as well if they had, because a bayonet inflicts a wound
much less nasty than a strap and a brass buckle, and is of
the two the preferable instrument of offence for a soldier
to exercise on his fellow citizens. If, therefore, the belts
are to be worn any longer by our private heroes about
the streets, the bayonets likewise had better be added;
because the belt without the bayonet looks absurd;
whereas, in the hands of a drunken ruffian, it is equally
formidable.
How the Truth Leaks Out!
Scene—Hyde Parle. Time : Five o’clock.
Friend. Any news ? Anything in the papers ?
Government Peg-top Clerk. Can’t say. Haven’t been to
the Office to-day, my boy.
“Uneasy Lies the Head.”—We see that many states
are trying their hardest to bolster up the Pope, but we
fancy that his Holiness, in spite of this, will not have a
very comfortable pillow, after all.
THE INCOME-TAX FOR EVER.
'You struggling traders who subsist on small uncertain gain,
And you who live from hand to mouth by art, or toil of brain,
Prepare for more extortion ; for the pressure of the screw
Of Income-Tax untempered, to be put again on you.
You wretches, who for feeble age a pittance fain would save,
To ease your downward passage, as you totter to the grave,
Prepare to have your earnings wrung from year to year away,
Whilst merely on the fruit of wealth the rich not more will pay.
They whom the Gods do love die young—by them of old ’twas said;
Than outlive health and strength, they thought, ’twas better to be
dead;
Heaven for an early tomb you now have greater cause to thank;
The Income-Tax will let you put no money in the bank.
Thus left without provision since you’ll be in Life’s decline,
Come, let us fill the bowl, and quaff a draught of cheap French wine.
Hurrah for short and merry lives ; hurrah for Schedule D !
And when we’re in the Union, oh how happy we shall be!
Prepare from this or that mischance, to see your pittance stop;
From broken health, or brain o’erworked, or failure of the shop;
Then hey for workhouse or for gaol! since now the means are gone,
Whereby, if saved, through time of need you might have struggled on.
The Income-Tax will take them; will prevent the little hoard
Which should against the evil day in health and strength be stored;
And you will thirst and hunger, of your pay and work bereft,
Because the State has taxed your all, ana you have nothing left.
But then your jolly neighbour there will eat and drink his fill;
He’ll not have lost his income; no, he’ll live in clover still.
No need had he for saving aught—a man of land and rents,
His name is written in the Bank—the Book of Three-per-Cents.
He pays the tax that you do now; as much; no more nor less;
And he will be in comfort then, whilst you are in distress:
And then your consolation will—as fiscal sages say—
Be, now that you are ruined, you ’ll have no more tax to pay.
Meanwhile at such a prospect lest your heart, percliance, should sink,
To give you consolation you’ll have cheap Bordeaux to drink.
And with that acid draught you may wash down your bitter pill,
And so spend all the Income-Tax will spare you, if you will.
Low are not these good tidings, far too pleasant to be told
In the harsh, croaking, raven’s voice of one who has a cold ?
And was it not worth while to wait until, in accents clear,
A sweet financial singer could discourse them to the ear?
THE GENEROSITY OF GREEN ERIN.
Hibernia has cast her mite into the Pope’s treasury. The faithfui
Irish have subscribed for their common Father the sum of £207. Of
this amount, £100 has been contributed by Dr. Cullen himself.
Heretical Churchmen have been accused of putting sovereigns into
charity-plates to serve the purpose merely of decoy-ducks; but let
Dr. Cullen have the credit of offering his Holiness the genuine
sacrifice of £100. We cannot but respect the devotion which expresses
itself in forking out. Dr. Cullen cares at least £100 for the Pope ;
how much the faithful Irish at large care for him, we shall perhaps
know by-and-by; at present, the figure seems to be a fraction of a
farthing a head. In the mean time, they should bear in mind that
they cannot possibly do anything so certain to please the Holy Father
as sending him a lot of money,—that nothing could more highly gratify
his paternal heart than the receipt of any given sum, except the receipt
of a greater sum; and they may be quite sure, in spite of any doubts
that some weak brethren may suggest to the contrary, that, whilst the
largest donations will be those most acceptable at the Yatican, the
smallest contributions will be thankfully received.
THE MINT OF MODENA.
The Modena Gazette of January 20th publishes a decree of Farini’s
for a new coinage. Among the contemplated coins should have been
enumerated the one which is most loudly asked for—the new Italian
Sovereign.
€5
PUNCH, Oil THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Active Cad (Playfully Metaphorical). “ Let me cut you off Twopenn’orth, Mum.”
THE SOLDIER’S LIFE PRESERVER.
One of the most efficient weapons of the British soldier
is his belt. It is a heavy leather strap, armed with a
massive buckle, and, when wielded by the strong arm of
a grenadier, will cut an enemy’s head open, and indict upon
him other dreadful injuries. Its efficiency is most remark-
able in a melee, wherein it enables a powerful man to pros-
trate surrounding adversaries right and left, mutilating and
maiming them with the severest lacerated wounds. At the
Middlesex Sessions, the other day, two privates in the
Guards, George Hales and Charles Humphreys, were
convicted of demonstrating the effects of these weapons
on the persons of certain policemen and others, and have,
consequently, obtained twelve months’ release from mili-
tary duty and the same period of employment in hard
labour. The gallant fellows mistook surrounding circum-
stances for those of the field of battle, or the storming of
a town, whilst in a state of intoxication. Had they hap-
pened to be wearing their bayonets, they would no doubt
have used them instead of their belts, and it would have :
been as well if they had, because a bayonet inflicts a wound
much less nasty than a strap and a brass buckle, and is of
the two the preferable instrument of offence for a soldier
to exercise on his fellow citizens. If, therefore, the belts
are to be worn any longer by our private heroes about
the streets, the bayonets likewise had better be added;
because the belt without the bayonet looks absurd;
whereas, in the hands of a drunken ruffian, it is equally
formidable.
How the Truth Leaks Out!
Scene—Hyde Parle. Time : Five o’clock.
Friend. Any news ? Anything in the papers ?
Government Peg-top Clerk. Can’t say. Haven’t been to
the Office to-day, my boy.
“Uneasy Lies the Head.”—We see that many states
are trying their hardest to bolster up the Pope, but we
fancy that his Holiness, in spite of this, will not have a
very comfortable pillow, after all.
THE INCOME-TAX FOR EVER.
'You struggling traders who subsist on small uncertain gain,
And you who live from hand to mouth by art, or toil of brain,
Prepare for more extortion ; for the pressure of the screw
Of Income-Tax untempered, to be put again on you.
You wretches, who for feeble age a pittance fain would save,
To ease your downward passage, as you totter to the grave,
Prepare to have your earnings wrung from year to year away,
Whilst merely on the fruit of wealth the rich not more will pay.
They whom the Gods do love die young—by them of old ’twas said;
Than outlive health and strength, they thought, ’twas better to be
dead;
Heaven for an early tomb you now have greater cause to thank;
The Income-Tax will let you put no money in the bank.
Thus left without provision since you’ll be in Life’s decline,
Come, let us fill the bowl, and quaff a draught of cheap French wine.
Hurrah for short and merry lives ; hurrah for Schedule D !
And when we’re in the Union, oh how happy we shall be!
Prepare from this or that mischance, to see your pittance stop;
From broken health, or brain o’erworked, or failure of the shop;
Then hey for workhouse or for gaol! since now the means are gone,
Whereby, if saved, through time of need you might have struggled on.
The Income-Tax will take them; will prevent the little hoard
Which should against the evil day in health and strength be stored;
And you will thirst and hunger, of your pay and work bereft,
Because the State has taxed your all, ana you have nothing left.
But then your jolly neighbour there will eat and drink his fill;
He’ll not have lost his income; no, he’ll live in clover still.
No need had he for saving aught—a man of land and rents,
His name is written in the Bank—the Book of Three-per-Cents.
He pays the tax that you do now; as much; no more nor less;
And he will be in comfort then, whilst you are in distress:
And then your consolation will—as fiscal sages say—
Be, now that you are ruined, you ’ll have no more tax to pay.
Meanwhile at such a prospect lest your heart, percliance, should sink,
To give you consolation you’ll have cheap Bordeaux to drink.
And with that acid draught you may wash down your bitter pill,
And so spend all the Income-Tax will spare you, if you will.
Low are not these good tidings, far too pleasant to be told
In the harsh, croaking, raven’s voice of one who has a cold ?
And was it not worth while to wait until, in accents clear,
A sweet financial singer could discourse them to the ear?
THE GENEROSITY OF GREEN ERIN.
Hibernia has cast her mite into the Pope’s treasury. The faithfui
Irish have subscribed for their common Father the sum of £207. Of
this amount, £100 has been contributed by Dr. Cullen himself.
Heretical Churchmen have been accused of putting sovereigns into
charity-plates to serve the purpose merely of decoy-ducks; but let
Dr. Cullen have the credit of offering his Holiness the genuine
sacrifice of £100. We cannot but respect the devotion which expresses
itself in forking out. Dr. Cullen cares at least £100 for the Pope ;
how much the faithful Irish at large care for him, we shall perhaps
know by-and-by; at present, the figure seems to be a fraction of a
farthing a head. In the mean time, they should bear in mind that
they cannot possibly do anything so certain to please the Holy Father
as sending him a lot of money,—that nothing could more highly gratify
his paternal heart than the receipt of any given sum, except the receipt
of a greater sum; and they may be quite sure, in spite of any doubts
that some weak brethren may suggest to the contrary, that, whilst the
largest donations will be those most acceptable at the Yatican, the
smallest contributions will be thankfully received.
THE MINT OF MODENA.
The Modena Gazette of January 20th publishes a decree of Farini’s
for a new coinage. Among the contemplated coins should have been
enumerated the one which is most loudly asked for—the new Italian
Sovereign.