DOI Heft:
January 12, 1861
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16867#0019
January 12, 1861.J
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
11
TESTATORS ALL ALIVE O !
he amiable and decorous
habit in which certain jour-
nals indulge, of sending a
penny-a-liner to rummage
out the Wills of persons
recently deceased, in order
to the publication of the
contents of such documents,
is now gaining ground so
fast, that Mr. Punch, ever
anxious to be a-head of his
age, has made his own ar-
rangements for adding a
new feature to journalism.
He proposes to leave it to
his inferiors to visit Doc-
tors’ Commons, and to take,
furtively, forbidden notes
when the jealous clerks
are not looking, nor has he
any idea of making surrep-
titious arrangements with
needy officials to sell information which they have no right to part
with. He, according to his custom, takes a bolder course. He
intends to furnish to an eager public particulars concerning Wills
while the Testators are still alive. Dor this purpose he has organised
a staff of reporters, whom he means to call the Paul Pry Brigade, and he
flatters himself that their researches into private papers will enable
him to gratify the world, in the same way as, but in a much more
exciting degree than his Will-publishing contemporaries do.^ He
submits a few specimens of what, the Paul Pry Brigade basalready
accomplished. If it be objected that this is an unwarrantable imperti-
nence, and a vulgar meddling with the affairs with which the public
has nothing to do, he begs to leave the defence of the system to his
contemporaries, who originated it.
WILLS.
We are happy to announce that Jeremiah Humble Jumble, Esq ,
of the Regent’s Park, has at last been induced to make his Will. It
was executed on Tuesday, in the presence of his maid-servant, and
Jn.° Smith, greengrocer and occasional waiter at private parties. We
think he ought to have done more for Mrs. Humble Jdmble, who may
have her faults, and whose teeth are certainly false (we do not believe
that she paints), but who ought to have had the bulk of his property.
He gives her only £800 a year, and adds the cowardly condition, that
if she remarries, she is to have but £400. The rest of his estate goes
to his so-called nephew, Wobbleton Wilks, of the War Office, who
may be said to be in luck, and who will now, we hope, pay his unfor-
tunate tailors (we use the plural advisedly), and take his grandmottier’s
watch out of pawn. There are a few legacies, but Mr. Humble
Jumble does not appear to us to have one of those hands described
by our immortal Bard, we refer to the sweet Swan of Avon, as open
to melting charity, for his cousin the tallow-chandler gets nothing, and
though he is in the habit of talking a good deal about the poor, we have
reason to believe that there are few bequests to the excellent institutions
with which our noble Metropolis is so plentifully studded. He leaves
£50 to the Zoological Gardens, perhaps from his admiration of the
manners of the bears, and £50 to the Society for Relief of Complaints
of the Ear, which his friends playfully say is but right, considering
what, an awful bore he is. On the whole, we cannot think that this
Will does the testator much credit, but he has yet time to amend it
by a codicil. Verhum sap.
Mrs. Lushington Black Botherby’s Will has been made more
than two years, but owing to the unfortunate incorruptibility of her
lady’s maid, we regret to say that we have not yet been able to obtain
a sight of it, though we know that it is kept in the lid of her dressing-
case. But we have secondary evidence of its contents, and shall not
be a hundred miles from the fact,' if we say that a certain handsome
Captain in a crack regiment will not be so grateful to the “old girl”
as he gives his brother officers reason to think he ought to be.
Mrs. B. has been lending a favouring ear to the unctuous addresses of
an elegant divine whose chapel is within easy reach of her house at
Peckham, and though we all know that the clergy scorn personal
bequests, the Rev. Origen Barg may not be displeased to know that
if lie likes to rebuild St. Vitus’s, he will in due time be able to do so,
and if not, he may apply £5000 according to his own discretion. The
lady does not intend to “die and endow a college or a cat,” but she
presents a handsome sum to a retired housekeeper, who is to take charge
of a favourite parrot (we hope that we do not intrude into private
matJers in stating that its name is “Bobby”) and is to hear it say,
“ Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” every Sunday, and we may also add,
that the respectable tradesman who supplies Mrs. B. with her false
hair will find something beyond the amount of his bill set, down for him.
Lieutenant Blarer Blazes, R.N-, Ramsgate, has long been in
such a state of brandy-and-water that his friends who know his gouty
tendencies have been affectionately anxious that he should make his
Will. But his confirmed habit of shying the boiling tea-kettle at any-
body who makes him a suggestion has somewhat interfered with their
pressing this consideration upon him. However, on Wednesday last
he had a bad touch, and his Doctor having put every missile out of
reach of the gallant and crippled Lieutenant, told him what, his friends
thought. As soon as the torrent of sea-eloquence which burst out in
full flow had subsided, Lieut. Blazes relieved his mind with a few
supplementary execrations, and, addressing his medical attendant by
the affectionate title of a slimy old lubber, ordered him to note down
heads for a Will. It was brief, and gave everything to the Royal
Naval College, except £100 to the Doctor, and £500 to a lady of Ports-
mouth, whose alias it might be imprudent to disclose. The Will was
duly made, and the Lieutenant has sat upon it ever since; but as it
does not exactly harmonise with the views of the testator’s next of
kin, we believe that efforts will be made to withdraw it from under
him. Should these succeed, our readers shall be informed. There are
whispers of a duplicate Will, in which case the exertions of the
relatives may not meet with the reward they deserve.
Mrs. Samuel Softhead, widow, formerly Mademoiselle Alicam-
pane, of the theatres, has just made her Will, which she had long,
from superstitious motives, refused to do, but to which she has been
driven by the unmistakeable commands of some Spirit-Rapping with
which she has lately been much troubled. Her numerous bequests
would occupy too large a space in our columns for us to give them at
length, but the public has a right to know that one who formerly
earned her living on the boards has not been quite unmindful of the
companions of her youth. To Mr. Splutter, the celebrated tragedian,
she gives a ring, and the same to Mr. Sinnews, the well-known
harlequin. She bequeathes £100 to the Epicurean Club, to buy a
picture, in memory of the fact that standing on its steps, out of the
rain, she first met the late Mr. Samuel Softhead, who offered her
his umbrella that day and his heart the next. She gives three
dozen of her best brandy to an eminent dramatic author, with
her Drench dictionary, and a complete edition of the Theatre
Parisien. The rest of her legacies are to persons whom she play-
fully calls “My Toads,” and for whom she says she will find holes
during the rest of their lives. We do not know, and therefore cannot
say, whether the fashionable Dr. Bough Croucher will like being
included in this list, but a plaster of £500 may reconcile that worthy
disciple of Galen to the title—“What’s in a name?” as the lady her
self would say. She gives all her physic bottles, many hundreds in
number, to her maid, Phcebe Jones, and her wigs to Miss Ogleton,
of the Royal Amethyst Theatre. Me are nappy to add, for the
information of the public, that Mrs. S. is very well, that her signature
is distinct, and that the only orthographic error in a codicil, in her own
hand, is that in naming Mr. Scraper, her corn-cutter, she calls him
that palarvering old cheer-up-odist.
SECESSION AND SLAVERY.
Secede, ye Southern States, secede,
No better plan could be,
If you of Niggers would be freed.
To set your Niggers free.
Runaway slaves by federal law
At present you reclaim;
So from the Union straight withdraw,
And play the Dree Soil game.
What, when you’ve once the knot untied.
Will bind the Northern men!
And who’ll resign to your cowhide
The fugitives again ?
Absquotilate, then, slick as grease,
And break up Unity,
Or take your President in peace,
And eat your humble pie.
But if your stomachs proud disdain,
That salutary meal,
And you, in passion worse than vain.
Must rend the Commonweal,
Then all mankind will jest and scoff
At people in the case,
Of him that hastily cut off
His nose to spite his face.
Tee Smallest of Germans.—The infamous servility of the Saxon
Government, in giving up Teleki to the Austrian tyrant, makes us
half ashamed of the name of Anglo-Saxon.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
11
TESTATORS ALL ALIVE O !
he amiable and decorous
habit in which certain jour-
nals indulge, of sending a
penny-a-liner to rummage
out the Wills of persons
recently deceased, in order
to the publication of the
contents of such documents,
is now gaining ground so
fast, that Mr. Punch, ever
anxious to be a-head of his
age, has made his own ar-
rangements for adding a
new feature to journalism.
He proposes to leave it to
his inferiors to visit Doc-
tors’ Commons, and to take,
furtively, forbidden notes
when the jealous clerks
are not looking, nor has he
any idea of making surrep-
titious arrangements with
needy officials to sell information which they have no right to part
with. He, according to his custom, takes a bolder course. He
intends to furnish to an eager public particulars concerning Wills
while the Testators are still alive. Dor this purpose he has organised
a staff of reporters, whom he means to call the Paul Pry Brigade, and he
flatters himself that their researches into private papers will enable
him to gratify the world, in the same way as, but in a much more
exciting degree than his Will-publishing contemporaries do.^ He
submits a few specimens of what, the Paul Pry Brigade basalready
accomplished. If it be objected that this is an unwarrantable imperti-
nence, and a vulgar meddling with the affairs with which the public
has nothing to do, he begs to leave the defence of the system to his
contemporaries, who originated it.
WILLS.
We are happy to announce that Jeremiah Humble Jumble, Esq ,
of the Regent’s Park, has at last been induced to make his Will. It
was executed on Tuesday, in the presence of his maid-servant, and
Jn.° Smith, greengrocer and occasional waiter at private parties. We
think he ought to have done more for Mrs. Humble Jdmble, who may
have her faults, and whose teeth are certainly false (we do not believe
that she paints), but who ought to have had the bulk of his property.
He gives her only £800 a year, and adds the cowardly condition, that
if she remarries, she is to have but £400. The rest of his estate goes
to his so-called nephew, Wobbleton Wilks, of the War Office, who
may be said to be in luck, and who will now, we hope, pay his unfor-
tunate tailors (we use the plural advisedly), and take his grandmottier’s
watch out of pawn. There are a few legacies, but Mr. Humble
Jumble does not appear to us to have one of those hands described
by our immortal Bard, we refer to the sweet Swan of Avon, as open
to melting charity, for his cousin the tallow-chandler gets nothing, and
though he is in the habit of talking a good deal about the poor, we have
reason to believe that there are few bequests to the excellent institutions
with which our noble Metropolis is so plentifully studded. He leaves
£50 to the Zoological Gardens, perhaps from his admiration of the
manners of the bears, and £50 to the Society for Relief of Complaints
of the Ear, which his friends playfully say is but right, considering
what, an awful bore he is. On the whole, we cannot think that this
Will does the testator much credit, but he has yet time to amend it
by a codicil. Verhum sap.
Mrs. Lushington Black Botherby’s Will has been made more
than two years, but owing to the unfortunate incorruptibility of her
lady’s maid, we regret to say that we have not yet been able to obtain
a sight of it, though we know that it is kept in the lid of her dressing-
case. But we have secondary evidence of its contents, and shall not
be a hundred miles from the fact,' if we say that a certain handsome
Captain in a crack regiment will not be so grateful to the “old girl”
as he gives his brother officers reason to think he ought to be.
Mrs. B. has been lending a favouring ear to the unctuous addresses of
an elegant divine whose chapel is within easy reach of her house at
Peckham, and though we all know that the clergy scorn personal
bequests, the Rev. Origen Barg may not be displeased to know that
if lie likes to rebuild St. Vitus’s, he will in due time be able to do so,
and if not, he may apply £5000 according to his own discretion. The
lady does not intend to “die and endow a college or a cat,” but she
presents a handsome sum to a retired housekeeper, who is to take charge
of a favourite parrot (we hope that we do not intrude into private
matJers in stating that its name is “Bobby”) and is to hear it say,
“ Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” every Sunday, and we may also add,
that the respectable tradesman who supplies Mrs. B. with her false
hair will find something beyond the amount of his bill set, down for him.
Lieutenant Blarer Blazes, R.N-, Ramsgate, has long been in
such a state of brandy-and-water that his friends who know his gouty
tendencies have been affectionately anxious that he should make his
Will. But his confirmed habit of shying the boiling tea-kettle at any-
body who makes him a suggestion has somewhat interfered with their
pressing this consideration upon him. However, on Wednesday last
he had a bad touch, and his Doctor having put every missile out of
reach of the gallant and crippled Lieutenant, told him what, his friends
thought. As soon as the torrent of sea-eloquence which burst out in
full flow had subsided, Lieut. Blazes relieved his mind with a few
supplementary execrations, and, addressing his medical attendant by
the affectionate title of a slimy old lubber, ordered him to note down
heads for a Will. It was brief, and gave everything to the Royal
Naval College, except £100 to the Doctor, and £500 to a lady of Ports-
mouth, whose alias it might be imprudent to disclose. The Will was
duly made, and the Lieutenant has sat upon it ever since; but as it
does not exactly harmonise with the views of the testator’s next of
kin, we believe that efforts will be made to withdraw it from under
him. Should these succeed, our readers shall be informed. There are
whispers of a duplicate Will, in which case the exertions of the
relatives may not meet with the reward they deserve.
Mrs. Samuel Softhead, widow, formerly Mademoiselle Alicam-
pane, of the theatres, has just made her Will, which she had long,
from superstitious motives, refused to do, but to which she has been
driven by the unmistakeable commands of some Spirit-Rapping with
which she has lately been much troubled. Her numerous bequests
would occupy too large a space in our columns for us to give them at
length, but the public has a right to know that one who formerly
earned her living on the boards has not been quite unmindful of the
companions of her youth. To Mr. Splutter, the celebrated tragedian,
she gives a ring, and the same to Mr. Sinnews, the well-known
harlequin. She bequeathes £100 to the Epicurean Club, to buy a
picture, in memory of the fact that standing on its steps, out of the
rain, she first met the late Mr. Samuel Softhead, who offered her
his umbrella that day and his heart the next. She gives three
dozen of her best brandy to an eminent dramatic author, with
her Drench dictionary, and a complete edition of the Theatre
Parisien. The rest of her legacies are to persons whom she play-
fully calls “My Toads,” and for whom she says she will find holes
during the rest of their lives. We do not know, and therefore cannot
say, whether the fashionable Dr. Bough Croucher will like being
included in this list, but a plaster of £500 may reconcile that worthy
disciple of Galen to the title—“What’s in a name?” as the lady her
self would say. She gives all her physic bottles, many hundreds in
number, to her maid, Phcebe Jones, and her wigs to Miss Ogleton,
of the Royal Amethyst Theatre. Me are nappy to add, for the
information of the public, that Mrs. S. is very well, that her signature
is distinct, and that the only orthographic error in a codicil, in her own
hand, is that in naming Mr. Scraper, her corn-cutter, she calls him
that palarvering old cheer-up-odist.
SECESSION AND SLAVERY.
Secede, ye Southern States, secede,
No better plan could be,
If you of Niggers would be freed.
To set your Niggers free.
Runaway slaves by federal law
At present you reclaim;
So from the Union straight withdraw,
And play the Dree Soil game.
What, when you’ve once the knot untied.
Will bind the Northern men!
And who’ll resign to your cowhide
The fugitives again ?
Absquotilate, then, slick as grease,
And break up Unity,
Or take your President in peace,
And eat your humble pie.
But if your stomachs proud disdain,
That salutary meal,
And you, in passion worse than vain.
Must rend the Commonweal,
Then all mankind will jest and scoff
At people in the case,
Of him that hastily cut off
His nose to spite his face.
Tee Smallest of Germans.—The infamous servility of the Saxon
Government, in giving up Teleki to the Austrian tyrant, makes us
half ashamed of the name of Anglo-Saxon.