DOI Heft:
September 6, 1862
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16870#0109
102
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. I September 6, 1862.
CAUTION TO LADIES RIDING IN HANSOMS.
CABMEN ON CAB-LAW.
The Cabmen of the Metropolis, desirous only of obtain-
ing their just rights, and of obtaining them by legitimate
means, have abandoned the idea of a strike, (on Mr. Punch's
hint about licences,) and now wish to act reasonably. They
have therefore drawn up the following heads of the Law,
as they wish it to stand, and if public opinion is with them,
they hope to get the Cab-Act amended next Session in
conformity with the following memoranda:—
1. Tree trade in cabs. Every driver to charge what he
likes.
2. Tradesmen in other departments stick one price on
the goods in the window and take another, and the Cabman
ought to be allowed to do the same.
3. No person to ask for a ticket.
4. No number or badge of humiliation to be worn.
5. No number to be affixed to the cab.
6. No Magistrate to hear a case against a Cabman unless
the complainant has at least four witnesses, and gives
security for costs.
7. No Cabman to be obliged to go in a direction contrary
to his wish.
8. No stranger to interfere in any dispute between a
cabman and his fare.
9. No Gentleman, or male person, to interfere, when a
Cabman has brought home ladies, and there is a difference
as to the fare.
10. Any person under-paying a Cabman to be guilty of
felony.
11. Any person using harsh language to a Cabman to be
guilty of misdemeanour.
12. A Court of retired Cab-drivers to be established, to
sit and hear any complaints by drivers, and the decision of
such Court to be final.
13. Treble fares to be allowed on a wet or hot day, or on
a holiday, or at any other time the said Court shall ordain.
The Stamp op a Yankee. — A twopenny-halfpenny
bank-note.
THE YANKEE CONSCRIPT ON CONSCRIPTION.
They sez, to die for fatherland, a doin’ of the dutiful,
Is sweet an’ comely; it du look cadaverus kinder beautiful;
Hut ez to bein’ sweet at all, 1 wun’t say I ’ve a doubt on it.
For this here world of ourn ain’t got no way that’s pleasant out on it.
Wen dyin’ of a bullet wich the docter can’t extract, or
A shattered leg, an’ gangreen on a comminooted 1‘racter,
Praps you may feel sum comfert in your torter, ef your trust is
That you ’re a sufferin’ marterdum acause you fit for justis.
But ef so be you went to war for glory, pay, or plunder,
Wut, then will ease the pangs of death ez you ’re a writhin under p
When you reflects what acts o’ yourn your agernies is owin’ to,
I guess it wun’t relieve ’em much to think whar you’re a goin’ to.
The honner you must leave below with that there crushed and gory form,
T ’gree with that old Eatsides in the playbook, ain’t no cldoryform,
Wun’t stop the smart o’ ne’er a wound, sword-cut, or stab o’ bagganet:
Honner ain’t wuth a cent ixcept to them ez lives to brag on it.
Neow, ef I goes to fight the South, jest s’pose a saber gashes me,
A jagged fragment of a shell rips up or round-shot smashes me,
Then, when I’m forced to bite the dust in misery, and sprawl about,
I reckon honner ain’t the thing I’m like to think at all about.
Not ef I wus the Giu’ral’s self, and know’d when I was gone you meant
Above my mangled carkiss fer to stick a marble monument,
Instead o’ scrapin, where I fell, a foot or so o’ mould on me,
Or leavin’ me tor sun to bake, an’ varmin to get hold on me.
Don’t think I ’ll volunteer for you to conker the ascendant
Oi them that’s as much right as we to flourish independent;
An’ ef you press me, onderstand you force a man unwillin’
That ain’t the sort of sojer, quite, for bein’ killed an’ killin’.
Press me, destroy my liberty, then you are the aggressor
1 holds my deadliest enemy, my tyrant, my oppressor.
Make me a military slave, a warfarin’ white nigger on !
Mind that it ain’t yourself I draws the bead, and pulls the trigger on.
A HOUSE AND A WIFE FOR LITTLE.
It has been long decided that, under certain circumstances, a man
may marry on £300 a-year. How to marry and keep house on that
sum is another question, which, for many of our readers, perhaps
remains to be settled. In the interest of matrimony, as our neighbours
say, we hasten to propose a solution of this problem, which may be
accepted by some young men superior to vulgar prejudices.
How to marry and keep house on £300 a-year ? Eirst, get your wife ?
No. Eirst get your house : for how can you expect that a sensible girl
will have you, if you have no home to offer her ? You want a good
house at a moderate rent. Well, there are such houses to be had. It
is well known that there are many houses at ridiculously moderate terms.
N obody will take them, for the simple reason—the very simple reason—
that a horrid murder was committed in them some years ago, or that a
skeleton has been found under the hearth. Eirst, then, how to get a
house to live in ? Advertise for a Haunted House.
Next, how to get a wife with only £300 a-year to offer her? That is
a small income in these days of crinoline and other sumptuous habits.
It will leave a small margin for ostentation and self-indulgence. Never
mind. So much the better. If you marry an inexpensive wife it is just
the same as if you married “ a girl with tin,” as a rich young lady is
termed by juvenile sages. Girls maybe cheap and nice, and all the nicer
and dearer for being cheap. Such girls there are with nobody coming
to marry them, nobody coming to woo, because of a peculiarity which
the ancient Romans adored. Horace would have jumped at a, golden-
haired maiden. Advertise, then, for a wife with golden hair; call it
auburn if you like, and say that you are not particular to a shade, but
prefer the tint which most nearly approaches that of a familiar
vegetable.
Haunted houses are almost always picturesque and snug, the finest
old places that can be to smoke a pipe in and drink real wine out of
antique flagons. Some golden-haired girls are among the most amiable
and intelligent of their sex, and also among the most beautiful to those
sensible young fellows who entertain no stupid objection to golden hair.
In your old Haunted House; with your young golden-haired bride, you
might be as happy as doves m a cage, or owls in an ivy-bush.
The Bitterest of American Drinks.— The Militia Draught.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. I September 6, 1862.
CAUTION TO LADIES RIDING IN HANSOMS.
CABMEN ON CAB-LAW.
The Cabmen of the Metropolis, desirous only of obtain-
ing their just rights, and of obtaining them by legitimate
means, have abandoned the idea of a strike, (on Mr. Punch's
hint about licences,) and now wish to act reasonably. They
have therefore drawn up the following heads of the Law,
as they wish it to stand, and if public opinion is with them,
they hope to get the Cab-Act amended next Session in
conformity with the following memoranda:—
1. Tree trade in cabs. Every driver to charge what he
likes.
2. Tradesmen in other departments stick one price on
the goods in the window and take another, and the Cabman
ought to be allowed to do the same.
3. No person to ask for a ticket.
4. No number or badge of humiliation to be worn.
5. No number to be affixed to the cab.
6. No Magistrate to hear a case against a Cabman unless
the complainant has at least four witnesses, and gives
security for costs.
7. No Cabman to be obliged to go in a direction contrary
to his wish.
8. No stranger to interfere in any dispute between a
cabman and his fare.
9. No Gentleman, or male person, to interfere, when a
Cabman has brought home ladies, and there is a difference
as to the fare.
10. Any person under-paying a Cabman to be guilty of
felony.
11. Any person using harsh language to a Cabman to be
guilty of misdemeanour.
12. A Court of retired Cab-drivers to be established, to
sit and hear any complaints by drivers, and the decision of
such Court to be final.
13. Treble fares to be allowed on a wet or hot day, or on
a holiday, or at any other time the said Court shall ordain.
The Stamp op a Yankee. — A twopenny-halfpenny
bank-note.
THE YANKEE CONSCRIPT ON CONSCRIPTION.
They sez, to die for fatherland, a doin’ of the dutiful,
Is sweet an’ comely; it du look cadaverus kinder beautiful;
Hut ez to bein’ sweet at all, 1 wun’t say I ’ve a doubt on it.
For this here world of ourn ain’t got no way that’s pleasant out on it.
Wen dyin’ of a bullet wich the docter can’t extract, or
A shattered leg, an’ gangreen on a comminooted 1‘racter,
Praps you may feel sum comfert in your torter, ef your trust is
That you ’re a sufferin’ marterdum acause you fit for justis.
But ef so be you went to war for glory, pay, or plunder,
Wut, then will ease the pangs of death ez you ’re a writhin under p
When you reflects what acts o’ yourn your agernies is owin’ to,
I guess it wun’t relieve ’em much to think whar you’re a goin’ to.
The honner you must leave below with that there crushed and gory form,
T ’gree with that old Eatsides in the playbook, ain’t no cldoryform,
Wun’t stop the smart o’ ne’er a wound, sword-cut, or stab o’ bagganet:
Honner ain’t wuth a cent ixcept to them ez lives to brag on it.
Neow, ef I goes to fight the South, jest s’pose a saber gashes me,
A jagged fragment of a shell rips up or round-shot smashes me,
Then, when I’m forced to bite the dust in misery, and sprawl about,
I reckon honner ain’t the thing I’m like to think at all about.
Not ef I wus the Giu’ral’s self, and know’d when I was gone you meant
Above my mangled carkiss fer to stick a marble monument,
Instead o’ scrapin, where I fell, a foot or so o’ mould on me,
Or leavin’ me tor sun to bake, an’ varmin to get hold on me.
Don’t think I ’ll volunteer for you to conker the ascendant
Oi them that’s as much right as we to flourish independent;
An’ ef you press me, onderstand you force a man unwillin’
That ain’t the sort of sojer, quite, for bein’ killed an’ killin’.
Press me, destroy my liberty, then you are the aggressor
1 holds my deadliest enemy, my tyrant, my oppressor.
Make me a military slave, a warfarin’ white nigger on !
Mind that it ain’t yourself I draws the bead, and pulls the trigger on.
A HOUSE AND A WIFE FOR LITTLE.
It has been long decided that, under certain circumstances, a man
may marry on £300 a-year. How to marry and keep house on that
sum is another question, which, for many of our readers, perhaps
remains to be settled. In the interest of matrimony, as our neighbours
say, we hasten to propose a solution of this problem, which may be
accepted by some young men superior to vulgar prejudices.
How to marry and keep house on £300 a-year ? Eirst, get your wife ?
No. Eirst get your house : for how can you expect that a sensible girl
will have you, if you have no home to offer her ? You want a good
house at a moderate rent. Well, there are such houses to be had. It
is well known that there are many houses at ridiculously moderate terms.
N obody will take them, for the simple reason—the very simple reason—
that a horrid murder was committed in them some years ago, or that a
skeleton has been found under the hearth. Eirst, then, how to get a
house to live in ? Advertise for a Haunted House.
Next, how to get a wife with only £300 a-year to offer her? That is
a small income in these days of crinoline and other sumptuous habits.
It will leave a small margin for ostentation and self-indulgence. Never
mind. So much the better. If you marry an inexpensive wife it is just
the same as if you married “ a girl with tin,” as a rich young lady is
termed by juvenile sages. Girls maybe cheap and nice, and all the nicer
and dearer for being cheap. Such girls there are with nobody coming
to marry them, nobody coming to woo, because of a peculiarity which
the ancient Romans adored. Horace would have jumped at a, golden-
haired maiden. Advertise, then, for a wife with golden hair; call it
auburn if you like, and say that you are not particular to a shade, but
prefer the tint which most nearly approaches that of a familiar
vegetable.
Haunted houses are almost always picturesque and snug, the finest
old places that can be to smoke a pipe in and drink real wine out of
antique flagons. Some golden-haired girls are among the most amiable
and intelligent of their sex, and also among the most beautiful to those
sensible young fellows who entertain no stupid objection to golden hair.
In your old Haunted House; with your young golden-haired bride, you
might be as happy as doves m a cage, or owls in an ivy-bush.
The Bitterest of American Drinks.— The Militia Draught.