Punch (44.1863)

SIR ROBERT'S LECTURE.

Sir Robert Peel lias been delivering, at Fazeley, a lecture upon
Wood, but tbe Right, Hon. Baronet coni rived to introduce into his dis-
course a ireatise on the American question. The reports which have
appeared are very incomplete, and Mr. Punch has taken the trouble to

Erocure t he correct text of his jovial friend, who may occasionally be a
ttle erratic, but who is never dull.

Sir Robert Peel.—How are you all ? Well? That’swell. Same
here. Well, I am set down to deliver a lecture on Wood. I suppose
that some of you were puzzled at this. Did you think I was going to
pitch into the Secretary for India ? Couldn’t do that, you know,
wouldn’t be right—a colleague, eh? Else I might have given it to
Charley a little; but there is a party called Laing, who is coming into
Parliament expressly to do that same thing, and unless my dear friend
Wood bolts into the Lords, he’ll get his Indian goose cooked. That’s
by the bye. As for wood, you all know what wood is, don’t you? He
that does not has only to put his hand to his head, and then he’ll
know. Wood is made out of trees, and that’s all about it. Likewise
it is good for firing, and making tables of, and washing-tubs. Talking
of that, I say, they’re in a mess at Washington. Yes, Sir. Upon my
honour, I quite feel for that chap Lincoln, I do indeed ; for he tells a
capital story, and isn’t half a bad lot. But he must recognise the
South, that’s clear. I hate slavery, of course; I detest and loathe it,
but the South must be independent, and then we’ll see about the
niggers. Rum idea, isn’t it, though, Ihe having a new nation in
America? Perhaps they’ll have a king—King Davis, why not? There
was a King David, as you all know, at least I hope so. My friend
Roundell Palmer has given a picture of him m his hymn-book,
and made him uncommon ugly too. Perhaps they ’ll send to us,
and ask us to oblige ’em with a king, and 1 ’m sure I haven’t the
least idea in the world whom to recommend for the place. If any
of you fellows would like it, come to me after the lecture, and I’ll put
his name down as a candidate. They’re fighting capitally, those
Virginians. “ Old Virginny never tire,” as the song says, but they
haven’t quite managed to clear the kitchen yet. All in good time, says
you. I wanted Pam to let me go out as pacificator, for if there’s one
thing more than another that 1 excel in, it’s putting things pleasantly,
but he looked at me for about ten minutes, and then told me I couldn’t

be spared. Flattering, you know, to be told that by one’s Premier;
so I said no more about it. We shall have some jolly debating on the
American question this time, for I suspect fellows have had enough of
being told they mustn’t open their mouth for fear of putting their foot
in it. Somebody will move for recognition at once, but that cock won’t
fight. We must see what our friend L. N. is going to do. Spex he’s j
up to some dodge or other—he didn’t send that billet-doux, to Billy
Seward for nothing. Artful party, Master Louis, but it is necessary
lo speak of him with the reticence that belongs to statesmanship, and I
always do, as you must have observed. Well, I don’t know that I have
any more information to give you on the subject of America, and
though that’s no reason for my leaving off, 1 see some of you look very
much as if you wanted your beer and bread and cheese, and so I think
you’d better hook it. (Loud and protracted cheeri7ig.)

AN AMERICAN ANECDOTE.

Thebe has been so little pleasant news from America lately that
Mr. Punch feels fourfold delight in the following elegant anecdote
A handsome young Englishman, making a call at a house in Washington,
where there lesided several of the loveliest young ladies in all Federalia,
suddenly discovered that he had come out without his purse. The
prettiest of the ladies said, “Shall I loan you a dollar ? ” “ Would
you? ” was the reply. The dollar was produced from the most charming
porte-monnaie, and the beautiful American said, laughingly, “I must
have interest, you know, when you return it.” The handsome English-
man called next day, repaid the dollar, and placing a couple of exqui-
sitely cut bottles ot perfume on the table, added, “ And there is the
interest—two cents.” Such graceful courtesies do honour to both
countries.

A Tact.

An American novel has just come to Mr. Punch, and it increases his
admiration for the ingenious delicacy of transatlantic writers. The
author has occasion to mention the lower limbs of a young lady, and he
describes them as “ that portion of the human frame which is generally
supposed to require stockings.” What do you think of that, my cat ?

February 7, 1863.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

A WORD ON A DEMONSTRATION.

Exeter Hall has been crowded to suffocation with an
assemblage desirous to repudiate the idea that Eoglishmen
had abated one jot or tittle of their old hatred of Black
Slavery. Mr. Punch is not only desirous to speak with
respect, but with honour, of the thousands who joined in
this demonstration. He, at least, may appeal to his own
pages, and ask whether any denunciation of the Accursed
System has been heartier than his. He rejoices that the
people are of one mind in this matter. But he happens to
be fearless enough lo regret, openly, that some of his fellow-
countrymen see but half a truth at a time. “Down with
Black Slavery ! ” is a noble cry, but why is it necessary to
stultify it by the cry “Up with White Slavery!” This
is what those cried who were induced by persons who
should have known better to carry a resolution condemning
the Confederate struggle for freedom. Surely the white
man has as much right to liberty as the black man. The
South only asks to be let alone, and this is not an out-
rageous demand on the part of those who complain that !
hordes of Irish, Germans, and the ruffianism of New York
are hired to cut the throats of native Americans, merely
for interpreting the Constitution differently from certain
attorneys in the North. Black Slavery is doomed and
dying, but Mr. Punch will be no party to the establish-
ment of White Slavery instead, and he stands too well
with his countrymen to be afraid to tell them that a good
many of them are, from a right motive, doing a wrong
thing

Taffy in the Jury-Box.

Tbe writer of a letter, signed “ Cymro,” in the Morning
Post, complains that “a good deal has been said by learned
Judges against Welsh juries.” Ou the other hand, perhaps,
at least as much has been said by Welsh prisoners and
Welsh defendants for them. If the nursery poem truly
declares that—

“ Taffy was a Welshman,

Taffy was a thief: ”

If that statement is true of Taffy in general, then, un-
doubtedly, every rogue that is tried by a Welsh jury enjoys
anyhow the advantage of being tried by his peers.

Son and Heir. “ Don't you think a little'Sugar would improve this Claret, Pal"