Punch (44.1863)

124

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[March 21, 1863.

These hearts that beat so warmly,
That heart that lies so cold.

Emblem and seal and omen
Of hope and faith in one,

Recalling love, that dies not.

Because life’s sand is run,—

A lather’s, husband’s blessing
From the Heaven beyond the Sun!

THE FEAST OF LANTERNS.

(.Being the original of Macaulay’s Armada,)

Attend, all ye who wish to hear our noble London’s praise,

I sing of that great Tuesday night that saw her in a blaze,

When the Archbishop’s benison had linked, in bridal chain,

Young Albert Edward, Prince of AY ales, and our sweet bright-eyed
Dane.

It was about the chilly close of a half-foggy day,

When London’s myriads all came out to see the grand display :

Erom sleepy Hammersmith, and from the Dogs’ amphibious Isle,

The east and west they poured along for many a muddy mile.

The aristocracy for once the pageant deigned to grace,

(Except a few who tied from town and joined the sylvan cliace).

Each wide-awake and travelling cap was taken from the wall,

Each wrap and bearskin was brought down and ready in the hall,

Many a gay visitor came up from province and from coast,

And on that night Sir Rowland Hill he stopped the local post.

See, mounted on his charger tall, the proud Inspector comes,

For sterner work than aiding swells to get to balls and drums,

His constables essay to clear in every street a space,

And shout his orders with much more of Henergy than grace;

And haughtily the dandies sneer, and slightly scream the belles.

As round the crested carriage the plebeian torrent swells.

See how the Lion of the Park attempts with half-a-crown

To bribe his way from streets his coach should never have gone down.

So looks he when in scarlet rage, upon the hunting field,

His priceless hounds he struggles from a Cockney’s charge to shield.

So glares he when on Epsom Downs in wrath he turns 1o bay,

And swears his carriage shall be moored where last year’s race it lay.

'O keep your temper now, my Swell; and don’t be scared, fair maids,
To-night policemen know you not,—be calm,_impatient blades;

Let’s take the business quietly, for London is not wide.

But with good management there’s room for Pauper and for Pride.

The ram is done, each carriage ope, and each umbrella fold,

And now to see how London shines as bright as molten gold.

(Night sinks upon that multitude, that roaring surging sea.

Night that in London never was and ne’er again shall be.

Erom Westminster to Islington, from Lord’s to Ratcliffe Way,

That time of slumber is as bright and busy as the day :

Eor swift to East and swift to West the glaring joy-flame spread,

High on Victoria tower it shone, on the New River Head,

In pleasant Kent, in Essex dull, and each surrounding shire
The semi-bumpkins gaped and grinned to mark each point of fire.

The actor left his Colleen Bawn to-night in pasteboard waves,

The ragged gamins poured from arches dark, and dankest caves.

And everywhere the Danish flag with England’s banners flew ;

Had Louis N. been there we’d said, “ Come, n’est-cepas heau, Loo?”
And all that night the million tramped and paced about the town
And ere the day two million pints of porter had gone down.

The Horseguards’ sentinel sometimes looked out into the night,

And at him straight the little boys took an irreverent sight.

And where the gas was blazing best, approving plaudit broke,

And ever and anon a rough but loyal chorus woke. •

We cheered the Prince’s tailor for his thousand guinea fires.

We cheered where Temple Bar lit up the Strand and Meet Street spires.
We cheered the Times for lighting up the name ill-doers fear,

And at proud Punch's lustrous show we gave a louder cheer:

And all the night went tramp, tramp, tramp, the sound of eager feet,
And the broad stream of Londoners poured down each roaring street,
And jollier broke the laughter forth, and louder was the din,

When some gay lantern’s sides took fire and fell in fragments in.

Hp Regent Street the lines of light in gleaming glory went;,

Scarce ending where at Portland Place stands the good Duke of Kent.
All in a blaze Trafalgar Square upon that night came forth,

But chiefly shone the Porlico that stands upon the north :

Saint James’s Hall was jewelled fair, the fires are left there still,

'Gay showed the gas in Cockspur Street, and gay on IIolborn Hill,
Bright shone a shop where somebody in Irish butter dales,

With “ Welcome Alexandra,” and “ God bless the Prince of
Wales.”

The huge sea-lanterns dimly showed on Wren’s cathedral height,
But Science rather made a mull with her electric light,

The Templars, for their brother Prince, lit up their dingy fane,

And you could see their Lamb and Elag made out uncommon plain.
Rich was the glare that Mappin’s house (the cab-pervader) sent,
Pierce glowed the Store that sells the beer from Burton-upon-Trent.
And many a hundred grease-pots did their best for Barry’s pile,
But that is an Immensity—what say you, Tom Carlyle ?

A BLACK HAT-MOSPHERE.

Walk hup! Ladies and gentlemen—! keep a hattentive hattitude
and look hat this hatvertisement:—

DRIGHTON.—To Ladies.—The Original Lady’s Hat aDd Feather
-LJ Warehouse is the Practical Hatter, from Christy’s, London.

Who is the “Original Lady”? We could easily satisfy this inquiry
were it not for our unwillingness to provoke an argument with his Right-
or-Wrong Reverence of Natal. The notion of a Practical Hatter is
cheerful. lie is, as a. Cockney might say, an’appy and a natty little
body, dividing his subjects, or customers, into so many heads, treating
them severally and in a fitting manner. Tho’ a young maD, he is over
his ears in business, ay, up to the very brim. He is a bit of a Radical,
and knows all about Wat Tyler. Yet is he of a kindly disposition,
for the poor man who enters the shop without a sixpence in his pocket,
finds a crown in his hat when he quits the premises.

Over the door is written the name of this Purveyor of Hats, in what
printers term, “large caps.” Out of business he discusses Man-
hattan’s letters, and talks about the policy of Nap when he’s dining
with some friend in the country, say at Eeltham. Dirk Hatteraic/c
is his favourite character in fiction, and in dramatic literature he
inclines towards Sheridan’s Sir Christopher Hatton, and Skaks-
peare’s Timon of ’Athens. “ Erom Christy’s London.” We ’ve seen
the practical gentleman then, with a high shirt collar, very large white
tie, woolly head of hair and a face as black as my hat. May be we have
heard him singing, “Elip it up in de Scidimadinck, jube up in de juben
Ju,” or anything else equally idiotic and absurd. Has our Practical
Hatter come to this ! A sweet voiced instrumentalist in a black hat-
band ! Perhaps Mr. Pell himself, of unrivalled Ethiopian hattain-
ments ! Well, well, rest his original Bones ! Requiesc-hat.

Loyal Whisper to a Royal Recluse.

“ Nay, let my people see me.” Kind
Was She whom then our cheers were greeting :
Now, would that Lady bear in mind
That words like those will bear repeating.

March 10, 1S63.