DOI Heft:
September 3, 1864
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16874#0108
September 3, 1864.]
PUNCH OH THE LONDON CHAKTVART
101
SALMON-FISHING !
Friend (on the bank). “Well, Jack! have you had peetty good Spokt?”
Jack. “ Spokt ! If you call it Sport to have no Water and no Fish, and to pay Ninety Pounds for Three Weeks of it,
I’ve had Plenty ! ”
AN IRISH MARE’S NEST.
The Mayor of Belfast, a grocer named Lytle, has been awfully
wigged by the Marquis oe Donegall, Provincial Grand Master of
Masons, l'or absence from Belfast during the recent scenes of savagery.
The grocer says he wasn’t well, but did not leave his duty until the
night of the day on which the riots began, besides which, in anticipation
of a fray, he had called in 150 extra policemen. Then he went to Har-
rogate. Now we do not expect grocers to be logicians, and we are
quite content when they sell us good currants and coffee at a fair price.
But when they turn Mayors, and begin to “ hargyfy,” we must apply
the test usual in dealing with the utterances of great men. If Mr.
Lytle thought that there was any chance of a row, he ought to have
stayed; if he did not think so, why did he send for extra peelers F How-
ever, what he lacks in logic he makes up Irish fashion, declaring himself
to be a very grand kind of man, and taunting Lord Donegall with not
having done his, the Mayor’s, own business. Clearly be ought to have
been a valiant Mayor—like our own Sir William Walworth—snatched
up his mace (not that which he keeps iu the drawer with the ginger),
beaten a drum (not a drum of his excellent figs), and caused the rioters
on both sides to “nap pepper.” The Marquis has put the saddle on
the right horse, but Belfast has put the gown on the wrong mayor.
Amends to Leicester.
The Balloonatics of Leicester are incensed with Mr. Punch for
having hinted that people who elect a certain kind of orator should have
been kinder to a Wind-bag. They inform him, haughtily, first, that
Mr. Coxwell’s balloon was not destroyed by Leicester men, but by
excursionists, and secondly that Leicester wants no dictation as to its
choice of a representative. If the former statement be true, we will
pardon the little escape of electoral gas manifested in the second, the
rather that the Leicester men are subscribing pennies to buy the gallant
aeronaut a new balloon—a most graceful way of skying their coppers.
OUR OWN REVIEW.
A New Poem with an old title has just come under our notice. It
is called The “ Lay ” of the Last Minstrel, and is very properly dedicated
to Mr. Bass, M.P. The introduction is very fine, and the allusion, in
the third line, to—
“ His withered cheek,"
no less poetical than true. The organman’s cheek is, we trust, rapidly
diminishing:—
“ The last of all the grinders,he,
Who sang of Babbage chivalry.
For well-a-day ! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead,
And he, by just police suppressed,
Moved on and gave poor inmates rest.
No more by patient donkey borne,
The Monster Organ roused the morn,
No longer courted and caressed,
By heartless neighbours, dreadful pest!
For Bass, M.P., in Session time.
Had made his grinder’s art a crime.”
So the organman driven from the Metropolis, wandered forth into
the country, and there
“ He played, to please a peasant’s ear,”
The tunes, that none in town would hear.”
This poem should be in everybody’s hands. If, in consequence of the
great demand, it is not already out of print, we wish that our readers
may get it.
The New Bream Down Harbour.
We see paragraphs thus headed. What sort of a fish is the new
bream, ana why does it swim down harbour, and down what harbour
does it swim ? When Mr. F. Buckland goes out of mourning for the
lamented sturgeon, we should like the above ichthyological information.
Vol. 47.
4
PUNCH OH THE LONDON CHAKTVART
101
SALMON-FISHING !
Friend (on the bank). “Well, Jack! have you had peetty good Spokt?”
Jack. “ Spokt ! If you call it Sport to have no Water and no Fish, and to pay Ninety Pounds for Three Weeks of it,
I’ve had Plenty ! ”
AN IRISH MARE’S NEST.
The Mayor of Belfast, a grocer named Lytle, has been awfully
wigged by the Marquis oe Donegall, Provincial Grand Master of
Masons, l'or absence from Belfast during the recent scenes of savagery.
The grocer says he wasn’t well, but did not leave his duty until the
night of the day on which the riots began, besides which, in anticipation
of a fray, he had called in 150 extra policemen. Then he went to Har-
rogate. Now we do not expect grocers to be logicians, and we are
quite content when they sell us good currants and coffee at a fair price.
But when they turn Mayors, and begin to “ hargyfy,” we must apply
the test usual in dealing with the utterances of great men. If Mr.
Lytle thought that there was any chance of a row, he ought to have
stayed; if he did not think so, why did he send for extra peelers F How-
ever, what he lacks in logic he makes up Irish fashion, declaring himself
to be a very grand kind of man, and taunting Lord Donegall with not
having done his, the Mayor’s, own business. Clearly be ought to have
been a valiant Mayor—like our own Sir William Walworth—snatched
up his mace (not that which he keeps iu the drawer with the ginger),
beaten a drum (not a drum of his excellent figs), and caused the rioters
on both sides to “nap pepper.” The Marquis has put the saddle on
the right horse, but Belfast has put the gown on the wrong mayor.
Amends to Leicester.
The Balloonatics of Leicester are incensed with Mr. Punch for
having hinted that people who elect a certain kind of orator should have
been kinder to a Wind-bag. They inform him, haughtily, first, that
Mr. Coxwell’s balloon was not destroyed by Leicester men, but by
excursionists, and secondly that Leicester wants no dictation as to its
choice of a representative. If the former statement be true, we will
pardon the little escape of electoral gas manifested in the second, the
rather that the Leicester men are subscribing pennies to buy the gallant
aeronaut a new balloon—a most graceful way of skying their coppers.
OUR OWN REVIEW.
A New Poem with an old title has just come under our notice. It
is called The “ Lay ” of the Last Minstrel, and is very properly dedicated
to Mr. Bass, M.P. The introduction is very fine, and the allusion, in
the third line, to—
“ His withered cheek,"
no less poetical than true. The organman’s cheek is, we trust, rapidly
diminishing:—
“ The last of all the grinders,he,
Who sang of Babbage chivalry.
For well-a-day ! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead,
And he, by just police suppressed,
Moved on and gave poor inmates rest.
No more by patient donkey borne,
The Monster Organ roused the morn,
No longer courted and caressed,
By heartless neighbours, dreadful pest!
For Bass, M.P., in Session time.
Had made his grinder’s art a crime.”
So the organman driven from the Metropolis, wandered forth into
the country, and there
“ He played, to please a peasant’s ear,”
The tunes, that none in town would hear.”
This poem should be in everybody’s hands. If, in consequence of the
great demand, it is not already out of print, we wish that our readers
may get it.
The New Bream Down Harbour.
We see paragraphs thus headed. What sort of a fish is the new
bream, ana why does it swim down harbour, and down what harbour
does it swim ? When Mr. F. Buckland goes out of mourning for the
lamented sturgeon, we should like the above ichthyological information.
Vol. 47.
4