DOI issue:
September 24, 1864
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16874#0131
124
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[September 24, 1864.
FROM OUR ILL-USED CONTRIBUTOR.
To Mr. Punch.
The Temple.
rings are getting intolerable,
my dear Mr. Punch. I will
not stay in Town any longer.
One owes a duty, of course,
to one’s employers, but one
owes an older and higher duty
to oneself. I dare say that
you do not know who wrote
the lines, “ I see a hand you
cannot see that beckons me
away.” Well, I do know.
They were written by Thomas
Tickell, who died in 1740,
and (previously) wrote in the
Spectator. They came into
my head when I was seeing a
lady off at the Station of the
Great Northern Railway, and
when I beheld a painted hand
pointing the way to the trains.
I feel that I must depart from
Town, and I abstain from
leaving an address, so that
your tyrannous indignation
may have time to expend itself
on your menials instead of me.
“ Go, show your slaves how
choleric you are.” I assure
you that I am acting in your
interest, if you could only see
things in that light. I don’t
want your money. Limpets
from the rock, a biscuit soaked
in sea-water (the artist’s break-
fast in the House of the Seven
Gables), a few shrimps — such
is enough for me at the sea-
side. Anything but the silent
and solitary system at the
club, though all the luxuries
in season are on the carte, and stewed partridge is not the worst dish in the
world.
If there is one delightful and instructive walk in London, it is the south side of
the Strand. Emerge from the deep solitudes and awful cells of the Temple, and turn
your respectable nose Westward with me, my friend. What can we not see as we
slowly wander with our faces to the Sun, who, by the way, makes a mistake in
shining in that direction in the afternoon—it is the only drawback to perfect enjoy-
ment. Eor he glares in your eyes, and you cannot distinguish the countenances of
those you meet in time to avoid those whom you do not wish to meet. Posterity
will twist the Strand a little, and amend this fault, unless the Sun himself shall
correct it by some alteration of the precession of the equinoxes, or some rectification
of the altitude of the azimuth, or other astronomical reform. But let us be bold.
The slothful man saith, “there is a lion in the path.” We shall not see any lions
(even at the Nelson Column), and we will hope to meet no bores. Let us commence
our course of study, even before we pass under Messrs. Child’s book closet. I
would modify Dr. Johnson’s sly thought, as we go through the Bar. 1 would be
loth to have my head upon it, for it is the only head I have. But I could be well
pleased, were my name “ mingled with those ” of depositors in yon aged Bank.
You, Mr. Punch, might—but I say no more. All comes to him who knows how to
wait. And I am a a excellent waiter—ask the lovely girls on whom I attended so
sedulously at tha'o pic-nic at Hampton Court, at which to my deep regret, Mrs.
Epicurus was prevented from attending.
Look at all these wonderful instruments in this window. Here is a thermometer
that tells you how cold it will be on Christmas Eve next. Here is a storm-glass
that informs you what kind of weather you will have on your birthday, next year.
Here is a telescope, very cheap, that will enable you to hear the doves cooing in the
planet Yenus. Here is a microscope that shows you that your skin, which you look
at so complacently is coarser than the sail-cloth of the yot in which I hope to be
when you read this. Proceed we. Whose fairy fountains are these, and why doth
that golden ball dance in the water ? Read the thanks of your Sovereign for an
unequalled filter. Now we come to philtres of another kind—love-charms. Here
is a window full of delicate devices in gold and silver. We are past those things,
my friend, but a set of handsome studs would be acceptable to me, and your taste
is unexceptionable. You will think about it P Bless you. On then, nor pause to
note that array of portmanteaux and traveller’s bags, or you may tempt me into
thoughts that may carry me away before my time. Here is the office of the great
Illustrated newspaper, the treasure of all homes from China to Peru, and this week
it has a portrait of Thomas Carlyle, Talus with the Iron Flail, destroyer of Shams.
I grieve that he should waste years in unravelling Prussian scoundrelisms, chiefly
of the vulgar sort, but we truly great men sometimes cast ourselves away for a time,
as I am doing now. Let us look at these photographs.
There is you, my friend, and there is I, but to neither of
our fine faces is justice done—let us proceed. This is a
fine shop with its plate glass and its ivories and dressing-
cases. What ancient philosopher, led through a fair,
pleasingly remarked, “ What a number of things that I do
not want P ” Halt—for it were highly convenient not to be
run over by the fiery steeds and scarlet carts which bear a
name I think I have heard before—the name of Smith.
Each of those carts, my friend, would furnish matter for an
essay—it is rude to yawn, my friend, when a gentleman is
talking to you.
When will the respected owner of this picture-shop
remove that portrait of the fat priest of the Anglican per-
suasion, whose countenance speaketh of port wine and plu-
rality ? I have been looking at it for fifteen years at least.
I never looked to see the name. I dare say he was a good
man, but I am weary of his nose. Here is a great photo-
graphic chemist—observe that noble likeness of the
Laureate, and recite to me the best passages from Enoch
Arden, while I smoke.a cigar in this airy side-street. You
prefer going on. Be it so. Here is an intelligent lady who
selleth Parian ornaments, delicate statuettes—remember her
when you have caused displeasure at home, and would re-
instate yourself in the good graces of Mrs. Punch. This is
Somerset House. Tell me whence its name, who built it,
and what is the use of the Audit Office ? I have sometimes
met men who could resolve me the first two demands, never
could I get an answer to the third. Eor the Audit is a
sham. Boys are sometimes sent by mischievous young
gentlemen to run in and ask the Porter for “ two-penn’orth
of audits; ” but they come out bewailing and rubbing then-
ears. Do you see that watch-face high up below a window P
] was told, when a child, by an uncle, that an Irish labourer,
repairing the place, fell, and was caught by his watch on a
nail, and saved. I believed this. Later in fife, I learned
that the little dial was put there to test the power of certain
Government telescopes. I immediately disbelieved every-
thing that my Uncle had ever told me. Observe the moral,
if you have any nephews, my friend, and never tell them lies
that can be found out.
Pictorial art is in full blaze as we proceed, and it is de-
lightful to think how much of it one can buy for a little
money in these days. But if we are to linger at this great
book-shop, we must give up the afternoon to it. The mere
titles, if carefully read, would make a man fit for intel-
lectual society. When the good time comes, and, pike in
hand, I plunder London, I shall make a merciless sweep
here, for I have a fine taste for books, so the proprietors
know what to expect. This is Waterloo Bridge. You
remind me that Canova said it was worth coming to
England to see it. Canova was a great man, but I love
not his Dancing-girls. Let us discuss the true principles of
sculpture. No ? My friend, the Strand is lost on you.
Anybody can stare into windows, but it is the lessons they
suggest which gives value to the walk. Here are telegraph
wires—thick as an elephant’s leg, thin as a girl’s skipping-
rope. Recite Tennyson’s Skipping Rope, and say why it is
not in the later editions. Or come on, for I cannot listen
to a preachment over these wires, and the progress of sci-
ence binding nations together—we get all that in graphic
leading articles, apropos whereof, here is the office of that
excellent journal, the Globe, a most readable paper, very
shrewd and epigrammatic. Do you know who writes the
Paris letter ? What is the Latin for Kadairep ?
Why do you want to walk faster—we cannot dine before
seven—what could we do with the rest of the evening P
You want to consider the dinner before ordering it. 0,
my friend, this is luxury, yet include John the Gilt when
you are meditating on our fishes. “What beauties does
Flora disclose ” as we pass this magazine of sweet odours
once Ackermann’s, as in the days of Thomas Moore, who
bade the Marchesa come to the Palace,—
“ With the newest No-Popery sermon that’s going :
O bid her come, with her bright tresses flowing,
AH gentle and juvenile, curly and gay,
In the manner of Ackermann’s dresses for May.”
People could write in those days, Mr. Punch, no offence
to you, Sir, who can also write. I perceive your glances
across the road. No, the pictured Leah is not there now,
and the real Leah reposes on the broad breast of Ocean, but
he is bearing her back to us, and she shall be welcome as
the flowers in the month above mentioned. Ha! There
will be no more sense to be got out of or into you, now
that this fountain of sentiment has been unsealed: so come
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[September 24, 1864.
FROM OUR ILL-USED CONTRIBUTOR.
To Mr. Punch.
The Temple.
rings are getting intolerable,
my dear Mr. Punch. I will
not stay in Town any longer.
One owes a duty, of course,
to one’s employers, but one
owes an older and higher duty
to oneself. I dare say that
you do not know who wrote
the lines, “ I see a hand you
cannot see that beckons me
away.” Well, I do know.
They were written by Thomas
Tickell, who died in 1740,
and (previously) wrote in the
Spectator. They came into
my head when I was seeing a
lady off at the Station of the
Great Northern Railway, and
when I beheld a painted hand
pointing the way to the trains.
I feel that I must depart from
Town, and I abstain from
leaving an address, so that
your tyrannous indignation
may have time to expend itself
on your menials instead of me.
“ Go, show your slaves how
choleric you are.” I assure
you that I am acting in your
interest, if you could only see
things in that light. I don’t
want your money. Limpets
from the rock, a biscuit soaked
in sea-water (the artist’s break-
fast in the House of the Seven
Gables), a few shrimps — such
is enough for me at the sea-
side. Anything but the silent
and solitary system at the
club, though all the luxuries
in season are on the carte, and stewed partridge is not the worst dish in the
world.
If there is one delightful and instructive walk in London, it is the south side of
the Strand. Emerge from the deep solitudes and awful cells of the Temple, and turn
your respectable nose Westward with me, my friend. What can we not see as we
slowly wander with our faces to the Sun, who, by the way, makes a mistake in
shining in that direction in the afternoon—it is the only drawback to perfect enjoy-
ment. Eor he glares in your eyes, and you cannot distinguish the countenances of
those you meet in time to avoid those whom you do not wish to meet. Posterity
will twist the Strand a little, and amend this fault, unless the Sun himself shall
correct it by some alteration of the precession of the equinoxes, or some rectification
of the altitude of the azimuth, or other astronomical reform. But let us be bold.
The slothful man saith, “there is a lion in the path.” We shall not see any lions
(even at the Nelson Column), and we will hope to meet no bores. Let us commence
our course of study, even before we pass under Messrs. Child’s book closet. I
would modify Dr. Johnson’s sly thought, as we go through the Bar. 1 would be
loth to have my head upon it, for it is the only head I have. But I could be well
pleased, were my name “ mingled with those ” of depositors in yon aged Bank.
You, Mr. Punch, might—but I say no more. All comes to him who knows how to
wait. And I am a a excellent waiter—ask the lovely girls on whom I attended so
sedulously at tha'o pic-nic at Hampton Court, at which to my deep regret, Mrs.
Epicurus was prevented from attending.
Look at all these wonderful instruments in this window. Here is a thermometer
that tells you how cold it will be on Christmas Eve next. Here is a storm-glass
that informs you what kind of weather you will have on your birthday, next year.
Here is a telescope, very cheap, that will enable you to hear the doves cooing in the
planet Yenus. Here is a microscope that shows you that your skin, which you look
at so complacently is coarser than the sail-cloth of the yot in which I hope to be
when you read this. Proceed we. Whose fairy fountains are these, and why doth
that golden ball dance in the water ? Read the thanks of your Sovereign for an
unequalled filter. Now we come to philtres of another kind—love-charms. Here
is a window full of delicate devices in gold and silver. We are past those things,
my friend, but a set of handsome studs would be acceptable to me, and your taste
is unexceptionable. You will think about it P Bless you. On then, nor pause to
note that array of portmanteaux and traveller’s bags, or you may tempt me into
thoughts that may carry me away before my time. Here is the office of the great
Illustrated newspaper, the treasure of all homes from China to Peru, and this week
it has a portrait of Thomas Carlyle, Talus with the Iron Flail, destroyer of Shams.
I grieve that he should waste years in unravelling Prussian scoundrelisms, chiefly
of the vulgar sort, but we truly great men sometimes cast ourselves away for a time,
as I am doing now. Let us look at these photographs.
There is you, my friend, and there is I, but to neither of
our fine faces is justice done—let us proceed. This is a
fine shop with its plate glass and its ivories and dressing-
cases. What ancient philosopher, led through a fair,
pleasingly remarked, “ What a number of things that I do
not want P ” Halt—for it were highly convenient not to be
run over by the fiery steeds and scarlet carts which bear a
name I think I have heard before—the name of Smith.
Each of those carts, my friend, would furnish matter for an
essay—it is rude to yawn, my friend, when a gentleman is
talking to you.
When will the respected owner of this picture-shop
remove that portrait of the fat priest of the Anglican per-
suasion, whose countenance speaketh of port wine and plu-
rality ? I have been looking at it for fifteen years at least.
I never looked to see the name. I dare say he was a good
man, but I am weary of his nose. Here is a great photo-
graphic chemist—observe that noble likeness of the
Laureate, and recite to me the best passages from Enoch
Arden, while I smoke.a cigar in this airy side-street. You
prefer going on. Be it so. Here is an intelligent lady who
selleth Parian ornaments, delicate statuettes—remember her
when you have caused displeasure at home, and would re-
instate yourself in the good graces of Mrs. Punch. This is
Somerset House. Tell me whence its name, who built it,
and what is the use of the Audit Office ? I have sometimes
met men who could resolve me the first two demands, never
could I get an answer to the third. Eor the Audit is a
sham. Boys are sometimes sent by mischievous young
gentlemen to run in and ask the Porter for “ two-penn’orth
of audits; ” but they come out bewailing and rubbing then-
ears. Do you see that watch-face high up below a window P
] was told, when a child, by an uncle, that an Irish labourer,
repairing the place, fell, and was caught by his watch on a
nail, and saved. I believed this. Later in fife, I learned
that the little dial was put there to test the power of certain
Government telescopes. I immediately disbelieved every-
thing that my Uncle had ever told me. Observe the moral,
if you have any nephews, my friend, and never tell them lies
that can be found out.
Pictorial art is in full blaze as we proceed, and it is de-
lightful to think how much of it one can buy for a little
money in these days. But if we are to linger at this great
book-shop, we must give up the afternoon to it. The mere
titles, if carefully read, would make a man fit for intel-
lectual society. When the good time comes, and, pike in
hand, I plunder London, I shall make a merciless sweep
here, for I have a fine taste for books, so the proprietors
know what to expect. This is Waterloo Bridge. You
remind me that Canova said it was worth coming to
England to see it. Canova was a great man, but I love
not his Dancing-girls. Let us discuss the true principles of
sculpture. No ? My friend, the Strand is lost on you.
Anybody can stare into windows, but it is the lessons they
suggest which gives value to the walk. Here are telegraph
wires—thick as an elephant’s leg, thin as a girl’s skipping-
rope. Recite Tennyson’s Skipping Rope, and say why it is
not in the later editions. Or come on, for I cannot listen
to a preachment over these wires, and the progress of sci-
ence binding nations together—we get all that in graphic
leading articles, apropos whereof, here is the office of that
excellent journal, the Globe, a most readable paper, very
shrewd and epigrammatic. Do you know who writes the
Paris letter ? What is the Latin for Kadairep ?
Why do you want to walk faster—we cannot dine before
seven—what could we do with the rest of the evening P
You want to consider the dinner before ordering it. 0,
my friend, this is luxury, yet include John the Gilt when
you are meditating on our fishes. “What beauties does
Flora disclose ” as we pass this magazine of sweet odours
once Ackermann’s, as in the days of Thomas Moore, who
bade the Marchesa come to the Palace,—
“ With the newest No-Popery sermon that’s going :
O bid her come, with her bright tresses flowing,
AH gentle and juvenile, curly and gay,
In the manner of Ackermann’s dresses for May.”
People could write in those days, Mr. Punch, no offence
to you, Sir, who can also write. I perceive your glances
across the road. No, the pictured Leah is not there now,
and the real Leah reposes on the broad breast of Ocean, but
he is bearing her back to us, and she shall be welcome as
the flowers in the month above mentioned. Ha! There
will be no more sense to be got out of or into you, now
that this fountain of sentiment has been unsealed: so come