DOI Heft:
October 28, 1865
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16876#0175
October 28, 1865.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
163
BORN : OCTOBER 20, 1784. DIED : OCTOBER 18, 1865.
He is down, and for ever! The good fight is ended.
In deep-dinted harness our Champion has died.
But tears should be few in a sunset so splendid,
And Grief hush her wail at the bidding of Pride.
He falls, but unvanquished. He falls in his glory,
A noble old King on the last of his fields :
And with death-song we come, like the Northmen of story,
And haughtily bear him away on our shields.
Nor yet are we mourners. Let proud words be spoken
By those who stand, pale, on the marge of his grave,
As we lay in the rest never more to be broken
The noble, the gentle, the wise, and the brave.
His courage undaunted, his purpose unaltered,
His long patient labour, his exquisite skill,
The tones of command from a tongue that ne’er faltered
When bidding the Nations to list to our will:
Let these be remembered; but higher and better
The tribute that tells how he dealt with his trust,
In curbing the tyrant, in breaking the fetter,
Lay the pleasure of him we commit to the dust.
But his heart was his Eugland’s, his idol her honour,
Her friend was his friend, and his foe was her foe,
Were her mandate despised, or a scowl cast upon her,
How stern his rebuke, or how vengeful his blow 1
Her armies were sad, and her banners were tattered,
And lethargy wrought on her strength like a spell.
He came to the front, the enchantment was scattered—
The rest let a reconciled enemy tell.
As true to our welfare, he did his own mission
When Progress approached him with Wisdom for guide;
He cleared her a path, and with equal derision
Bade quack and fanatic alike stand aside.
The choice of his country, low faction despising,
He marched as a leader all true men could claim ;
They came to their fellows, and held it sufficing
To give, as a creed, the great Minister’s name.
So, Heir to traditions of Him, long departed,
“ Who called the New World up to balance the Old,”
We lay tliee in earth,—gallant-natured, true-hearted !
Break, herald, thy wand, for his honours are told.
No, let Pride say her story and cease, for Affection
Stands near with a wealth of wild tears in her eyes,
And claims to be heard with more soft recollection
Of one who was ever as kindly as wise.
We trusted his wisdom, but love drew us nearer
Than homage we owed to his statesmanly art,
Por never was statesman to Englishmen dearer
Than he who had faith in the great English heart.
The frank merry laugh, and the honest eye filling
With mirth, and the jests that so rapidly fell,
Told out the State-secret that made us right willing
To follow his leading—he loved us all well.
Our brave English Chief!—lay him down for the sleeping
That nought may disturb till the trumpet of doom :
Honour claims the proud vigil—but Love will come weeping,
And hang many garlands on Palmerston’s tomb !
OUR YACHT.
I make my last extract from the Log.
“ Entered the Mersey this morning. Low water. Stuck on the bar.
Wind E. Latitude and longitude, vide map of England ; place, Liver-
Eool. The Treasure penitent but apologetic. Intend to send yacht
ack to Bangor, by Captain and Treasure. Commodore and Lieutenant
think that it hasn’t been such bad fun, after all: they say I can’t rough
it. I say I can. They ask me then will I go to Norway ? I reply no,
decidedly. High Tide. We are off the bar, and are going into
L’pool. Just in. Log ends. Wind changed.”
I had always thought that the arrival of a yacht was a picturesque
sight. I imagined, from what I had gathered, that you pulled up
alongside of the Quay, where there were Officers and Tachtsmen to
meet you: that they, cheered you all the way wherever you went,
crying Vwe la Republique, or anything else that came into their heads.
I also had an idea, that, before landing, you sailed majestically into
Quarantine, and were saluted by a Elag-ship. But nothing of this sort
is done; at least at Liverpool. We couldn’t get up to the kerb, I
mean the Quay, but had to go ashore in our small boat. We paid off
the Captain and Crew, who neither cheered us, nor offered to carry our
ln?Sa^e to the cab. It seems so absurd to talk of a cab, now, after
being a son of the Ocean for nearly three weeks. Sailors always roll
about when they come on shore: so we all rolled about; at least I did.
The Commodore pretended that it made no difference to him. It did
to me; walking properly was really difficult, and by the aid of a little
art, I made lots of people think I was a sailor. The Lieutenant sug-
gested enviously that they thought 1 was a fool. But this was only
said because he couldn’t roll from one side to the other. When a salt
is on land he spends all his money: I did this with great facility,
beginning with a warm bath, a basin of turtle at the Adelphi Hotel,
and a box of cigars at the first Tobacconist’s.
To-night I sleep in a comfortable bed : I write this from my room in
the Adelphi. 0 the luxury of sheets ! The Commodore has just come
into my room to smoke a cigar with me before turning in. He still
talks about keeping watch, and one bell. He says he wishes that we
had had the Saucy Nautilus during the American war, we might have
been a blockade runner, and made our fortunes.
To this observation, which he made when I was in bed and had shut
up my diary, I replied that I shouldn’t have run blockades, and I made
some joke about blockade and blockhead, which this morning I can’t
call to mind. I recollect his answering, that he was going to have
proposed another voyage, soon, for smuggling or whaling (or something
which he thought amusing) but that if I turned everything into ridicule,
why of course he’d better give up the whole thing at once.
As I don’t remember anything of the Commodore after this, I fancy
I must have fallen off to sleep.
They have both gone: and have left me to settle the hotel bill.
They’ll “make it all rght” (this in a letter) “when we meet in
town.” I am now off to town, to make it all right. Adieu.
VULCAN AND MINERVA.
Are the railway blacksmiths to hammer away at Alma Mater ? Is
Vulcan to invade the sacred precincts of Minerva? Surely not, if there
be any respect left for letters and for learning. It has taken some six
centuries to make Oxford what it is, and shall we let a railway in six
months or so half ruin it P Build an engine smithy there, and in less
than a year’s time you hardly will know Oxford. The fair face of Alma
Mater will be so thickly veiled in smoke, that her best friends will
barely recognise her. And O, the shame of spoiling the beauty of her
colleges by building hideous factories and foundries in their midst! A
walk in Oxford now is a thing to be remembered with infinite delight.
Business reigns supreme in well nigh every town in England, but at
Oxford business bustle at present is unknown. If Vulcan once sets
foot there, Minerva will be deafened by the clanging of his forge. Only
let a railway factory be erected in the place, and who knows but a
cotton one may soon after be built there ?
No, no, gentlemen of the Great Western. Let Oxford be a place of
manufacture if you will, but let it only manufacture graduates and
scholars, first-class men and double firsts.
From the Royal Academy.—Photographic Portraits are taken by
day. Portraits in Oil, by Knight, R.A.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
163
BORN : OCTOBER 20, 1784. DIED : OCTOBER 18, 1865.
He is down, and for ever! The good fight is ended.
In deep-dinted harness our Champion has died.
But tears should be few in a sunset so splendid,
And Grief hush her wail at the bidding of Pride.
He falls, but unvanquished. He falls in his glory,
A noble old King on the last of his fields :
And with death-song we come, like the Northmen of story,
And haughtily bear him away on our shields.
Nor yet are we mourners. Let proud words be spoken
By those who stand, pale, on the marge of his grave,
As we lay in the rest never more to be broken
The noble, the gentle, the wise, and the brave.
His courage undaunted, his purpose unaltered,
His long patient labour, his exquisite skill,
The tones of command from a tongue that ne’er faltered
When bidding the Nations to list to our will:
Let these be remembered; but higher and better
The tribute that tells how he dealt with his trust,
In curbing the tyrant, in breaking the fetter,
Lay the pleasure of him we commit to the dust.
But his heart was his Eugland’s, his idol her honour,
Her friend was his friend, and his foe was her foe,
Were her mandate despised, or a scowl cast upon her,
How stern his rebuke, or how vengeful his blow 1
Her armies were sad, and her banners were tattered,
And lethargy wrought on her strength like a spell.
He came to the front, the enchantment was scattered—
The rest let a reconciled enemy tell.
As true to our welfare, he did his own mission
When Progress approached him with Wisdom for guide;
He cleared her a path, and with equal derision
Bade quack and fanatic alike stand aside.
The choice of his country, low faction despising,
He marched as a leader all true men could claim ;
They came to their fellows, and held it sufficing
To give, as a creed, the great Minister’s name.
So, Heir to traditions of Him, long departed,
“ Who called the New World up to balance the Old,”
We lay tliee in earth,—gallant-natured, true-hearted !
Break, herald, thy wand, for his honours are told.
No, let Pride say her story and cease, for Affection
Stands near with a wealth of wild tears in her eyes,
And claims to be heard with more soft recollection
Of one who was ever as kindly as wise.
We trusted his wisdom, but love drew us nearer
Than homage we owed to his statesmanly art,
Por never was statesman to Englishmen dearer
Than he who had faith in the great English heart.
The frank merry laugh, and the honest eye filling
With mirth, and the jests that so rapidly fell,
Told out the State-secret that made us right willing
To follow his leading—he loved us all well.
Our brave English Chief!—lay him down for the sleeping
That nought may disturb till the trumpet of doom :
Honour claims the proud vigil—but Love will come weeping,
And hang many garlands on Palmerston’s tomb !
OUR YACHT.
I make my last extract from the Log.
“ Entered the Mersey this morning. Low water. Stuck on the bar.
Wind E. Latitude and longitude, vide map of England ; place, Liver-
Eool. The Treasure penitent but apologetic. Intend to send yacht
ack to Bangor, by Captain and Treasure. Commodore and Lieutenant
think that it hasn’t been such bad fun, after all: they say I can’t rough
it. I say I can. They ask me then will I go to Norway ? I reply no,
decidedly. High Tide. We are off the bar, and are going into
L’pool. Just in. Log ends. Wind changed.”
I had always thought that the arrival of a yacht was a picturesque
sight. I imagined, from what I had gathered, that you pulled up
alongside of the Quay, where there were Officers and Tachtsmen to
meet you: that they, cheered you all the way wherever you went,
crying Vwe la Republique, or anything else that came into their heads.
I also had an idea, that, before landing, you sailed majestically into
Quarantine, and were saluted by a Elag-ship. But nothing of this sort
is done; at least at Liverpool. We couldn’t get up to the kerb, I
mean the Quay, but had to go ashore in our small boat. We paid off
the Captain and Crew, who neither cheered us, nor offered to carry our
ln?Sa^e to the cab. It seems so absurd to talk of a cab, now, after
being a son of the Ocean for nearly three weeks. Sailors always roll
about when they come on shore: so we all rolled about; at least I did.
The Commodore pretended that it made no difference to him. It did
to me; walking properly was really difficult, and by the aid of a little
art, I made lots of people think I was a sailor. The Lieutenant sug-
gested enviously that they thought 1 was a fool. But this was only
said because he couldn’t roll from one side to the other. When a salt
is on land he spends all his money: I did this with great facility,
beginning with a warm bath, a basin of turtle at the Adelphi Hotel,
and a box of cigars at the first Tobacconist’s.
To-night I sleep in a comfortable bed : I write this from my room in
the Adelphi. 0 the luxury of sheets ! The Commodore has just come
into my room to smoke a cigar with me before turning in. He still
talks about keeping watch, and one bell. He says he wishes that we
had had the Saucy Nautilus during the American war, we might have
been a blockade runner, and made our fortunes.
To this observation, which he made when I was in bed and had shut
up my diary, I replied that I shouldn’t have run blockades, and I made
some joke about blockade and blockhead, which this morning I can’t
call to mind. I recollect his answering, that he was going to have
proposed another voyage, soon, for smuggling or whaling (or something
which he thought amusing) but that if I turned everything into ridicule,
why of course he’d better give up the whole thing at once.
As I don’t remember anything of the Commodore after this, I fancy
I must have fallen off to sleep.
They have both gone: and have left me to settle the hotel bill.
They’ll “make it all rght” (this in a letter) “when we meet in
town.” I am now off to town, to make it all right. Adieu.
VULCAN AND MINERVA.
Are the railway blacksmiths to hammer away at Alma Mater ? Is
Vulcan to invade the sacred precincts of Minerva? Surely not, if there
be any respect left for letters and for learning. It has taken some six
centuries to make Oxford what it is, and shall we let a railway in six
months or so half ruin it P Build an engine smithy there, and in less
than a year’s time you hardly will know Oxford. The fair face of Alma
Mater will be so thickly veiled in smoke, that her best friends will
barely recognise her. And O, the shame of spoiling the beauty of her
colleges by building hideous factories and foundries in their midst! A
walk in Oxford now is a thing to be remembered with infinite delight.
Business reigns supreme in well nigh every town in England, but at
Oxford business bustle at present is unknown. If Vulcan once sets
foot there, Minerva will be deafened by the clanging of his forge. Only
let a railway factory be erected in the place, and who knows but a
cotton one may soon after be built there ?
No, no, gentlemen of the Great Western. Let Oxford be a place of
manufacture if you will, but let it only manufacture graduates and
scholars, first-class men and double firsts.
From the Royal Academy.—Photographic Portraits are taken by
day. Portraits in Oil, by Knight, R.A.