DOI issue:
September 29, 1866
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16878#0143
September 29, 18t>6.]
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
135
ARTEMUS WARD IN LONDON.
Mr. Punch, my dear Sir,
I ’ve been lingerm by the Tomb of the lamentid Shakspeare.
It is a success.
I do not hes’tate to pronounce it as such.
You may make any use of this opinion that you see lit. If you think
its publication will subswerve the cause of Iitteratoor, you may pub-
licate it.
I told my wife Betsy when I left home that I should go to the
birthplace of the orthur of Otheller and other Plays. She said that as
long as I kept out of Newgate she didn’t care where I went. “ But,”
I said, “ don’t you know he was the greatest Poit that ever lived ?
Not one of these common poits, like that young idyit who writes verses
to our daughter, about the Roses as growses, and the Breezes as
blowses—but a Boss Poit—also a philosopher, also a man who knew a
great deal about everything.”
She was packing my things at the time, and the only answer she
made was to ask me if I was goin to carry both of my red flannel
night caps.
Yes. I’ve been to Stratford onto the Avon, the birthplace of
Shakspeare. Mr. S. is now no more. He’s been dead over three
hundred (300) years. The peple of his native town are justly proud of
him. They cherish his mem’ry, and them as sell picturs of his birth-
place, &e., make it proftible cherishin it. Almost everybody buys a
pictur to put into their Albiom.
As I stood gazing on the spot where Shakspeare is s’posed to have
fell down on the ice and hurt hisself when a boy, (this spot cannot be
bought—the town authorities say it shall never be taken from Stratford)
I wondered if three hundred years hence picturs of my birthplace will
be in demand ? Will the peple of my native town be proud of me in
three hundred years ? I guess they won’t short of that time, because
they say the fat man weighin 1000 pounds which I exhibited there was
stuffed out with pillers and cushions, which he said one very hot day
in July, “ Oh bother, I can’t stand this,” and commenced pullin the
pillers out from under his weskit, and heavin ’em at the audience. I
never saw a man lose flesh so fast in my life. The audience said I was
a pretty man to come chiselin my own townsmen in that way. I said,
“ Do not be angry, feller-citizens. I exhibited him simply as a work
of art. I simply wished to show you that a man could grow fat without
the aid of cod-liver oil.” But they wouldn’t listen to me. They are a
! low and grovelin set of peple, who excite a feelin of loathin in every
brest where lorfty emotions and original idees have a bidin place.
I stopped at Leamington a few minits on my way to Stratford onto
the Avon, and a very beautiful town it is. I went into a shoe shop to
make a purchis, and as I entered I saw over the door those dear
! familiar words, “ By Appintment: H.R.H.; ” and I said to the man,
“ Squire, excuse me, but this is too much. I have seen in London
four hundred boot and shoe shops by Appintment: H.R.H.; and now
you ’re at it. It is simply onpossible that the Prince can wear 100
pairs of boots. “ Don’t tell me,” I said, in a voice choked with
emotion—“ Oh, do not tell me that you also make boots for him. Say
slippers—say that you mend a boot now and then for him ; but do not
tell me that you make ’em reg’lar for him.”
The man smilt, and said I didn’t understand these things. He said
I perhaps had not noticed in London that dealers in all sorts of articles
was By Appintment. I said, “ Oh, hadn’t I ? Then a sudden thought
flasht over me. “ I have it! ” I said. “ When the Prince walks
| through a street, he no doubt looks at the shop windows.”
The man said, “No doubt.”
“ And the enterprisin tradesman,” I continnerd, “the moment the
Prince gets out of sight, rushes frantically and has a tin sign painted,
By Appintment, H.R.H. ! It is a beautiful, a great idee ! ”
I then bought a pair of shoe strings, and wringin the shopman’s
honest hand, I.started for the Tomb of Shakspeare in a hired fly. It
lookt, however, more like a spider.
“ And this,” I said, as I stood in the old church-yard at Stratford,
beside a tomb-stone, “ this marks the spot where lies William W.
Shakspeare. Alars! and this is the spot where-”
“You’ve got the wrong grave,” said a man—a worthy villager:
“ Shakspeare is buried inside the church.”
“ Oh,” I said, “a boy told me this was it.” The boy larfed and put
the shillin I’d given him into his left eye in a inglorious manner, and
commenced movin backwards towards the street.
I pursood and captered him, and after talkin to him a spell in a
skarcastic stile, I let him went.
The old church was damp and chill. It was rainin. The only persons
there when I entered was a line bluff old gentleman, who was talkin in
a excited manner to a fashnibly dressed young man. “No, Ernest
Montresser,” the old gentleman said, “it is idle to pursoo this
subjeck no further. You can never marry my daughter. You were seen
last Monday in Piccadilly without a umbreller! I said then, as I say
now, any young man as venturs out in a uncertain climit like this with-
out a umbreller, lacks foresight, caution, strength of mind and stability :
and he is not a proper person to intrust a daughter’s happiness to.”
I slapt the old gentleman on the shoulder, and I said, “You’re
right! You ’re one of those kind of men, you are--
He wheeled suddenly round, and in a indignant voice, said, “ Go
way—go way ! This is a privit intervoo.”
I didn’t stop to enrich the old gentleman’s mind with my conversa-
tion. I sort of inferred that be wasn’t inclined to listen to me, and so
I went on. But he was right about the umbreller. I’m really delighted
with this grand old country, Mr. Punch, but you must admit that it
does rain rayther numerously here Whether this is owing to a
monerkal form of gov’ment or not, I leave all candid and onprejudiced
persons to say.
William Shakspeare was born in Stratford in 1564:. All the com-
mentaters, Shaksperian scholars, etsetry, are agreed on this, which is
about the only thing they are agreed on in regard to him, except that
his mantle hasn’t fallen onto any poet or dramatist hard enough to
hurt said poet or dramatist much. And there is no doubt if these com-
mentaters and persons continner investigatin Shakspeare’s career, we
shall not, in doo time, know anything about it at all. When a mere
lad little William attended the Grammer School, because, as he said,
the Grammer School wouldn’t attend him. This remarkable remark,
comin from one so young and inexperunced, set peple to thinkin
there might be somethin in this lad. He subsequently wrote Hamlet
and George Barnwell. When his kind teacher went to London to
accept a position in the offices of the Metropolitan Railway, little
William was chosen by his fellow pupils to deliver a farewell
address. “ Go on, Sir,” he said, “ in a glorus career. Be like a
eagle, and soar, and the soarer you get the more we shall all be
gratified ! That’s so.”
My young readers, who wish to know about Shakspeare, better
get these vallyable remarks framed.
I returned to the hotel. Meetin a young married couple, they asked
me if I could direct them to the hotel which Washington Irving
used to keep ?
“ I’ve understood that he was onsuccessful as a lanlord,” said the
lady.
“ We’ve understood,” said the young man, “that he busted up.”
I told ’em I was a strauger, and hurried away. They were from my
country, and ondoubtedly represented a thrifty lie well somewhere in
Pennsylvany. It’s a common thing, by the way, for a old farmer in
Pennsylvany to wake up some mornin and find ile squirtin all around
his back yard. He sells out for ’normous price, and his children put
ou gorgeous harness and start on a tower to astonish peple. They
succeed in doin it. Meantime the Ile it squirts and squirts, and Time
rolls on. Let it roll.
A very nice old town is Stratford, and a capital inn is the Red
Horse. Every admirer of the great S. must go there once certinly;
and to say one isn’t a admirer of him, is equv’lent to sayin one has jest
about brains enough to become a efficient tinker.
Some kind person has sent me Ghawcer’s Poems. Mr. C. had
talent, but he couldn’t spel. No man has a right to be a lit’rary man
onless he knows how to spel. It is a pity that Chawcer, who had
geneyus, was so unedicated. He’s the wuss speller I know of.
I guess I’m through, and so I lay down the pen, which is more
mightier than the sword, but which I’m fraid would stand a rayther
slim chance beside the needle gun. Adoo ! adoo !
Artemus Ward.
TURTLE SONG.
Air—“ Sweet and Low."
Clear and thick, thick and clear,
Turtle from over the sea ;
Cheer, cheer, esculent cheer
Turtle from tropical sea!
Onwards the hurrying waiters steer,
Plate after plate soon disappear—
Calipash and calipee—
When my City friends, when my witty friends, feed.
East and west, east and west.
Doctor will come to you soon;
Vest, vest, snow-white vest.
Pangs will be under you soon :
Doctor will come to prescribe for the guest,
Eating his turtle now with zest
Under the civic moon—
Pause, my witty friends, pause, my City friends, pause.
Uncommon Impudence.
The passengers in a first-class railway carriage, on arriving at the
terminus, were addressed by the guard with the customary request:—
“ Gentlemen, show your tickets.” Among them there was one man
rather showily attired. He produced a ticket-of-leave.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
135
ARTEMUS WARD IN LONDON.
Mr. Punch, my dear Sir,
I ’ve been lingerm by the Tomb of the lamentid Shakspeare.
It is a success.
I do not hes’tate to pronounce it as such.
You may make any use of this opinion that you see lit. If you think
its publication will subswerve the cause of Iitteratoor, you may pub-
licate it.
I told my wife Betsy when I left home that I should go to the
birthplace of the orthur of Otheller and other Plays. She said that as
long as I kept out of Newgate she didn’t care where I went. “ But,”
I said, “ don’t you know he was the greatest Poit that ever lived ?
Not one of these common poits, like that young idyit who writes verses
to our daughter, about the Roses as growses, and the Breezes as
blowses—but a Boss Poit—also a philosopher, also a man who knew a
great deal about everything.”
She was packing my things at the time, and the only answer she
made was to ask me if I was goin to carry both of my red flannel
night caps.
Yes. I’ve been to Stratford onto the Avon, the birthplace of
Shakspeare. Mr. S. is now no more. He’s been dead over three
hundred (300) years. The peple of his native town are justly proud of
him. They cherish his mem’ry, and them as sell picturs of his birth-
place, &e., make it proftible cherishin it. Almost everybody buys a
pictur to put into their Albiom.
As I stood gazing on the spot where Shakspeare is s’posed to have
fell down on the ice and hurt hisself when a boy, (this spot cannot be
bought—the town authorities say it shall never be taken from Stratford)
I wondered if three hundred years hence picturs of my birthplace will
be in demand ? Will the peple of my native town be proud of me in
three hundred years ? I guess they won’t short of that time, because
they say the fat man weighin 1000 pounds which I exhibited there was
stuffed out with pillers and cushions, which he said one very hot day
in July, “ Oh bother, I can’t stand this,” and commenced pullin the
pillers out from under his weskit, and heavin ’em at the audience. I
never saw a man lose flesh so fast in my life. The audience said I was
a pretty man to come chiselin my own townsmen in that way. I said,
“ Do not be angry, feller-citizens. I exhibited him simply as a work
of art. I simply wished to show you that a man could grow fat without
the aid of cod-liver oil.” But they wouldn’t listen to me. They are a
! low and grovelin set of peple, who excite a feelin of loathin in every
brest where lorfty emotions and original idees have a bidin place.
I stopped at Leamington a few minits on my way to Stratford onto
the Avon, and a very beautiful town it is. I went into a shoe shop to
make a purchis, and as I entered I saw over the door those dear
! familiar words, “ By Appintment: H.R.H.; ” and I said to the man,
“ Squire, excuse me, but this is too much. I have seen in London
four hundred boot and shoe shops by Appintment: H.R.H.; and now
you ’re at it. It is simply onpossible that the Prince can wear 100
pairs of boots. “ Don’t tell me,” I said, in a voice choked with
emotion—“ Oh, do not tell me that you also make boots for him. Say
slippers—say that you mend a boot now and then for him ; but do not
tell me that you make ’em reg’lar for him.”
The man smilt, and said I didn’t understand these things. He said
I perhaps had not noticed in London that dealers in all sorts of articles
was By Appintment. I said, “ Oh, hadn’t I ? Then a sudden thought
flasht over me. “ I have it! ” I said. “ When the Prince walks
| through a street, he no doubt looks at the shop windows.”
The man said, “No doubt.”
“ And the enterprisin tradesman,” I continnerd, “the moment the
Prince gets out of sight, rushes frantically and has a tin sign painted,
By Appintment, H.R.H. ! It is a beautiful, a great idee ! ”
I then bought a pair of shoe strings, and wringin the shopman’s
honest hand, I.started for the Tomb of Shakspeare in a hired fly. It
lookt, however, more like a spider.
“ And this,” I said, as I stood in the old church-yard at Stratford,
beside a tomb-stone, “ this marks the spot where lies William W.
Shakspeare. Alars! and this is the spot where-”
“You’ve got the wrong grave,” said a man—a worthy villager:
“ Shakspeare is buried inside the church.”
“ Oh,” I said, “a boy told me this was it.” The boy larfed and put
the shillin I’d given him into his left eye in a inglorious manner, and
commenced movin backwards towards the street.
I pursood and captered him, and after talkin to him a spell in a
skarcastic stile, I let him went.
The old church was damp and chill. It was rainin. The only persons
there when I entered was a line bluff old gentleman, who was talkin in
a excited manner to a fashnibly dressed young man. “No, Ernest
Montresser,” the old gentleman said, “it is idle to pursoo this
subjeck no further. You can never marry my daughter. You were seen
last Monday in Piccadilly without a umbreller! I said then, as I say
now, any young man as venturs out in a uncertain climit like this with-
out a umbreller, lacks foresight, caution, strength of mind and stability :
and he is not a proper person to intrust a daughter’s happiness to.”
I slapt the old gentleman on the shoulder, and I said, “You’re
right! You ’re one of those kind of men, you are--
He wheeled suddenly round, and in a indignant voice, said, “ Go
way—go way ! This is a privit intervoo.”
I didn’t stop to enrich the old gentleman’s mind with my conversa-
tion. I sort of inferred that be wasn’t inclined to listen to me, and so
I went on. But he was right about the umbreller. I’m really delighted
with this grand old country, Mr. Punch, but you must admit that it
does rain rayther numerously here Whether this is owing to a
monerkal form of gov’ment or not, I leave all candid and onprejudiced
persons to say.
William Shakspeare was born in Stratford in 1564:. All the com-
mentaters, Shaksperian scholars, etsetry, are agreed on this, which is
about the only thing they are agreed on in regard to him, except that
his mantle hasn’t fallen onto any poet or dramatist hard enough to
hurt said poet or dramatist much. And there is no doubt if these com-
mentaters and persons continner investigatin Shakspeare’s career, we
shall not, in doo time, know anything about it at all. When a mere
lad little William attended the Grammer School, because, as he said,
the Grammer School wouldn’t attend him. This remarkable remark,
comin from one so young and inexperunced, set peple to thinkin
there might be somethin in this lad. He subsequently wrote Hamlet
and George Barnwell. When his kind teacher went to London to
accept a position in the offices of the Metropolitan Railway, little
William was chosen by his fellow pupils to deliver a farewell
address. “ Go on, Sir,” he said, “ in a glorus career. Be like a
eagle, and soar, and the soarer you get the more we shall all be
gratified ! That’s so.”
My young readers, who wish to know about Shakspeare, better
get these vallyable remarks framed.
I returned to the hotel. Meetin a young married couple, they asked
me if I could direct them to the hotel which Washington Irving
used to keep ?
“ I’ve understood that he was onsuccessful as a lanlord,” said the
lady.
“ We’ve understood,” said the young man, “that he busted up.”
I told ’em I was a strauger, and hurried away. They were from my
country, and ondoubtedly represented a thrifty lie well somewhere in
Pennsylvany. It’s a common thing, by the way, for a old farmer in
Pennsylvany to wake up some mornin and find ile squirtin all around
his back yard. He sells out for ’normous price, and his children put
ou gorgeous harness and start on a tower to astonish peple. They
succeed in doin it. Meantime the Ile it squirts and squirts, and Time
rolls on. Let it roll.
A very nice old town is Stratford, and a capital inn is the Red
Horse. Every admirer of the great S. must go there once certinly;
and to say one isn’t a admirer of him, is equv’lent to sayin one has jest
about brains enough to become a efficient tinker.
Some kind person has sent me Ghawcer’s Poems. Mr. C. had
talent, but he couldn’t spel. No man has a right to be a lit’rary man
onless he knows how to spel. It is a pity that Chawcer, who had
geneyus, was so unedicated. He’s the wuss speller I know of.
I guess I’m through, and so I lay down the pen, which is more
mightier than the sword, but which I’m fraid would stand a rayther
slim chance beside the needle gun. Adoo ! adoo !
Artemus Ward.
TURTLE SONG.
Air—“ Sweet and Low."
Clear and thick, thick and clear,
Turtle from over the sea ;
Cheer, cheer, esculent cheer
Turtle from tropical sea!
Onwards the hurrying waiters steer,
Plate after plate soon disappear—
Calipash and calipee—
When my City friends, when my witty friends, feed.
East and west, east and west.
Doctor will come to you soon;
Vest, vest, snow-white vest.
Pangs will be under you soon :
Doctor will come to prescribe for the guest,
Eating his turtle now with zest
Under the civic moon—
Pause, my witty friends, pause, my City friends, pause.
Uncommon Impudence.
The passengers in a first-class railway carriage, on arriving at the
terminus, were addressed by the guard with the customary request:—
“ Gentlemen, show your tickets.” Among them there was one man
rather showily attired. He produced a ticket-of-leave.