Punch (53.1867)

December 28, 1867.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

ill

J AM not a temperance man myself, and I do not approve of enforcing abstinence on others,” said Mr. Gladstone,
last week.

“ Very right too,” said Mr. Punch.

There is no doubt that he was sincere. In fact, he must have been keeping Christmas with some energy, for
out of the Stable in which his Night Mares are stalled, there was led forth to him, odorously caparisoned, a racer
which the wild night-rider rode in fiery fashion.

Vesuvius, said Mr. Punch, peeping over the edge of the crater, shut up. What are you erupting for.’
Tell Enceladus to lie still. Enceladus be hanged, roared up Empedocles, he’s under Etna, you ill-educated Bob
Lowe, and I ’ll throw my brazen slippers at you. He’s a humbug, mused Mr. Punch, he’s under Etna, too, and the
mountain threw out his slippers—that’s how he was found out—I ’ll pitch something down on him, thy gold chest,
Tony, ’tis a heavy one, Tony, Tony, Antony, Antony’s fire, Antony is preaching to the fishes out of Hooker. Anthony
Trollope is gone up to the top of St. Paul’s. This noble youth will not get his death by a fall From the top of an
exceeding high cathedrawl, drawl, drawl, Dundreary, galloping dreary dun, dun’s the mouse, but the thing I stand on
is the credit of the House, and the new Reform Bill’s a Leap in the Dark, worst Bill ever drawn, says Mr. Gladstone.
How are you, William the Speaker, not William the Silent, eh ? Together let us range the fields, and so • you
don’t know whether a University has a Nose, here we are in Cambridge, let’s pull Brazen-nose, only that ’s
in Oxford, let’s go to the Fitzwilliam Museum and ask Lord Milton for a copy of his delightful travels, and
then call on John Milton, and tell him to come to Willis and Sotheron and see Shakspeare in a passion
with a pilgrim. No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of Love, Mr. Gladstone, but it is not Mr. Gladstone,