DOI issue:
September 28, 1867
DOI Page / Citation link: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16880#0136
124
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
[September 28, 1867.
the South Kensington Museum, and were, in a general way, his-
torical.
She is more hysterical than historical, a joke made by my Funny
Friend,—only if you think it very good I don’t mind telling you in
confidence that I did make it myself, some time ago, all alone,
originally.
My Great Aunt (of course I have her portrait in my photograph
book) always ferrets me out, and comes to stop with me wherever I
am. The great disadvantage of being a Government Official is the
publicity it gives to my whereabouts, with reference I mean to my
Great Aunt. I can’t say to her, “ I’m going to Kamschatka” when
she has only to call at the Head Local Olfactory Act Office, Whitehall,
to ascertain that I am looking after a Chimney at Stoke-ton-on-Twees.
And if I do put her off with an uncertainty as to my next movements,
she does call at the office, and when I arrive at Stoket.on or Cokingham
or wherever my duty calls me, there is my Great Relative sitting among
her boxes, with her maid, (a middle-aged domestic in training to be a
Great Aunt herself in another sphere) waiting for me at the station.
[One more, and ’twould be Macbeth and The Witches. Macbeth, me.]
She insists upon taking rooms for me: she won’t go to a hotel: she
comes professedly to take care of me, and on my word, I don’t like to
turn round on her, savagely, and say- Never mind what I would
say ; if ever I do say it, it will be awful. My Great Aunt will wither
under it. I can only writhe, alone, in the dining-room of the lodging-
house, or growl, after my bath, in the bed-room.
It was through her (I may say so now) that I hit upon the expe-
dient of having a friend down with me, as a sort of defence. As I said
before, “ Thomas Grigg is my man. Capital Companion for the
North ! ” Yes, by the side of my Great Aunt I shall place a Companion
Picture. ******
Here I am in the North at Cokingham.
My Aunt is there. At the station. She has got lodgings for me.
Clean and inexpensive. Dinner is at five o’clock. A fly will take me
1 down there. I surrender myself and am taken prisoner, between my
Great Aunt and her elderly maid, placed in a fly, Great Aunt sitting
bolt upright as guard by my side, Maid on the box to look after the
coachman and put a pistol to his head if he doesn’t go straight (I
mean it’s that sort of idea) and myself helpless, as if fettered, lying
back in the vehicle resigned to my fate. General notion, Charles
the First going to the Tower : no populace outside hooting, and no
public feeling. A thought occurs to me apropos of fly windows, didn’t,
Rich the Harlequin astonish a flyman by leaping head-foremost out of
his hackney-coach into a public-house window, and then calling to him
from the room ? I think so. How I should like to astonish my Great
Aunt by doing so now. One, two, three, bang through the window,
and then have the blind to shoot, up suddenly with, written on it,—
well I don’t know what should be written on it, something epigram-
matic, like “ Gone away,” or “ Out,” or—but my Great, Aunt, says,
“ 29, Bingham Street,” Cokingham, here we are at our goal (a flash of
melancholy humour suggests “ Gaol ”). I descend, handcuffed (morally),
and am marched into the house, having of course had to pay the fly.
By the way. I often think, is my Great, Aunt going to leave me any-
thing in her will F Of course I don’t wish her any harm ; but some-
times she hints that, I am her favourite nephew, and that what little
she can leave (don’t like the qualifications of “little” and “can,”
she-) but here I am in duty bound to interrupt and say, “ Oh, no
no. Aunt, don’t talk of that,” though I should like to make her produce
all her legal documents, make her bind herself by dreadful oaths to
give nothing to any one except me ; and then just show me in black and
white, how much I am. to have, and no more nonsense about it. Then
I can see whether it is worth while being civil to her any longer. For
she is really an awful nuisance, and I strongly dislike a state of uncer-
tainty. Besides 1 should like her so much better if I only saw her now
and then ; as it is I see her always now.
The landlady (she has since given me her portrait) says, “ There’s
a letter for you, Sir,” meaning me. I’ve stopped at her house before,
when inspecting the Cokingham Chimneys, and my letters are sent
here generally.
It is from Tommy Grigg. He will come ! to-morrow. My Funny
Friend will come and free me from my Grand Auntuncular chains.
By the way. L must break it to my Aunt. Time for breaking it, after
dinner.
I break it—gently. “ Grigg is coming,” I say. She doesn’t know
Grigg, and apparently doesn’t want to. I describe him as a very dear
friend, a very clever fellow, a most amusing man, in fact she, (my Great
Aunt) I tell her will like Grigg. She hopes so, and adds that I had better
ask Mister Rigg (I correct her—“ Grigg, Aunt”) Grigg to dinner.
“ He’s coming,” I say, as if I hadn’t asked him, but had just gathered
it from his note, “he’s coming to stay.” My Great Aunt receives the
intelligence unmoved : either the blow has paralysed her, or she
doesn’t understand. Being “ in for it,” I go on. “ He will stay here,
Aunt.” My Aunt immediately sees a difficulty with regard to beds
I try to show Grigg in the most amiable light. Grigg, I tell her, can
sleep anywhere—he doesn’t mind. (I have no foundation for this
character of Grigg—it is purely romance.)
“ Grigg needn’t disturb you. Aunt,” I say, though when I come to
think of it, considering the subject, I don’t exactly know what I meant.
“ Mister—Mister,” she begins, and I help her to his name, “ Mr.
Grigg can sleep out.” He can—I give up Grigg so far. “ You had
better take a bed for Mister—for Mister—” I won’t help her to the
name again, and she substitutes, “Your friend—for your friend, at the
New Inn.” Agreed : Grigg to sleep at the New Inn, and be fed
here. “ You will tell him our hour for breakfast,” says my Great
Aunt, “ and he will not stay late at night, because,” she explains, “ of
the door.” She leaves the dining-room : I am angry. Am I a child F
Is Grigg a child F Confound it, can’t I do as I like F What’ll Grigg
think F How will he like sleeping at the New Inn F I’ve got a great
mind to write and put him off. Can’t: he’ll be here before the post
would reach him.
By the way. Might telegraph—perhaps he’s already started. No,
it’s too bad of my Aunt. Hang it, 1 ’ll go out and inspect a factory
chimney, and see if they ’re working overtime, and if they are, by
Jingo, I’ll—I’ll—
By the way. I did go out. After a short walk I recollected that I had
a character to keep up in Cokingham, and that if I went knocking up a
factory at, an absurd hour of the night to know if the chimney smoked,
they might think I’d taken to drinking. Sleep on it—Grigg to-
morrow.
THE CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER AT
HOME.
SEPTEMBER 19, 1867.
Oh, all among the barley,
How happy I can be !
With farmiug men to parley,
Exactly suits B. D.
I ’ll caper o’er the stubble,
I ’ll roll among the sheaves,
Forgeiting toil and trouble
Among the rustic Eves.
(Con expressio?ie.)
Forgetting toil and trouble
Among the rustic Eves.
My dolly* does remind me,
Of Tenniel’s cut engraved
When I chucked babes behind me,
And Derby cried, “ Saved ! saved ! ”
Oh, fill me up a rummer,
The best that barley yields—
Drink, “ Commons in the summer ! ”
Drink, “ Autumn in the fields ! ”
I see the harvest treasures,
I join in grateful rite,
Yet think of some past measures,
When everything looks Bright.
One toast I still have for you,
“ The Lab’rers 1 ” verbum sat.
So do not rise before you
Have all seen “ my old Hatt.”!
He ’ll make a speech, he’s got one,
His time if he may take ;
Among my men there’s not one
Than Hatt more wide awake.
Hatt hopes we ’ll all endeavour
To meet in realms of Love.
He’s safe : a good Hatt ever
Is carried up above.
So all among the barley,
As I sang recent lee.
With farming men to parley,
Exactly suits B. D.
* “ A little girl here advanced and presented to the Right Hon. Gentleman a
doll.”—Newspapers of Friday, September 20.
f “ The health of the Labourers of Hughenden, coupled with the name of Hatt,
who has been long on the estate,” &c.—Reported Speech of Mr. Disraeli, September 20.
A Good Work for the Office of Works.
There is scaffolding about the Duke of Wellington’s statue at
Hyde Park Corner. But alas ! they say that it is only there to enable
workmen to replace the plumes in the Duke’s hat. Good Manners,
here is a great opportunity for you. Have the Cheval de Bronze and
its rider taken down, and agreeably surprise London when it returns
to London. Do this, and it will be something on which you may
with reason plume yourself, and be a feather in your cap.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
[September 28, 1867.
the South Kensington Museum, and were, in a general way, his-
torical.
She is more hysterical than historical, a joke made by my Funny
Friend,—only if you think it very good I don’t mind telling you in
confidence that I did make it myself, some time ago, all alone,
originally.
My Great Aunt (of course I have her portrait in my photograph
book) always ferrets me out, and comes to stop with me wherever I
am. The great disadvantage of being a Government Official is the
publicity it gives to my whereabouts, with reference I mean to my
Great Aunt. I can’t say to her, “ I’m going to Kamschatka” when
she has only to call at the Head Local Olfactory Act Office, Whitehall,
to ascertain that I am looking after a Chimney at Stoke-ton-on-Twees.
And if I do put her off with an uncertainty as to my next movements,
she does call at the office, and when I arrive at Stoket.on or Cokingham
or wherever my duty calls me, there is my Great Relative sitting among
her boxes, with her maid, (a middle-aged domestic in training to be a
Great Aunt herself in another sphere) waiting for me at the station.
[One more, and ’twould be Macbeth and The Witches. Macbeth, me.]
She insists upon taking rooms for me: she won’t go to a hotel: she
comes professedly to take care of me, and on my word, I don’t like to
turn round on her, savagely, and say- Never mind what I would
say ; if ever I do say it, it will be awful. My Great Aunt will wither
under it. I can only writhe, alone, in the dining-room of the lodging-
house, or growl, after my bath, in the bed-room.
It was through her (I may say so now) that I hit upon the expe-
dient of having a friend down with me, as a sort of defence. As I said
before, “ Thomas Grigg is my man. Capital Companion for the
North ! ” Yes, by the side of my Great Aunt I shall place a Companion
Picture. ******
Here I am in the North at Cokingham.
My Aunt is there. At the station. She has got lodgings for me.
Clean and inexpensive. Dinner is at five o’clock. A fly will take me
1 down there. I surrender myself and am taken prisoner, between my
Great Aunt and her elderly maid, placed in a fly, Great Aunt sitting
bolt upright as guard by my side, Maid on the box to look after the
coachman and put a pistol to his head if he doesn’t go straight (I
mean it’s that sort of idea) and myself helpless, as if fettered, lying
back in the vehicle resigned to my fate. General notion, Charles
the First going to the Tower : no populace outside hooting, and no
public feeling. A thought occurs to me apropos of fly windows, didn’t,
Rich the Harlequin astonish a flyman by leaping head-foremost out of
his hackney-coach into a public-house window, and then calling to him
from the room ? I think so. How I should like to astonish my Great
Aunt by doing so now. One, two, three, bang through the window,
and then have the blind to shoot, up suddenly with, written on it,—
well I don’t know what should be written on it, something epigram-
matic, like “ Gone away,” or “ Out,” or—but my Great, Aunt, says,
“ 29, Bingham Street,” Cokingham, here we are at our goal (a flash of
melancholy humour suggests “ Gaol ”). I descend, handcuffed (morally),
and am marched into the house, having of course had to pay the fly.
By the way. I often think, is my Great, Aunt going to leave me any-
thing in her will F Of course I don’t wish her any harm ; but some-
times she hints that, I am her favourite nephew, and that what little
she can leave (don’t like the qualifications of “little” and “can,”
she-) but here I am in duty bound to interrupt and say, “ Oh, no
no. Aunt, don’t talk of that,” though I should like to make her produce
all her legal documents, make her bind herself by dreadful oaths to
give nothing to any one except me ; and then just show me in black and
white, how much I am. to have, and no more nonsense about it. Then
I can see whether it is worth while being civil to her any longer. For
she is really an awful nuisance, and I strongly dislike a state of uncer-
tainty. Besides 1 should like her so much better if I only saw her now
and then ; as it is I see her always now.
The landlady (she has since given me her portrait) says, “ There’s
a letter for you, Sir,” meaning me. I’ve stopped at her house before,
when inspecting the Cokingham Chimneys, and my letters are sent
here generally.
It is from Tommy Grigg. He will come ! to-morrow. My Funny
Friend will come and free me from my Grand Auntuncular chains.
By the way. L must break it to my Aunt. Time for breaking it, after
dinner.
I break it—gently. “ Grigg is coming,” I say. She doesn’t know
Grigg, and apparently doesn’t want to. I describe him as a very dear
friend, a very clever fellow, a most amusing man, in fact she, (my Great
Aunt) I tell her will like Grigg. She hopes so, and adds that I had better
ask Mister Rigg (I correct her—“ Grigg, Aunt”) Grigg to dinner.
“ He’s coming,” I say, as if I hadn’t asked him, but had just gathered
it from his note, “he’s coming to stay.” My Great Aunt receives the
intelligence unmoved : either the blow has paralysed her, or she
doesn’t understand. Being “ in for it,” I go on. “ He will stay here,
Aunt.” My Aunt immediately sees a difficulty with regard to beds
I try to show Grigg in the most amiable light. Grigg, I tell her, can
sleep anywhere—he doesn’t mind. (I have no foundation for this
character of Grigg—it is purely romance.)
“ Grigg needn’t disturb you. Aunt,” I say, though when I come to
think of it, considering the subject, I don’t exactly know what I meant.
“ Mister—Mister,” she begins, and I help her to his name, “ Mr.
Grigg can sleep out.” He can—I give up Grigg so far. “ You had
better take a bed for Mister—for Mister—” I won’t help her to the
name again, and she substitutes, “Your friend—for your friend, at the
New Inn.” Agreed : Grigg to sleep at the New Inn, and be fed
here. “ You will tell him our hour for breakfast,” says my Great
Aunt, “ and he will not stay late at night, because,” she explains, “ of
the door.” She leaves the dining-room : I am angry. Am I a child F
Is Grigg a child F Confound it, can’t I do as I like F What’ll Grigg
think F How will he like sleeping at the New Inn F I’ve got a great
mind to write and put him off. Can’t: he’ll be here before the post
would reach him.
By the way. Might telegraph—perhaps he’s already started. No,
it’s too bad of my Aunt. Hang it, 1 ’ll go out and inspect a factory
chimney, and see if they ’re working overtime, and if they are, by
Jingo, I’ll—I’ll—
By the way. I did go out. After a short walk I recollected that I had
a character to keep up in Cokingham, and that if I went knocking up a
factory at, an absurd hour of the night to know if the chimney smoked,
they might think I’d taken to drinking. Sleep on it—Grigg to-
morrow.
THE CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER AT
HOME.
SEPTEMBER 19, 1867.
Oh, all among the barley,
How happy I can be !
With farmiug men to parley,
Exactly suits B. D.
I ’ll caper o’er the stubble,
I ’ll roll among the sheaves,
Forgeiting toil and trouble
Among the rustic Eves.
(Con expressio?ie.)
Forgetting toil and trouble
Among the rustic Eves.
My dolly* does remind me,
Of Tenniel’s cut engraved
When I chucked babes behind me,
And Derby cried, “ Saved ! saved ! ”
Oh, fill me up a rummer,
The best that barley yields—
Drink, “ Commons in the summer ! ”
Drink, “ Autumn in the fields ! ”
I see the harvest treasures,
I join in grateful rite,
Yet think of some past measures,
When everything looks Bright.
One toast I still have for you,
“ The Lab’rers 1 ” verbum sat.
So do not rise before you
Have all seen “ my old Hatt.”!
He ’ll make a speech, he’s got one,
His time if he may take ;
Among my men there’s not one
Than Hatt more wide awake.
Hatt hopes we ’ll all endeavour
To meet in realms of Love.
He’s safe : a good Hatt ever
Is carried up above.
So all among the barley,
As I sang recent lee.
With farming men to parley,
Exactly suits B. D.
* “ A little girl here advanced and presented to the Right Hon. Gentleman a
doll.”—Newspapers of Friday, September 20.
f “ The health of the Labourers of Hughenden, coupled with the name of Hatt,
who has been long on the estate,” &c.—Reported Speech of Mr. Disraeli, September 20.
A Good Work for the Office of Works.
There is scaffolding about the Duke of Wellington’s statue at
Hyde Park Corner. But alas ! they say that it is only there to enable
workmen to replace the plumes in the Duke’s hat. Good Manners,
here is a great opportunity for you. Have the Cheval de Bronze and
its rider taken down, and agreeably surprise London when it returns
to London. Do this, and it will be something on which you may
with reason plume yourself, and be a feather in your cap.