DOI issue:
October 24, 1868
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16882#0179
October 24, 1868.]
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHaKIVAPI.
173
THE RITUALIST REBUKED
BELLS ON BEER.
Scene—Before St. James’s Chapel, Brighton. Ritualist Parson and
John Bull.
John Bull. Now, you young Sir! What is that outlandish gilt and
braided frock of yours, and what are those petticoats you have on, and
all that lace ?
Ritualist. Vestments, Sir? The vestments proper for this day’s
feast.
J. Bull. Feast! Why Goose Day’s past, and All Fools’ is to come.
And what do you do with that smoke-pot that you are swinging about
there ?
Bit. Celebrate mass, Sir.
/. Bull. Mass ! Why who are you ? What do you call yourself?
Rit. A priest. Sir, of the Catholic Church.
J. Bull. Catholic Church! I should say Catholic Chapel. But you,
as a Roman Catholic priest—what business have you with that Oxford
hood, I should like to know ?
Rit. Oh, Sir! I am a Catholic priest; but not, you see, a Roman
Catholic.
J. Bull. I see no such thing. If you are not one, why do you dress
like one? Vestments for this day’s feast, indeed! One would think
this day was Guy Fawkes’ day. You a priest? Does your Mother
know you ’re out ?
Rit. I really can’t say. Sir.
J. Bull (mimicking lain). Can’t say, Sir! She ought to know you
are out, for she ought to have turned you out by this time, if your
Mother Church is the Church of England. Ecclesiastically speaking-
Who’s your Father ?
Rit. Well, Sir, really that is—a—a—question—which-
J. Bull. A pretty fellow you are, not to be able to answer ! Is it the
Holy Father—the Pope ? Does he own you ?
Rit. Um—■ Why, Sir, unfortunately, the fact is-
J. Bull. That you are a parson, and the Pope disowns you, and says
you are none of his. Who’s your Bishop ? Dr. What ’s-his-name,
Bishop of Southwark, or whatever he calls himself—or the Bishop
of Chichester?
Rit. Chichester at present.
J. Bull. You may well say, at present. Does the Bishop of Chi-
chester, then, allow you to wear those things ? Does he sanction
your celebration of your Mass ? Eh ?
Rit. N-n-n-no; Sir.
J. Bull. N o, Sir ? I should think not, Sir. Has he not inhibited
you from officiating at all ?
Rit. Ye-e-s, Sir.
J. Bull. And of course you will obey him ?
Rit. (sulkily). No; I won’t.
J. Bull. You won’t ? And you say this, do you ? Why who but you,
and such as you, have been always preaching up the duty of submission
to Bishops ? That is what you have all along been hammering at—
all very well for the opposite party: but the moment your Bishop
forbids Ritualistic mummeries, you fly in his face. Go along with
you!
Rit. Where to. Sir ?
J. Bull. Rome, Sir; where every honest man of your whole lot,
except a few fools, has already gone. The Pope has invited you. But
mind, he has invited you as a stranger, as a Protestant, as a heretic.
You a priest? You pretend to call yourself a priest? You make
believe to say Mass, and hear confessions, and give absolution ? Do
you ? And all this while you are eating the bread of the Church you
undermine—mischievous rat! No; it’s not falling, or you’d leave it
fast enough. You ’ll stay, while there are any loaves and fishes—will
you ? Not if I can help it—you humbug, you impostor, Be off!
[Flourishing cudgel about Ritualist’s ears, drives him out.
CRUELTY TO BACHELORS.
Of an eve, homeward bound, from a walk rather long,
As I passed through a village, out rang the Church bells ;
And they sang me the chorus, methought, of a song:
How bells sing, the old story of Whittington tells.
P lain as ever were words spoke by Mag or by Poll,
Did those village Church bells resound Tol de rol lol,
Tol de rol tippledy,
Tol de rol tippledy,
Tol de rol tippledy,
Ri fol de rol.
I hadmowise exceeded for some time before,
Had a perfect teetotaller been all the day,
But I meant to have one glass of beer and no more.
At a house I was going to pass on my way.
It is one of the few where you get the old stuff—
Beer of which, as a rule, half-a-pint is enough.
Tol de rol tippledy, &c.
Oh, ’tis woeful to think how deplorably few
Are the places where good beer is still to be sold.
For most brewers have now ceased such stingo to brew
As we used to imbibe in our young days of old.
In its stead there’s your flat, heavy, dull Burton ale,
Or a dreary dead level of bitter and pale.
Tol de rol tippledy, &c.
When the beer-engine came in place of the tap,
From that time it was never in England good beer ;
For that base machine spoils any brewed worth a rap,
’Tis increased population, the truth if you’ll hear,
Which the publican needs must draw fast to supply ;
And the reason malt liquor is ruined—that’s why.
Tol de rol tippledy, &c.
What a thought that we’re sunk and degraded so low,
That, what sort of a thing decent swipes ought to be.
We have beer from Vienna sent over to show !
Who would ever have feared such debasement to see ?
U s the foreigner even in beer now excels :
’Twas his triumph I seemed to hear rung by Church bells.
Tol de rol tippledy, &c.
A GOOD FRENCH FELLOW.
The French have a reputation, not unmerited, for saying smart
things. Their witticisms, however, analysed, for the most part resolve
themselves into utterances, offensive or defensive, of restless vanity.
But there are exceptions to this rule, and here is one of them, thanks
to the Pall Mall Gazette:—
“ M. Henri Rochefort, in a recent number of La Lanterne, alluding to
the supposed determination of the Emperor to make war if the elections went
against him, asks what would be thought of a man rushing into the street and
stabbing an inoffensive person because his landlord had raised his rent.”
This is an apt and manly illustration. Its manliness is quite peculiar.
The love of approbation which, in an irritable state, is the basis of
most French wit, men have in common with animals. You may note
it exceedingly active, for instance, in the cur and the monkey. It these
creatures could speak, they would be always saying something piquant
either to flatter or to wound one another’s self-conceit. In the parallel,
<put as above by M. Henri Rochefort, there is evident, besides
reason, the distinctly human faculty of conscientiousness, or the moral
sense. Welcome to a Frenchman thus saying a really, in every sense
of the word, good thing.
A French journal relates that, as a provocative to marriage on the
part of selfish bachelors, at a fete held at Montreuil—
“ On a decide que le oonoours de tir au pistolet et a la carabine serait
rigoureusement reserve aux hommes maries.”
A novel method this to drive a man to marry! Fancy a B.A., or
any other British bachelor, imagining himself forced to go and get a
wife, for the reason that without one he could never shoot at Wimble-
don ! We can’t help thinking that the ladies of Montreuil would have
had a better chance if the authorities had set on foot a bachelors’ ball
for the benefit of those who were denied the use of bullets. In this
case the young fellows who were not allowed to shoot, might have been
exposed to the risk of being shot at; for there is no doubt that, if
husbands are there in such demand, the bachelors at a ball would have
each become a target for some of Cupid’s arrows.
NO PARTY QUESTION.
“ I do not,” says the Knight of Kerry, in a sensible letter to the
Times on the Irish Church, “ presume to say whether Mr. Disraeli
should have approached Mr. Gladstone, or Mr. Gladstone Mr.
Disraeli ; but undoubtedly they ought to have met.” If they had,
he thinks that a measure might have been passed which “ must have
commanded the respect of the country.” “ I believe,” concludes the
honourable gentleman, “ that all that was needed on the part of the
leaders for such a happy consummation was the possession of two
qualities most rare indeed among eminent statesmen—common sense
and common honesty.” Just so; and if the Leader of the Liberal
Party and the Conservative Premier had met together, there would
have been a conjunction of Common Honesty with Common Senee.
Which would have been which ?
PUNCH, OP THE LONDON CHaKIVAPI.
173
THE RITUALIST REBUKED
BELLS ON BEER.
Scene—Before St. James’s Chapel, Brighton. Ritualist Parson and
John Bull.
John Bull. Now, you young Sir! What is that outlandish gilt and
braided frock of yours, and what are those petticoats you have on, and
all that lace ?
Ritualist. Vestments, Sir? The vestments proper for this day’s
feast.
J. Bull. Feast! Why Goose Day’s past, and All Fools’ is to come.
And what do you do with that smoke-pot that you are swinging about
there ?
Bit. Celebrate mass, Sir.
/. Bull. Mass ! Why who are you ? What do you call yourself?
Rit. A priest. Sir, of the Catholic Church.
J. Bull. Catholic Church! I should say Catholic Chapel. But you,
as a Roman Catholic priest—what business have you with that Oxford
hood, I should like to know ?
Rit. Oh, Sir! I am a Catholic priest; but not, you see, a Roman
Catholic.
J. Bull. I see no such thing. If you are not one, why do you dress
like one? Vestments for this day’s feast, indeed! One would think
this day was Guy Fawkes’ day. You a priest? Does your Mother
know you ’re out ?
Rit. I really can’t say. Sir.
J. Bull (mimicking lain). Can’t say, Sir! She ought to know you
are out, for she ought to have turned you out by this time, if your
Mother Church is the Church of England. Ecclesiastically speaking-
Who’s your Father ?
Rit. Well, Sir, really that is—a—a—question—which-
J. Bull. A pretty fellow you are, not to be able to answer ! Is it the
Holy Father—the Pope ? Does he own you ?
Rit. Um—■ Why, Sir, unfortunately, the fact is-
J. Bull. That you are a parson, and the Pope disowns you, and says
you are none of his. Who’s your Bishop ? Dr. What ’s-his-name,
Bishop of Southwark, or whatever he calls himself—or the Bishop
of Chichester?
Rit. Chichester at present.
J. Bull. You may well say, at present. Does the Bishop of Chi-
chester, then, allow you to wear those things ? Does he sanction
your celebration of your Mass ? Eh ?
Rit. N-n-n-no; Sir.
J. Bull. N o, Sir ? I should think not, Sir. Has he not inhibited
you from officiating at all ?
Rit. Ye-e-s, Sir.
J. Bull. And of course you will obey him ?
Rit. (sulkily). No; I won’t.
J. Bull. You won’t ? And you say this, do you ? Why who but you,
and such as you, have been always preaching up the duty of submission
to Bishops ? That is what you have all along been hammering at—
all very well for the opposite party: but the moment your Bishop
forbids Ritualistic mummeries, you fly in his face. Go along with
you!
Rit. Where to. Sir ?
J. Bull. Rome, Sir; where every honest man of your whole lot,
except a few fools, has already gone. The Pope has invited you. But
mind, he has invited you as a stranger, as a Protestant, as a heretic.
You a priest? You pretend to call yourself a priest? You make
believe to say Mass, and hear confessions, and give absolution ? Do
you ? And all this while you are eating the bread of the Church you
undermine—mischievous rat! No; it’s not falling, or you’d leave it
fast enough. You ’ll stay, while there are any loaves and fishes—will
you ? Not if I can help it—you humbug, you impostor, Be off!
[Flourishing cudgel about Ritualist’s ears, drives him out.
CRUELTY TO BACHELORS.
Of an eve, homeward bound, from a walk rather long,
As I passed through a village, out rang the Church bells ;
And they sang me the chorus, methought, of a song:
How bells sing, the old story of Whittington tells.
P lain as ever were words spoke by Mag or by Poll,
Did those village Church bells resound Tol de rol lol,
Tol de rol tippledy,
Tol de rol tippledy,
Tol de rol tippledy,
Ri fol de rol.
I hadmowise exceeded for some time before,
Had a perfect teetotaller been all the day,
But I meant to have one glass of beer and no more.
At a house I was going to pass on my way.
It is one of the few where you get the old stuff—
Beer of which, as a rule, half-a-pint is enough.
Tol de rol tippledy, &c.
Oh, ’tis woeful to think how deplorably few
Are the places where good beer is still to be sold.
For most brewers have now ceased such stingo to brew
As we used to imbibe in our young days of old.
In its stead there’s your flat, heavy, dull Burton ale,
Or a dreary dead level of bitter and pale.
Tol de rol tippledy, &c.
When the beer-engine came in place of the tap,
From that time it was never in England good beer ;
For that base machine spoils any brewed worth a rap,
’Tis increased population, the truth if you’ll hear,
Which the publican needs must draw fast to supply ;
And the reason malt liquor is ruined—that’s why.
Tol de rol tippledy, &c.
What a thought that we’re sunk and degraded so low,
That, what sort of a thing decent swipes ought to be.
We have beer from Vienna sent over to show !
Who would ever have feared such debasement to see ?
U s the foreigner even in beer now excels :
’Twas his triumph I seemed to hear rung by Church bells.
Tol de rol tippledy, &c.
A GOOD FRENCH FELLOW.
The French have a reputation, not unmerited, for saying smart
things. Their witticisms, however, analysed, for the most part resolve
themselves into utterances, offensive or defensive, of restless vanity.
But there are exceptions to this rule, and here is one of them, thanks
to the Pall Mall Gazette:—
“ M. Henri Rochefort, in a recent number of La Lanterne, alluding to
the supposed determination of the Emperor to make war if the elections went
against him, asks what would be thought of a man rushing into the street and
stabbing an inoffensive person because his landlord had raised his rent.”
This is an apt and manly illustration. Its manliness is quite peculiar.
The love of approbation which, in an irritable state, is the basis of
most French wit, men have in common with animals. You may note
it exceedingly active, for instance, in the cur and the monkey. It these
creatures could speak, they would be always saying something piquant
either to flatter or to wound one another’s self-conceit. In the parallel,
<put as above by M. Henri Rochefort, there is evident, besides
reason, the distinctly human faculty of conscientiousness, or the moral
sense. Welcome to a Frenchman thus saying a really, in every sense
of the word, good thing.
A French journal relates that, as a provocative to marriage on the
part of selfish bachelors, at a fete held at Montreuil—
“ On a decide que le oonoours de tir au pistolet et a la carabine serait
rigoureusement reserve aux hommes maries.”
A novel method this to drive a man to marry! Fancy a B.A., or
any other British bachelor, imagining himself forced to go and get a
wife, for the reason that without one he could never shoot at Wimble-
don ! We can’t help thinking that the ladies of Montreuil would have
had a better chance if the authorities had set on foot a bachelors’ ball
for the benefit of those who were denied the use of bullets. In this
case the young fellows who were not allowed to shoot, might have been
exposed to the risk of being shot at; for there is no doubt that, if
husbands are there in such demand, the bachelors at a ball would have
each become a target for some of Cupid’s arrows.
NO PARTY QUESTION.
“ I do not,” says the Knight of Kerry, in a sensible letter to the
Times on the Irish Church, “ presume to say whether Mr. Disraeli
should have approached Mr. Gladstone, or Mr. Gladstone Mr.
Disraeli ; but undoubtedly they ought to have met.” If they had,
he thinks that a measure might have been passed which “ must have
commanded the respect of the country.” “ I believe,” concludes the
honourable gentleman, “ that all that was needed on the part of the
leaders for such a happy consummation was the possession of two
qualities most rare indeed among eminent statesmen—common sense
and common honesty.” Just so; and if the Leader of the Liberal
Party and the Conservative Premier had met together, there would
have been a conjunction of Common Honesty with Common Senee.
Which would have been which ?