Punch (67.1874)

188

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[October 31, 1874.

A QUESTION OF NATIONALITY.

Y a recent decision of
the Government at
Yer sailles, English-
men travelling in
France without pass-
ports, are now re-
quired to he able at
any time to prove
their nationality to
the satisfaction of the
French Police. This
being the case, a dis-
tinguished Parisian
journalist, who pos-
sesses a thorough
knowledge of Eng-
land, its People, Man-
ners, and Customs, is
busily engaged upon a
new handbook for
British Travellers.
The work in question
will contain the fol-
lowing dialogue,
which is intended to
serve as a model of
the sort of examina-
tion to which English
tourists will probably
be subjected, and the
kind of answers that
they will be expected to return in reply to disarm the suspicion of
the French Police. It will be noticed that that thorough know-
ledge of England and the English, which the Author shares with
every French journalist, is apparent in nearly every line of the
annexed amusing, instructive, and valuable conversation :—

Sergeant of the Town. It is necessary that I tell you Mister the
Tourist that I speaks English. Oh, yes! I am what you call
Mister the Polisman. You say you are English—where live you ?

Mister the Tourist. In Brompton-Islington—it is a quartier in
Leicester Square.

Sergeant of the Town. I knows it well. It is near to Yauxhall
Bridge. All right! What is your grade in the English “High
Life ? ”

Mister the Tourist. I am perfect gentleman-rider !

Sergeant of the Town. Pardon, Milor! What is your favourite
eat—what you call ?—your favourite dinner-food ?

Mister the Tourist. Ros-bif, plum-puddin, and emince pies.

Sergeant of the Town. Good, very good ! What drink you ?

Mister the Tourist. Portare-biere, gins, and gingere-biere.

Sergeant of the Town. All right! What do you with your wife ?

Mister the Tourist. I sell him at Smithfield.

Sergeant of the Town. You have reason! Describe your English
Mese.

Mister the Tourist. Blonde, tall as a grenadier, thin as a lath,
curls reaching to the ground, red nose, and immense teeth.

Sergeant of the Town. You are right! Ah, she is drole, your
English Mese ! Where lives your Queen ?

Mister the Tourist. At the Tower of Londres, in St. James’ Parc.

Sergeant of the Town. You are well-instructed. What is your
Government ?

Mister the Tourist. It is concealed in a Cabinet.

Sergeant of the Town. It is just. Who has access to that writing-
table—that Cabinet ?

Mister the Tourist. The Lor-Maire, Sir Disraeli, and the Due
Gamisridgge.

Sergeant of the Town. All right ? But of your home ? How
educate you your children ?

Mister• the Tourist. The hoys hunt all day and night in the
plough-field to shoot the fox ; the girls go to “ Boardin-school ” to
learn to make “plum-puddin.”

Sergeant of the Town.—Excuse me, Milor, but what is your fault
the most national ?

Mister the Tourist. It is the swear. It is dreadful, but it is
splendid, because it is national! The Member of the House -
Commons, even, sits not down until he has taken the oath! It is
the custom British!

Sergeant of the Toion.—One more question, Mister the Tourist. A
thousand pardons—but the Battle of Waterloo. Who were the
victors ?

Mister the Tourist. The French.

Sergeant of the Town. All right! Admirable ! And who lost
that victory the most glorious ? Who were beaten like miserables ?

Mister the Tourist. The Prussians.

^ Sergeant of the Town. Magnificent! I kiss your both cheeks.
You are Englishman. I wish you bon voyage. Good morning, Sir!

BACCHUS IN FRANCE.

'AfMpi Alai'joiniv, ’Stf&iXn; Igixu^io; vlov

(JLV'ftffOfJLC/A

Homeric Hymn to Bacchus.

Hail, thou fair land of France,

Whose joyous rivers glance
’Mid vineyards wondrous.

Rich shall thy harvest he,

And from disturbance free
Of war-storm thunderous.

Ah, thou hast known thy woe,

Felt the insulting foe

Those green slopes trample.

Now peace is here again,

Burgundy greets Champagne,

Mintage is ample.

All the world wants to drink,

’Tis the connecting link,

Pace Sir Lawson :

War not, ye Franks, hut toil—

Let not that golden soil
Prussia put paws on.

What though Napoleon
Many a battle won!

Could he inviolate
Keep the fair realm he ruled ?

He, by stern Fate befooled,

Died in an islet.

Germans may have their Rhine—

They cannot match your wine,

Though they are ruses—

Why want that stream to take,

Just for one scribbler’s sake—

Alfred de Musset ?

Bacchus outdoes your hopes
On all the golden slopes,

Making rare mintage:

Yainly the Vigneron asks
For a supply of casks:

Grand is the vintage !

What is the lesson here P
Surely ’tis very clear:

Don’t brag and hector,

Flood all the world with “ fizz
Asia’s great Yictor is
France’s protector.

Wine, oil, and silk, and corn,

Worms’ work by Beauty worn ;

Wine drunk the whole world through;
Grow these, from fear exempt,

And thus invaders tempt,

All friends to you.

Thus Mr. Punch to France,

Region of old romance,

Good advice tenders,

If wine, his thirst to slake,

Comes, for his wisdom’s sake,

Health to the senders.

A WOMAN’S QUESTION.

A Mrs. Julia M'Carthy charged at the Clerkenwell Police Court
the other day with violently assaulting Mrs. Caroline Cook, and
stealing from her person a shawl, was sentenced to three months’
imprisonment and hard labour. She had struck Mrs. Cook a violent
blow on the side of the head, she had knocked her against the wall,
and pulled her hair. The Magistrate in committing her observed
that she had behaved like a “ wild beast.” He seems to have done
leniently in not sending her for trial. Suppose she had been con-
victed at the Central Criminal Court of robbery with violence. Does
the law in the punishment it prescribes for that offence discriminate
the sexes ? The rights of Woman have perhaps been enlarged with-
out her knowledge. Can it be that a female garotter is liable to
the Cat ?