DOI Heft:
April 3, 1880
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17763#0162
156 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [Ap«l 3, isto.
’Tis lovely to look back on! Stretched my pall
Of poisonous asphyxia over all,
Week after week, unintermittently,
Till mortals, finding that they could not see,
E’en at high noon, or what one noon supposes,
Two feet before their fog-choked frost-nipped noses,
Imagined, growing gloomier, grimier, glummer,
That day had wholly vanished—following Summer !
Lord! what a lark it was to see them groping,.
Like blind black-beetles, beer-bemused to dizziness,
At early, but Egyptian, morn to business! .
Sniffing and sneezing, grumbling, vainly hoping
For my departure, air-draughts less pea-soupy,
Lungs less smoke-clogged, and bronchial tubes less croupy.
I raised the death-rates and the gas-bills high,
And lowered vigour and vitality.
Christmas I made a lurid murky mystery,
A sombre, sunless, swart, Serbonian season,
For misty misery unmatched in history.
I almost robbed the artist-world of reason ;
Poor painter-men went mad above their madder :
So shall my evil spell extend to May,
When scantier, less saleable, and sadder
Must be the R.A.’s annual Art array.
And now returning in the budding Spring,
When men of course expected no such thing,
Thinking I d fled, and of my reign left no trace,
I ’ve been and spoilt the Boat-Race! !!
Delicious! !
Didn’t my victims look supremely vicious,
As, stealing o’er the reaches of the river,
I made them snort, and swear, and stamp, and shiver—
Their noses bluer than their badges ? Drawn
From distant downy beds at early dawn,
So to be sold!
Returning, pinched and peevish, cross and cold,
To teU the world that though men dare to row
The race in rushing rain or blinding snow,
Champions defying deluge, braving blast,
Had to knock under to King Fog at last!
Ha ! ha !—how hath my murky empire grown!
The circling year will soon be all mine own.
Easter elections I perhaps—no—steady!
That were sheer waste.
Dizzy, a man precisely to my taste,
Has fogged all issues, and most minds, already.
But Epsom !—happy thought! I’m game to bet
I’ve not yet reached the limit of my tether.
I’ve spoiled the Boat-Race with infernal weather,
And—who knows ?—I may stop the Derby yet !!!
The Mountain Child.
A morning paper announces:—
“ The St. Gothard Tunnel, the longest in the world, in the construction
of which more lives have been lost than in any other similar undertaking,
has now acquired the unique distinction of being the scene of a birth.”
The wife of a workman employed in the Tunnel, having entered
it .to see her husband, unexpectedly presented him with this new
olive-branch—sprung to light in the dark. Mother and child are
doing as well as could be expected.
Punch, in honour of the event, ventures to fit a new point to the
old saw, “ Parturiunt monies nascetur,” not “ ridiculus mus,” but
“ parvulus infans.”
Head Money at Salonica.
Punch rejoices to learn that Colonel Synge is released—for a mere
song—to the very pretty tune of £12 000 !
It would be interesting to know who has paid the money. Not the
English Government. The Colonel is an Ottoman employe. Not the
Turks. They haven’t got it, and would not pay if they had. Can
the Brigands have been obliged to Synge for it ?
Flood versus Fog.
Will rails at Ben, and Ben at William girds ;
The wise man owns, whate’er his party leanings,
That Gladstone’s speech has far too many words,
Whilst Dizzy’s words have aU too many meanings.
A Scratch Crew.—That of the boat in which Charon used to ferry
souls over ancient Styx to Old Scratch.
7R-. BROTHERHOOD OF BEER.
No wonder Beer in Burton should be rooted on a rock—the Bass-
Rock. Bass and Allsopp have it all their own way, not only in
that happy borough, which between them they make,
“ Illustrious by their names,
And prosperous by their brew.”
But in all the surrounding regions—
“ Two men they are to all the county dear,
And passing rich on profits of their beer.”
While in less blessed boroughs parties and party-leaders are at
daggers drawn, if not actually cutting one another’s throats, Burton
meets in tuneful concord and Brewerly—which seems the best kind
of brotherly—love, at the Masonic Hall, in Union Street, (happily
named locality) to pelebrate the nnthreatened supremacy of Michael
Bass and Samuel Ajllsopp—Liberal and Conservative as they are-
in the genial affections of East Staffordshire.
In acknowledging the toast of the “ County Members,” Mr. Bass
talked sense as sound as his beer, and particularly opportune at
this time.
“ If they were to take all as truth which fell from the lips of gentlemen of
both parties, they might indeed tremble for the future of their country. On
the one hand they were told that a more truculent, bloodthirsty, or disrepu-
table lot did not exnt than her Majesty’s Ministers; and on the other hand
they were told that a more rascally, dishonest, or dishonourable crew did not
exist than the Opposition. Those hard words were really only the language
of innocent metaphor, and all that was meant was that the‘outs’ would
like to supplant the ‘ ins ’; and that if they were in they thought they could
do better than those who were at present in. Fortunately, at the present
day they did not allow politics to interfere with private friendship, and he-
hoped and trusted that, however much they might differ on political ques-
tions, they would never cease to remember that above all things they were
Englishmen and gentlemen, that they should retain a kindly consideration
one for another, and have the generosity to believe that there was truth,
honour, and uprightness, even in those who differed from them.”
Conservative Allsopp then rose, and said ditto to Liberal Bass.
This Election Harmony, in Tborougb-Bass, is reaUy refreshing.
And to think that the source of such sweetness should be the spring
of Bitter Beer! The fountain of such light is the flow of the
amber-osial nectar of Bass and Allsopp !
There is a lesson in this, if philosophy could but find it out.
Is it in the saccharine of the malt, or in the wholesome, tonic, of
the hop, that we should seek the secret of this harmonising in-
fluence, or is it that such honest Brewers must be honest men, and
so equally welcome to their constituents, whatever their political
trade-mark, so long as their bottle-label testifies as now to the quality
of their beer ?
Parvum in Muxto.—Election speeches.
’Tis lovely to look back on! Stretched my pall
Of poisonous asphyxia over all,
Week after week, unintermittently,
Till mortals, finding that they could not see,
E’en at high noon, or what one noon supposes,
Two feet before their fog-choked frost-nipped noses,
Imagined, growing gloomier, grimier, glummer,
That day had wholly vanished—following Summer !
Lord! what a lark it was to see them groping,.
Like blind black-beetles, beer-bemused to dizziness,
At early, but Egyptian, morn to business! .
Sniffing and sneezing, grumbling, vainly hoping
For my departure, air-draughts less pea-soupy,
Lungs less smoke-clogged, and bronchial tubes less croupy.
I raised the death-rates and the gas-bills high,
And lowered vigour and vitality.
Christmas I made a lurid murky mystery,
A sombre, sunless, swart, Serbonian season,
For misty misery unmatched in history.
I almost robbed the artist-world of reason ;
Poor painter-men went mad above their madder :
So shall my evil spell extend to May,
When scantier, less saleable, and sadder
Must be the R.A.’s annual Art array.
And now returning in the budding Spring,
When men of course expected no such thing,
Thinking I d fled, and of my reign left no trace,
I ’ve been and spoilt the Boat-Race! !!
Delicious! !
Didn’t my victims look supremely vicious,
As, stealing o’er the reaches of the river,
I made them snort, and swear, and stamp, and shiver—
Their noses bluer than their badges ? Drawn
From distant downy beds at early dawn,
So to be sold!
Returning, pinched and peevish, cross and cold,
To teU the world that though men dare to row
The race in rushing rain or blinding snow,
Champions defying deluge, braving blast,
Had to knock under to King Fog at last!
Ha ! ha !—how hath my murky empire grown!
The circling year will soon be all mine own.
Easter elections I perhaps—no—steady!
That were sheer waste.
Dizzy, a man precisely to my taste,
Has fogged all issues, and most minds, already.
But Epsom !—happy thought! I’m game to bet
I’ve not yet reached the limit of my tether.
I’ve spoiled the Boat-Race with infernal weather,
And—who knows ?—I may stop the Derby yet !!!
The Mountain Child.
A morning paper announces:—
“ The St. Gothard Tunnel, the longest in the world, in the construction
of which more lives have been lost than in any other similar undertaking,
has now acquired the unique distinction of being the scene of a birth.”
The wife of a workman employed in the Tunnel, having entered
it .to see her husband, unexpectedly presented him with this new
olive-branch—sprung to light in the dark. Mother and child are
doing as well as could be expected.
Punch, in honour of the event, ventures to fit a new point to the
old saw, “ Parturiunt monies nascetur,” not “ ridiculus mus,” but
“ parvulus infans.”
Head Money at Salonica.
Punch rejoices to learn that Colonel Synge is released—for a mere
song—to the very pretty tune of £12 000 !
It would be interesting to know who has paid the money. Not the
English Government. The Colonel is an Ottoman employe. Not the
Turks. They haven’t got it, and would not pay if they had. Can
the Brigands have been obliged to Synge for it ?
Flood versus Fog.
Will rails at Ben, and Ben at William girds ;
The wise man owns, whate’er his party leanings,
That Gladstone’s speech has far too many words,
Whilst Dizzy’s words have aU too many meanings.
A Scratch Crew.—That of the boat in which Charon used to ferry
souls over ancient Styx to Old Scratch.
7R-. BROTHERHOOD OF BEER.
No wonder Beer in Burton should be rooted on a rock—the Bass-
Rock. Bass and Allsopp have it all their own way, not only in
that happy borough, which between them they make,
“ Illustrious by their names,
And prosperous by their brew.”
But in all the surrounding regions—
“ Two men they are to all the county dear,
And passing rich on profits of their beer.”
While in less blessed boroughs parties and party-leaders are at
daggers drawn, if not actually cutting one another’s throats, Burton
meets in tuneful concord and Brewerly—which seems the best kind
of brotherly—love, at the Masonic Hall, in Union Street, (happily
named locality) to pelebrate the nnthreatened supremacy of Michael
Bass and Samuel Ajllsopp—Liberal and Conservative as they are-
in the genial affections of East Staffordshire.
In acknowledging the toast of the “ County Members,” Mr. Bass
talked sense as sound as his beer, and particularly opportune at
this time.
“ If they were to take all as truth which fell from the lips of gentlemen of
both parties, they might indeed tremble for the future of their country. On
the one hand they were told that a more truculent, bloodthirsty, or disrepu-
table lot did not exnt than her Majesty’s Ministers; and on the other hand
they were told that a more rascally, dishonest, or dishonourable crew did not
exist than the Opposition. Those hard words were really only the language
of innocent metaphor, and all that was meant was that the‘outs’ would
like to supplant the ‘ ins ’; and that if they were in they thought they could
do better than those who were at present in. Fortunately, at the present
day they did not allow politics to interfere with private friendship, and he-
hoped and trusted that, however much they might differ on political ques-
tions, they would never cease to remember that above all things they were
Englishmen and gentlemen, that they should retain a kindly consideration
one for another, and have the generosity to believe that there was truth,
honour, and uprightness, even in those who differed from them.”
Conservative Allsopp then rose, and said ditto to Liberal Bass.
This Election Harmony, in Tborougb-Bass, is reaUy refreshing.
And to think that the source of such sweetness should be the spring
of Bitter Beer! The fountain of such light is the flow of the
amber-osial nectar of Bass and Allsopp !
There is a lesson in this, if philosophy could but find it out.
Is it in the saccharine of the malt, or in the wholesome, tonic, of
the hop, that we should seek the secret of this harmonising in-
fluence, or is it that such honest Brewers must be honest men, and
so equally welcome to their constituents, whatever their political
trade-mark, so long as their bottle-label testifies as now to the quality
of their beer ?
Parvum in Muxto.—Election speeches.