DOI issue:
August 12, 1882
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17753#0070
62
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [August 12, um
A “ CLOTURE.”
Liberal Landlord. “ What a:re you doing in my Stack-Yard ?”
Irish Tramp (engaged in mending his Clothes). “I was jist a gatherin’ in me Hints,
Sorr ! ” \_The Squire drops the subject, and retires !
“ THE STONE OE DESTINY.”
Dear Mr. Punch,—Everybody knows that the Scotch are a wonderful people, although,
according to Sydney Smith, there is one quality in which they are notoriously, and hopelessly
deficient. According to that eminent authority, they are utterly, except under certain
circumstances,_ which he explains, impervious to a joke. But the dictum, of Sydney Smith, I
presume, applies only to jokes proper, or jokes improper, but not, I am satisfied, to practical
jokes ; for I have just made the important discovery that, for centuries past, the Scots have
been playing upon us poor Southrons a practical joke of the most stupendous kind.
“Every schoolboy” knows that our great King Edward, after belabouring the Scots
for twenty years, brought nothing away from their blessed country except a stone, and a
precious ugly stone too, but upon which they pretended that their kings had been invariably
crowned, from the days of Noah downwards ; and we poor deluded Saxons, believing the
story, have been persistently crowning our kings and queens on the aforesaid stone ever
since. But what is the fact? “The Stone of Destiny” which we so religiously preserve
at Westminster, and upon which Her most
Gracious Majesty was crowned, like so
many of her royal ancestors, is not the real
article after all. The Scots were far too
wide awake to part with that. They utterly
imposed upon King Edward by sending
him a shapeless block of sandstone, while
they kept the genuine stone at home. I
have just made a careful examination of it.
It is in perfect preservation in this ancient
burgh of Inverness, and is placed, the better
to deceive the English, under a handsome
fountain in front of the Town Hall.
Of course your Guides and Guide-Books
have another story about this Stone. It
would never do to tell the truth about it,
after having imposed upon us poor credu-
lous Saxons for six hundred years. But
in this age of critical inquiry it is impos-
sible that the truth can be much longer
concealed, and you will be pleased to hear
that the matter is to be brought under the
notice of the British Association at its next
meeting. The learned Doctor Duffer has
prepared a paper on the subject, which he
has shown to me, in the strictest confidence,
proving the truth of what I now communi-
cate to you. An Indignant Saxon.
SONG OF THE ANGRY PIGEON-
SHOOTER.
Air—John Anderson, my jo.'’’’
George Anderson, you bore, George,
Why can’t you be content ?
Why pitch into our gentle sport
To such a mad extent ?
Your arguments are bald, George,
Your shots at us don’t score,
Anathemas on your impudence,
George Anderson, you bore !
George Anderson, you bore, George,
You’re wrong, Sir. altogether ;
Canards concerning Pigeons, George,
Are bosh and maudlin blether.
You never had a crown, Grorge,
On bird or gun ! Give o’er,
And leave us swells to bet and shoot,
George Anderson, you bore !
LATEST WAR-OEFICS BOGY.
First Appearance of Life-Guardsman in
the new Egyptian Uniform, “Goggles”
included. Terror of Infantry in
Perambulator.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [August 12, um
A “ CLOTURE.”
Liberal Landlord. “ What a:re you doing in my Stack-Yard ?”
Irish Tramp (engaged in mending his Clothes). “I was jist a gatherin’ in me Hints,
Sorr ! ” \_The Squire drops the subject, and retires !
“ THE STONE OE DESTINY.”
Dear Mr. Punch,—Everybody knows that the Scotch are a wonderful people, although,
according to Sydney Smith, there is one quality in which they are notoriously, and hopelessly
deficient. According to that eminent authority, they are utterly, except under certain
circumstances,_ which he explains, impervious to a joke. But the dictum, of Sydney Smith, I
presume, applies only to jokes proper, or jokes improper, but not, I am satisfied, to practical
jokes ; for I have just made the important discovery that, for centuries past, the Scots have
been playing upon us poor Southrons a practical joke of the most stupendous kind.
“Every schoolboy” knows that our great King Edward, after belabouring the Scots
for twenty years, brought nothing away from their blessed country except a stone, and a
precious ugly stone too, but upon which they pretended that their kings had been invariably
crowned, from the days of Noah downwards ; and we poor deluded Saxons, believing the
story, have been persistently crowning our kings and queens on the aforesaid stone ever
since. But what is the fact? “The Stone of Destiny” which we so religiously preserve
at Westminster, and upon which Her most
Gracious Majesty was crowned, like so
many of her royal ancestors, is not the real
article after all. The Scots were far too
wide awake to part with that. They utterly
imposed upon King Edward by sending
him a shapeless block of sandstone, while
they kept the genuine stone at home. I
have just made a careful examination of it.
It is in perfect preservation in this ancient
burgh of Inverness, and is placed, the better
to deceive the English, under a handsome
fountain in front of the Town Hall.
Of course your Guides and Guide-Books
have another story about this Stone. It
would never do to tell the truth about it,
after having imposed upon us poor credu-
lous Saxons for six hundred years. But
in this age of critical inquiry it is impos-
sible that the truth can be much longer
concealed, and you will be pleased to hear
that the matter is to be brought under the
notice of the British Association at its next
meeting. The learned Doctor Duffer has
prepared a paper on the subject, which he
has shown to me, in the strictest confidence,
proving the truth of what I now communi-
cate to you. An Indignant Saxon.
SONG OF THE ANGRY PIGEON-
SHOOTER.
Air—John Anderson, my jo.'’’’
George Anderson, you bore, George,
Why can’t you be content ?
Why pitch into our gentle sport
To such a mad extent ?
Your arguments are bald, George,
Your shots at us don’t score,
Anathemas on your impudence,
George Anderson, you bore !
George Anderson, you bore, George,
You’re wrong, Sir. altogether ;
Canards concerning Pigeons, George,
Are bosh and maudlin blether.
You never had a crown, Grorge,
On bird or gun ! Give o’er,
And leave us swells to bet and shoot,
George Anderson, you bore !
LATEST WAR-OEFICS BOGY.
First Appearance of Life-Guardsman in
the new Egyptian Uniform, “Goggles”
included. Terror of Infantry in
Perambulator.