DOI issue:
September 29, 1883
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17755#0168
156
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 29, 1883. i
AN OLD POSTMAN’S STORY.
“ ’Tis true, your honour ! 1 ’m fair dead beat, so I ’ll snatch a rest on this country stile,
For I’ve trudged and tramped with loaded back from county town— ’tis many a mile,
Up at the hour when the cock’s awake, and shuttling home when the bat’s on wing,
A-calling here, and a-calling there, with a wait for a knock, and again for a ring ;
A pleasant life do you call it, Sir ? to skirt the hedges and brush the dew,
To scare the pheasant, and wake the thrush, and mark the spot where violets grew.
Well, it’s all very well for the folks in town, who come down here just to take their rest;
But with chaps like me, when my labour ’s done and I long for leisure, then bed’s the best.
It wasn’t so bad in the days gone by, with letters tied up in a handy pack,
A stick, a satchel, a pair of legs, a sense of duty, a big broad back ;
But now it’s different quite, look here, when the grave is ready and sexton host,
Let them bury me quiet, and put on the stone, ‘ His back it was broke by the Parcels
Post.’
“I’m not so mad with new-fangled ways as Dick at the inn with his yard of clay.
■I’ve seen the scythe and sickle give in, and the railroad come in the farmer’s way ;
The Hail isn’t heard in the old rick-yard, and the buzz of machinery frightens the nag,
And we haven’t got coaches, or guards, or mails to gallop along with the postman’s bag.
I haven’t a doubt that the policy ’s good of the Liberal gentlemen sitting in town
To cheapen the cottager’s packet of tea, and send on a pattern of Missus’s gown ;
They can forward old women their physic and stuff, in reply to an order on halfpenny cards,
And the men can get baccy sent up by the pound, and the women their finery easy by yards.
But what I do say, it’s a little too hard to make an old messenger give up the ghost
Because he is doomed to be spoke in the wheel of the Juggernaut Car—called the Parcels Post!
“I’ve a son in town, as handy a lad, though I shouldn’t say so, as ever you see,
And he sorts the packets and parcels out, that are driven to trains and handed to me,
And he tells his father that London’s full of one-horse carriages painted red,
He owns his business hours are stiff, but he gets his meals and he likes his bed ;
They tempt the lad—though he’s good as gold—as very few young ’uns are tempted now,
With money, and jewels, and stamps, and cheques, which a fool might lose, but a rascal
‘ stow; ’
And they give him a salary, on my word, that a labouring lad might fairly scorn,
■ For Master Hodge has the air to breathe, and never sees gas whether night or morn,—
Still I think on the ivhole that the boy up there has a happier life—though I ’d better not
boast—
Than the labouring hack with a weight on Ms back, who is driven to death by the Parcels
Post!
“ It stands to reason, why just look here, ’tis in rural beats where the shoe must pinch,
The orders come from the 1 boss ’ in town, but the patient messenger he daren’t fiinch.
We’ve asked for a lad; or a horse and cart, why even a tricycle many could ride,
But never a word to our mute appeal that travels to town from the country side.
They groan and growl in the London prints of packages broken and strings undone,
And kick up a fuss about chocolate-drops they have counted out, and are short by one !
But they never can picture a man as I, of age threescore—well: and nearly ten—
Who is taught to boast of a land that’s free, and struggles along ’neath the wMps of men.
It may be policy ! Who can say ? It may he economy, Statesmen’s boast,
It may be life to our public men, but it’s death to the slave of the Parcels Post!
‘1 So if I am late who dares complain f and if I am weary I must sit down
Like this on a stile for a minute or two, in my daily tramp from the county town.
Sometimes I envy the birds that fly, from branch to branch, in the air that’s free,
I follow the flight of the butterfly’s wing, and the honeyed content of the burden’d bee ! -
I hear the song of the labourer’s lad as he rides the waggon or follows the plough,
And the robin iooks up with his curious eyes as I rest for a minute to mop my brow.
In the morning mist I am off and away, to hurry despair or to hasten fate,
Leaving parcels of patterns for girls at the Hall, and letters of love at the Rectory gate ;
But when your Parliament rings with cheers and the good news travels from coast to coast,
In the heat of triumph - just loose one chain from the hack of the slave of the Parcels Post!”
AN ALL-ABSORBING SUBJECT.
{In the hilly Season.)
The Maze, Vague Hollow.
Sir,—As wasps are so numerous this
year, a sovereign recipe for the cure of their
stings is invaluable. I can give one. Take
twenty pounds of oranges, half a hundred-
weight of sugar, and a hottle of brandy,
and mix thoroughly. When quite assimi- I
lated, boil for twenty-four hours, and then
strain off the impurities. Allow the mix- i
ture to cool in a dry place, and bottle in
two-gallon jars. Cover the place eontaining
the sting with some of the concoction, and
a speedy cure will be secured.
Yours respectfully,
Accuracy.
P.S.—As I like to be exact, I beg to say
the above is either an excellent recipe for
wasp-stings, or marmalade—I forget which.
The Factory, Smart Avenue.
Sir,—The only reliable cure for wasp-
stings is the Anti-Poison Rat-Killer and
Insect Neutraliser. It may be obtained in
boxes at one shilling and three halfpence,
three shillings and sevenpence halfpenny,
and four guineas. It is cheaper to purchase j
the latter, as the price of the Government [
stamp is therein included. The largest box, i
too, insures a speedier cure and more instant
relief than the smaller ones. I need scarcely I
say that my advice is given in a thoroughly
disinterested spirit. I beg to subscribe
myself, The Patentee.
P.S.—Be sure you ask for the right
article, and do not be satisfied with spurious
and noxious imitations.
The Bower, Pigsville-on- Stye.
Sir,—For many years I have made the
stings of wasps my constant study. Every
day in the summer and winter months I
have the walls of all the rooms in my house
coated with a thick concoction of garlic.
The carpets are once a week washed
thoroughly with parsley-water, and all over
the place liquorice-root is kept constantly
burning. The garden is thickly sown with
onions, and all my food is flavoured with
peppermint. Finally, I have a vaporiser in
the hall, which distributes camphor in all
directions. By these simple means I
scarcely ever get stung by a wasp.
Believe me, yours very sincerely,
A Rosebud. .
P.S.—I may explain that the insect in
question has a very sensitive sense of smell.
Only a mad wasp would approach my
dwelling, and a mad wasp has rarely brains
enough to sting.
TWILL NOT DO.
“ Why has not man a microscopic eye ?
For this plain reason, Man is not a fly.”
Sang Pope with complacent optimistic dogmatism. But that’s all
knocked on the head now. Since Science turned social detective,
Man has a microscopic eye, or its equivalent. The ignorance which
is bliss is now no man’s lot. “ A Practical Chemist ” assures us
that the Turkey-red twill, which is largely used for lining dressing-
gowns and making children’s frocks, is heavily loaded with the
chlorides of calcium and magnesium, which absorb water “ eagerly ”
from the atmosphere, insuring a damp state of the clothing except in
l the driest weather. Delicious ! How little did we know, when
donning our (seemingly) snug dressing-gown that we were clothing
ourselves with rheumatism as with a garment. Oh, that twill be
joyful! Is there anything in our daily life, from socks to champagne^
from drains to dressing-gowns, that is not a serious danger to health r
And is life worth living with this detective-delineated modern ‘ ‘ Dance
of Death ” continually going on around us ?
Legal Lunch.—Bacon and Fry.
RAMPANT RIBBONOSITY.
A Man no longer wears his heart upon his sleeve, but he carries a
certificate of good morals in his button-hole. We read in the Daily
News (Sept. 20)—
“ At Boscombe Down, Wilts, yesterday, the first anniversary of the ‘ Red
Ribbon Army ’ was celebrated. The Army is composed of ‘ moderate
drinkers.’ A dinner was given, and the affair was one of great rejoicing.”
The following little song might have been sung on the occasion:
Moderation is Carnation, I If ribbonless, I must confess,
Abstinence is Blue : | I wonder what are you ?
He who wears no ribbon whatever in the present day is. most
assuredly open to the gravest suspicion. No doubt the adoption of
these decorations is an exceUent thing—for the Ribbon Trade.
“My Nephew,” said Mrs. Ramsbotham, “is unable to take a
holiday this Autumn, as he is officiating as local tennis for the Vicar
of Snorton-cum-Slumborough.”
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 29, 1883. i
AN OLD POSTMAN’S STORY.
“ ’Tis true, your honour ! 1 ’m fair dead beat, so I ’ll snatch a rest on this country stile,
For I’ve trudged and tramped with loaded back from county town— ’tis many a mile,
Up at the hour when the cock’s awake, and shuttling home when the bat’s on wing,
A-calling here, and a-calling there, with a wait for a knock, and again for a ring ;
A pleasant life do you call it, Sir ? to skirt the hedges and brush the dew,
To scare the pheasant, and wake the thrush, and mark the spot where violets grew.
Well, it’s all very well for the folks in town, who come down here just to take their rest;
But with chaps like me, when my labour ’s done and I long for leisure, then bed’s the best.
It wasn’t so bad in the days gone by, with letters tied up in a handy pack,
A stick, a satchel, a pair of legs, a sense of duty, a big broad back ;
But now it’s different quite, look here, when the grave is ready and sexton host,
Let them bury me quiet, and put on the stone, ‘ His back it was broke by the Parcels
Post.’
“I’m not so mad with new-fangled ways as Dick at the inn with his yard of clay.
■I’ve seen the scythe and sickle give in, and the railroad come in the farmer’s way ;
The Hail isn’t heard in the old rick-yard, and the buzz of machinery frightens the nag,
And we haven’t got coaches, or guards, or mails to gallop along with the postman’s bag.
I haven’t a doubt that the policy ’s good of the Liberal gentlemen sitting in town
To cheapen the cottager’s packet of tea, and send on a pattern of Missus’s gown ;
They can forward old women their physic and stuff, in reply to an order on halfpenny cards,
And the men can get baccy sent up by the pound, and the women their finery easy by yards.
But what I do say, it’s a little too hard to make an old messenger give up the ghost
Because he is doomed to be spoke in the wheel of the Juggernaut Car—called the Parcels Post!
“I’ve a son in town, as handy a lad, though I shouldn’t say so, as ever you see,
And he sorts the packets and parcels out, that are driven to trains and handed to me,
And he tells his father that London’s full of one-horse carriages painted red,
He owns his business hours are stiff, but he gets his meals and he likes his bed ;
They tempt the lad—though he’s good as gold—as very few young ’uns are tempted now,
With money, and jewels, and stamps, and cheques, which a fool might lose, but a rascal
‘ stow; ’
And they give him a salary, on my word, that a labouring lad might fairly scorn,
■ For Master Hodge has the air to breathe, and never sees gas whether night or morn,—
Still I think on the ivhole that the boy up there has a happier life—though I ’d better not
boast—
Than the labouring hack with a weight on Ms back, who is driven to death by the Parcels
Post!
“ It stands to reason, why just look here, ’tis in rural beats where the shoe must pinch,
The orders come from the 1 boss ’ in town, but the patient messenger he daren’t fiinch.
We’ve asked for a lad; or a horse and cart, why even a tricycle many could ride,
But never a word to our mute appeal that travels to town from the country side.
They groan and growl in the London prints of packages broken and strings undone,
And kick up a fuss about chocolate-drops they have counted out, and are short by one !
But they never can picture a man as I, of age threescore—well: and nearly ten—
Who is taught to boast of a land that’s free, and struggles along ’neath the wMps of men.
It may be policy ! Who can say ? It may he economy, Statesmen’s boast,
It may be life to our public men, but it’s death to the slave of the Parcels Post!
‘1 So if I am late who dares complain f and if I am weary I must sit down
Like this on a stile for a minute or two, in my daily tramp from the county town.
Sometimes I envy the birds that fly, from branch to branch, in the air that’s free,
I follow the flight of the butterfly’s wing, and the honeyed content of the burden’d bee ! -
I hear the song of the labourer’s lad as he rides the waggon or follows the plough,
And the robin iooks up with his curious eyes as I rest for a minute to mop my brow.
In the morning mist I am off and away, to hurry despair or to hasten fate,
Leaving parcels of patterns for girls at the Hall, and letters of love at the Rectory gate ;
But when your Parliament rings with cheers and the good news travels from coast to coast,
In the heat of triumph - just loose one chain from the hack of the slave of the Parcels Post!”
AN ALL-ABSORBING SUBJECT.
{In the hilly Season.)
The Maze, Vague Hollow.
Sir,—As wasps are so numerous this
year, a sovereign recipe for the cure of their
stings is invaluable. I can give one. Take
twenty pounds of oranges, half a hundred-
weight of sugar, and a hottle of brandy,
and mix thoroughly. When quite assimi- I
lated, boil for twenty-four hours, and then
strain off the impurities. Allow the mix- i
ture to cool in a dry place, and bottle in
two-gallon jars. Cover the place eontaining
the sting with some of the concoction, and
a speedy cure will be secured.
Yours respectfully,
Accuracy.
P.S.—As I like to be exact, I beg to say
the above is either an excellent recipe for
wasp-stings, or marmalade—I forget which.
The Factory, Smart Avenue.
Sir,—The only reliable cure for wasp-
stings is the Anti-Poison Rat-Killer and
Insect Neutraliser. It may be obtained in
boxes at one shilling and three halfpence,
three shillings and sevenpence halfpenny,
and four guineas. It is cheaper to purchase j
the latter, as the price of the Government [
stamp is therein included. The largest box, i
too, insures a speedier cure and more instant
relief than the smaller ones. I need scarcely I
say that my advice is given in a thoroughly
disinterested spirit. I beg to subscribe
myself, The Patentee.
P.S.—Be sure you ask for the right
article, and do not be satisfied with spurious
and noxious imitations.
The Bower, Pigsville-on- Stye.
Sir,—For many years I have made the
stings of wasps my constant study. Every
day in the summer and winter months I
have the walls of all the rooms in my house
coated with a thick concoction of garlic.
The carpets are once a week washed
thoroughly with parsley-water, and all over
the place liquorice-root is kept constantly
burning. The garden is thickly sown with
onions, and all my food is flavoured with
peppermint. Finally, I have a vaporiser in
the hall, which distributes camphor in all
directions. By these simple means I
scarcely ever get stung by a wasp.
Believe me, yours very sincerely,
A Rosebud. .
P.S.—I may explain that the insect in
question has a very sensitive sense of smell.
Only a mad wasp would approach my
dwelling, and a mad wasp has rarely brains
enough to sting.
TWILL NOT DO.
“ Why has not man a microscopic eye ?
For this plain reason, Man is not a fly.”
Sang Pope with complacent optimistic dogmatism. But that’s all
knocked on the head now. Since Science turned social detective,
Man has a microscopic eye, or its equivalent. The ignorance which
is bliss is now no man’s lot. “ A Practical Chemist ” assures us
that the Turkey-red twill, which is largely used for lining dressing-
gowns and making children’s frocks, is heavily loaded with the
chlorides of calcium and magnesium, which absorb water “ eagerly ”
from the atmosphere, insuring a damp state of the clothing except in
l the driest weather. Delicious ! How little did we know, when
donning our (seemingly) snug dressing-gown that we were clothing
ourselves with rheumatism as with a garment. Oh, that twill be
joyful! Is there anything in our daily life, from socks to champagne^
from drains to dressing-gowns, that is not a serious danger to health r
And is life worth living with this detective-delineated modern ‘ ‘ Dance
of Death ” continually going on around us ?
Legal Lunch.—Bacon and Fry.
RAMPANT RIBBONOSITY.
A Man no longer wears his heart upon his sleeve, but he carries a
certificate of good morals in his button-hole. We read in the Daily
News (Sept. 20)—
“ At Boscombe Down, Wilts, yesterday, the first anniversary of the ‘ Red
Ribbon Army ’ was celebrated. The Army is composed of ‘ moderate
drinkers.’ A dinner was given, and the affair was one of great rejoicing.”
The following little song might have been sung on the occasion:
Moderation is Carnation, I If ribbonless, I must confess,
Abstinence is Blue : | I wonder what are you ?
He who wears no ribbon whatever in the present day is. most
assuredly open to the gravest suspicion. No doubt the adoption of
these decorations is an exceUent thing—for the Ribbon Trade.
“My Nephew,” said Mrs. Ramsbotham, “is unable to take a
holiday this Autumn, as he is officiating as local tennis for the Vicar
of Snorton-cum-Slumborough.”