DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16513#0088
76
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
" Yes, my dear ; but you must own there's a hard trial 'twixt [
Newgate and that. Ha ! at this moment, poor things ! "—and again j
Mrs. Traply looked at the Dutch clock—"at this very moment, they're
taking their last sup at the Pound. Ha ! there's the trial, my love." :
Pattv trembled from head to foot, and I could see her small hands
* . I
work convulsively—could see the fighting of her heart to keep the :
terror down, as Mrs. Traply, for the kindest purpose, as she thought, i
painted the horrors of the death-journey from Newgate to Tyburn.
" You don't know what it is, child, or you wouldn't talk in that
way. Ha! my dear, it's very different to going with a party, and
sitting at a window to see the poor things in the cart, and being one
of 'em, you know. Innocence, my dear, is all very well; but I don't j
know any innocence that could bear to be stared at by thousands of,
people, all looking as if they had red-hot eyes upon you ! And then \
to see the whole street swimming about you—and to have the blood !
like boiling lead in your ears—for a dear soul as was reprieved told i
me all about it—and how all the men and women looked like stony-
faced devils round him—and how as he heard some of 'em laugh, it
•went like a knife into his heart—and how as the cart rumbled alone-,
O '
he prayed for the stones to open and bury him—and how when he
got to Tyburn, ha! my dear, he was proved as innocent as you are,
and yet he felt all this—and how, as I was saying, when he got to
Tyburn—but you don't listen to me ?"
The woman spoke the truth ; for Patty had sunk beneath the
struggle of her feelings, and lay insensible in the chair.
POLITICAL LEADER,
The attempt to convert the out-pensioners of Chelsea Hospital into
warriors is one of the wildest designs ever undertaken by a misguided
ministry. It is true that, in the agricultural districts the Chelsea pen-
sioners—or at least, their effigies—are used as a standing army of light
scarecrows, to preserve the crops ; but to think of trusting these worn-
out veterans with real guns, shows the insanity to which folly may drive a
desperate Government.
It is a well-known maxim in ethics that " right's right, anyhow and
this beautiful doctrine has always been our guide, when contending fac-
tions have been snatching at the banner of the Constitution—a banner
which we have often saved from their grasp by lifting up the pole—we
allude, of course, to the public press—that is attached to it. But if wc
have been irritated on other occasions, where shall we find bounds to our
anger now ? If we have written in gall before, we ought now to dip our
pen in the essential oil of vitriol.
Put arms into the hands of the Chelsea pensioners, forsooth ! Why, it
would be much better to put legs—wooden ones we mean—into those j
stumps which tliey are now called upon to stir at the bidding of a per-
plexed Government. When we look at Chelsea Hospital, our heart
always beats quicker, our pulse throbs more frequently, and the blood of
patriotism dances more vividly in our very veins ; but now that the
out-veterans of that fine asylum are to be called once more into active
service, we shall blush for ourselves, to think that our posterity will find
A " KON SEQDmja."
us so much behind our forefathers.
ibpottmg Mdltgmie.
Tkf. championship of the Strand was last week contended for by two
Blackwall and Mile End omnibuses. Petting had been 2 to 1 on Mile
End, but at starting Blackwall was the favourite. They had often run '
against each other before, and Blackwall had been backed against Mile
End, on more than one occasion. Blackwall went off with the lead, when
Mile End suddenly shot a-head, but they were axletree and axletree as
they passed the Punch-office. Soames, the conductor of Blackwall,
kept slamming the door, which is the usual signal for the horses to go on ;
but the driver of Mile End, trusting to the breeding of the team, kept
inciting them to "go along," while he backed his own suggestion by
sawing at their mouths, and applying the whip with vehemence. While
the race was at its highest point of interest, Blackwall moved to the right
and Mile End turned to the left, so that the championship of the Strand is
still undisposed of. 1
PUNCH'S LITTLE TEMPERANCE WARBLER.
Air—Friend of my Soul.
Friend of my soul, this water sip,
Its strength you need not fear j
'Tis not so luscious as egg-flip,
Nor half so strong as beer.
Like Jenkins, when he writes,
It cannot touch the mind ;
Unlike what he indites,
No nausea leaves behind.
THE TEA! THE TEA!
Air— The Sen.
The tea—the tea—the grateful tea,
The black—the green—the strong Bohea ;
Where by a mark—its price is found
.Tt runneth from three-and-six a pound.
When mixed with the sloe, it cheats our eyos;
And like a wicked creature lbs.
I like the tea : I like the tea,,
And drinking it I would ever be ;
With the green above and the black below.
And hot water wheresoe'er 1 go.
If at night I should wish awake to keep,
What matter I—with tea I cannot sleep.
What matter,
I love—Oh how I love to drain
The foaming teacup again and again,
When its heat makes warm the silver spoon,
And the kettle whistles its grateful tune.
I ne'er heard a man for brandy roar,
But my tea I fancied more and more ;
And off to my favourite chest I ran
Like a bailiff that fiercely seeketh his man :
And a bailiff it was, and is to me,
For I 'm always very much taken—by tea.
The milk was call'd at early morn
In the sober hour when I was born:
The grocers whistled—so much they sold,
And the Twinings took ten pounds in gold ;
And never was heard such laughter wild
As welcomed to life the young Hyson child.
1 have lived since then in calm and strife
A regular milk-and-waterv Jife
With cash to spend on gin or grog,
I never took aught but tea with my prog :
And Death, whene'er he comes to rsse,
Shall find me—over a cup of tea.
THE TURNCOCK.
Who is it, when we 're taken ill,
And slops require all day to swill,
The grateful cistern helps to fill i
The Turncock.
Who is it, when the dreadful sound
Of " fire " echoes all around,
Is hardly ever to be found ?
The Turncock.
Who is it, when upon his beat
Will very often, for a treat,
Turn on the main and swamp the streetl.
The Turncock.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
" Yes, my dear ; but you must own there's a hard trial 'twixt [
Newgate and that. Ha ! at this moment, poor things ! "—and again j
Mrs. Traply looked at the Dutch clock—"at this very moment, they're
taking their last sup at the Pound. Ha ! there's the trial, my love." :
Pattv trembled from head to foot, and I could see her small hands
* . I
work convulsively—could see the fighting of her heart to keep the :
terror down, as Mrs. Traply, for the kindest purpose, as she thought, i
painted the horrors of the death-journey from Newgate to Tyburn.
" You don't know what it is, child, or you wouldn't talk in that
way. Ha! my dear, it's very different to going with a party, and
sitting at a window to see the poor things in the cart, and being one
of 'em, you know. Innocence, my dear, is all very well; but I don't j
know any innocence that could bear to be stared at by thousands of,
people, all looking as if they had red-hot eyes upon you ! And then \
to see the whole street swimming about you—and to have the blood !
like boiling lead in your ears—for a dear soul as was reprieved told i
me all about it—and how all the men and women looked like stony-
faced devils round him—and how as he heard some of 'em laugh, it
•went like a knife into his heart—and how as the cart rumbled alone-,
O '
he prayed for the stones to open and bury him—and how when he
got to Tyburn, ha! my dear, he was proved as innocent as you are,
and yet he felt all this—and how, as I was saying, when he got to
Tyburn—but you don't listen to me ?"
The woman spoke the truth ; for Patty had sunk beneath the
struggle of her feelings, and lay insensible in the chair.
POLITICAL LEADER,
The attempt to convert the out-pensioners of Chelsea Hospital into
warriors is one of the wildest designs ever undertaken by a misguided
ministry. It is true that, in the agricultural districts the Chelsea pen-
sioners—or at least, their effigies—are used as a standing army of light
scarecrows, to preserve the crops ; but to think of trusting these worn-
out veterans with real guns, shows the insanity to which folly may drive a
desperate Government.
It is a well-known maxim in ethics that " right's right, anyhow and
this beautiful doctrine has always been our guide, when contending fac-
tions have been snatching at the banner of the Constitution—a banner
which we have often saved from their grasp by lifting up the pole—we
allude, of course, to the public press—that is attached to it. But if wc
have been irritated on other occasions, where shall we find bounds to our
anger now ? If we have written in gall before, we ought now to dip our
pen in the essential oil of vitriol.
Put arms into the hands of the Chelsea pensioners, forsooth ! Why, it
would be much better to put legs—wooden ones we mean—into those j
stumps which tliey are now called upon to stir at the bidding of a per-
plexed Government. When we look at Chelsea Hospital, our heart
always beats quicker, our pulse throbs more frequently, and the blood of
patriotism dances more vividly in our very veins ; but now that the
out-veterans of that fine asylum are to be called once more into active
service, we shall blush for ourselves, to think that our posterity will find
A " KON SEQDmja."
us so much behind our forefathers.
ibpottmg Mdltgmie.
Tkf. championship of the Strand was last week contended for by two
Blackwall and Mile End omnibuses. Petting had been 2 to 1 on Mile
End, but at starting Blackwall was the favourite. They had often run '
against each other before, and Blackwall had been backed against Mile
End, on more than one occasion. Blackwall went off with the lead, when
Mile End suddenly shot a-head, but they were axletree and axletree as
they passed the Punch-office. Soames, the conductor of Blackwall,
kept slamming the door, which is the usual signal for the horses to go on ;
but the driver of Mile End, trusting to the breeding of the team, kept
inciting them to "go along," while he backed his own suggestion by
sawing at their mouths, and applying the whip with vehemence. While
the race was at its highest point of interest, Blackwall moved to the right
and Mile End turned to the left, so that the championship of the Strand is
still undisposed of. 1
PUNCH'S LITTLE TEMPERANCE WARBLER.
Air—Friend of my Soul.
Friend of my soul, this water sip,
Its strength you need not fear j
'Tis not so luscious as egg-flip,
Nor half so strong as beer.
Like Jenkins, when he writes,
It cannot touch the mind ;
Unlike what he indites,
No nausea leaves behind.
THE TEA! THE TEA!
Air— The Sen.
The tea—the tea—the grateful tea,
The black—the green—the strong Bohea ;
Where by a mark—its price is found
.Tt runneth from three-and-six a pound.
When mixed with the sloe, it cheats our eyos;
And like a wicked creature lbs.
I like the tea : I like the tea,,
And drinking it I would ever be ;
With the green above and the black below.
And hot water wheresoe'er 1 go.
If at night I should wish awake to keep,
What matter I—with tea I cannot sleep.
What matter,
I love—Oh how I love to drain
The foaming teacup again and again,
When its heat makes warm the silver spoon,
And the kettle whistles its grateful tune.
I ne'er heard a man for brandy roar,
But my tea I fancied more and more ;
And off to my favourite chest I ran
Like a bailiff that fiercely seeketh his man :
And a bailiff it was, and is to me,
For I 'm always very much taken—by tea.
The milk was call'd at early morn
In the sober hour when I was born:
The grocers whistled—so much they sold,
And the Twinings took ten pounds in gold ;
And never was heard such laughter wild
As welcomed to life the young Hyson child.
1 have lived since then in calm and strife
A regular milk-and-waterv Jife
With cash to spend on gin or grog,
I never took aught but tea with my prog :
And Death, whene'er he comes to rsse,
Shall find me—over a cup of tea.
THE TURNCOCK.
Who is it, when we 're taken ill,
And slops require all day to swill,
The grateful cistern helps to fill i
The Turncock.
Who is it, when the dreadful sound
Of " fire " echoes all around,
Is hardly ever to be found ?
The Turncock.
Who is it, when upon his beat
Will very often, for a treat,
Turn on the main and swamp the streetl.
The Turncock.