Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 9

Why, then comes in the cheat o' the year, And picks their plums, talk, song, or tale.
The white sheets come, each page my "perk," With heigh! sweet bards, O how they sing!-- With paste and scissors I set to work; Shall a stolen song cost anything?
The Poet tirra-lirra chants, With heigh! with heigh! he must be a J.-- His Summer songs supply my wants; They cost me nought--but, ah! they pay.
I have served Literature in my time, but now Literature is in my service.
But shall I pay for what comes dear, To the pale scribes who write,-- For news, and jokes, and stories queer? Walker! my friends, not quite! Since filchers may have leave to live, And vend their "borrowed" budget, For all my "notions" nix I'll give, Then sell them as I trudge it.
My traffic is (news) sheets. My father named me AUTOLYCUS, who, being as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With paste and scissors I procured this caparison; and my revenue is the uninquiring public; gallows and gaol are too powerful on the highway; picking and treadmilling are terrors to burglars; but in my line of theft I sleep free from the thought of them. A prize! a prize!...
Jog on, jog on, the foot-pad way, In the modern Sikes's style-a: Punctilious fools prefer to _pay_; But I at scruples smile-a.
... Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman ... I understand the business, do it; to have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand with the shears is necessary for a (literary) cutpurse; a good nose is requisite also, to smell out the good work of other people. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive.
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THE WELLINGTON MONUMENT.
[Illustration]
At last! How long ago the time When England's paltry meanness killed Her greatest Sculptor in his prime. And hid his work, now called sublime, In narrow space so nearly filled!
When, using Art beyond her taste, Her greatest Captain's tomb he wrought, That noblest effort was disgraced,-- It seemed to her a needless waste, The Budget Surplus was her thought.
Now may she, with some sense of shame, Amend the errors of the past, Show honour to the Great Duke's name, Repair the wrong to STEPHENS' fame, And move the Monument at last!
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"KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS."
It is believed that the Rossendale Union of Liberal Clubs, having given a pair of slippers, a rug, and two pieces of cretonne to Mr. GLADSTONE, will also make the following presents, in due course:--
_Sir W. L-ws-n._--Twelve dozen Tea-cosies, and ten yards of blue Ribbon.
_Mr. L-b-ch-re._--A Jester's cap.
_Sir W.V. H-rc-rt._--A Spencer, without arms, but emblazoned with those of the Plantagenets.
_Mr. M-cl-re._--A Hood.
_Mr. McN-ll._--A knitted Respirator, to be worn in the House.
_Lord R. Ch-rch-ll._--Twelve dozen table-cloths, twenty-four dozen Dinner-napkins, and thirty-six dozen Pudding-cloths.
_Sir E. Cl-rke._--A scarlet Jersey, inscribed "Salvation Army."
_Mr. R. Sp-nc-r._--A Smock Frock.
_Mr. B-lf-r._--Some Collars of Irish linen, and one of hemp, the latter to be supplied by the Irish patriots in America.
_Mr. E. St-nh-pe._--A Necktie of green poplin, embroidered with shamrocks.
_Mr. M. H-ly._--An Ulster.
_Col. S-nd-rs-n._--A Cork jacket.
_Mr. W. O'Br-n._--A pair of Tr----rs, in fancy cretonne.
_Sir G.O. Tr-v-ly-n._--A Coat (reversible).
_Mr. C. C-nyb-re._--A Waistcoat (strait).
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[Illustration: "UNDERSTOOD."
"I SAY, DUBOIS, YOU DO KNOW HOW TO LAY IT ON THICK, OLD MAN! I LIKE YOUR CHEEK TELLING MISS BROWN SHE SPOKE FRENCH WITHOUT THE LEAST ACCENT!"
"VY, CERTAINEMENT, MON AMI--VIZOUT ZE LEAST FRENCH ACCENT!"]
* * * * *
"THE (SOLDIERS') LIFE WE LIVE."
(_Imaginary Evidence that should be added to the Report of Lord Wantage's Committee._)
_Chairman._ I think your name is RICHARD REDMOND?
_Witness._ I beg pardon, my Lord and Gentlemen--DICK REDMOND--simple, gushing, explosive DICK.
_Chair._ Have you been known by any other name?
_Wit._ Off duty, my Lord, I have been called CHARLES WARNER. Nay, why should I not confess it?--CHARLIE WARNER. Yes, my Lord, CHARLIE WARNER!
_Chair._ You wish to describe how you were enlisted?
_Wit._ Yes, my Lord. It was in this way. I had returned from some races in a dog-cart with a villain. We stopped at a wayside public-house kept by a comic Irishman.
_Chair._ Are these details necessary?
_Wit._ Hear me, my Lord; hear me! I confess it, I took too much to drink. Yes, my Lord, I was drunk! And then a Sergeant in the Dragoon Guards gave me a shilling, and placed some ribands in my pot-hat, and--well--I was a soldier! Yes, a soldier! And as a soldier was refused permission to visit my dying mother!
_Chair._ Were there no other legal formalities in connection with your enlistment? For instance--Were you not taken before an attesting Magistrate?
_Wit._ No, my Lord, no! I was carried off protesting, while my villanous friend disappeared with my sweetheart! It was cruel, my