THE CITY INQUISITION.
AMONG the numerous points which have struck Mr. Punch in perusing the evidence taken before the invaluable Commission which is daily forging the hatchet destined to hew down that rotten old tree the Corporation, and scatter its owls and bats, is the remarkably miscellaneous character of the information with which the witnesses favour the Commissioners. Any gentleman who is passing and chooses to step in, is politely asked by the Chairman whether he happens to know anything about the City; to which, with equal off-handedness, he replies, "Well, yes," or "Well, no," as the case may be, and then his evidence is taken. While Mr. Punch was waiting to make Sheriff Wallis happy by telling him that he approved of that Sheriff's conduct in refusing to contribute to the Sidney Spectacle, he heard something of this kind.
Mr. Montmorenci Jones: Do I know much about the City? Well, no, not much, but I shall be happy to tell you anything that occurs to me. I have to go to the City sometimes on money matters. Live there? No, I should think not. Who lives there but porters, junior partners, and warehouse cats? I live in Regent Street. But I don't despise the City. I think there are some good points about it. The things in the shops are much better than the West End things—and so far cheaper, but as to actual price it's about the same. You're cheated in the City because ground is so dear, and at the West End because the tradesmen must pay for those gaudy, gilded, ginshop-looking fronts. But the City men are sharper, and insist on a better article—we believe anything a tradesmen tells us. If you will cleanse away the Lord Mayors and Fleet Ditches, and a few things of that kind; keep out those Pickford's vans and other monster abominations, so that one's cab may not be smashed every time one passes through Temple Bar; widen the thoroughfares, and prevent people from dining at one o'clock, so that one smells dinner before one has well finished breakfast—I think that the welfare of the City would be materially promoted. I may mention, too, that I have seen some very pretty girls in St. Paul's Churchyard, and not so badly dressed as you might expect, but the poor things get jostled so dreadfully by the City fellows, who rush about like Jeameses on an errand, that they always look frightened. I think the Police, that make the cabs go slowly past churches, might be told to keep these fellows at a decent walk when going near ladies. Take a note of that suggestion for your Report.
Mr. Suffeet De Peristyle: I am an architect. O, yes. I have taken much interest in the City; and sometimes, while shaving, I have mentally sketched out plans for improving it. Will I state any? With pleasure; and as my principal plan has relation to the Corporation, it is the more desirable for you to hear it. I am for dealing boldly with the City. Let us begin at Temple Bar, which I would not remove. Take down the whole of the houses on both sides of Fleet Street and Ludgate Hill, and clear the space to the Thames. Embank the Thames. On the left side of Fleet Street, erect a splendid series of halls, cloisters, and habitations, reaching from Temple Bar to St. Paul's. Throw King's College, the London University, Merchant Tailor's, the Blue Coat School, and the Charterhouse into these, and re-endow them, and pay all expenses by confiscating the Corporation estates, and, if necessary, the private property of the Aldermen. Let the right hand side of Fleet Street be a beautiful meadow, with fountains and statues, to the Thames. Preserve Mr. Punch's, of course, but rebuild it in alabaster, and make it the feature of the scene. Take down St. Paul's and re-construct it in white marble, which will wash, and clear away in its rear an area of a quarter of a mile, to be paved with mosaic.—(The Commission, fairly aghast and out of breath, cause the witness to be removed.)
Mr. Grubb: I keep the accounts in a City house, as my father did before me, and I hope my son will after me. I do not desire to see any alteration in the Corporation, in the City, or anywhere. I was very happy on my tall black stool for forty years, and now they've pulled a house down in their precious improvements, and the sun falls right in my eyes, and I have been obliged to move the desk at which my father took his seat in 1789. Time of the French Revolution? I dare say it was; I don't take much heed of politics, especially since Billy Pitt. You've nobody like him now. I saw his funeral in Feberwerry, 1806—yes, I saw that last year, but it was not equal to Billy Pitt's. If you'll take my advice you'll let well alone; but of course you won't. I don't know what the world's coming to—the youngsters in our house are taking to moustarshiars, and a young radical of sixteen declares he can't exist without his shower-bath. Little enough such brats washed themselves in my times—a dip in the New River once a month, or so, satisfied them, and somehow we managed Trafalgar and Waterloo without your boards of health, and missionaries in sewers, or whatever you call them. Once more, I say, let well alone.
PRINCE PUNCH TO PRINCE ALBERT.
Illustrious and excellent brother,
Don't consider me rude or unkind,
If, as from one Prince to another,
I give you a bit of my mind—
And I do so with all the more roundness,
As your conduct amongst us has shown
A propriety, judgment, and soundness
Of taste, not surpassed by my own.
You've respected John Bull's little oddities,
Never trod on the old fellow's corns;
Chose his pictures and statue—commodities
Wherein his own blunders he mourns.
And if you're a leetle more German
In these than I'd have you—what is't
Beyond what a critic may term an
Educational bias or twist?
On the summer-house walls, in your garden,
Of R.A.'s., fresco-painters you've made;
A demand which some of them won't pardon
Since good drawing's required for the trade.
You've roused to new life the Society
Of Arts, which had grown mighty flat;
And the Army to you, with propriety,
Attributes the famed Albert hat.
When the zeal for the Great Exhibition
Down to zero seemed likely to drop,
Mayors Provincial, at your requisition,
Of a sudden showed souls above shop.
Inspired up they went, like sky-rockets,
At the call of a Patriot Prince—
Nay, more, put their hands in their pockets
To a tune ne'er before known—nor since.
Foundation stones, past calculation,
Workmanlike, you have laid, true and square
And a curiously dinner-rid nation
Has still found you a saint in the chair.
Goodness knows what ineffable dinners,
What drinks deleterious you've borne,
What prosing from long-winded sinners
You've endured with a patience unworn!
You have never pressed forward unbidden;
When called on you've never shown shame
Not paraded, nor prudishly hidden
Your person, your purse, or your name;
You've lent no man occasion to call you
Intruder, intriguer, or tool;
Even I've not had often to haul you
O'er the coals, or to take you to school.
All this, my dear Prince, gives me boldness—
Which, au reste, our positions allow—
For a hint (which you'll not charge to coldness,
After all I have written just now):
Which is to put down certain flunkies,
Who by flatt'ry your favour would earn,
Pelting praise at your head, as at monkeys
Tars throw stones—to get nuts in return.
My Lord Mayor may beplaster his liveries
With velvet and gingerbread gold;
Though all, what he'd perhaps call "diskiveries,"
Are bursting from every fold:
He may perch up a Justice from Astley's
Atop of a property car,
Not less fit for the day, or less ghastly's
Her rouge, than frauds corporate are.
He may summon his friends to swill turtle,
And gulp ven'son, like pigs in a stye;—
Line the Mansion House staircase with myrtle
And laurel—the Sphynx can tell why;—
He may bow to the Bench of Exchequer,
Have Ministers sit at his board;—
Civic barges no farther from wreck are,
Gog and Magog no less shall be floored.
The hands that prepare your ovation,
My dear Prince, ought at least to be clean;
Not the hands of a doomed Corporation,
Fouled with all that is venal and mean:
There's the smut of the poor man's coals there,
Whereof tithe they've unrighteously taken;
There's the flour of the poor man's rolls there,
And the grease of the poor man's bacon.
Then silence your civic applauders,
Lest better men cease from applause
He who tribute accepts of marauders,
Is held to be pledged to their cause.
Let no Corporate magnates of London
An honour presume to award:
Their own needs, till ill-doings be undone,
Little honour to spare can afford!