Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 62, January 6, 1872Various
General
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 62, January 6, 1872
Various
English wit and humor -- Periodicals
[Illustration: B]E it known that a sort of Fair or miscellaneous Market
is held in the New Cut (excuse mention of such a place) every Sunday
morning. There do people of the baser sort buy their Sunday dinners, and
other matters which they fancy they want. The Lambeth Vestry, justly
indignant at such goings on, appealed to COLONEL HENDERSON to put a stop
to them. That haughty and sarcastic official declared that he should do
nothing of the sort, unless the shopkeepers who keep their shops open on
Sundays were also obliged to respect the day of rest. We pity the
Colonel's want of logical power. What is there in common between a
respectable shopkeeper, who pays rates, and a low person who wheels a
barrow, or rents the flap over a cellarage? The Vestry scorned such
terms, and have been taking the names of the vendors at this fair, and
such addresses as the miserable creatures could give. Summonses have
been issued, but the matter stands over for a few weeks.
At the end of that time, _Mr. Punch_ cordially trusts that the Lambeth
Vestry will sternly carry out their plan for promoting the
respectability of the New Cut, and if COLONEL HENDERSON again refuses to
help them, let appeal be made to MR. BRUCE. There is not the least
pretence for holding the Fair. Let the people in and about the New Cut
buy their fish, meat, and the rest of their luxuries on Saturday. What
is to prevent them from doing so. Wages are always paid at an early hour
on Saturday, and by four o'clock on that day the wife of an artisan has
always received from her husband the bulk of his earnings, less perhaps
by a trifle which she playfully returns to him, that he may have a pipe
and a pint before going to bed. He would be considered a bad fellow if
he did not give her the money, or if she had to coax it out of him late,
or to take it from his pocket when he had sunk into the gentle slumber
of intoxication. That he should surlily refuse it, and strike her, and
force her to wait until morning brought better temper, is too monstrous
an idea. "Our flesh and blood" never does this sort of thing.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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