A GO AT THE GAS-ROBBERS.

Correspondents keep complaining of the badness of their gas, and of the insufficient quantity with which the streets are lit, and as they don’t quite seem to know on whom to fix the blame, they as usual make appeal to the omniscience of Punch. This they do as usual with their stereotyped facetiousness, saying they are rather “in the dark” about the matter, and begging Punch to “throw a light upon the subject,” and to “blaze away” at somebody for sake of a “flare-up.” One writer makes remark, that from the bad gas in the theatres the audience looks “ghas-tly;” and another says, that gas is now of no use for “gas-tronomy,” inasmuch as one can’t cook by it, and can hardly see to eat. They most of them agree too, that the gas is “no light matter,” and seeing that its badness is a constant “heavy loss,” to them, they disclaim the least intention or endeavour to “make light” of it.

Now, Punch, one for all, must state, that he cannot any longer be a martyr to these witticisms, and he trusts the manufacture of them may an once be stopped. If there be just cause for a serious complaint about the gas, let the charge be made in seriousness, without making a bad joke of it, and Punch will “seriously incline” himself forthwith to hear and see to it. If it be true that, as one writer sentimentally observes,-

The gas of other days is faded,
And half its glory gone:
The lamps of Regent Street are shaded,
Their cocks but half turned on,”-

Punch, who has a hatred of doing things by halves, will fire away unceasingly at those who are in fault, until the missing moiety of gaslight be restored to us. With his literary powder always kept dry for emergencies, Punch with pleasure will blow up any gas-making monopolists, who are proved guilty of giving scanty measure though their meters, and of sending out bad gas although they get in a good price for it. Ever at his post – although it be but a street lamp-post – Punch will keep his eyes unwinkingly upon our gas suppliers, and bring his bâton down on any who may give a short supply. “Turn on, Old Cock, to th’ full thy gas!” will be his warning adjuration to any London lamplighter, who may be paid to keep his burners nightly at half-cock. To rob the streets of gas is a sort of highway robbery, which Punch, personifying Justice, never will abet; and he will not stay his pen from passing condemnation until the gang of gaseous Turpins be turned off – like their lamps.

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