Chapter 4

Lord John Russell begs respectfully to inform the connubially-disposed portion of the community, that being about to retire from the establishment in Downing-street, of which he has so long been a member, he has resolved (at the suggestion of several single ladies _about_ thirty, and of numerous juvenile gentlemen who have just attained their majority a _second time_) to open a

MATRIMONIAL AGENCY OFFICE,

where (from his long and successful experience) he trusts to be honoured by the confidence of the single, and the generous acknowledgments of the married.

Lord J.R. intends to transact business upon the most liberal scale, and instead of charging a per centage on the amount of property concerned in each union, he will take every lady and gentleman's valuation of themselves, and consider one thousandth part thereof as an adequate compensation for his services.

Ladies who have _lost_ the registries of their birth can be supplied with new ones, for any year they please, and the greatest care will be taken to make them accord with the early recollections of the lady's schoolfellows and cousins of the same age.

Gentlemen who wear wigs, false calves, or artificial teeth, or use hair-dye, &c., will be required to state the same, as no deception can be countenanced by Lord J.R.

Ladies are only required to certify as to the originality of their teeth; and as Lady Russell will attend exclusively to this department, no disclosure will take place until all other preliminaries are satisfactorily arranged.

Young gentlemen with large mustachios and small incomes will find the MATRIMONIAL AGENCY OFFICE well worthy their attention; and young ladies who play the piano, speak French, and measure only eighteen inches round the waist, cannot better consult their own interests than by making an early application.

N.B. None with red hair need apply, unless with a mother's certificate that it was always considered to be auburn.

Wanted several buxom widows for the commencement. If in weeds, will be preferred.

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"MATTERS IN FACT," AND "MATTERS IN LAW."

"Law is the perfection of reason!" said, some sixty years ago, an old powder-wigged priest of Themis, in his "enthusymusy" for the venerable lady; and what one of her learned adorers, from handsome Jock Campbell down to plain Counsellor Dunn, would dare question the maxim? A generous soul, who, like the fabled lady of the Arabian tale, drops gold at every word she utters, varying in value from one guinea to five thousand, according to the quality of the hand that is stretched forth to receive it, cannot possibly be other than reason herself. But to appreciate this dear creature justly, it is absolutely necessary to be in her service. No ordinary lay person can judge her according to her deserts. You must be initiated into her mysteries before you can detect her beauties; but once admitted to her august presence--once enrolled as her sworn slave--your eyes become opened and clear, and you see her as she is, the marvel of the world. Yet, though so difficult of comprehension, no man, nor woman, nor child, must plead ignorance of her excellencies. To be ignorant of any one of them is an impossibility as palpable as that "the Queen can do no wrong," or any other admirable fiction which the genius of our ancestors has bequeathed us. We all must know the law, or be continually whipped! A hard rule, though an inflexible one. But the schoolmaster is abroad--PUNCH, that teaches all, must teach the law; and, as a preliminary indispensable, he now proceeds to give a few definitions of the principal matters contained in that science, which bear a different meaning from what they would in ordinary language. The admiring neophyte will perceive with delight the vast superiority apparent in all cases of "matters of law," or "matters of fact."

To illustrate:--When a lovely girl, all warmth and confidence, steals on tiptoe from her lonely chamber, and, lighted by the moon, when "pa's" asleep, drops from the balcony into the arms of some soft youth, as warm as she, who has been waiting to whisk her off to Hymen's altar--that is generally understood as

When an ugly "bum," well up to trap, creeps like a rascal from the sheriff's-office, and with his _capias_ armed, ere you are half-dressed, gives you the chase, and, as you "leg" away for the bare life, his knuckles dig into the seat of your unmentionables, gripping you like a tiger--that indeed is _une autre chose_, that is

When you remark a round, rosy, jolly fellow, shining from top to toe, "philandering" down Regent-street, with a self-satisfied grin, that seems to say, "Match me that, demme!" and casting looks of pity--mellowed through his eye-glass--on all passers, you may fairly conclude that that happy dog has just slipped into

But when you perceive a gaunt, yellow spectre of a man, reduced to his last _chemise_, and that a sad spectacle of ancient purity, starting from Lincoln's-Inn, and making all haste for Waterloo-bridge, the inference is rather natural, that he is blessed with

It being dangerous to take too great a meal at a time, and PUNCH knowing well the difficulty of digesting properly over-large quantities of mental food, he concludes his first lecture on L--A--W. Whether he will continue here his definitions of legal terms, or not, time and his humour shall determine.

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A DRESS REHEARSAL.

Lord Melbourne, imitating the example of the ancient philosophers, is employing the last days of his political existence in composing a learned discourse "On the Shortness of Ministerial Life." To try the effect of it, his lordship gives a _full dress_ dinner-party, immediately after the meeting of Parliament, to several of his friends. On the removal of the cloth, he will read the essay, and then the Queen's intended speech, in which she civilly gives his lordship leave to provide himself with another _place_. Where, in the whole range of history, could we meet with a similar instance of magnanimity? Where, with such a noble picture--of a great soul rising superior to adversity? Seneca in the bath, uttering moral apophthegms with his dying breath--Socrates jesting over his bowl of hemlock juice--were great creatures--immense minds; but Lord Melbourne reading his own dismissal to his friends--after dinner, too!--over his first glass of wine--leaves them at an immeasurable distance. Oh! that we had the power of poor Wilkie! what a picture we could make of such a subject.

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THE DRAMA.

VAUXHALL GARDENS.

Some of the melancholy duties of this life afford a more subdued, and, therefore, a more satisfactory pleasure than scores with which duty has nothing to do, or those of mere enjoyment. If, for instance, the friend, whose feeds we have helped to eat, whose cellars we have done our part to empty for the last quarter of a century, should happen to fall ill; if the doctors shake their heads, and warn us to make haste to his bedside, there is always a large proportion of honey to be extracted, in obeying the summons, out of the sting of parting, recounting old reminiscences, and gossipping about old times, never, alas! to return. But should we neglect the summons, where would the stings of conscience end?

Impelled by such a sense of duty, we wended our way to the "royal property," to take a last look at the long-expiring gardens. It was a wet night--the lamps burnt dimly--the military band played in the minor key--the waiters stalked about with so silent, melancholy a tread, that we took their towels for pocket-handkerchiefs; the concert in the open _rain_ went off tamely--dirge-like, in spite of the "Siege of Acre," which was described in a set of quadrilles, embellished with blue fire and maroons, and adorned with a dozen double drums, thumped at intervals, like death notes, in various parts of the doomed gardens. The _divertissement_ was anything but diverting, when we reflect upon the impending fate of the "Rotunda," in which it was performed.

No such damp was, however, thrown over the evolutions of "Ducrow's beautiful horses and equestrian _artistes_," including "the new grand entrée, and cavalcade of Amazons." They had no sympathy with the decline and fall of the _Simpsonian_ empire. They were strangers, interlopers, called in like mutes and feathers, to grace the "funeral show," to give a more graceful flourish to the final exit. The horses pawed the sawdust, evidently unconscious that the earth it covered would soon "be let on lease for building ground;" the riders seemed in the hey-day of their equestrian triumph. Let them, however, derive from the fate of Vauxhall, a deep, a fearful lesson!--though we shudder as we write, it shall not be said that destruction came upon them unawares--that no warning voice had been raised--that even the squeak of PUNCH was silent! Let them not sneer, and call us superstitious--we do _not_ give credence to supernatural agency as a fixed and general principle; but we did believe in Simpson, and stake our professional reputation upon Widdicomb.

That Vauxhall gardens were under the especial protection of, that they drew the very breath of their attractiveness from, the ceremonial Simpson, who can deny? When he flitted from walk to walk, from box to box, and welcomed everybody to the "royal property," right royally did things go on! Who would _then_ have dreamt that the illustrious George--he of the Piazza--would ever be "honoured with instructions to sell;" that his eulogistic pen would be employed in giving the puff superlative to the Elysian haunts of quondam fashion--in other words, in painting the lily, gilding refined gold? But, alas! Simpson, the tutelar deity, has departed ("died," some say, but we don't believe it), and at the moment he made his last bow, Vauxhall ought to have closed; it was madness--the madness which will call us, peradventure, superstitious--which kept the gates open when Simpson's career closed--it was an anomaly, for like Love and Heaven, Simpson was Vauxhall, and Vauxhall was Simpson!

Let Ducrow reflect upon these things--we dare not speak out--but a tutelar being watches over, and giveth vitality to his arena--his ring is, he may rely upon it, a fairy one--while _that_ mysterious being dances and prances in it, all will go well; his horses will not stumble, never will his clowns forget a syllable of their antiquated jokes. O! let him then, while seriously reflecting upon Simpson and the fate of Vauxhall, give good heed unto the Methuselah, who hath already passed his second centenary in the circle!

These were our awful reflections while viewing the scenes in the circle, very properly constructed in the Rotunda. They overpowered us--we dared not stay to see the fireworks, "in the midst of which Signora Rossini was to make her terrific ascent and descent on a rope three hundred feet high." She _might_ have been the sprite of Madame Saqui; in fact, the "Vauxhall Papers" published in the gardens, put forth a legend, which favours such a dreadful supposition! We refer our readers to them--they are only sixpence a-piece.

Of course the gardens were full in spite of the weather; for what must be the callousness of that man who could let _the_ gardens pass under the hammer of George Robins, without bidding them an affecting farewell? Good gracious! We can hardly believe such insensibility does exist. Hasten then, dear readers, as you would fly to catch the expiring sigh of a fine old boon companion--hasten to take your parting slice of ham, your last bowl of arrack, even now while the great auctioneer says "Going."

For your sake, and yours only, Alfred Bunn (whose disinterestedness has passed into a theatrical proverb), arrests the arm of his friend of the Auction Mart in its descent. Attend to _his_ bidding. Do not--oh! do not wait till the vulcan of the Bartholomew-lane smithy lets fall his hammer upon the anvil of pleasure, to announce that the Royal Property is--"Gone!"

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A LADY AND GENTLEMAN

IN A PECULIARLY PERPLEXING PREDICAMENT.

Mrs. Waylett and Mr. Keeley were the lady and gentleman who were placed in the peculiarly perplexing predicament of making a second-hand French interlude supportable to an English Opera audience. In this they more than succeeded--for they caused it to be amusing; they made the most of what they had to do, which was not much, and of what they had to say, which was a great deal too much; for the piece would be far more tolerable if considerably shorn of its unfair proportions. The translator seems to have followed the verbose text of his original with minute fidelity, except where the idioms bothered him; and although the bills declare it is adapted by Mr. Charles Selby to the English stage, the thing is as essentially French as it is when performed at the _Palais Royal_, except where the French language is introduced, when, in every instance, the labours of correct transcription were evidently above the powers of the translator. The best part of the adaptation is the exact fitness of the performers to their parts; we mean as far as concerns their _personnel_.

Of course, all the readers of PUNCH know Mr. Keeley. Let them, then, conceive him an uncle at five-and-thirty, but docking himself of six years' age when asked impertinent questions. He has a head of fine auburn hair, and dresses in a style that a _badaud_ would call "quiet;" that is to say, he wears brass buttons to his coat, which is green, and adorned with a velvet collar. In short, it is not nearly so fine as Lord Palmerston's, for it has no velvet at the cuffs; and is not embroidered. Add white unhintables, and you have an imaginative portrait of the hero. But the heroine! Ah! she, dear reader, if you have a taste for full-blown beauty and widows, she will coax the coin out of your pockets, and yourselves into the English Opera House, when we have told you what she acts, and how she acts. Imagine her, the syren, with the quiet, confiding smile, the tender melting voice, the pleasing highly-bred manner; just picture her in the character of a Parisian widow--the free, unshackled, fascinating Parisian widow--the child of liberty--the mother of--no, not a mother; for the instant a husband dies, the orphans are transferred to convent schools to become nephews and nieces. Well, we say for the third time, conceive Mrs. Waylett, dressed with modest elegance, a single rose in her hair--sympathise with her as she rushes upon the stage (which is "set" for the _chambre meublée_ of a country inn), escaping from the persecutions of a persevering traveller who _will_ follow her charms, her modest elegance, her single rose, wherever they make their appearance. She locks the door, and orders supper, declaring she will leave the house immediately after it is eaten and paid for. Alas! the danger increases, and with it her fears; she will pay without eating; and as the diligence is going off, she will resume her journey, but--a new misfortune--there is no place in it! She will, then, hire a postchaise; and the landlady goes to strike the bargain, having been duly paid for a bed which has not been lain in, and a supper that has not been eaten. As the lady hastens away, with every prospect of not returning, the piece would inevitably end here, if a gentleman did not arrive by the very diligence which has just driven off full, and taken the same chamber the lady has just vacated; but more particularly if the only chaise in the place had not been hired by the lady's wicked persecutor on purpose to detain her. She, of course, returns to the twice-let chamber, and finds it occupied by a sentimental traveller.

Here we have the "peculiarly perplexing predicament"--a lady and gentleman, and only one chamber between them! This is the plot; all that happens afterwards is merely supplementary. To avoid the continued persecutions of the unseen Adolphe, the lady agrees, after some becoming hesitation, to pass to the hostess as the wife of the sentimental traveller. The landlady is satisfied, for what so natural as that they _should_ have but one bed-room between them? so she carefully locks them in, and the audience have the pleasure of seeing them pass the night together--how we will not say--let our readers go and see. Yet we must in justice add that the "lady and gentleman" make at the end of the piece the _amende_ good morals demand--they get married.

To the performers, and to them alone, are we indebted for any of the amusement this trifle affords. Mr. Keeley and Mrs. Waylett were, so far as acting goes, perfection; for never were parts better fitted to them. There are only three characters in the piece; the third, the hostess of the _"Cochon bleu,"_ is very well done by Mrs. Selby. The persecuting Adolphe (who turns out to be the gentleman's nephew) never appears upon the stage, for all his rude efforts to get into the lady's chamber are fruitless.

Such is the prying disposition of the British public, that the house was crammed to the ceiling to see a lady and a gentleman placed in a peculiarly perplexing predicament.

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As _Romeo_, Kean, with awkward grace, On velvet rests, 'tis said: Ah! did he seek a softer place, He'd rest upon his head.

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LATEST FOREIGN.

Several Dutch _males_ arrived from Rotterdam during the last week. They are all totally devoid of intelligence or interest.

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AN USEFUL ALLY.

"Crack'd China mended!"--Zounds, man! off this minute-- There's work for you, or else the deuce is in it!

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"Draw it mild!" as the boy with the decayed tooth said to the dentist.

Webster's Manganese Ink is so intensely black, that it is used as a marking-fluid for coal-sacks.

There is a man up country so fat, they grease the cart-wheels with his shadow.