Chapter 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.

FOR THE WEEK ENDING AUGUST 7, 1841.

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THE WIFE-CATCHERS.

A LEGEND OF MY UNCLE'S BOOTS.

_In Four Chapters._

"His name 'tis proper you should hear, 'Twas Timothy Thady Mulligin: And whenever he finish'd his tumbler of punch, He always wished it full agin."

CHAPTER II.

3rd. _Of Good Dinners._--Wits, like other men, are distinguished by a variety of tastes and inclinations. Some prefer dining at taverns and eating-houses; others, more discreet or less daring, love the quiet security of the private house, with its hospitable inmates, courteous guests, and no possibility of "bill transactions." I confess when I was young and inexperienced, wanting that wisdom which I am now happy to impart, I was a constant frequenter of taverns, eating-houses, oyster-rooms, and similar places of entertainment. I am old now, and have been persecuted by a brutal world, and am grown timid. But I was ever a peaceable man--hated quarrels--never came to words if I could help it. _I do not recommend the tavern, eating-house, oyster-room system._ These are the words of wisdom. The waiters at these places are invariably sturdy, fleet, abusive rascals, who cannot speak and will not listen to reason. To eat one's dinner, drink a pint of sherry, and then, calling for the bill, take out one's pocket-book, and post it in its rotation in a neat hand, informing the waiter the while, that it is a simple debt, and so forth; this really requires nerve. Great spirits only are equal to it. It is an innovation upon old, established forms, however absurd--and innovators bring down upon themselves much obloquy. To run from the score you have run up--not to pay your shot, but to shoot from payment--this is not always safe, and invariably spoils digestion. No; it is not more honourable--far from it--but it is better; for you should strive to become, what is commonly called--"A Diner Out"--that is to say, one who continues to sit at the private tables of other men every day of his life, and by his so potent art, succeeds in making them believe that they are very much obliged to him.

How to be this thing--this "Diner Out"--I shall teach you, by a few short rules next week. Till then--farewell!

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Lord William Paget has applied to the Lord Chancellor, to inquire whether the word "jackass" is not opprobrious and actionable. His lordship says, "No, decidedly, in this case only synonymous."

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THE POLITICAL QUACK.

Sir Robert Peel has convinced us of one thing by his Tamworth speech, that whatever danger the constitution may be in, he will not proscribe for the patient until he is _regularly called in_. A beautiful specimen of the old Tory leaven. Sir Robert objects to give _Advice gratis_.

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TO FANCY BUILDERS AND CAPITALISTS.

A large assortment of peculiarly fine oyster-shells, warranted fire-proof and of first-rate quality; exquisitely adapted for the construction of grottoes. May be seen by cards only, to be procured of Mr. George Robins, or the clerks of Billingsgate or Hungerfofd markets.

N.B.--Some splendid ground at the corners of popular and well-frequented streets, to be let on short leases for edifices of the above description. Apply as before.

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LITERARY RECIPES.

The following invaluable literary recipes have been most kindly forwarded by the celebrated Ude. They are the produce of many years' intense study, and, we must say, the very best things of the sort we have ever met with. There is much delicacy in M. Ude leaving it to us, as to whether the communication should be anonymous. We think not, as the peculiarity of the style would at once establish the talented authorship, and, therefore, attempted concealment would be considered as the result of a too morbidly modest feeling.

HOW TO COOK UP A FASHIONABLE NOVEL.

Take a consummate puppy--M.P.s preferable (as they are generally the softest, and don't require much pressing)--baste with self-conceit--stuff with slang--season with maudlin sentiment--hash up with a popular publisher--simmer down with preparatory advertisements. Add six reams of gilt-edged paper--grate in a thousand quills--garnish with marble covers, and morocco backs and corners. Stir up with magazine puffs--skim off sufficient for preface. Shred scraps of French and small-talk, very fine. Add "superfine coats"--"satin stocks"--"bouquets"--"opera-boxes"--"a duel"--an elopement--St. George's Church--silver bride favours--eight footmen--four postilions--the like number of horses--a "dredger" of smiles--some filtered tears--half-mourning for a dead uncle (the better if he has a twitch in his nose), and serve with anything that will bear "_frittering_."

A SENTIMENTAL DITTO.

(_By the same Author._)

Take a young lady--dress her in blue ribbons--sprinkle with innocence, spring flowers, and primroses. Procure a Baronet (a Lord if in season); if not, a depraved "younger son"--trim him with écarté, rouge et noir, Epsom, Derby, and a slice of Crockford's. Work up with rustic cottage, an aged father, blind mother, and little brothers and sisters in brown holland pinafores. Introduce mock abduction--strong dose of virtue and repentance. Serve up with village church--happy parent--delighted daughter--reformed rake--blissful brothers--syren sisters--and perfect _dénouement_.

N.B. Season with perspective christening and postponed epitaph.

A STARTLING ROMANCE.

Take a small boy, charity, factory, carpenter's apprentice, or otherwise, as occasion may serve--stew him well down in vice--garnish largely with oaths and flash songs--boil him in a cauldron of crime and improbabilities. Season equally with good and bad qualities--infuse petty larceny, affection, benevolence, and burglary, honour and housebreaking, amiability and arson--boil all gently. Stew down a mad mother--a gang of robbers--several pistols--a bloody knife. Serve up with a couple of murders--and season with a hanging-match.

N.B. Alter the ingredients to a beadle and a workhouse--the scenes may be the same, but the whole flavour of vice will be lost, and the boy will turn out a perfect pattern.--Strongly recommended for weak stomachs.

AN HISTORICAL DITTO.

Take a young man six feet high--mix up with a horse--draw a squire from his father's estate (the broad-shouldered and loquacious are the best sort)--prepare both for potting (that is, exporting). When abroad, introduce a well-pounded Saracen--a foreign princess--stew down a couple of dwarfs and a conquered giant--fill two sauce-tureens with a prodigious ransom. Garnish with garlands and dead Turks. Serve up with a royal marriage and cloth of gold.

A NARRATIVE.

Take a distant village--follow with high-road--introduce and boil down pedlar, gut his pack, and cut his throat--hang him up by the heels--when enough, let his brother cut him down--get both into a stew--pepper the real murderer--grill the innocent for a short time--then take them off, and put delinquents in their place (these can scarcely be broiled too much, and a strong fire is particularly recommended). When real perpetrators are _done_, all is complete.

If the parties have been poor, serve up with mint sauce, and the name of the enriched sufferer.

BIOGRAPHY OF KINGS.

Lay in a large stock of "gammon" and pennyroyal--carefully strip and pare all the tainted parts away, when this can be done without destroying the whole--wrap it up in printed paper, containing all possible virtues--baste with flattery, stuff with adulation, garnish with fictitious attributes, and a strong infusion of sycophancy.

Serve up to prepared courtiers, who have been previously well seasoned with long-received pensions or sinecures.

DRAMATIC RECIPES.

FOR THE ADELPHI.--VERY FINE!