Chapter 3

(in view,) but no particular party.

A line in politics is interest without principle.

The extremities of a line are loaves and fishes.

A right line is that which lies evenly between the Ministerial and Opposition benches.

A superficies is that which professes to have principle, but has no consistency.

The extremities of a superficies are expediencies.

A plain superficies is that of which two opposite speeches being taken, the line between them evidently lies wholly in the direction of Downing- street.

A plain angle is the evident inclination, and consequent piscation, of a member for a certain place; or it is the meeting together of two members who are not in the same line of politics.

When a member sits on the cross benches, and shows no particular inclination to one side or the other, it is called a right angle.

An obtuse angle is that in which the inclination is evidently to the Treasury.

An acute angle is that in which the inclination is apparently to the Opposition benches.

A boundary is the extremity or whipper-in of any party.

A party is that which is kept together by one or more whippers-in.

A circular member is a rum figure, produced by turning round; and is such that all lines of politics centre in himself, and are the same to him.

The diameter of a circular member is a line drawn on the Treasury, and terminating in both pockets.

Trilateral members, or waverers, are those which have three sides.

Of three-sided members an equilateral or independent member is that to which all sides are the same.

An isosceles or vacillating member is that to which two sides only are the same.

A scalene or scaly member has no one side which is equal to his own interest.

Parallel lines of politics are such as are in the same direction—say Downing-street; but which, being produced ever so far—say to Windsor—do not meet.

A political problem is a Tory proposition, showing that the country is to be done.

A theorem is a Whig proposition—the benefit of which to any one but the Whigs always requires to be demonstrated.

A corollary is the consequent confusion brought about by adopting the preceding Whig proposition.

A deduction is that which is drawn from the revenue by adopting the preceding Whig proposition.

MAJOR BENIOWSKY’S NEW ART OF MEMORY A gentleman who boasts one of those proper names in sky which are naturally enough transmitted “from pole to pole,” undertakes to teach the art of remembering upon entirely new principles. We know not what the merit of his invention may be, but we beg leave to ask the Major a few general questions, and we, therefore, respectfully inquire whether his system would be capable of effecting the following miracles:—

1st. Would it be possible to make Sir James Graham remember that he not long since declared his present colleagues to be men wholly unworthy of public confidence?

2dly. Would Major Beniowsky’s plan compel a man to remember his tailor’s bill; and, if so, would it go so far as to remind him to call for the purpose of paying it?

3dly. Would the new system of memory enable Mr. Wakley to refrain from forgetting himself?

4thly. Would the Phrenotypics, or brain-printing, as it is called, succeed in stereotyping a pledge in the recollection of a member of parliament?

5thly. Is it possible for the new art to cause Sir Robert Peel to remember from one week to the other his political promises?

We fear these questions must be answered in the negative; but we have a plan of our own for exercising the memory, which will beat that of Beniow, or any other sky, who ventures to propose one. Our proposition is, “Read PUNCH,” and we will be bound that no one will ever forget it who has once enjoyed the luxury.

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—NO. 9. I wander’d through our native fields,

And one was by my side who seem’d

Fraught with each beauty nature yields,

Whilst from her eye affection beam’d.

It was so like what fairy books,

In painting heaven, are wont to tell,

That fondly I believed those looks,

And found too late—’twas all a sell!

’Twas all a sell!

She vow’d I was her all—her life—

And proved, methought, her words by sighs;

She long’d to hear me call her “wife,”

And fed on hope which love supplies.

Ah! then I felt it had been sin

To doubt that she could e’er belie

Her vows!—I found ’twas only tin

She sought, and love was all my eye!

Was all my eye!

SHIPPING INTELLIGENCE. The Shamrock ran upon a timber-raft on Monday morning, and was off Deal in ten minutes afterwards.

The storm of Thursday did considerable damage to the shipping in the Thames. A coal was picked up off Vauxhall, which gave rise to a report that a barge had gone down in the offing. On making inquiries at Lloyd’s, we asked what were the advices, when we were advised to mind our own business, an answer we have too frequently received from the underlings of that establishment. The Bachelor has been telegraphed on its way up from Chelsea. It is expected to bring the latest news relative to the gas-lights on the Kensington-road, which, it is well known, are expected to enjoy a disgraceful sinecure during the winter.

Captain Snooks, of the Daffydowndilly, committed suicide by jumping down the chimney of the steamer under his command. The rash act occasioned a momentary flare up, but did not impede the action of the machinery.

A rudder has been seen floating off Southwark. It has a piece of rope attached to it. Lloyd’s people have not been down to look at it. This shameful neglect has occasioned much conversation in fresh-water circles, and shows an apathy which it is frightful to contemplate.

TO SIR ROBERT. Doctors, they say, are heartless, cannot feel—

Have you no core, or are you naught but Peel?

A PLEASANT ASSURANCE. The Marquis of Normandy, we perceive, has been making some inquiries relative to the “Drainage Bills,” and has been assured by Lord Ellenborough, that the subject should meet the attention of government during the recess. We place full reliance on his Lordship’s promise—the drainage of the country has been ever a paramount object with our Whig and Tory rulers.

[pg 150] CHRISTIANITY.—PRICE FIFTEEN SHILLINGS. The English poor have tender teachers. In the first place, the genius of Money, by a hundred direct and indirect lessons, preaches to them the infamy of destitution; thereby softening their hearts to a sweet humility with a strong sense of their wickedness. Then comes Law, with its whips and bonds, to chastise and tie up “the offending Adam”—that is, the Adam without a pocket,—and then the gentle violence of kindly Mother Church leads the poor man far from the fatal presence of his Gorgon wants, to consort him with meek-eyed Charity,—to give him glimpses of the Land of Promise,—to make him hear the rippling waters of Eternal Truth,—to feast his senses with the odours of Eternal sweets. Happy English poor! Ye are not scurfed with the vanities of the flesh! Under the affectionate discipline of the British Magi L.S.D.,—the “three kings” tasking human muscles, banqueting on human heartstrings,—ye are happily rescued from any visitation of those worldly comforts that hold the weakness of humanity to life! Hence, by the benevolence of those who have only solid acres, ye are permitted to have an unlimited portion of the sky; and banned by the mundane ones who have wine in their cellars, and venison in the larder from the gross diet of beer and beef—ye are permitted to take your bellyful of the savoury food cooked for the Hebrew patriarch. Once a week, at least, ye are invited to feast with Joseph in the house of Pharaoh, and yet, stiff-necked generation that ye are, ye stay from the banquet and then complain of hunger! “Shall there be no punishment for this obduracy?” asks kindly Mother Church, her eyes red with weeping for the hard-heartedness of her children. “Shall there be no remedy?” she sobs, wringing her hands. Whereupon, the spotless maiden Law—that Amazonian virgin, eldest child of violated Justice—answers, “Fifteen Shillings!”

We are indebted to Lord BROUGHAM for this new instance of the stubbornness of the poor—for this new revelation of the pious vengeance of offended law. A few nights since his lordship, in a motion touching prison discipline, stated that “a man had been confined for ten weeks, having been fined a shilling, and fourteen shillings costs, which he did not pay, because he was absent one Sunday from church!”

Who can doubt, that from the moment John Jones—(the reader may christen the offender as he pleases)—was discharged, he became a most pious, church-going Christian? He had been ten Sundays in prison, be it remembered; and had therefore heard at least ten sermons. He crossed the prison threshold a new-made man; and wending towards his happy home, had in his face—so lately smirched with shameless vice—such lustrous glory, that even his dearest creditors failed to recognise him!

Beautiful is the village church of Phariseefield! Beautiful is its antiquity—beautiful its porch, thronged with white-headed men and ruddy little ones! Beautiful the graves, sown with immortal seed, clustering round the building! Beautiful the vicar’s horses—the vicar himself preaches to-day,—and very beautiful indeed, the faces, ay, and the bonnets, too, of the vicar’s daughters! Beautiful the sound of the bell that summons the lowly Christian to cast aside the pomps and vanities of the world, and to stand for a time in utter nakedness of heart before his Maker,—and very beautiful the silk stockings of the Dowager Lady Canaan’s footman, who carrieth with Sabbath humility his Lady’s books to Church! Yet all this beauty is as deformity to the new-born loveliness of John Jones; who, on the furthermost seat—far from the vain convenience of pew and velvet hassock—sits, and inwardly blesses the one shilling and fourteen shillings costs, that with more than fifteen-horse power have drawn him from the iniquities of the Jerry-shop and hustle- farthing,—to feed upon the manna dropping from the lips of the Reverend Doctor FAT! There sits John Jones, late drunkard, poacher, reprobate; but now, fined into Christian goodness—made a very saint, according to Act of Parliament!

If Mother Church, with the rods of spikenard which the law hath benevolently placed in her hands, will but whip her truant children to their Sunday seats,—will only consent to draw them through the bars of a prison to their Sabbath sittings,—will teach them the real value of Christianity, it being according to her own estimate—with the expenses—exactly fifteen shillings,—sure we are, that Radicalism and Chartism, and all the many foul pustules that, in the conviction of Holy Church, are at this moment poisoning and enervating the social body, will disappear beneath the precious ointment always at her touch.

When we consider the many and impartial blessings scattered upon the poor of England—when in fact we consider the beautiful justice pervading our whole social intercourse—when we reflect upon the spirit of good- will and sincerity that operates on the hearts of the powerful few for the comfort and happiness of the helpless million,—we are almost aghast at the infidelity of poverty, forgetting in our momentary indignation, that poverty must necessarily combine within itself every species of infamy.

Poor men of England, consider not merely the fine and the expenses attendant upon absence from church, but reflect upon the want of that beautiful exercise of the spirit which, listening to precepts and parables in Holy Writ, delights to find for them practical illustrations in the political and social world about you. We know you would not think of going to church in masquerade—of reading certain lines and making certain responses as a bit of Sabbath ceremony, as necessary to a respectable appearance as a Sabbath shaving. No; you are far away from the elegances of hypocrisy, and do not time your religion from eleven till one, making devotion a matter of the church clock. By no means. You go to hear, it may be, the Bishop of EXETER; and as we have premised, what a beautiful exercise for the intellect to discover in the political doings of his Grace—in those acts which ultimately knock at your cupboard-doors—only a practical illustration of the divine precept of doing unto all men as ye would they should do unto you! Well, you pray for your daily bread; and with a profane thought of the price of the four pound loaf, your feelings are suddenly attuned to gratitude towards those who regulate the price of British corn. We might run through the Scriptures from Genesis to Revelation, quoting a thousand benevolences illustrated by the rich and mighty of this land—illustrated politically, socially, and morally, in their conduct towards the poor and destitute of Britain; and yet the stiffnecked pauper will not dispose his Sabbath to self-enjoyment—will not go to church to be rejoiced! By such disobedience, one would almost think that the poor were wicked enough to consider the church discipline of the Sabbath as no more than a ceremonious mockery of their six days wants and wretchedness.

The magistrates—(would we knew their names, we would hang them up in the highways like the golden bracelets of yore)—who have made John Jones religious through his pocket, are men of comprehensive genius. There is no wickedness that they would not make profitable to the Church. Hence, it appears from Lord BROUGHAM’S speech that John Jones “was guilty of other excesses, and had been sent to prison for a violation of that dormant—he wished he could say of it obsolete—law!” There being “other excesses” for which, it appears, there is no statute remedy, the magistrates commit a piece of pious injustice, and lump sundry laical sins into the one crime against the Church. John Jones,—for who shall conceive the profanity of man?—may have called one of these magistrates “goose” or “jackass;” and the offence against the justice is a contempt of the parson. After this, can the race of John Joneses fail to venerate Christianity as recommended by the Bench?

We have a great admiration of English Law, yet in the present instance, we think she shares very unjustly with Mother Church. For instance, Church in its meekness, says to John Jones, “You come not to my house on Sunday: pay a shilling.” John Jones refuses. “What!” exclaims Law—“refuse the modest request of my pious sister? Refuse to give her a little shilling! Give me fourteen.” Hence, in this Christian country, law is of fourteen times the consequence of religion.

Applauding as we do the efforts of the magistrates quoted by Lord BROUGHAM in the cause of Christianity, we yet conscientiously think their system capable of improvement. When the Rustic Police shall be properly established, we think they should be empowered to seize upon all suspected non-church goers every Saturday night, keeping them in the station-houses until Sunday morning, and then marching them, securely handcuffed, up the middle aisle of the parish church. ’Twould be a touching sight for Mr. PLUMPTREE, and such hard-sweating devotees. For the benefit of old offenders, we would also counsel a little wholesome private whipping in the vestry.

Q.

[pg 151] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XIII. One man sits at a table, while another brings 'Cheap Bread' and a third holds a crop over the table. MR. SANCHO BULL AND HIS STATE PHYSICIAN.

“Though surrounded with luxuries, the Doctor would not allow Sancho to partake of them, and dismissed each dish as it was brought in by the servants.”—Vide DON QUIXOTE.

[pg 153] SWEET AUTUMN DAYS. Sweet Autumn days, sweet Autumn days,

When, harvest o’er, the reaper slumbers,

How gratefully I hymn your praise,

In modest but melodious numbers.

But if I’m ask’d why ’tis I make

Autumn the theme of inspiration,

I’ll tell the truth, and no mistake—

With Autumn comes the long vacation.

Of falsehoods I’ll not shield me with a tissue—

Autumn I love—because no writs then issue.

Others may hail the joys of Spring,

When birds and buds alike are growing;

Some the Summer days may sing,

When sowing, mowing, on are going.

Old Winter, with his hoary locks,

His frosty face and visage murky,

May suit some very jolly cocks,

Who like roast-beef, mince-pies, and turkey:

But give me Autumn—yes, I’m Autumn’s child—

For then—no declarations can be filed.

TOM CONNOR’S DILEMMA. A TRUE TALE. SHOWING HOW READY WIT MAY SUPPLY THE PLACE OF READY MONEY. Tom Connor was a perfect specimen of the happy, careless, improvident class of Irishmen who think it “time enough to bid the devil good morrow when they meet him,” and whose chief delight seems to consist in getting into all manner of scrapes, for the mere purpose of displaying their ingenuity of getting out of them again. Tom, at the time I knew him, had passed the meridian of his life; “he had,” as he used to say himself, “given up battering,” and had luckily a small annuity fallen to him by the demise of a considerate old aunt who had kindly popped off in the nick of time. And on this independence Tom had retired to spend all that remained to him of a merry life at a pleasant little sea-port town in the West of Ireland, celebrated for its card- parties and its oyster-clubs. These latter social meetings were held by rotation at the houses of the members of the club, which was composed of the choicest spirits of the town. There Doctor McFadd, relaxing the dignity of professional reserve, condescended to play practical jokes on Corney Bryan, the bothered exciseman; and Skinner, the attorney, repeated all Lord Norbury’s best puns, and night after night told how, at some particular quarter sessions, he had himself said a better thing than ever Norbury uttered in his life. But the soul of the club was Tom Connor—who, by his inexhaustible fund of humorous anecdotes and droll stories, kept the table in a roar till a late hour in the night, or rather to an early hour in the morning. Tom’s stories usually related to adventures which had happened to himself in his early days; and as he had experienced innumerable vicissitudes of fortune, in every part of the world, and under various characters, his narratives, though not remarkable for their strict adherence to truth, were always distinguished by their novelty.

One evening the club had met as usual, and Tom had mixed his first tumbler of potheen punch, after “the feast of shells” was over, when somebody happened to mention the name of Edmund Kean, with the remark that he had once played in a barn in that very town.

“True enough,” said Tom. “I played in the same company with him.”

“You! you!” exclaimed several voices.

“Of course; but that was when I was a strolling actor in Clark’s corps. We used to go the western circuit, and by that means got the name of ‘the Connaught Rangers.’ There was a queer fellow in the company, called Ned Davis, an honest-hearted fellow he was, as ever walked in shoe leather. Ned and I were sworn brothers; we shared the same bed, which was often only a ‘shake-down’ in the corner of a stable, and the same dinner, which was at times nothing better than a crust of brown bread and a draught of Adam’s ale. I’ll trouble you for the bottle, doctor. Thank you; may I never take worse stuff from your hands. Talking of Ned Davis, I’ll tell you, if you have no objection of a strange adventure which befel us once.”

“Bravo! bravo! bravo!” was the unanimous cry from the members.

“Silence, gentlemen!” said the chairman imperatively; “silence for Mr. Connor’s story.”

“Hem! Well then, some time about the year—never mind the year—Ned and I were playing with the company at Loughrea; business grew bad, and the salaries diminished with the houses, until at last, one morning at a rehearsal, the manager informed us that, in consequence of the depressed state of the drama in Galway, the treasury would be closed until further notice, and that he had come to the resolution to depart on the following morning for Castlebar, whither he requested the company to follow him without delay. Fancy my consternation at this unexpected announcement! I mechanically thrust my hands into my pockets, but they were completely untenanted. I rushed home to our lodgings, where I had left Ned Davis; he, I knew, had received a guinea the day before, upon which I rested my hopes of deliverance. I found him fencing with his walking-stick with an imaginary antagonist, whom he had in his mind pinned against a closet-door. I related to him the sudden move the manager had made, and told him, in the most doleful voice conceivable, that I was not possessed of a single penny. As soon as I had finished, he dropped into a chair, and burst into a long-continued fit of laughter, and then looked in my face with the most provoking mock gravity, and asked—

“What’s to be done then? How are we to get out of this?”

“Why,” said I, “that guinea which you got yesterday!”

“Ho! ho! ho! ho!” he shouted. “The guinea is gone.”

“Gone!” I exclaimed; and I felt my knees began to shake under me. “Gone—where—how.”

“I gave it to the wife of that poor devil of a scene-shifter who broke his arm last week; he had four children, and they were starving. What could I do but give it to them? Had it been ten times as much they should have had it.”

I don’t know what reply I made, but it had the effect of producing another fit of uncontrollable laughter.

“Why do you laugh,” said I, rather angrily.

“Who the devil could help it;” he replied; “your woe-begone countenance would make a cat laugh.”

“Well,” said I, “we are in a pretty dilemma here. We owe our landlady fifteen shillings.”

“For which she will lay an embargo on our little effects—three black wigs and a low-comedy pair of breeches—this must be prevented.”

“But how?” I inquired.

“How? never mind; but order dinner directly.”

“Dinner!” said I; “don’t awaken painful recollections.”

“Go and do as I tell you,” he replied. “Order dinner—beef-steak and oyster-sauce.”

“Beef-steak! Are you mad”—but before I could finish the sentence, he had put on his hat and disappeared.

“Who knows?” thought I, after he was gone, “he’s a devilish clever fellow, something may turn up:” so I ordered the beef-steaks. In less than an hour, my friend returned with exultation in his looks.

“I have done it!” said he, slapping me on the back; “we shall have plenty of money to-morrow.”

I begged he would explain himself.

“Briefly then,” said he, “I have been to the billiard-room, and every other lounging-place about town, where I circulated, in the most mysterious manner, a report that a celebrated German doctor and philosopher, who had discovered the secret of resuscitating the dead, had arrived in Loughrea.”

“How ridiculous!” I said.

“Don’t be in a hurry. This philosopher,” he added, “is about to give positive proof that he can perform what he professes, and it is his intention to go into the churchyard to-night, and resuscitate a few of those who have not been buried more than a twelvemonth.”

“Well.” said I, “what does all this nonsense come to?”

“That you must play the philosopher in the churchyard.”

“Me!”

“Certainly, you’re the very figure for the part.”

After some persuasion, and some further development of his plan, I consented to wrap myself in an ample stage-cloak, and gliding into the churchyard, I waited in the porch according to the directions I had received from Ned, until near midnight, when I issued forth, and proceeded to examine the different tombs attentively. I was bending over one, which, by the inscription, I perceived had been erected by “an affectionate and disconsolate wife, to the memory of her beloved husband,” when I was startled at hearing a rustling noise, and, on looking round, to see a stout-looking woman standing beside me.

“Doctor,” said she, addressing me, “I know what you’re about here.”

I shook my head solemnly.

“This is my poor late husband’s tomb.”

“I know it,” I answered. “I mean to exercise my art upon him first. He shall be restored to your arms this very night.”

The widow gave a faint scream—“I’m sure, doctor,” said she, “I’m greatly obliged to you. Peter was the best of husbands—but he has now been dead six months—and—I am—married again.”

“Humph!” said I, “the meeting will be rather awkward, but you may induce your second husband to resign.”

“No, no, doctor; let the poor man rest quietly, and here is a trifle for your trouble.” So saying, she slipped a weighty purse into my hand.

“This alters the case,” said I, “materially—your late husband shall never be disturbed by me.”

The widow withdrew with a profusion of acknowledgments; and scarcely had she gone, when a young fellow, who I learned had lately come into possession of a handsome property by the death of an uncle, came to request me not to meddle with the deceased, who he assured me was a shocking old curmudgeon, who never spent his money like a gentleman. A douceur from the young chap secured the repose of his uncle.

My next visitor was a weazel-faced man, who had been plagued for twenty years by a shrew of a wife, who popped off one day from an overdose of whiskey. He came to beseech me not to bring back his plague to the world; and, pitying the poor man’s case, I gave him my promise readily, without accepting a fee.

By this time daylight had begun to appear, and creeping quietly out of the churchyard, I returned to my lodgings. Ned was waiting up for my return.

“What luck?” said he, as I entered the room.

I showed him the fees I had received during the night.

“I told you,” said he, “that we should have plenty of rhino to-day. Never despair, man, there are more ways out of the wood than one: and recollect, that ready wit is as good as ready money.”

[pg 154] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. II.—THE NEW MAN. Embryology precedes the treatise on the perfect animal; it is but right, therefore, that the new man should have our attention before the mature student.

No sooner do the geese become asphyxiated by torsion of their cervical vertebrae, in anticipation of Michaelmas-day; no sooner do the pheasants feel premonitory warnings, that some chemical combinations between charcoal, nitre, and sulphur, are about to take place, ending in a precipitation of lead; no sooner do the columns of the newspapers teem with advertisements of the ensuing courses at the various schools, each one cheaper, and offering more advantages than any of the others; the large hospitals vaunting their extended field of practice, and the small ones ensuring a more minute and careful investigation of disease, than the new man purchases a large trunk and a hat-box, buys a second-hand copy of Quain’s Anatomy, abjures the dispensing of his master’s surgery in the country, and placing himself in one of those rattling boxes denominated by courtesy second-class carriages, enters on the career of a hospital pupil in his first season.

The opening lecture introduces the new man to his companions, and he is easily distinguished at that annual gathering of pupils, practitioners, professors, and especially old hospital governors, who do a good deal in the gaiter-line, and applaud the lecturer with their umbrellas, as they sit in the front row. The new man is known by his clothes, which incline to the prevalent fashion of the rural districts he has quitted; and he evinces an affection for cloth-boots, or short Wellingtons with double soles, and toes shaped like a toad’s mouth, a propensity which sometimes continues throughout the career of his pupilage. He likewise takes off his hat when he enters the dissecting-room, and thinks that beautiful design is shown in the mechanism and structure of the human body—an idea which gets knocked out of him at the end of the season, when he looks upon the distribution of the nerves as “a blessed bore to get up, and no use to him after he has passed.” But at first he perpetually carries a

A man reaches through a window to club a seated man. “DUBLIN DISSECTOR”

under his arm; and whether he is engaged upon a subject or no, delights to keep on his black apron, pockets, and sleeves (like a barber dipped in a blacking-bottle), the making of which his sisters have probably superintended in the country, and which he thinks endows him with an air of industry and importance.

The new man, at first, is not a great advocate for beer; but this dislike may possibly arise from his having been compelled to stand two pots upon the occasion of his first dissection. After a time, however, he gives way to the indulgence, having received the solemn assurances of his companions that it is absolutely necessary to preserve his health, and keep him from getting the collywobbles in his pandenoodles—a description of which obstinate disease he is told may be found in “Dr. Copland’s Medical Dictionary,” and “Gregory’s Practice of Physic,” but as to under what head the informant is uncertain.

The first purchase that a new man makes in London is a gigantic note- book, a dozen steel pens on a card, and a screw inkstand. Furnished with these valuable adjuncts to study, he puts down every thing he hears during the day, both in the theatre of the school and the wards of the hospital, besides many diverting diagrams and anecdotes which his fellow-students insert for him, until at night he has a confused dream that the air-pump in the laboratory is giving a party, at which various scalpels, bits of gums, wax models, tourniquets, and fœtal skulls, are assisting as guests—an eccentric and philosophical vision, worthy of the brain from which it emanates. But the new man is, from his very nature, a visionary. His breast swells with pride at the introductory lecture, when he hears the professor descant upon the noble science he and his companions have embarked upon; the rich reward of watching the gradual progress of a suffering fellow-creature to convalescence, and the insignificance of worldly gain compared with the pure treasures of pathological knowledge; whilst to the riper student all this resolves itself into the truth, that three draughts, or one mixture, are respectively worth four-and-sixpence or three shillings: that the patient should be encouraged to take them as long as possible, and that the thrilling delight of ushering another mortal into existence, after being up all night, is considerably increased by the receipt of the tin for superintending the performance; i.e. if you are lucky enough to get it.

It is not improbable that, after a short period, the new man will write a letter home. The substance of it will be as follows: and the reader is requested to preserve a copy, as it may, perhaps, be compared with another at a future period.

“MY DEAR PARENTS,—I am happy to inform you that my health is at present uninjured by the atmosphere of the hospital, and that I find I am making daily progress in my studies. I have taken a lodging in —— (Gower-place, University-street, Little Britain, or Lant-street, as the case may be,) for which I pay twelve shillings a week, including shoes. The mistress of the house is a pious old lady, and I am very comfortable, with the exception that two pupils live on the floor above me, who are continually giving harmonic parties to their friends, and I am sometimes compelled to request they will allow me to conclude transcribing my lecture notes in tranquillity—a request, I am sorry to say, not often complied with. The smoke from their pipes fills the whole house, and the other night they knocked me up two hours after I had retired to rest, for the loan of the jug of cold water from my washhand-stand, to make grog with, and a ‘Little Warbler,’ if I had one, with the words of ‘The Literary Dustman’ in it.

“Independently of these annoyances, I get on pretty well, and have already attracted the notice of my professors, who return my salutation very condescendingly, and tell me to look upon them rather as friends than teachers. The students here, generally speaking, are a dissipated and irreligious set of young men; and I can assure you I am often compelled to listen to language that quite makes my ears tingle. I have found a very decent washerwoman, who mends for me as well; but, unfortunately, she washes for the house, and the initials of one of the students above me are the same as mine, so that I find our things are gradually changing hands, in which I have the worst, because his shirts and socks are somewhat dilapidated, or, to speak professionally, their fibrous texture abounds in organic lesions; and the worst is, he never finds out the error until the end of the week, when he sends my things back, with his compliments, and thinks the washerwoman has made a mistake.

“I have not been to the theatres yet, nor do I feel the least wish to enter into any of the frivolities of the great metropolis. With kind regards to all at home, believe me,

“Your’s affectionately, “JOSEPH MUFF.”

“I DO ADJURE YE, ANSWER ME!” A valuable porcelain vase, which stood in one of the state rooms of Windsor Castle, has been recently broken; it is suspected by design, as the situation in which it was placed almost precludes the idea that it could have happened by accident. A commission, called “The Flunky Inquisition,” has been appointed by Sir Robert Peel, with Sibthorp at its head, to inquire into the affair. The gallant Colonel declares that he has personally cross-examined all the housemaids, but that he has hitherto been unable to obtain a satisfactory solution of

A group of servants stand around a broken vase. THE GREAT CHINA QUESTION.

LIKE MASTER LIKE MAN. SIR ROBERT PEEL’S workmen inside the House of Parliament have determined to follow the example of the masons outside the House, if Mr. Wakley is to be appointed their foreman.

[pg 155] INQUEST EXTRAORDINARY ON A CORONER. Last night an inquest was held on the Consistency of Thomas Wakley, Esq., Member for Finsbury, and Coroner for Middlesex. The deceased had been some time ailing, but his demise was at length so sudden, that it was deemed necessary to public justice that an inquest should be taken of the unfortunate remains.

The inquest was held at the Vicar of Bray tap, Palace Yard; and the jury, considering the neighbourhood, was tolerably respectable. The remains of the deceased were in a dreadful state of decomposition; and although chloride of lime and other antiseptic fluids were plentifully scattered in the room, it was felt to be a service of danger to approach too closely to the defunct. Many members of Parliament were in attendance, and all of them, to a man, appeared very visibly shocked by the appearance of the body. Indeed they all of them seemed to gather a great moral lesson from the corpse. “We know not whose turn it may be next,” was printed in the largest physiognomical type in every member’s countenance.

Thomas Duncombe, Esq., Member for Finsbury, examined—Had known the deceased for some years. Had the highest notion of the robustness of his constitution. Would have taken any odds upon it. Deceased, however, within these last three or four weeks had flighty intervals. Talked very much about the fine phrenological development of Sir Robert Peel’s skull. Had suspicions of the deceased from that moment. Deceased had been carefully watched, but to no avail. Deceased inflicted a mortal wound upon himself on the first night of Sir Robert’s premiership; and though he continued to rally for many evenings, he sunk the night before last, after a dying speech of twenty minutes.

Colonel Sibthorp, Member for Lincoln, examined—Knew the deceased. Since the accession of Sir Robert Peel to power had had many conversations with the deceased upon the ministerial bench. Had offered snuff-box to the deceased. Deceased did not snuff. Deceased had said that he thought witness a man of high parliamentary genius, and that Sir Robert Peel ought to have made him (witness) either Lord Chamberlain or Chancellor of the Exchequer. In every other respect, deceased behaved himself quite rationally.

There were at least twenty other witnesses—Members of the House of Commons—in attendance to be examined; but the Coroner put it to the jury whether they had not heard enough?

The jury assented, and immediately returned a verdict—Felo de se.

N.B. A member for Finsbury wanted next dissolution.

A CURIOUS ERROR. A member of the American legislature, remarkable for his absence of mind, exhibited a singular instance of this mental infirmity very lately. Having to present a petition to the house, he presented himself instead, and did not discover his mistake until he was

A woman presents a pig on a platter to a dining man. ORDERED TO LIE ON THE TABLE.

SIR ROBERT PEEL (LOQUITUR). When erst the Whigs were in, and I was out,

I knew exactly what to be about;

Then all I had to do, through thick and thin,

Was but to get them out, and Bobby in.

And now that I am in, and they are out,

The only thing that I can be about

Is to do nothing; but, through thick and thin,

Contrive to keep them out, and Bobby in.

SONGS FOR THE SEEDY.—No. 3. Oh! think not all who call thee fair

Are in their honied words sincere;

And if they offer jewels rare,

Lend not too readily thine ear.

The humble ring I lately gave

May be despised by thee—well, let it;

But Mary, when I’m in my grave,

Think that I pawn’d my watch to get it.

Others may talk of feasts of love,

And banqueting upon thy charms;

But did not I devotion prove,

Last Sunday, at the Stanhope Arms?

My rival order’d tea for four,

The waiter at his bidding laid it;

He generously ran the score,

But, Mary, I did more,—I paid it.

I know he’s dashing, bold, and free,

A front of Jove, an eye of fire;

But should he say he loves like me,

I’d, like Apollo, strike the lyre.

He says, he at your feet will throw

His all; and, if his vows are steady,

He cannot equal me—for, oh!

I’ve given you all I had, already.

Mary, I had a second suit

Of clothes, of which the coat was braided;

Mary, they went to buy that flute

With which I thee have serenaded.

Mary, I had a beaver hat,

Than this I wear a great deal better;

Mary, I’ve parted too with that,

For pens, ink, paper—for this letter.

PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE. Dear PUNCH,—Will you inform me whether the review of the troops noticed in last Saturday’s Times, is to be found in the “Edinborough,” “Westminster,” or “Quarterly.”

Yours, in all mayoralties, PETER LAURIE.

P.S.—What do they mean by

A man falls flat onto a paved sidewalk. SALUTING A FLAG?

“GO ALONG, BOB.” Sir Bobby Peel, who, before he got into harness, professed himself able to draw the Government truck “like bricks,” has changed his note since he has been put to the trial, and he is now bawling lustily—“Don’t hurry me, please—give me a little time.” Wakley, seeing the pitiable condition of the unfortunate animal, volunteered his services to push behind, and the Chartist and Tory may now be seen every night in St. Stephen’s, working cordially together, and exhibiting an illustration of the benefits of a

A man pushes a cart being pulled by a donkey. DIVISION OF LABOUR.

CONS BY OUR OWN COLONEL. Why is a loud laugh in the House of Commons like Napoleon Buonaparte?—Because it’s an M.P. roar (an Emperor).

Why is a person getting rheumatic like one locking a cupboard- door?—Because he’s turning achy (a key).

Why is one-and-sixpence like an aversion to coppers?—Because it’s hating pence (eighteen-pence).

[pg 156] PUNCH’S THEATRE. DIE HEXEN AM RHEIN; OR, RUDOLPH OF HAPSBURGH. Mysterious are thy ways, O Yates! Thou art the only true melodramatist of the stage and off the stage! When a new demonology is compiled thou shalt have an honourable place in it. Thou shall be worshipped as the demon of novelty, even by the “gods” themselves. Thy deeds shall be recorded in history. It shall not be forgotten that thou wert the importer of Mademoiselle Djeck, the tame elephant; of Monsieur Bohain, the gigantic Irishman; and of Signor Hervi o’Nano, the Cockneyan-Italian dwarf. Never should we have seen the Bayaderes but for you; nor T.P. Cooke in “The Pilot,” nor the Bedouin Arabs, nor “The Wreck Ashore,” nor “bathing and sporting” nymphs, nor other dramatic delicacies. Truly, thou art the luckiest of managers; for all thy efforts succeed, whether they deserve it or not. Sometimes thou drawest up an army of scene- painters, mechanists, dancers, monsters, dwarfs, devils, fire-works, and water-spouts, in terrible array against common sense. Yet lo! thou dost conquer! Thy pieces never miss fire; they go on well with the public, and favourable are the press reports. Wert thou a Catholic thou wouldest be canonised; for evil spirits are thy passion; the Vatican itself cannot produce a more indefatigable “devils’ advocate!”

The repast now provided by Mr. Yates for those who are fond of “supping full of horrors” is a devilled drama, interspersed with hydraulics— consisting, in fact, of spirits and water, sweetened with songs and spiced with witches. It is, we are informed by the official announcements, “a romantic burletta of witchcraft, in two acts, and a prologue, with entirely new scenery, dresses, and peculiar appointments, imagined by, and introduced under the direction of, Mr. Yates.” Now, any person, entirely unprejudiced with a taste for devilry and free from hydrophobia, who sees this production, must have an unbounded opinion of the manager’s imagination,—what a head he must have for aquatic effects! In vain we look around for its parallel—nothing but the New River head suggests itself.

But our preface is detaining us from the “prologue;” the first words in which stamp the entire production with originality. Assassins, who let themselves out by the job, have long been pleasantly employed in melodramas, being mostly enacted by performers in the heavy line; but the author of “Die Hexen am Rhein” introduces a character hitherto unknown to the stage; namely, the comic cut-throat. Messieurs Gabor and Wolfstein, (played by Mr. Wright, and the immortal Geoffery Muffincap, Mr. Wilkinson), treat us with a dialogue concerning the blowing out of brains, and the incision of weasands, which is conceived and delivered with the broadest humour, enlivened by the choicest of jokes. They have, we learn, been lately commissioned by Ottocar to murder Rudolph, the exiled Duke of Hapsburgh, who is to pass that way; but he does not come, because his kind kinsman, Ottocar, must have time to consult the god- fathers and god-mothers of the piece, or “Witches of the Rhine;” which he does in the “storm-reft hut of Zabaren.” This Zabaren is a hospitable gentleman, who sings a good song, sees much company, and is played by that convivial genius Paul Bedford. Ottocar is introduced amongst other friends to a “speaking spirit,” who, being personated by Miss Terrey, utters a terrible prediction. We could not quite make out the purport of this augury; nor were we much grieved at the loss; feeling assured that the next two acts would be occupied in fulfilling it. The funny bravoes present themselves in the next scene, and exit to stab one of two brothers, who goes off evidently for that purpose, judiciously coming back to die in the arms of Count Rudolph, for whom he has been mistaken. Under such circumstances it is but fair that the prince should repay the obligation he owes his friend for being killed in his stead, by promising protection to the widow and child. The oath he takes would be doubly binding (for he promises to become a brother to the wife, and not content with thus making himself the child’s uncle, swears to be his father too), if the husband did not die before he has had time to utter his wife’s name. All these affairs having been settled, the prologue—which used to be called the first act—ends.

Fifteen years are supposed to elapse before the curtain is again rolled up; and that this allusion may be rendered the more perfect, the audience is kept waiting about three times fifteen minutes, to amuse one another during the entr’acte. We next learn that Rudolph is seated upon his ducal throne, fortunate in the possession of a paragon-wife, and a steward of the household not to be equalled—no other than Ottocar—that particular friend, who, in the prologue, tried to get a finis put to his mortal career. The jocose ruffians here enliven the scene—one by being cast into a dungeon for asking Ottocar (evidently the Colburn of his day), an exorbitant price for the copyright of a certain manuscript; the other, by calling the courtier a man of genius, and being taken into his service, as no doubt, “first robber.” To support this character, a change of apparel is necessary: and no wonder, for Wolfstein has on precisely the same clothes he wore fifteen years before.

His first job is to steal a casket; but is declined, probably, because Wolfstein, being a professor of the capital crime, considers mere larceny infra dig. A “second robber” must therefore be hired, and Ottocar has one already preserved in the castle dungeons, in the person of a dumb prisoner. Dummy comes on, and the auditors at once recognise the “brother” who was not murdered in the prologue. He steals the casket, and Ottocar steals off.

The duke and duchess next enter into a dialogue, the subject of which is one Wilhelm, a young standard-bearer, who appears; and having said a few words exits, that Ida, the duchess, might inform us, in a soliloquy, what we have already shrewdly suspected, namely—that the ensign is her son; another presentiment comes into one’s mind, which one don’t think it fair to the author and his story to entertain till the proper time. A sort of secret interview between the mother and son now takes place, which ends by the imprisonment of the latter; why is not explained at the moment; nor, indeed, till the next scene, when it is quite apparent; for if one sees an impregnable castle, rigidly guarded by supernumeraries, with an impassable river, bristling with chevaux-de- frise it is impossible to get over, and a moat that it would be death to cross, a prison-escape may be surely calculated upon. In the present instance, this formulary is not omitted, for Wilhelm jumps into the river from a bridge which he has contrived to reach. Though several shots are fired into the tank of water that represents the Rhine, there is no hissing; on the contrary, the second act ends amidst general applause; which indeed it deserves, for the scenery is magnificent.

“The Ancient Arch in the Black Forest,” is a sort of house of call for witches, and it being seen during their merry-making, or holiday, is rendered more picturesque by the Devil’s “Ha, ha!” The hospitable Zabaren entertains hundreds of witches, of all sorts and sizes, who dance all manner of country-dances, and sing a series of songs and choruses, in which the “Ha! ha!” is again conspicuously introduced. It seems that German witches not only ride upon brooms, but sweep with them; and a company of supernatural Jack Rags perform sundry gyrations peculiarly interesting to housemaids. After about an hour’s dancing, the witches being naturally “blown,” are just in cue for leaving off with an airy dance called the “witches’ whirlwind.”

This episode over, the plot goes on. Ottocar accuses Ida of infidelity with Wilhelm to the duke; she, in explanation, fulfils the presentiment we had some delicacy in hinting too soon—that she is the wife of the man who was killed in the prologue; Rudolph having married her in ignorance of that fact, and by a coincidence which, though intensely melo- dramatic, every body foresees who has ever been three times to the Adelphi theatre.

To describe the last scene would be the height of presumption in PUNCH. Nobody but “Satan” Montgomery, or the Adelphi play-bill, is equal to the task. We quote, as preferable, the latter authority:—“Grand inauguration of Wilhelm, the rightful heir. CORAL CAVES and CRYSTAL STREAMS: these are actually obtained by a HYDRO-SCENIC EFFECT! As the usual area devoted to illusion becomes a reality!”

Besides all this, which simply means “real water,” there is a Neptune in a car drawn by three sea or ichthyological horses, having fins and web feet. There is a devil that is seen through the whole piece, because he is supposed to be invisible (cleverly played by Mr. Wieland), and who having dived into the water, is fished out of it, and sent flying into the flies. This sending a devil upward, is a new way of

An artist paints a portrait of a black man. TAKING OFF THE DARK GENTLEMAN.

Being dripping wet, the demon in his ascent seriously incommodes Neptune; who, not being used to the water, looks about in great distress, evidently for an umbrella. After several glares of several coloured fires, the curtain falls.

Seriously, the scenic effects of this piece do great credit to Mr. Yates’s “imagination,” and to the handiwork of his “own peculiar artists.” It is very proper that they should be immortalised in the advertisements; by which the public are informed that the scenery is by Pitt, (where is Tomkins?) and others: the machinery by Mr. Hayley, and the lightning by the direction of Mr. Outhwaite! Bat will the public be satisfied with such scanty information? Who, they will ask the manager, rolls the thunder? who supplies the coloured fires? who flashes the lightning? who beats the gong? who grinds up the curtain? Let Mr. Yates be speedy in relieving the breathless curiosity of his patrons on these points, or look to his benches.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. OCTOBER 16, 1841. [pg 157] TRADE REPORT. (FROM OUR OWN REPORTER.) A man with a brace of rabbits on a pole forms a letter T. he market has been in a most extraordinary state all the morning. Our first advices informed us that feathers were getting very heavy, and that lead was a great deal brisker than usual. In the fish-market, flounders were not so flat as they had been, and, to the surprise of every one, were coming round rapidly.

The deliveries of tallow were very numerous, and gave a smoothness to the transactions of the day, which had a visible effect on business. Every species of fats were in high demand, but the glut of mutton gave a temporary check to the general facility of the ordinary operations.

The milk market is in an unsettled state, the late rains having caused an unusual abundance. A large order for skim, for the use of a parish union, gave liveliness to the latter portion of the day, which had been exceedingly gloomy during the whole morning.

We had a long conversation in the afternoon with a gentleman who is up to every move in the poultry-market, and his opinion is, that the flouring system must soon prove the destruction of fair and fowl commerce. We do not wish to be premature, but our informant is a person in whom we place the utmost reliance, and, indeed, there is every reason why we should depend upon so respectable an authority.

Cotton is in a dull state. We saw only one ball in the market, and even that was not in a dealer’s hands, but was being used by a basket-woman, who was darning a stocking. After this, who can be surprised at the stoppage of the factories?

Nothing was done in gloves, and what few sales were effected, seemed to be merely for the purpose of keeping the hand in, with a view to future dealings.

THE GEOLOGY OF SOCIETY. The study of Geology, in the narrow acceptation of the word, is confined to the investigation of the materials which compose this terrestrial globe;—in its more extended signification, it relates, also, to the examination of the different layers or strata of society, as they are to be met with in the world.

Society is divided into three great strata, called High Life—Middle Life—and Low Life. Each of these strata contains several classes, which have been ranged in the following order, descending from the highest to the lowest—that is, from the drawing-room of St. James’s to the cellar in St. Giles’s.

High Life. Superior Class. ST. JAMES'S SERIES. People wearing coronets. People related to coronets. People having no coronet, but who expect to get one. People who talk of their grandfathers, and keep a carriage. Transition Class. SECONDARY. (Russell-square group.) People who keep a carriage, but are silent respecting their grandfathers. Middle Life. People who give dinners to the superior series. People who talk of the four per cents, and are suspected of being mixed up in a grocery concern in the City. (Clapham group.) People who “confess the Cape,” and say, that though Pa amuses himself in the dry-salter line in Fenchurch- street, he needn’t do it if he didn’t like. People who keep a shop “concern” and a one-horse shay, and go to Ramsgate for three weeks in the dog-days. Metamorphic Class. People who keep a “concern,” but no shay, do the genteel with the light porter in livery on solemn occasions. People, known as “shabby-genteels,” who prefer walking to riding, and study Kidd’s “How to live on a hundred a-year.” INFERIOR SERIES. (Whitechapel group.) Low Life. People who dine at one o’clock, and drink stout out of the pewter, at the White Conduit Gardens. Primitive Formation. People who think Bluchers fashionable, and ride in pleasure “wans” to Richmond on Sundays in summer. (St. Giles’s group.) Tag-rag and bob-tail in varieties. It will be seen, by a glance at the above table, that the three great divisions of society, namely, High Life, Low Life, and Middle Life, are subdivided, or more properly, sub- classed, into the Superior, Transition, and Metamorphic classes. Lower still than these in the social scale is the Primitive Formation—which may be described as the basis and support of all the other classes. The individuals comprising it may be distinguished by their ragged surface, and shocking bad hats; they effervesce strongly with gin or Irish whiskey. This class comprehends the St. Giles’s Group—(which is the lowest of all the others, and is found only in the great London basin)—and that portion of the Whitechapel group whose individuals wear Bluchers and ride in pleasure ‘wans’ to Richmond on Sundays. In man’s economy the St. Giles’s Group are exceedingly important, being usually employed in the erection of buildings, where their great durability and hod-bearing qualities are conspicuous. Next in order is the Metamorphic class—so called, because of the singular metamorphoses that once a week takes place amongst its individuals; their common every-day appearance, which approaches nearly to that of the St. Giles’s Group, being changed, on Sundays, to a variegated-coloured surface, with bright buttons and a shining “four-and-nine”—goss. This class includes the upper portion of the Whitechapel Group, and the two lower strata of the Clapham Group. The Whitechapel Group is the most elevated layer of the inferior series. The Shabby Genteel stratum occupies a wide extent on the Surrey side of the water—it is part of the Clapham Group, and is found in large quantities in the neighbourhood of Kennington, Vauxhall, and the Old Kent-road. A large vein of it is also to be met with at Mile-end and Chelsea. It is the lowest of the secondary formation. This stratum is characterised by its fossil remains—a great variety of miscellaneous articles—such as watches, rings, and silk waistcoats and snuff-boxes being found firmly imbedded in what are technically termed avuncular depositories. The deposition of these matters has been referred by the curious to various causes; the most general supposition being, a peremptory demand for rent, or the like, on some particular occasion, when they were carried either by the owner, his wife, or daughter, from their original to their present position, and left amongst an accumulation of “popped” articles from various districts. The chief evidence on this point is not derived from the fossils themselves, but from their duplicates, which afford the most satisfactory proof of the period at which they were deposited. Articles which appear originally to have belonged to the neighbourhood of Belgrave-square have been frequently found in the depositories of the district between Bethnal- green and Spitalfields. By what social deluge they could have been conveyed to such a distance, is a question that has long puzzled the ablest geologists. Immediately above the “shabby genteel” stratum are found the people who “keep a shop concern, but no shay;” it is the uppermost layer of the Metamorphic Class, and, in some instances, may be detected mingling with the supra-genteel Clapham Group. The “shop and no shay” stratum forms a considerable portion of the London basin. It is characterised by its coarseness of texture, and a conglomeration of the parts of speech. Its animal remains usually consist of retired licensed victuallers and obese tallow-chandlers, who are generally found in beds of soft formation, separated from superincumbent layers of Marseilles quilts, by interposing strata of thick double Witneys.

Having proceeded thus far upwards in the social formation, we shall pause until next week, when we shall commence with the lower portion of the TRANSITION CLASS—the “shop and shay people”—and, as we hope, convince our readers of the immense importance of our subject, and the great advantage of studying the strata of human life

A large man falls onto a child and a desk. UNDER A GREAT MASTER.

COVENTRY’S WISE PRECAUTION. Some person was relating to the Earl of Coventry the strange fact that the Earl of Devon’s harriers last week gave chase, in his demesne, to an unhappy donkey, whom they tore to pieces before they could be called off; upon which his lordship asked for a piece of chalk and a slate, and composed the following jeu d’esprit on the circumstance:—

I’m truly shocked that Devon’s hounds

The gentle ass has slain;

For me to shun his lordship’s grounds,

It seems a warning plain.

CONTINUATIONS FROM CHINA. It is generally reported that the usual drill continuations of the British tars are about to be altered by those manning the fleet off China, who purpose adopting Nankin as soon as possible.

THE VERY “NEXT” JONATHAN. There is a Quaker in New Orleans so desperate upright in all his dealings, that he won’t sit down to eat his meals.

[pg 158] A man carries a girl in a box on his back. A ship sits atop the box. POOR JACK. A sailor ashore, after a long cruise, is a natural curiosity. Twenty-four hours’ liberty has made him the happiest dog in existence; and the only drawback to his perfect felicity, is the difficulty of getting rid of his prize-money within the allotted time. It must, however, be confessed, that he displays a vast deal of ingenuity in devising novel modes of spending his rhino. Watches, trinkets, fiddlers, coaches, grog, and girls, are the long-established and legitimate modes of clearing out his lockers; but even these means are sometimes found inadequate to effect the desired object with sufficient rapidity. When there happens to be a number of brother-tars similarly employed, who have engaged all the coaches, fiddlers, and sweethearts in the town, it is then that Jack is put to his wits’-end; and it is only by buying cocked-hats and top-boots for the boat’s-crew, or some such absurdity, that he can get all his cash scattered before he is obliged to return on board. This is a picture of a sailor ashore, but a sailor aground is a different being altogether. An unlucky shot may deprive him of a leg or arm; he may be frost-nipped at the pole, or get a coup de soleil in the tropics, and then be turned upon the world to shape his course amongst its rocks and shallows, with the bitter blast of poverty in his teeth. But Jack is not to be beaten so easily; although run aground, he refuses to strike his flag, and, with a cheerful heart, goes forth into the highways and byeways to sing “the dangers of the sea,” and, to collect from the pitying passers-by, the coppers that drop, “like angel visits,” into his little oil-skin hat.

These nautical melodists, with voices as rough as their beards, are to be met with everywhere; but they abound chiefly in the neighbourhood of Deptford and Wapping, where they seem to be indigenous. The most remarkable specimen of the class may, however, frequently be seen about the streets of London, carrying at his back a good-sized box, inside which, and peeping through a sort of port-hole, a pretty little girl of some two years old exhibits her chubby face. Surmounting the box, a small model of a frigate, all a-tant and ship-shape, represents “Her Majesty’s (God bless her!) frigate Billy-ruffian, on board o’ which the exhibitor lost his blessed limb.”

Jack—we call him Jack, though we confess we are uncertain of his baptismal appellation—because Jack is a sort of generic name for his species—Jack prides himself on his little Poll and his little ship, which he boasts are the miniature counterparts of their lovely originals; and with these at his back, trudges merrily along, trusting that Providence will help him to “keep a southerly wind out of the bread-bag.” Jack’s songs, as we have remarked, all relate to the sea—he is a complete repository of Dibdin’s choice old ballads and fok’sl chaunts. “Tom Bowling,” “Lovely Nan,” “Poor Jack,” and “Lash’d to the helm,” with “Cease, rude Boreas,” and “Rule Britannia,” are amongst his favourite pieces, but the “Bay of Biscay” is his crack performance: with this he always commenced, when he wanted to enlist the sympathies of his auditors,—mingling with the song sundry interlocutory notes and comments.

Having chosen a quiet street, where the appearance of mothers with blessed babbies in the windows prognosticates a plentiful descent of coppers, Jack commences by pitching his voice uncommonly strong, and tossing Poll and the Billy-ruffian from side to side, to give an idea of the way Neptune sarves the navy,—strikes, as one may say, into deep water, by plunging into “The Bay of Biscay,” in the following manner;—

“Loud roar’d the dreadful thunder—

The rain a deluge pours—

Our sails were split asunder,

By lightning’s vivid pow’rs.

“Do, young gentleman!—toss a copper to poor little Poll. Ah! bless you, master!—may you never want a shot in your locker. Thank the gentleman, Polly—

“The night both drear and dark,

Our poor desarted bark,

There she lay—(lay quiet, Poll!)

“There she lay—Noble lady in the window, look with pity on poor Jack, and his little Polly—till next day,

In the Bay of Biscay O.”

“Pray, kind lady, help the poor shipwrecked sailor—cast away on his voyage to the West Ingees, in a dreadful storm. Sixteen hands on us took to the long-boat, my lady, and was thrown on a desart island, three thousand miles from any land; which island was unfortunately manned by Cannibals, who roast and eat every blessed one of us, except the cook’s black boy; and him they potted, my lady, and I’m bless’d but they’d have potted me, too, if I hadn’t sung out to them savages, in this ‘ere sort of way, my lady—

“Come all you jolly sailors bold,

Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould,

While British valour I unfold—

Huzza! for the Arethusa!

She was a frigate stout and brave

As ever stemm’d the dashing wave—

“Lord love your honour, and throw the poor sailor who has fought and bled for his country, a trifle to keep him from foundering. Look, your honour, how I lost my precious limb in the sarvice. You see we was in the little Tollymakus frigate, cruising off the banks o’ Newf’land, when we fell in with a saucy Yankee, twice the size of our craft; but, bless your honour, that never makes no odds to British sailors, and so we sarved her out with hot dumpling till she got enough, and forced her to haul down her stripes to the flag of Old England. But somehow, your honour, I caught a chance ball that threw me on my beam-ends, and left me to sing—

“My name d’ye see’s Tom Tough,

And I’ve seen a little sarvice,

Where the mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow,

I’ve sail’d with noble Howe,

And I’ve fought with gallant Jarvis,

And in gallant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung—yo-heave-oh!”

“A sixpence or a shilling rewards Jack’s loyalty and eloquence. A violent tossing of Polly and the ship testify his gratitude; and pocketing the coin he has collected, he puts about, and shapes his course for some other port, singing lustily as he goes—

“Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!”

Farewell, POOR JACK!

THOSE DIVING BELLES! THOSE DIVING BELLES! Some of our contemporaries have been dreadfully scandalised at the indelicate scenes which take place on the sands at Ramsgate, where, it seems, a sort of joint-stock social bathing company has been formed by the duckers and divers of both sexes. Situations for obtaining favourable views are anxiously sought after by elderly gentlemen, by whom opera glasses and pocket telescopes are much patronised. Greatly as we admire the investigation of nature in her unadorned simplicity, Ramsgate would be the last place we should select, if we were

A reading man walks over the edge of a precipice. GOING DOWN TO A WATERING PLACE.

[pg 159] PROSPECTUS OF A NEW GRAND NATIONAL AND UNIVERSAL STEAM INSURANCE, RAILROAD ACCIDENT, AND PARTIAL MUTILATION PROVIDENT SOCIETY.

CAPITAL, FIVE HUNDRED MILLIONS, IN ONE HUNDRED MILLION £5 SHARES—HALF DEPOSIT, THE DIRECTORS To be duly balloted for from amongst the Consulting Surgeons of the various Metropolitan hospitals.

ACTING SECRETARIES, The County Coroners.

By the constitution of this society, the whole of the profits will be divided among such of the assured as can come to claim them.

The public are particularly requested to bear in mind the double advantage (so great a desideratum to all railroad travellers) of being at one and the same time connected with a “Fire, Life, and Partial Mutilation Assurance Company.”

The following is offered as a brief synopsis of the general intention of the directors. Deep attention is requested to the various classes:—

CLASS I. Relating to Railroads newly opened, consequently rated trebly doubly hazardous. The rate of insurance will be as follows:—

PER CENT. Engineer, first six months, total life 90 Legs, at per each 74 Arms, ditto ditto 60 Ribs, per pair, or dozen, as contracted for 55 Dislocations and contusions, per score 50 N.B.—A reduction of seven-and- a-half per cent., made after the first six months.

First class passengers will be allowed ten per cent. for the stuffing of all carriages, except the one immediately next the engine, which will be charged as above.

STOKERS. Same as engineers, but a very liberal allowance made to such as the trains have passed over more than once, and a considerable reduction if scalds are not included.

Exceptions.—All who have five small children, and are only just appointed.

SECOND CLASS PASSENGERS. In consequence of these travellers being generally more thickly stowed together, the upper half of them have a chance of escape while crushing those underneath, so that a fair reduction, still leaving a living profit to the directors, may be made in their favour. Thus the terms proposed for effecting their policies will be ten-and-a-half per cent. under the first class.

To meet the views of all parties, insurances may be effected from station to station, or on particular limbs. The following are the rates, the insurers paying down the premium at starting:—

£ s. d. First Class, leg 1 11 6 Second ditto ditto 1 7 9 First class, arm 1 0 0 Second ditto ditto 0 14 3 First Class, bridge of nose (very common with cuts from glass) 0 8 9 Second ditto ditto (common with contusions from wooden frames) 0 6 4 First Class, teeth each 0 0 9 Whole set 1 1 0 Second Class, ditto 0 0 4¾ Whole set 0 12 2 Necks, where the parties do not carry engraved cards with name and address, First Class 5 5 0 Second ditto 3 3 4 In all cases where the above sums are received in advance, the Company pledge themselves to allow a handsome discount for cuts, scratches, contusions, &c., &c.

All sums insured for to be paid six months after the death or recovery of the individual.

A contract may be entered into for wooden legs, glass eyes, strapping, bandages, splints, and sticking-plaister.

Several enterprising young men as guards, stokers, engineers, experimental tripists, and surgeons, wanted for immediate consumption.

Apply for qualifications and appointments, to the Branch Office, at the New Highgate Cemetery.

NOTHING NEW. The Tories are, truly, Conservative elves,

For every one knows they take care of themselves.

SCHOOL OF DESIGN. The public will be delighted to learn, there can be no doubt, as to the elegant acquirements of the various attachés of the new Tory premier. The peculiar avidity with which they one and all appear determined to secure the salaries for their various suppositionary services, must convince the most sceptical that they have carefully studied the art of drawing.

THE LABOURS OF THE SESSION. None but Ministers know what Ministers go through for the pure love of their country; no person who has not reposed in the luxuriously-cushioned chairs of the Treasury or Downing- street can conceive the amount of business Sir Robert and his colleagues have transacted during the three months they have been in office. The people, we know, have been crying for bread—the manufacturers are starving—but their rebellious appetites will be appeased—their refractory stomachs will feel comforted, when they are told all that their friends the Tories have been doing for them. How will they blush for their ingratitude when they find that the following great measures have been triumphantly carried through Parliament by Sir Robert’s exertions—The VENTILATING OF THE HOUSE BILL! Think of that, ye thin- gutted weavers of Manchester. Drop down on your marrow-bones, and bless the man who gives your representatives fresh air—though he denies you—a mouthful of coarse food. Then look at his next immense boon—The ROYAL KITCHEN-GARDEN BILL! What matters it that the gaunt fiend Famine sits at your board, when you can console yourselves with the reflection that cucumbers and asparagus will be abundant in the Royal Kitchen Garden! But Sir Robert does not stop here. What follows next?—The FOREIGN BISHOPS’ BILL! See how our spiritual wants are cared for by your tender- hearted Tories—they shudder at the thoughts of Englishmen being fed on foreign corn; but they give them instead, a full supply of Foreign Bishops. After that comes—The REPORT OF THE LUNATICS’ BILL. This important document has been founded on the proceedings in the Upper House, and is likely to be of vast service to the nation at large. Next follows the EXPIRING LAWS’ BILL! We imagine that a slight error has been made in the title of this bill, and that it should be read “Expiring Justice Bill!” As to expiring laws—‘tis all a fallacy. One of the glorious privileges of the English Constitution is, that the laws never expire—neither do the lawyers—they are everlasting. Justice may die in this happy land, but law—never!

Again, there is a little grant of some thousands for Prince Albert’s stables and dog-kennels! Very proper too; these animals must be lodged, ay, and fed; and the people—the creatures whom God made after his own image—the poor wretches who want nothing but a little bread, will lie down hungry and thankful, when they reflect that the royal dogs and horses are in the best possible condition. But we have not yet mentioned the great crowning work of Ministers—the Queen’s speech on the Prorogation of the Parliament last week. What an admirable illustration it was of that profound logical deduction—that, out of nothing comes nothing! Yet it was deduction—that, out of nothing comes nothing! Yet it was not altogether without design, and though some sneering critics have called the old song—the burthen of it was clearly—

A man drops a slop bucket on a gentleman. DOWN WITH YOUR DUST.

SO MUCH FOR BUCKINGHAM! MR. SILK BUCKINGHAM being unmercifully reproached by his unhappy publisher upon the dreadful weight of his recent work on America, fortunately espied the youngest son of the enraged and disappointed vendor of volumes actually flying a kite formed of a portion of the first volume. “Heavy,” retorted Silk, “nonsense, sir. Look there! so volatile and exciting is that masterly production, that it has even made that youthful scion of an obdurate line, spite my teetotal feelings,

A windy clothes line with three sheets on it. “THREE SHEETS IN THE WIND.”

[pg 160] PUNCH’S NEW GENERAL LETTER-WRITER. Perhaps no one operation of frequent recurrence and absolute necessity involves so much mental pain and imaginative uneasiness as the reduction of thoughts to paper, for the furtherance of epistolatory correspondence. Some great key-stone to this abstruse science—some accurate data from which all sorts and conditions of people may at once receive instruction and assistance, has been long wanting.

Letter-writers, in general, may be divided into two great classes, viz.: those who write to ask favours, and those who write to refuse them. There is a vague notion extant, that in former days a third genus existed—though by no means proportionate to the other two—they were those who wrote “to grant favours;” these were also remarkable for enclosing remittances and paying the double postage—at least, so we are assured; of our knowledge, we can advance nothing concerning them and their (to us) supposititious existence, save our conviction that the race has been long extinct.

Those who write to ask, may be divided into—

—Creditors. —Constituents. —Sons. —Daughters. —Their offspring. —Nephews, nieces. —Indistinct cousins, and —Unknown, dear, and intimate friends. Those who write to refuse, are

—Debtors. —Members of Parliament —Fathers. —Mothers. —Their kin. —Uncles. —Aunts. —Bilious and distant nabobs, and equally dear friends, who will do anything but what the askers want. We are confident of ensuring the everlasting gratitude of the above parties by laying before them the proper formulæ for their respective purposes; and, therefore, as all the world is composed of two great classes, which, though they run into various ramifications, still retain their original distinguishing characteristics—namely, that of being either “debtors” or “creditors”—we will give the general information necessary for the construction of their future effusions.

(Firstly.)

From a wine-merchant, being a creditor, to a right honourable, being a debtor.

Verjuice-lane, City, January 17, 1841.

MY LORD,—I have done myself the honour of forwarding your lordship a splendid sample of exquisite Frontignac, trusting it will be approved of by your lordship. I remain, enclosing your lordship’s small account, the payment of which will be most acceptable to your lordship’s most

Obedient very humble servant, GILBERT GRIPES.

THE ANSWER TO THE SAME. The sample is tolerable—send in thirty dozen—add them to your account—and let my steward have them punctually on December 17, 1849.

BOSKEY.

P.S.—I expect you’ll allow discount.

(Secondly.)

From a creditor, being a “victim,” “schneider,” “sufferer,” or “tailor,” to one who sets off his wares by wearing the same, being consequently a debtor.

HONOURED SIR,—I can scarcely express my delight at your kind compliments as to the fit and patterns of the last seventy-three summer waistcoats; the rest of the order is in hand. I enclose a small account of 490l. odd, which will just meet a heavy demand. Will you, sir, forward the same by return of post, to your obliged and devoted

Humble servant, ADOLPHUS JULIO BACKSTITCH.

P. Pink, Esq., &c. &c.

ANSWER TO THE SAME Albany.

You be d—d, Backstitch.

PENTWISTLE PINK.

(Thirdly.)

From a constituent in the country, being a creditor “upon promises,” to a returned member of Parliament in town.

Bumbleton Butts, April 1, 1841.

DEAR SIR,—The enthusiastic delight myself (an humble individual) and the immense body of your enraptured constituents felt upon reading your truly patriotic, statesman-like, learned, straightforward and consistent speech, may be conceived by a person of your immense parliamentary imagination, but cannot be expressed by my circumscribed vocabulary. In stating that my trifling exertions for the return of such a patriot are more than doubly recompensed by your noble conduct, may I be allowed to suggest the earnest wish of my eldest son to be in town, for the pleasure of being near such a representative, which alone induces him to accept the situation of landing-waiter you so kindly insisted upon his preparing for. You will, I am sure, be happy to learn, the last baby, as you desired is christened after:—“the country’s, the people’s, nay, the world’s member!”

Believe me, with united regards from Mrs. F. and Joseph, ever your staunch supporter and admirer,

FUNK FLAT.

To Gripe Gammon, Esq., M.P.

(Fourthly.)

ANSWER TO THE SAME, FROM GRIPE GAMMON, M.P. St. Stephen’s.

DEAR AND KIND CONSTITUENT,—I am more than happy. My return for your borough has satisfied you, my country, and myself! What can I say more? Pray give both my names to the dear innocent. Be careful in the spelling, two “M’s” in Gammon, one following the A, the other preceding the O, and immediately next to the final N. I think I have now answered every point of your really Junisean letter. Let me hear from you soon—you cannot TOO SOON—and believe me,

My dear Funk, yours ever, GRIPE GAMMON.

Funk Flat, Esq., &c. &c.

(Fifthly.)

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. (SECOND LETTER). Bumbleton Butts, April 4, 1841.

MY DEAR FRIEND AND PATRON,—All’s right, the two M’s are in their places, when will Joe be in his? I know your heart; pray excuse my earnestness, but oblige me with an early answer. Joe is dying to be near so kind, so dear, so sincere a friend.

More devotedly than ever yours, FUNK FLAT

G. Gammon, Esq., M.P., &c. &c.

(Sixthly.)

ANSWER FROM THE M.P. TO THE ABOVE. St. Stephen’s.

How can I express my feelings? My name, mine engrafted on the innocent offspring of the thoroughbred Funks, evermore to be by them and their heirs handed down to posterity! How I rejoice at that circumstance, and the intelligence I have so happily received about the wretched situation you speak of. Fancy, Funk, fancy the man, your son, in a moment of rashness, I meant to succeed, died of a sore-throat! an infallible disorder attendant upon the duties of those d—d landing-waiterships. What an escape we have had! The place is given to my butler, so there’s no fear. Kiss the child, and believe me ever,

Your sincere and much relieved friend, GRIPE GAMMON.

To Funk Flat, Esq., &c. &c.

From this time forward the correspondence, like “Irish reciprocity,” is “all on one side.” It generally consists of four-and-twenty letters from the constituent in the country to the returned member in town. As these are never opened, all that is required is a well-written direction, on a blank sheet of paper.

(Seventhly.)

FROM SONS TO FATHERS. (Several.)

DEAR FATHER,—Studies continued—(blot)—profession—future hopes—application—increased expenses—irate landlady—small remittance—duty—love—say twenty-five pounds—best wishes—sister, mother, all at home.

Dutiful son, JOHN JOSKIN.

(Eighthly.)

ANSWER TO THE SAME. Delighted—assiduity—future fortune—great profession!—Increase of family—no cash—best prayers, sister, mother.

Loving father! JOSKIN, SEN.

N.B. By altering the relative positions and sexes, the above is good for all relations! If writing to nabob, more flattery in letter of asker. Strong dose of oaths in refuser’s answer.

(Ninthly.)

FROM “DEAR AND INTIMATE” TO A “DITTO DITTO.” Brighton.

MY DEAR TOM,—How are you, old fellow? Here I am, as happy as a prince; that is, I should be if you were with me. You know when we first met! what a time it was! do you remember? How the old times come back, and really almost the same circumstances! Pray do you recollect I wanted one hundred and fifty then? isn’t it droll I do now? Send me your check, or bring it yourself.

Ever yours. FITZBROWN SMITH.

T. Tims, Esq.

(Tenthly.)

ANSWER FROM “THE DITTO DITTO” TO “THE DITTO DITTO.” OLD FELLOW,—Glad to hear you are so fresh! Give you joy—wish I was with you, but can’t come. Damn the last Derby—regularly stump’d—cleaned out—and done Brown!—not a feather to fly with! Need I say how sorry I am. Here’s your health in Burgundy. Must make a raise for my Opera-box and a new tilbury. Just lost my last fifty at French hazard.

Ever, your most devoted friend, T. TIMS.

F. Smith, Esq.

[pg 161] THE BARBER OF STOCKSBAWLER. A TALE OF THE SUPERNATURAL. At the little town of Stocksbawler, on the Lower Rhine, in the year of grace 1830, resided one Hans Scrapschins, an industrious and close-shaving barber. His industry met with due encouragement from the bearded portion of the community; and the softer sex, whose greatest fault is fickleness, generally selected Hans for the honour of new-fronting them, when they had grown tired of the ringlets nature had bestowed and which time had frosted.

Hans continued to shave and thrive, and all the careful old burghers foretold of his future well-doing; when he met with a misfortune, which promised for a time to shut up his shop and leave him a beggar. He fell in love.

Neighbours warned Hans of the consequences of his folly; but all remonstrance was vain. Customers became scarce, wearing out their patience and their wigs together; the shop became dirty, and winter saw the flies of summer scattered on his show-board.

Agnes Flirtitz was the prettiest girl in Stocksbawler. Her eyes were as blue as a summer’s sky, her cheeks as rosy as an autumn sunset, and her teeth as white as winter’s snow. Her hair was a beautiful flaxen—not a drab—but that peculiar sevenpenny-moist-sugar tint which the poets of old were wont to call golden. Her voice was melodious; her notes in alt were equal to Grisi’s: in short, she would have been a very desirable, loveable young lady, if she had not been a coquette.

Hans met her at a festival given in commemoration of the demise of the burgomaster’s second wife—I beg pardon, I mean in celebration of his union with his third bride. From that day Hans was a lost barber. Sleeping, waking, shaving, curling, weaving, or powdering, he thought of nothing but Agnes. His love-dreams placed him in all kinds of awkward predicaments. And Agnes—what thought she of the unhappy barber? Nothing, except that he was a presumptuous puppy, and wore very unfashionable garments. Hans received an intimation of this latter opinion; and, after sundry quailings and misgivings, he resolved to dispose of his remaining stock in trade, and, for once, dress like a gentleman. The measure had been taken by the tailor, the garments had been basted and tried on, and Hans was standing at his door in a state of feverish excitement, awaiting their arrival in a completed condition (as there was to be fête on the morrow, at which Agnes was to be present), when a stranger requested to be shaved. Hans wished him at the —— next barber’s; but there was something so unpleasantly positive in the visitor’s appearance, that he had not the power to object, so politely bowed him into the shop. The stranger removed his cap, and discovered two very ugly protuberances, one on each side of his head, and of most unphrenological appearance. Hans commenced operations—the lather dried as fast as he laid it on, and the razor emitted small sparks as it encountered the bristles on the stranger’s chin, Hans felt particularly uncomfortable, and not a word had hitherto passed on either side, when the stranger broke the ice by asking, rather abruptly, “Have you any schnapps in the house?” Hans jumped like a parched pea. Without waiting for a reply, the stranger rose and opened the cupboard. “I never take anything stronger than water,” said Hans, in reply, to the “pshaw!” which broke from the stranger’s lips as he smelt at the contents of a little brown pitcher. “More fool you,” replied his customer. “Here taste that—some of the richest grape-blood of Rheingau;” and he handed Hans a small flask, which the sober barber respectfully declined. “Ha! ha! and yet you hope to thrive with the women,” said the stranger. “No wonder that Agnes treats you as she does. But drink, man! drink!”

The stranger took a pipe, and coolly seated himself again in his chair, hung one leg over the back of another, and striking his finger briskly down his nose, elicited a flame that ignited his tobacco, and then he puffed, and puffed, till every moth in the shop coughed aloud. The uneasiness of Hans increased, and he looked towards the door with the most cowardly intention; and, lo! two laughing, dimpled faces, were peeping in at them. “Ha! how are you?” said the stranger; “come in! come in!” and to Hans’ horror, two very equivocal damsels entered the shop. Hans felt scandalised, and was about to make a most powerful remonstrance, when he encountered the eye of his impertinent customer; and, from its sinister expression, he thought it wise to be silent. One of the damsels seated herself upon the stranger’s knee, whilst the other looked most coaxingly to the barber; who, however, remained proof to all her winks and blinks, and “wreathed smiles.”

“’Sblitzen!” exclaimed the lady, “the man’s an icicle!”

“Hans, you’re a fool!” said the stranger; and his enamorata concurred in the opinion. The flask was again proffered—the eye-artillery again brought into action, but Hans remained constant to pump-water and Agnes Flirtitz.

The stranger rubbed the palm of his hand on one of his head ornaments, as though he were somewhat perplexed at the contumacious conduct of the barber; then rising, he gracefully led the ladies out. As he stood with one foot on the step of the door, he turned his head scornfully over his shoulder, and said, “Hans, you are nothing but—a barber; but before I eat, you shall repent of your present determination.”

“What security have I that you will keep your word?” replied Hans, who felt emboldened by the outside situation of his customer, and the shop poker, of which he had obtained possession.

“The best in the world,” said the stranger. “Here, take these!” and placing both rows of his teeth in the hands of the astonished Hans, he quietly walked up the street with the ladies.

The astonishment of Hans had somewhat subsided, when Stitz, the tailor, entered with the so-much and the so-long-expected garments. The stranger was forgotten; the door was bolted, the clothes tried on, and they fitted to a miracle. A small three-cornered piece of looking-glass was held in every direction by the delighted tailor, who declared this performance his chef-d’œuvre and Hans felt, for the first time in his life, that he looked like a gentleman. Without a moment’s hesitation, or the slightest hint at discount for ready money, he gave the tailor his last thaler, and his old suit of clothes, as per contract; shook Stitz’s hand at parting, till every bone of the tailor’s fingers ached for an hour afterwards, bolted the door, and went to bed the poorest, but happiest barber in Stocksbawler.

After a restless night, Hans rose the next morning with the oddest sensation in the world. He fancied that the bed was shorter, the chairs lower, and the room smaller, than on the preceding day; but attributing this feeling to the feverish sleep he had had, he proceeded to put on his pantaloons. With great care he thrust his left leg into its proper division, when, to his horror and amazement, he found that he had grown two feet at least during the night; and that the pantaloons which had fitted so admirably before, were now only knee-breeches. He rushed to the window with the intention of breaking his neck by a leap into the street, when his eye fell upon the strange customer of the preceding day, who was leaning against the gable-end of the house opposite, quietly smoking his meerschaum. Hans paused; then thought, and then concluded that having found an appetite, he had repented of his boast at parting, and had called for his teeth. Being a good-natured lad, Hans shuffled down stairs, and opening the door, called him to come over. The stranger obeyed the summons, but honourably refused to accept of his teeth, except on the conditions of the wager. To Hans’ great surprise he seemed perfectly acquainted with the phenomenon of the past night, and good-naturedly offered to go to Stitz, and inform him of the barber’s dilemma. The stranger departed, and in a few moments the tailor arrived, and having ascertained by his inch measure the truth of Hans’ conjectures, bade him be of good cheer, as he had a suit of clothes which would exactly fit him. They had been made for a travelling giant, who had either forgotten to call for them, or suspected that Stitz would require the gelt before he gave up the broadcloth.

The tailor was right—they did fit—and in an hour afterwards Hans was on his way to the fête. When he arrived there many of his old friends stood agape for a few moments: but as stranger things had occurred in Germany than a man growing two feet in one night, they soon ceased to notice the alteration in Hans’ appearance. Agnes was evidently struck with the improvement of the barber’s figure, and for two whole hours did he enjoy the extreme felicity of making half-a-dozen other young gentlemen miserable, by monopolising the arm and conversation of the beauty of Stocksbawler. But pleasure, like fine weather, lasts not for ever; and, as Hans and Agnes turned the corner of a path, his eye again encountered the stranger. Whether it was from fear or dislike he knew not, but his heart seemed to sink, and so did his body; for to his utter dismay, he found that he had shrunk to his original proportions, and that the garment of the giant hung about him in anything but graceful festoons. He felt that he was a human telescope, that some infernal power could elongate or shut up at pleasure.

The whole band of jealous rivals set up the “Laughing Chorus,” and Agnes, in the extremity of her disgust, turned up her nose till she nearly fractured its bridge, whilst Hans rushed from the scene of his disgrace, and never stopped running until he opened the door of his little shop, threw himself into a chair, and laid his head down upon an old “family Bible” which chanced to be upon the table. In this position he continued for some time, when, on raising his head, he found his tormentor and the two ladies, grouped like the Graces, in the centre of the apartment.

“Well, Scrapshins,” said the gentleman, “I have called for my teeth. You see I have kept my promise.” Hans sighed deeply, and the ladies giggled.

“Nay, man, never look so glum! Here, take the flask—forget Agnes, and console yourself with the love of”—

The conclusion of this harangue must for ever remain a mystery; for Hans, at this moment, took up the family volume which had served him for a pillow, and dashed it at the heads of the trio. A scream, so loud that it broke the tympanum of his left ear, seemed to issue from them simultaneously—a thick vapour filled the room, which gradually cleared off, and left no traces of Hans’ visitors but three small sticks of stone brimstone. The truth flashed upon the barber—his visitor was the far-famed Mephistopheles. Hans packed up his remaining wardrobe, razor, strop, soap-dish, scissors and combs, and turned his back upon Stocksbawler forever. Four years passed away, and Hans was again a thriving man, and Agnes Flirtitz the wife of the doctor of Stocksbawler. Another year passed on, and Hans was both a husband and a father; but the coquette who had nearly been his ruin had eloped with the chasseur of a travelling nobleman.

LAURIE ON GEOGRAPHY. Sir P. Laurie has sent to say that he has looked into Dr. Farr’s “Medical Guide to Nice,” and is much disappointed. He hoped to have seen a print of the eternally-talked of “Nice Young Man,” in the costume of the country. He doubts, moreover, that the Doctor has ever been there, for his remarks show him not to have been “over Nice.”

COOMBE’S LUNGS AND LEARNING. Dr. Coombe, in his new work upon America, by some anatomical process, invariably connects large lungs with expansive intellect. Our and Finsbury’s friend, Tom Duncombe, declares, in his opinion, this must be the origin of the received expression for the mighty savans, viz., the “lights of literature.”

[pg 162] PARLIAMENTARY MASONS.—PARLIAMENTARY PICTURES. Was there ever anything so lucky that the strike of the masons should have happened at this identical juncture! Parliament is prorogued. Now, deducting Sir Robert Peel, physician, with his train of apothecaries and pestle-and- mortar apprentices, who, until February next, are to sit cross-legged and try to think, there are at least six hundred and thirty unemployed members of the House of Commons, turned upon the world with nothing, poor fellows! but grouse before them. Some, to be sure, may pick their teeth, in the Gardens of the Tuileries—some may even now venture to exercise their favourite elbow at Baden-Baden,—but with every possible and probable exception, there will yet be hundreds of unemployed law- makers, to whom time will be a heavy porter’s burden.

We have a plan which, for its originality, should draw down upon us the gratitude of the nation. It is no other than this: to make all Members of Parliament, for once in their lives at least, useful. The masons, hired to build the new temples of Parliament, have struck. The hard- handed ingrates,—let them go! We propose that, during the prorogation at least, Members of Parliament, should, like beavers, build their own Houses. In a word, every member elected to a seat in Parliament should be compelled, like Robinson Crusoe, to make his own furniture before he could sit down upon it.

Have we not a hundred examples of the peculiar fitness of the task, in the habits of what in our human arrogance we call the lower animals? There is many a respectable spider who would justly feel himself calumniated by any comparison between him and any one of twenty Parliamentary lawyers we could name; yet the spider spins its own web, and seeks its own nook of refuge from the Reform Broom of Molly the housemaid. And then, the tiny insect, the ant—that living, silent monitor to unregarding men—doth it not make its own galleries, build with toilsome art its own abiding place? Does not the mole scratch its own chamber—the carrion kite build its own nest! Shall cuckoos and Members of Parliament alone be lodged at others’ pains?

Consider the wasp, oh, STANLEY! mark its nest of paper.—(it is said, on wasp’s paper you are wont to write your thoughts on Ireland)—and resolutely seize a trowel!

Look to the bee, oh, COLONEL SIBTHORP! See how it elaborates its virgin wax, how it shapes its luscious cone—and though we would not trust you to place a brick upon a brick, nevertheless you may, under instruction, mix the mortar!

Ponder on the rat and its doings, most wise BURDETT—see how craftily it makes its hole—and though you are too age-stricken to carry a hod, you may at least do this much—sift the lime.

But wherefore thus particular—why should we dwell on individuals? Pole- cat, weasel, ferret, hedgehog, with all your vermin affinities, come forth, and staring reproachfully in the faces of all prorogued Members, bid them imitate your zeal and pains, and—the masons having struck—build their Houses for themselves.

(We make this proposal in no thoughtless—no bantering spirit. He can see very little into the most transparent mill-stone who believes that we pen these essays—essays that will endure and glisten as long, ay as long as the freshest mackerel—if he think that we sit down to this our weekly labour in a careless lackadaisical humour. By no means. Like Sir LYTTON BULWER, when he girds up his loins to write an apocryphal comedy, we approach our work with graceful solemnity. Like Sir LYTTON, too, we always dress for the particular work we have in hand. Sir LYTTON wrote “Richelieu” in a harlequin’s jacket (sticking pirate’s pistols in his belt, ere he valorously took whole scenes from a French melo-drama): we penned our last week’s essay in a suit of old canonicals, with a tie-wig askew upon our beating temples, and are at this moment cased in a court- suit of cut velvet, with our hair curled, our whiskers crisped, and a masonic apron decorating our middle man. Having subsided into our chair—it is in most respects like the porphyry piece of furniture of the Pope—and our housekeeper having played the Dead March in Saul on our chamber organ (BULWER wrote “The Sea Captain” to the preludizing of a Jew’s-harp), we enter on our this week’s labour. We state thus much, that our readers may know with what pains we prepare ourselves for them. Besides, when BULWER thinks it right that the world should know that the idea of “La Vailière” first hit him in the rotonde of a French diligence, modest as we are, can we suppose that the world will not be anxious to learn in what coloured coat we think, and whether, when we scratch our head to assist the thought that sticks by the way, we displace a velvet cap or a Truefitt’s scalp?)

Reader, the above parenthesis may be skipped or not. Read not a line of it—the omission will not maim our argument. So to proceed.

If we cast our eyes over the debates of the last six months, we shall find that hundreds of members of the House of Commons have exhibited the most extraordinary powers of ill-directed labour. And then their capacity of endurance! Arguments that would have knocked down any reasonable elephant have touched them no more than would summer gnats. Well, why not awake this sleeping strength? Why not divert a mischievous potency into beneficial action? Why should we confine a body of men to making laws, when so many of them might be more usefully employed in wheeling barrows? Now there is Mr. PLUMPTRE, who has done so much to make English Sundays respectable—would he not be working far more enduring utility with pickaxe or spade than by labouring at enactments to stop the flowing of the Thames on the Sabbath? Might not D’ISRAELI be turned into a very jaunty carpenter, and be set to the light interior work of both the Houses? His logic, it is confessed, will support nothing; but we think he would be a very smart hand at a hat-peg.

As for much of the joinery-work, could we have prettier mechanics than Sir James GRAHAM and Sir Edward KNATCHBULL? When we remember their opinions on the Corn Laws, and see that they are a part of the cabinet which has already shown symptoms of some approaching alteration of the Bread Tax—when we consider their enthusiastic bigotry for everything as it is, and Sir Robert PEEL’S small, adventurous liberality, his half- bashful homage to the spirit of the age—sure we are that both GRAHAM and KNATCHBULL, to remain component members of the Peel Cabinet, must be masters of the science of dove-tailing; and hence, the men of men for the joinery-work of the new Houses of Parliament.

Again how many members from their long experience in the small jobbery of committees—from their profitable knowledge of the mysteries of private bills and certain other unclean work which may, if he please, fall to the lot of the English senator—how many of these lights of the times might build small monuments of their genius in the drains, sewerage, and certain conveniences required by the deliberative wisdom of the nation? We have seen the plans of Mr. BARRY, and are bound to praise the evidence of his taste and genius; but we know that the structure, however fair and beautiful to the eye, must have its foul places; and for the dark, dirty, winding ways of Parliament—reader, take a list of her Majesty’s Commons, and running your finger down their names, pick us out three hundred able-bodied labourers—three hundred stalwart night workmen in darkness and corruption. We ask the country, need it care for the strike of Peto’s men (the said Peto, by the way, is in no manner descended from Falstaff’s retainer), when there is so much unemployed labour, hungering only for the country’s good?

We confess to a difficulty in finding among the members of the present Parliament a sufficient number of stone-squarers. When we know that there are so few among them who can look upon more than one side of a question, we own that the completion of the building may be considerably delayed by employing only members of Parliament as square workmen: the truth is, having never been accustomed to the operation, they will need considerable instruction in the art. Those, however, rendered incapable, by habit and nature, of the task, may cast rubbish and carry a hod.

We put it to the patriotism of members of Parliament, whether they ought not immediately to throw themselves into the arms of Peto and Grissell, with an enthusiastic demand for tools. If they be not wholly insensible of the wants of the nation and of their own dignity, Monday morning’s sun will shine upon every man of her Majesty’s majority, for once laudably employed in the nation’s good. How delightful then to saunter near the works—how charming then to listen to members of Parliament! What a picture of senatorial industry! For an Irish speech by STANLEY, have we not the more dulcet music of his stone-cutting saw? Instead of an oration from GOULBURN, have we not the shrill note of his ungreased parliamentary barrow? For the “hear, hear” of PLUMPTRE, the more accordant tapping of the hammer—for the “cheer” from INGLIS, the sweeter chink of the mason’s chisel?

And then the moral and physical good acquired by the workmen themselves! After six days’ toil, there is scarcely one of them who will not feel himself wonderfully enlightened on the wants and feelings of labouring man. They will learn sympathy in the most efficient manner—by the sweat of their brow. Pleasant, indeed, ‘twill be to see CASTLEREAGH lean on his axe, and beg, with Sly, for “a pot of the smallest ale.”

Having, we trust, remedied the evils of the mason’s strike—having shewn that the fitness of things calls upon the Commons, in the present dilemma, to build their own house—we should feel it unjust to the government not to acknowledge the good taste which, as we learn, has directed that an estimate be taken of the disposable space on the walls of the new buildings, to be devoted to the exalted work of the historical painter. Records of the greatness of England are to endure in undying hues on the walls of Parliament.

This is a praiseworthy object, but to render it important and instructive, the greatest judgment must be exercised in the selection of subjects; which, for ourselves, we would have to illustrate the wisdom and benevolence of Parliament. How beautifully would several of the Duke of WELLINGTON’S speeches paint! For instance, his portrait of a famishing Englishman, the drunkard and the idler, no other man (according to his grace) famishing in England! And then the Duke’s view of the shops of butchers, and poulterers, and bakers—all in the Dutch style—by which his grace has lately proved, that if there be distress, it can certainly not be for want of comestibles! But the theme is too suggestive to be carried out in a single paper.

We trust that portraits of members will be admitted. BURDETT and GRAHAM, half-whig, half-tory, in the style of Death and the Lady, will make pretty companion pictures.

To do full pictorial justice to the wisdom of the senate, Parliament will want a peculiar artist: that gifted man CAN be no other than the artist to PUNCH!

Q.

[pg 163] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XIV. A poor family with three small children. THE IMPROVIDENT; OR, TURNED UPON THE WIDE WORLD.

[pg 165] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. III.—OF HIS GRADUAL DEVELOPMENT. For the first two months of the first winter session the fingers of the new man are nothing but ink-stains and industry. He has duly chronicled every word that has fallen from the lips of every professor in his leviathan note book; and his desk teems with reports of all the hospital cases, from the burnt housemaid, all cotton-wool and white lead, who set herself on fire reading penny romances in bed, on one side of the hospital, to the tipsy glazier who bundled off his perch and spiked himself upon the area rails on the other. He becomes a walking chronicle of pathological statistics, and after he has passed six weeks in the wards, imagines himself an embryo Hunter.

To keep up his character, a new man ought perpetually to carry a stethoscope—a curious instrument, something like a sixpenny toy trumpet with its top knocked off, and used for the purpose of hearing what people are thinking about, or something of the kind. In the endeavour to acquire a perfect knowledge of its use he is indefatigable. There is scarcely a patient but he knows the exact state of their thoracic viscera, and he talks of enlarged semilunar valves, and thickened ventricles with an air of alarming confidence. And yet we rather doubt his skill upon this point; we never perceived anything more than a sound and a jog, something similar to what you hear in the cabin of a fourpenny steam-boat, and especially mistrusted the “metallic tinkling,” and the noise resembling a blacksmith’s bellows blowing into an empty quart-pot, which is called the bruit de soufflet. Take our word, when medicine arrives at such a pitch that the secrets of the human heart can be probed, it need not go any further, and will have the power of doing mischief enough.

The new man does not enter much into society. He sometimes asks a few other juniors to his lodgings, and provides tea and shrimps, with occasional cold saveloys for their refection, and it is possible he may add some home-made wine to the banquet. Their conversation is exceedingly professional; and should they get slightly jocose, they retail anatomical paradoxes, technical puns, and legendary “catch questions,” which from time immemorial have been the delight of all new men in general, and country ones in particular.

But diligent and industrious as the new man may be, he is mortal after all, and being mortal, is not proof against temptation—at least, after five or six weeks of his pupilage have passed. The good St. Anthony resisted all the endeavours of the Evil One to lure him from the proper path, until the gentleman of the discoloured cutis vera assumed the shape of a woman. The new man firmly withstands all inducements to irregularity until his first temptation appears in the form of the Cyder-cellars—the convivial Rubicon which it is absolutely necessary for him to pass before he can enrol himself as a member of the quiet, hard- working, modest fraternity of the Medical Student of our London Hospitals.

Facilis descensus Averni.—The steps that lead from Maiden-lane to the Cyder-cellars are easy of descent, although the return is sometimes attended with slight difficulty. Not that we wish to compare our favourite souterrain in question to the “Avernus” of the Latin poet; oh, no! If Æneas had met with roast potatoes and stout during his celebrated voyage across the Styx to the infernal regions, and listened to songs and glees in place of the multitude of condemned souls, “horrendum stridens,” we wager that he would have been in no very great hurry to return. But we have arrived at an important point in our physiology—the first launch of the new man into the ocean of his London life, and we pause upon its shore. He has but definite ideas of three public establishments at all intimately connected with his professional career—the Hall, the College, and the Cyder-cellars. There are but three individuals to whom he looks with feelings of deference—Mr. Sayer of Blackfriars, Mr. Belfour of Lincoln’s-inn-fields, and Mr. Rhodes of Maiden-lane. These are the impersonation of the Fates—the arbitrators of his destinies.

As it is customary that an attendance in the Theatre of Lectures should precede the student’s determination to “have a shy at the College,” or “go up to the Hall,” so is it usual for a visit to one of the theatres to be paid before going down to the Cyder-cellars. The new man has been beguiled into the excursion by the exciting narratives of his companions, and beginning to feel that he is behind the other “chaps” (a new man’s term) in knowledge of the world, he yields to the attraction held out; not because he at first thinks it will give him pleasure so to do, as because it will put him on a level with those who have been, on the same principle as our rambling compatriots go to Switzerland and the Rhine. His Mentor is ready in the shape of a third-season man, and under his protecting influence he sallies forth.

The theatres have concluded; every carriage, cab, and “coach ‘nhired” in their vicinity is in motion; venders of trotters and ham-sandwiches are in full cry; the bars of the proximate retail establishments are crowded with thirsty gods; ruddy chops and steaks are temptingly displayed in the windows of the supper-houses, and the turnips and carrots in the freshly-arrived market-carts appear astonished at the sudden confusion by which they are surrounded. Amidst this confusion the new man and his friends arrive beneath the beacon which illumines the entrance of the tavern. He descends the stairs in an agony of anticipation, and feverishly trips up the six or eight succeeding ones to arrive at the large room. A song has just concluded, and he enters triumphantly amidst the thunder of applause, the jingling of glasses, the imperious vociferations of fresh orders, and an atmosphere of smoke that pervades the whole apartment, like dense clouds of incense burning at the altar of the genius of conviviality.

The new man is at first so bewildered, that it would take but little extra excitement to render him perfectly unconscious as to the probability of his standing upon his occipito-frontalis or plantar fascia. But as he collects his ideas, he contrives to muster sufficient presence of mind to order a Welsh rabbit, and in the interim of its arrival earnestly contemplates the scene around him. There is the room which, in after life, so vividly recurs to him, with its bygone souvenirs of mirth, when he is sitting up all night at a bad case in the mud cottage of a pauper union. There are its blue walls, its wainscot and its pillars, its lamps and ground-glass shades, within which the gas jumps and flares so fitfully; its two looking-glasses, that reflect the room and its occupants from one to the other in an interminable vista. There also is Mr. Rhodes, bending courteously over the backs of the visiters’ chairs, and hoping everybody has got everything to their satisfaction, or bestowing an occasional subdued acknowledgment upon an habitué who chances to enter; and the professional gentlemen all laying their heads together at the top of the table to pitch the key of the next glee; and the waiters bustling up and down with all sorts of tempting comestibles; and the gentleman in the Chesterfield wrapper smoking a cigar at the side of the room, while he leans back and contemplates the ceiling, as if his whole soul was concentrated in its smoke-discoloured mouldings.

The new man is in ecstasies; he beholds the realization of the Arabian Nights, and when the harmony commences again, he is fairly entranced. At first, he is fearful of adding the efforts of his laryngeal “little muscles with the long names” to swell the chorus; but, after the second glass of stout and a “go of whiskey,” he becomes emboldened, and when the gentleman with the bass voice sings about the Monks of Old, what a jovial race they were, our friend trolls out how “they laughed, ha, ha!” so lustily, that he gets quite red in the face from obstructed jugulars, and applauds, when it has concluded, until everything upon the table performs a curious ballet-dance, which is only terminated by the descent of the cruets upon the floor.

The precise hour at which the new man arrives at home, after this eventful evening, has never been correctly ascertained; having a latch- key, he is the only person that could give any authentic information upon this point; but, unfortunately, he never knows himself. Some few things, however, are universally allowed, namely, that in extreme cases he is found asleep on the rug at the foot of the stairs next morning, with the rushlight that was left in the passage burnt quite away, and all the solder of the candlestick melted into little globules. More frequently he knocks up the people of the neighbouring house, under the impression that it is his own, but that a new keyhole has been fitted to the door in his absence; and, in the mildest forms of the disease, he drinks up all the water in his bed-room during the night, and has a propensity for retiring to rest in his pea-coat and Bluchers, from the obstinate tenacity of his buttons and straps. The first lecture the next morning fails to attract him; he eats no breakfast, and when he enters the dissecting-room about one o’clock, his fellow-students administer to him a pint of ale, warmed by the simple process of stirring it with a hot poker, with some Cayenne pepper thrown into it, which he is assured will set to rights the irritable mucous lining of his stomach. The effect of this remedy is, to send him into a sound sleep during the whole of the two o’clock anatomical lecture; and awakened at its close by the applause of the students, he thinks he is still at the Cyder- cellars, and cries out “Encore!”

RECOMMENDATIONS FOR THE PREVENTION OF RAILWAY ACCIDENTS. Having been particularly struck by the infernal smashes that have recently taken place on several railroad lines, and having been ourselves forcibly impressed by a tender, which it must be allowed was rather hard (coming in collision with ourselves), we have thought over the subject, and have now the following suggestions to offer:—

Behind each engine let there be second and third class carriages, so that, in the event of a smash, second and third class lives only would be sacrificed.

Let there be a van full of stokers before the first class carriages; for, as the directors appear to be liberal of the stokers’ lives, it is presumed that every railway company has such a glut of them that they can be spared easily.

As some of the carriages are said to oscillate, from being too heavy at the top, let a few copies of “Martinuzzi” be placed as ballast at the bottom.

In order that the softest possible lining may be given to the carriages, let the interior be covered with copies of Sibthorp’s speeches as densely as possible.

We have not yet been able to find a remedy for the remarkable practice which prevails in some railways of sending a passenger, like a bank- note, cut in half, for better security.

[pg 166] THE POLITICAL EUCLID.—NO. 2. PROP. I.—PROBLEM. To describe an Independent Member upon a given indefinite line of politics.

Sawyers in the woods form a letter L. et C R, or Conservative Reform, be the given indefinite line—it is required to describe on C R an independent member.

A geometric diagram. With the centre Reform, and at the distance of Conservatism, describe G B and M—or Graham, Brougham, and Melbourne—the extremes of the Whig Administration of 1834.

With the centre Conservatism, and at the distance of Reform, describe G B and P—or Graham, Buckingham, and Peel—the extremes of the Tory Administration of 1841.

From the point Graham, where the administrations cut one another, draw the lines Graham and Reform, and Graham and Conservatism.

Then Graham and Conservative Reform is an independent member.

For because Reform was the centre of the Whig Administration, Graham, Brougham, and Melbourne

Therefore Graham and Reform was the same as Reform with a shade Conservatism.

And because Conservatism is the centre of the Tory Administration, Graham, Buckingham, and Peel

Therefore Graham and Conservatism is the same as Conservatism with a shade Reform

Therefore Graham and Conservatism is the same as Graham and Reform

Therefore Graham is either a Conservative or a Reformer, as the case may require.

And therefore he is a Conservative Reformer—

Wherefore, having three sides, which are all the same to him—viz. Reform, Conservatism, and himself—he is an independent member, and has been described as a Conservative Reformer.

Quod erat double-face-iendum.

PROP. II.—PROBLEM. From a given point to draw out a Radical Member to a given length.

Let A or his ancestors be the given point, and an A s s the given length; it is required to draw out upon the point of his ancestors a Radical member equal to an A s s.

A geometric diagram. Connect the A s s with A, his ancestors.

On the A s s and A his ancestors, describe an independent member S R I, Sir Robert Inglis.

Then with S R I, Sir Robert Inglis, draw out the A s s to G L and S A, or great literary and scientific attainments.

And with S R I, Sir Robert Inglis, let R Roebuck, be got into a line upon A, his ancestors.

With the A s s in the middle, describe the circulation of T N, or “Times” newspaper.

And with SRI, Sir Robert Inglis, as the centre, describe the Circle of the H of C, or House of Commons.

Then R A, or Roebuck on his ancestors, equals an A s s.

For because the A s s was in the middle of T N, or “Times” newspaper.

Therefore the rhodomontade of G L and S A, or great literary and scientific attainments, was equal to the braying of an A s s.

And because S R I, or Sir Robert Inglis, was in the centre of H C, or House of Commons.

Therefore S R I on G L and S A, or Sir Robert Inglis on the great literary and scientific attainments, was only to be equalled by S R I and R, or Sir Robert Inglis and Roebuck.

But Sir R I is always equal to himself.

Therefore the remainder, A R, or Roebuck on his ancestors, is equal to the remaining G L and S A, or great literary and scientific attainments.

But G L and S A, or the great literary and scientific attainments, have been shown to be equal to those of an A s s.

And therefore R A, or Roebuck on his ancestors, is equal to an A s s.

Wherefore, from a given point, A, his ancestors, has been drawn out a Radical member, R, Roebuck, equal to an A s s.

Quod erat sheep-face-iendum.

PROP. III.—PROBLEM From the greater opposition of two members to a given measure to cut, off a part, so as it may agree with the less.

Let P C and W R, or Peel the Conservative and Wakley the Radical, represent their different oppositions to the New Poor Law, to which that of W R, or Wakley the Radical, is greater than that of Peel the Conservative—it is required to cut off from W R, or Wakley the Radical’s opposition a part, so that it may agree with that of P C, or Peel the Conservative.

A geometric diagram. From W, or Wakley, draw W T, or Wakley the Trimmer, the same as P C, or Peel the Conservative.

With the centre W or Wakley, and to the extremity of T trimming, describe the magic circle P L A C E.

Cutting W R or Wakley the Radical in B P, his Breeches Pocket.

Then W B P or Wakley and his Breeches Pocket, agrees with Peel the Conservative.

For because the circle P L A C E is described about W or Wakley

Therefore W B P or Wakley and his Breeches Pocket, is of the same opinion as W T or Wakley the Trimmer.

But W T or Wakley the Trimmer, agrees with Peel the Conservative.

Therefore W B P or Wakley and his Breeches Pocket, agrees with P C or Peel the Conservative.

Wherefore, from the greater opposition of W R, Wakley the Radical, to the New Poor Law, is cut off, W B P, Wakley and his Breeches Pocket, which exactly coincides with the minor opposition of P C or Peel the Conservative.

Quod erat brazen-face-iendum.

THE VALUE OF STOCKS—LAST QUOTATION. During a rural ramble, the ex- premier was diverted from the mental Shakesperian sustenance derived from “chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy,” by an importunate appeal from a reckless disorderly, who was doing penance for his anti- teetotal propensities, by performing a two hours’ quarantine in the village stocks. So far from sympathising with the fast-bound sufferer, his lordship, in a tone of the deepest regret, deplored, that he had himself not been so tightly secured in his place, as, had that been the case, he would still have been provided with

A man with his feet in stocks. BOARD AND LODGING FOR A SINGLE MAN.

THE LINEN-DRAPER OF LUDGATE. Shop fronts are daily “higher” raised.

Our master’s “ire” as often;

Would they but raise our “hire” a bit,

’Twould much our mis’ries soften!

THE SHOPMEN—POOR DEVILS

[pg 167] SPANISH POLITICS. (FROM OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.) “Pampeluna, Oct. 1.

“An event has just occurred which will doubtless change the dynasty of the Spanish succession before I have finished my letter. At eleven o’clock this morning, several officers were amusing themselves at picquet in a coffee-house. One having played the king, another cried out, ‘Ay, the king! Vivat! Down with the Queen! Don Carlos for ever!’ This caused a frightful sensation, and the National Guards are now on their way to blockade the house.

“One o’clock, P.M.—The National Guards have joined the Carlists, and the regulars are at this moment flying to arms.

“Two o’clock.—The royal troops are defeated, and Don Carlos is now being proclaimed King of Spain, &c.”

(FROM ANOTHER CORRESPONDENT.) “Madrid, Oct. 2.

“The nominal reign of Don Carlos, commenced at Pampeluna, has been but of short duration. A diversion has taken place in favour of the husband of the Queen Regent—Munos, who, having been a private soldier, is thought by his rank and file camaradoes to have a prior claim to Don Carlos. They have revolted to a man, and the Carlists tremble in their boots.

“Six o’clock, A.M.—The young Queen has fled the capital—Munos is our new King, and his throne will no doubt be consolidated by a vigorous ministry.

“Seven o’clock, A.M.—News has just arrived from Pampeluna that the Carlists are so disgusted with the counter-revolution, that a counter- counter-revolution having taken place amongst the shopkeepers, in favour of the Queen Regent, the Carlists have joined it. After all, the Queen Mother will doubtless permanently occupy the throne—at least for a day or two.

“Eight o’clock.—News has just arrived from Biscay of a new revolt, extending through all the Basque provinces; and they are only waiting for some eligible pretender to come forward to give to this happy country another ruler. Advices from all parts are indeed crowded with reports of a rebellious spirit, so that a dozen revolutions a-week may be assuredly anticipated during the next twelvemonth.”

SONGS OF THE SEEDY.—No. 4. And must we part?—well, let it be;

’Tis better thus, oh, yes, believe me;

For though I still was true to thee,

Thou, faithless maiden, wouldst deceive me.

Take back this written pledge of love,

No more I’ll to my bosom fold it;

The ring you gave, your faith to prove,

I can’t return—because I’ve sold it!

I will not ask thee to restore

Each gage d’armour, or lover’s token,

Which I had given thee before

The links between us had been broken.

They were not much, but oh! that brooch,

If for my sake thou’st deign’d to save it,

For that, at least, I must encroach,—

It wasn’t mine, although I gave it.

The gem that in my breast I wore,

That once belonged unto your mother

Which, when you gave to me, I swore

For life I’d love you, and no other.

Can you forget that cheerful morn,

When in my breast thou first didst stick it?—

I can’t restore it—it’s in pawn;

But, base deceiver—that’s the ticket.

Oh, take back all, I cannot bear

These proofs of love—they seem to mock it;

There, false one, take your lock of hair—

Nay, do not ask me for the locket.

Insidious girl! that wily tear

Is useless now, that all is ended:

There is thy curl—nay, do not sneer,

The locket’s—somewhere—being mended.

The dressing-case you lately gave

Was fit, I know, for Bagdad’s caliph;

I used it only once to shave,

When it was taken by the bailiff.

Than thou didst give I bring back less;

But hear the truth, without more dodging—

The landlord’s been with a distress,

And positively cleared my lodging.

CONS. BY O CONNELL. What English word expresses the Latin for cold?—“Jelly”-does (Gelidus).

Why is a blackleg called a sharper?—Because he’s less blunt than other men.

Why is a red-herring like a Mackintosh?—Because it keeps one dry all day.

PUNCH’S THEATRE. OLD MAIDS. Sir Philip Brilliant is a gentleman of exquisite breeding—a man of fashion, with a taste for finery, and somewhat of a fop. He reveals his pretty figure to us, arrayed in all the glories of white and pink satins, embellished with flaunting ribbons, and adorned with costly jewels. His servant is performing the part of mirror, by explaining the beauties of the dress, and trying to discover its faults: his researches for flaws are unavailing, till his master promises him a crown if he can find one—nine valets out of ten would make a misfit for half the money; and Robert instantly pays a tribute to the title of the play by discovering a wrinkle—equally an emblem of an “Old Maid” and an ill-fitting vest. This incident shows us that Sir Philip is an amateur in dress; but his predilection is further developed by his exit, which is made to scold his goldsmith for the careless setting of a lost diamond. The next scene takes us to the other side of Temple-bar; in fact, upon Ludgate-hill. We are inside the shop of the goldsmith, Master Blount, most likely the founder of the firm now conducted by Messrs. Rundell and Bridge. He has two sons, who, being brought up to the same trade, and always living together, are, of course, eternally quarrelling. Both have a violent desire to cut the shop; the younger for glory, ambition, and all that (after the fashion of all city juveniles, who hate hard work), the elder for ease and elegance. The papa and mamma have a slight altercation on the subject of their sons, which happily, (for family quarrels seldom amuse third parties) is put an end to by a second “shine,” brought about by the entrance of Sir Philip Brilliant, to make the threatened complaint about bad workmanship. The younger and fiery Thomas Blount resents some of Sir P.B.’s expressions to his father; this is followed by the usual badinage about swords and their use. We make up our minds that the next scene is to consist of a duel, and are not disappointed.

Sure enough a little rapier practice ends the act; the shopman is wounded, and his adversary takes the usual oath of being his sworn friend for ever.

The second act introduces a new class of incidents. A great revolution has taken place in the private concerns of the family Blount. Thomas, the younger, has become a colonel in the army; John, having got possession of the shop, has sold the stock-in-trade, fixtures, good- will, &c.; doubtless, to the late Mr. Rundell’s great-grandfather; and has set up for a private gentleman. For his introduction into genteel society he is indebted to Robert, whom he has mistaken for a Baronet, and who presents him to several of his fellow-knights of the shoulder- knot, all dubbed, for the occasion, lords and ladies, exactly as it happens in the farce of “High Life Below Stairs.”

But where are the “Old Maids” all this time? Where, indeed! Lady Blanche and Lady Anne are young and beautiful—exquisitely lovely; for they are played by Madame Vestris and Mrs. Nisbett. It is clear, then, that directly they appear, the spectator assures himself that they are not the “Old Maids.” To be sure they seem to have taken a sort of vow of celibacy; but their fascinating looks—their beauty—their enchanting manners, offer a challenge to the whole bachelor world, that would make the keeping of such a vow a crime next to sacrilege. One does not tremble long on that account. Lady Blanche, has, we are informed, taken to disguising herself; and some time since, while rambling about in the character of a yeoman’s daughter, she entered Blount’s shop, and fell in love with Thomas: at this exact part of the narrative Colonel Blount is announced, attended by his sworn friend, Sir Philip Brilliant. A sort of partial recognition takes place; which leaves the audience in a dreadful state of suspense till the commencement of another act.

Sir Philip, who has formerly loved Lady Blanche without success, now tries his fortune with Lady Anne; and at this point, dramatic invention ends; for, excepting the mock-marriage of John Blount with a lady’s- maid, the rest of the play is occupied by the vicissitudes the two pair of lovers go through—all of their own contrivance, on purpose to make themselves as wretched as possible—till the grand clearing up, which always takes place in every last scene, from the “Adelphi” of Terence (or Yates), down to the “Old Maids” of Mr. Sheridan Knowles.

COCORICO, OR MY AUNT’S BANTAM. Since playwrights have left off plotting and under-plotting on their own account, and depend almost entirely upon the “French,” managers have added a new member to their establishments, and, like the morning papers, employ a Paris correspondent, that French plays, as well as French eggs, may be brought over quite fresh; though from the slovenly manner in which they (the pieces, not the eggs) are too often prepared for the English market, they are seldom neat as imported.

The gentleman who “does” the Parisian correspondence for the Adelphi Theatre, has supplied it with a vaudeville bearing the above title; the fable, of which, like some of Æsop’s, principally concerns a hen, that, however, does not speak, and a smart cockscomb who does—an innocent little fair who has charge of the fowl—a sort of Justice Woodcock, and a bombardier who, because he is in the uniform of a drum or bugle-major, calls himself a serjeant. To these may be added, Mr. Yates in his own private character, and a few sibilants in the pit, who completed the poultry-nature of the piece by playing the part of geese.

The plot would have been without interest, but for the accidental introduction of the last two characters,—or the geese and the cock-of- the-walk.[pg 168] The pittites, affronted at the extreme puerility of some of the incidents, and the inanity of all the dialogue, hissed. This raffled the feathers of the cock-of-the-walk, who was already on, or rather at, the wing; and he flew upon the stage in a tantrum, to silence the geese. Mr. Yates spoke—we need not say how or what. Everybody knows how he of the Adelphi shrugs his shoulders, and squeezes his hat, and smiles, and frowns, and “appeals” and “declares upon his honour” while agitating the buttons on the left side of his coat, and “entreats” and “throws himself upon the candour of a British public,” and puts the stamp upon all he has said by an impressive thump of the foot, a final flourish of the arms, and a triumphal exit to poean-sounding “bravoes!” and to the utter confusion of all dis—or to be more correct, hiss—sentients.

In the end, however, the latter triumphed; and Cocorico deserved its fate in spite of the actors. Mrs. Grattan played the chief character with much tact and cleverness, singing the vaudevilles charmingly—a most difficult task, we should say, on account of the adapter, in putting English words to French music, having ignorantly mis-accentuated a large majority of them. Miss Terrey infused into a simple country girl a degree of character which shews that she has not yet fallen into the vampire-trap of too many young performers—stage conventionalism, and that she copies from Nature. It is unfortunate for both these clever actresses that they have been thrust into a piece, which not even their talents could save from partial ——, but it is a naughty word, and Mrs. Judy has grown very strict. The piece wants cur-tailment; which, if previously applied, will increase the interest, and make it, perhaps, an endurable dramatic

A poodle. FRENCH “TAIL”—WITH CUTS.

PROMENADE CONCERTS. The conductor of these concerts has not a single requisite for his office—he is several degrees less personable than M. Jullien—he does not even wear moustaches! and to suppose that a man can beat time properly without them is ridiculous. He looks a great deal more like a modest, respectable grocer, than a man of genius; for he neither turns up his eyes nor his cuffs, and has the indecency to appear without white gloves! His manners, too, are an insult to the lovers of the thunder and lightning school of music; he neither conducts himself, nor his band, with the least grace or éclat. He does not spread out both arms like a goose that wants to fly, while hushing down a diminuendo; nor gesticulate like a madman during the fortes; in short, he only gives out the time in passages where the players threaten unsteadiness; and as that is very seldom, those amateurs who pay their money only for the pleasure of seeing the bâton flourished about, are defrauded of half their amusement. M. Musard takes them in—for it must be evident, even to them, that what we have said is true, and that he possesses scarcely a qualification for the office he holds—if we make one trifling exception (hardly worth mentioning)—for he is nothing more than, merely, a first- rate musician. With this single accomplishment, it is like his impudence to try and foist himself upon the Cockney dilettanti after M. Jullien, who possessed every other requisite for a conductor but a knowledge of the science; which is, after all, a paltry acquirement, and purely mechanical.

On the evening PUNCH was present, the usual dose of quadrilles and waltzes was administered, with an admixture from the dull scores of Beethoven. Disgusted as we were at the humbug of performing the works of this master without blue-fire, and an artificial storm in the flies, yet—may we confess it?—we were nearly as much charmed by the “Andante” from his Symphonia in A, as if the lights had been put out to give it effect. We blush for our taste, but thank our stars (Jullien included) that we have the courage to own the soft impeachment in the face of an enlightened Concert d’Eté patronising public. In sober truth, we were ravished! The pianos of this movement were so exquisitely kept, the ensemble of them was so complete, the wind instruments were blown so exactly in tune, so evenly in tone, that the whole passion of that touching andante seemed to be felt by the entire band, which went as one instrument. The subject—breaking in as it does, when least expected, and worked about through nearly every part of the score, so as to produce the most delicious effects—was played with equal delicacy and feeling by every performer who had to take it up; while the under-current of accompaniment was made to blend with it with a masterly command and unanimity of tone, that we cannot remember to have heard equalled.

Of course, this piece, though it enchanted the musical part of the audience, disgusted the promenaders, and was received but coldly. This, however, was made up for when the drumming, smashing, and brass-blurting of the overture to “Zampa” was noised forth: this was encored with ecstacies, and so were some of the quadrilles. Happy musical taste! Beethoven’s septour, arranged as a set of quadrilles, is a desecration unworthy of Musard. For this piece of bad taste he ought to be condemned to arrange the sailor’s hornpipe, as

A ship. A SLOW MOVEMENT IN C (SEA).

THE WAR WITH CHINA. The celebrated pranks of the “Bull in the China Shop” are likely to be repeated on a grand scale—the part of the Bull being undertaken, on this occasion, by the illustrious John who is at the head of the family.

The Emperor, when the last advices left, was discussing a chop, surrounded by all his ministers. The chop, which was dished up with a good deal of Chinese sauce, was ultimately forwarded to Elliot. The custom of sending chops to an enemy is founded on the idea, that the fact of there being a bone to pick cannot be conveyed with more delicacy than “by wrapping it up,” as it is commonly termed, as politely as possible.

Our readers will be surprised to hear that the Chinese have attacked our forces with junk, from which it has been supposed that our brave tars have been pitched into with large pieces of salt beef, while the English commanders have been pelted with chops; but this is an error. The thing called junk is not the article of that name used in the Royal Navy, but a gimcrack attempt at a vessel, built principally of that sort of material, something between wood and paper, of which we in this country manufacture hat-boxes.

The Emperor is such a devil of a fellow, that those about him are afraid to tell him the truth; and though his troops have been most unmercifully wallopped, he has been humbugged into the belief that they have achieved a victory. A poor devil named Ke-shin, who happened to suggest the necessity for a stronger force, was instantly split up by order of the Emperor, who can now and then do things by halves, though such is not his ordinary custom.

We have sent out a correspondent of our own to China, who will supply us with the earliest intelligence.

TO BENEVOLENT AND HUMANE JOKERS. CASE OF EXTREME JOCULAR DISTRESS. The sympathies of a charitable and witty public are earnestly solicited in behalf of

JOHN WILSON CROKER, Esq., late Secretary to the Admiralty, author of the “New Whig Guide,” &c., &c., who, from having been considered one of the first wits of his day, is now reduced to a state of unforeseen comic indigence. It is earnestly hoped that this appeal will not be made in vain, and that, by the liberal contributions of the facetious, he will be restored to his former affluence in jokes, and that by such means he may be able to continue his contributions to the “Quarterly Review,” which have been recently refused from their utter dulness.

Contributions will be thankfully received at the PUNCH office; by the Hon. and Rev. Baptist Noel; Rogers, Towgood, and Co.; at the House of Commons; and the Garrick’s Head.

SUBSCRIPTIONS ALREADY RECEIVED. Samuel Rogers, Esq.—Ten puns, and a copy of “Italy.”

Tom Cooke, Esq.—One joke (musical), consisting of “God save the Queen,” arranged for the penny trumpet.

T. Hood, Esq.—Twenty-three epigrams.

Hon. and Rev. Baptist Noel.—A laughable Corn-law pamphlet.

John Poole, Esq.—A new farce, with liberty to extract all the jokes from the same, amounting to two jeux d’esprit and a pun.

Proprietors of PUNCH.—The “copy” for No. 15 of the LONDON CHARIVARI, containing seventeen hundred sentences, and therefore as many jests.

Col. Sibthorp.—A conundrum.

Daniel O’Connell.—An Irish tail.

Messrs. Grissel and Peto.—A strike-ing masonic interlude, called “The Stone-masons at a Stand-still; or, the Rusty Trowel.”

Commissioner Lin.—A special edict.

Lord John Russell.—“A new Guide to Matrimony,” and a facetious essay, called “How to leave one’s Lodgings.”

LAURIE’S ESSAY ON THE PHARMACOPŒIA. Sir P. LAURIE begs to inquire of the medical student, whose physiology is recorded in PUNCH, in what part of the country Farmer Copœia resides, and whether he is for or against the Corn Laws?

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. OCTOBER 23, 1841. [pg 169] THE GREAT CREATURE. Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk was a tall young man, a thin young man, a pale young man, and, as some of his friends asserted, a decidedly knock-kneed young man. Moreover he was a young man belonging to and connected with the highly respectable firm of Messrs. Tims and Swindle, attorneys and bill-discounters, of Thavies’-inn, Holborn; from the which highly respectable firm Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk received a salary of one pound one shilling per week, in requital for his manifold services. The vocation in which Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk laboured partook peculiarly of the peripatetic; for at all sorts of hours, and through all sorts of streets was Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk daily accustomed to transport his anatomy—presenting overdue bills, inquiring after absent acceptors, invisible indorsers, and departed drawers, for his masters, and wearing out, as he Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk eloquently expressed it, “no end of boots for himself.” Such was the occupation by which Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk lived; but such was not the peculiar path to fame for which his soul longed. No! “he had seen plays, and longed to blaze upon the stage a star of light.”

That portion of time which was facetiously called by Messrs. Tims and Swindle “the leisure” of Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk, being some eight hours out of the twenty-four, was spent in poring over the glorious pages of the immortal bard; and in the desperate enthusiasm of his heated genius would he, Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk, suddenly burst forth in some of the most exciting passages, and with Stentorian lungs “render night hideous” to the startled inhabitant of the one-pair- back, adjoining the receptacle of his own truckle-bed and mortal frame.

Luck, whether good or evil, begat Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk an introduction to some other talented young gentlemen, who had so far progressed in histrionic acquirements, that from spouting themselves, they had taken to spouting their watches, and other stray articles of small value, to enable them to pay the charges of a private theatre, where, as often as they could raise the needful, they astonished and delighted their wondering friends. Among this worshipful society was Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk adopted and enrolled as a trusty and well- beloved member; and in the above-named private theatre, in suit of solemn black, slightly relieved by an enormous white handkerchief, and a well-chalked countenance, did Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk, at or about the hour of half past eight—being precisely sixty minutes behind the period announced, in consequence of the non-arrival of the one fiddle and ditto flute comprising, or rather that ought to have comprised, the orchestra—made his début, and a particularly nervous bow to the good folks there assembled, “as and for” the character “of Hamlet, the Danish Prince.”

To describe the “exclamations of delight,” the “tornadoes of applause,” the earthquakes of rapture, or the “breathless breathing” of the entranced audience, would beat Mr. Bunn into fits, and the German company into fiddle-cases; so, like a newspaper legacy, which is the only one that never pays duty, we “leave it to our reader’s imagination.”

The die was cast. Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk’s former avocations became intensely irksome—if he served a writ it was no longer a “writ of right.” Copies for “Jenkins” were consigned to “Tompkins;” “Brown” declined pleading to “Smith” and Smith declared off Brown’s declaration. In inquiries after “solvent acceptors,” Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk was still more abroad. In the mystification of his brains, all answers seemed to be delivered “per contra.” Forlorn hopes on three-and sixpenny stamps were converted into the circulating medium; “good actors” were considered “good men” in the very reverse of Shylock’s acceptation of the term; and astonished indorsers succeeded in “raising the wind” upon “kites” they would have bet any odds no “wind in the world could induce to fly.” Everything in this world must come to an end—bills generally do in three months: so did these, and so did Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk’s responsible and peripatetic avocations in the highly respectable firm of Messrs. Tims and Swindle, attorneys, and to their cost, through the agency of Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk, bill- discounters, of Thavies’ Inn, Holborn; they, the said highly respectable firm of Tims and Swindle, handing over to Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk the sum of four and tenpence, being the balance of his quarter’s salary, which, so great was Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk’s opinion of the solvency of the said highly respectable firm, he had allowed to remain undrawn in their hands, together with a note utterly and totally declining any further service or assistance as “in” or “outdoor” or any sort of clerk at all, from Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk, and amiably recommending the said Horatio to apply elsewhere for a character; the which advice Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk attended to instanter, and received, in consideration of the sum of thirty shillings, that of “Richard the Third” from the Dramatic Committee of Catherine Street. If Hamlet was good, Richard (among the amateurs) was better; and if Richard was better, Shylock (at “one five”) was best, and Romeo and all the rest better still: and it may be worthy of remark, that there is no person on earth looked upon by admiring managers as more certain of success than the “promising young man who PAYS for his parts.”

Now it so happened that Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk’s purse became an exceedingly “Iago”-like, “something, nothing, trashy” sort of affair—in other words, that its owner, Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk, was regularly stumped; and as the Amateur Dramatic Theatrical Committee “always go upon the no pay no play system,” Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk was about to incur the fate of Lord John Russell’s tragedy, and become regularly “shelved.”

In this dilemma Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk addressed all sorts of letters to all sorts of managers, offering himself for all sorts of salaries, to play the best of all sorts of business, but never received any sort of answer from one of them! Returning to his solitary lodging, after a fortnight’s “half and half” of patience and despair, and just as despair was walking poor patience to Old Harry, Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk encountered one of his histrionic acquaintance, who did the “three and sixpenny walking gents,” and dramatic general postmen, or letter-deliverers, at “the Private.” In the course of the enlightened conversation between the said friend, Mr. Julius Dilberry Pipps, and Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk, Julius Dilberry Pipps expressed an earnest wish that he “might be blowed considerably tighter than the Vauxhall balloon if ever he see such a likeness of Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam,” the “great actor of the day,” as his “bussom and intimate,” Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk! A nervous pressure of Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk’s “pickers and stealers” having nearly reduced to one vast chaos the severely compressed digits of the enthusiastic Julius Dilberry Pipps, the invisible green broad-cloth envelopments and drab lower encasements, crowned with gossamer and based with calf-skin, wherein the total outward man of Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk was enrobed, together with his ambulating anatomy, evanished from the startled gaze of the deserted and finger-contused Julius Dilberry Pipps! Having asserted the entire realisation of his hastily-formed wish, in the emphatic words, “Well, I am blowed!” and a further comment, stating his conviction that “this was rayther a rummy go,” Mr. Julius Dilberry Pipps reduced his exchequer the gross amount of threepence, paid in consideration of the instant receipt of “a pint o’porter and screw,” to the fumigation of which he applied with such excessive vigour, that in a few moments he might be said, by his own exertions in “blowing a cloud,” to be corporeally as well as mentally “in nubibus.”

To account for the rapid departure of Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk, we must inform our readers the supposed similarity alluded to by Julius Dilberry Pipps, between the “great creature,” Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam, and Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk, had been before frequently insisted upon: and this assertion of the obtuse Julius Dilberry Pipps now seemed “confirmation strong as proof of holy writ.” Agitated with conflicting emotions, and regardless of small children and apple-stalls, Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk rushed on with headlong speed, every now and then ejaculating, “I’ll do it, I’ll do it!” A sudden overhauling of his pockets produced some stray halfpence; master of a “Queen’s head,” a sheet of vellum, a new “Mordaunt,” and an “envelope,” Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk, arrived at his three-pair-back, indited an epistle to the manager at the town of ——, with extraordinary haste signed the document, and, in “the hurry of the moment,” left the inscription thus—H.F. FITZFLAM! The morrow’s post brought an answer; the terms were acceded to, the night appointed for his opening; and Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk found, upon inspecting the proof of the playbill, the name in full of “Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam,” “the great tragedian of the day!”

Pass we over the intervening space, and at once come to the momentous morning of rehearsal. The expected Roscius arrived like punctuality’s self, at the appointed minute, was duly received by the company, who had previously been canvassing his merits, and assuring each other that all stars were muffs, but Fitzflam one of the most impudent impostors that ever moved. “I, sir,” said the leader of the discontented fifteen- shillings-a-week-when-they-could-get-it squad, “I have been in the profession more years than this fellow has months, and he is getting hundreds where I am neglected: never mind! only give me a chance, and I’ll show him up. But I suppose the management—(pretty management, to engage such a chap when I’m here)—I suppose they will truckle to him, and send me on, as usual, for some wretched old bloke there’s no getting a hand in. John Kemble himself (and I’m told I’m in his style), I say, John Kemble, my prototype, the now immortal John, never got applause in ‘Blokes!‘—But never mind.” As a genealogist would say, “Fitz the son of Funk” never more truly represented his ancestral cognomen than on this trying occasion. He was no longer with amateurs, but regulars,—fellows that could “talk and get on somehow;” that were never known to stick in Richard, when they remembered a speech from George Barnwell; men with “swallows” like Thames tunnels: in fact, accomplished “gaggers” and unrivalled “wing watchers.” However, as Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk spoke to none of them, crossed where he liked, cut out most of their best speeches, and turned all their backs to the audience, he passed muster exceedingly well, and acted the genuine star with considerable effect. So it was at night. Some folks objected to his knees, to be sure; but then they were silenced—“What! Fitzflam’s knees bad! Nonsense! Fitzflam is the thing in London; and do you think Fitzflam ought to be decried in the provinces? hasn’t he been lithographed by Lane? Pooh! impudence! spite!” The great name made Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk “the great man,” and all went swimmingly. On the last night of his engagement, the night devoted to his benefit, the house was crammed, and Mr. [pg 170]Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk, reflecting that all was “cock sure,” as he should pocket the proceeds and return to London undiscovered, was elevated to Mahomet’s seventh heaven of happiness, awaiting with impatience the prompter’s whistle and the raising of the curtain: where for a time we will leave him, and attend upon the real “Simon Pure”—the genuine and “old original Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam.”

(To be continued.)

ATRY-ANGLE. SIR R. PEEL has been recently so successful in fishing for adherents, that, since bobbing so cleverly for Wakley, he has baited his hook afresh, and intends to start for Minto House forthwith; having his eye upon a certain small fish that is ever seen Russelling among the sedges in troubled waters. We trust Sir Bob will succeed this time in

Three men talk. FISHING FOR JACK.

PUNCH’S COMMISSION TO INQUIRE INTO THE GENERAL DISTRESS. I.—Copy of a Letter from the Under Secretary of State to Punch. Downing-street.

Sir,—Knowing that you are everywhere, the Secretary of State has desired me to request you will inquire into the alleged distress, and particularly into the fact of people who it is alleged are so unreasonable in their expectations of food, as to die because they cannot get any.

I have the honour to be, &c. HORATIO FITZ-SPOONY

II.—Copy of Punch’s Letter to the Under Secretary of State. Sir,—I have received your note. I am everywhere; but as everything is gay when I make my appearance, I have not seen much of the distress you speak of. I shall, however, make it my business to look the subject up, and will convey my report to the Government.

I think it no honour to be yours, &c.; but I have the very great honour to be myself without any &c. PUNCH.

In compliance with the above correspondence, Punch proceeded to make the necessary inquiries, and very soon was enabled to forward the following

REPORT ON THE PUBLIC DISTRESS. To Her Majesty’s Secretary of State for the Home Department. Sir,—In compliance with my undertaking to inquire into the public distress, I went into the manufacturing districts, where I had heard that several families were living in one room with nothing to eat, and no bed to lie upon. Now, though it is true that there are in some places as many as thirty people in one apartment, I do not think their case very distressing, because, at all events, they have the advantage of society, which could not be the case if they were residing in separate apartments. It is clear that their living together must be a matter of choice, because I found in the same town several extensive mansions inhabited by one or two people and a few servants; and there are also some hundreds of houses wholly untenanted. Now, if we multiply the houses by the rooms in them, and then divide by the number of the population, we should find that there will be an average of three attics and two-sitting-rooms for each family of five persons, or an attic and a half with one parlour for every two and a half individuals; and though one person and a half would find it inconvenient to occupy a sleeping room and three-quarters, I think my calculation will show you that the accounts of the insufficiency of lodging are gross and wicked exaggerations, only spread by designing persons to embarrass the Government.

With regard to the starvation part of the question, I have made every possible inquiry, and it is true that several people have died because they would not eat food; for the facts I shall bring to your notice will prove that no one can have perished from the want of it. Now, after visiting a family, which I was told were in a famishing state, what was my surprise to observe a baker’s shop exactly opposite their lodging, whilst a short way down the street there was a butcher’s also! The family consisted of a husband and wife, four girls, eight boys, and an infant of three weeks old, making in all fifteen individuals. They told me they were literally dying of hunger, and that they had applied to the vestry, who had referred them to the guardians, who had referred them to the overseer, who had referred them to the relieving officer, who had gone out of town, and would be back in a week or two. Not even supposing there were a brief delay in attending to their case, at least by the proper authorities, you will perceive that I have already alluded to a baker’s and a butcher’s, both (it will scarcely be believed at the Home- office) in the very street the family were residing in. Being determined to judge for myself, I counted personally the number of four-pound loaves in the baker’s window, which amounted to thirty-six, while there were twenty-five two-pound loaves on the shelves, to say nothing of fancy-bread and flour ad libitum. But let us take the loaves alone,

36 loaves, each weighing four pounds, Multiplied by 4 will give 144 pounds of wheaten bread; To which must be added 50 pounds (the weight of the 25 half-qtns.), Making a total of 194 pounds of good wholesome bread, which, if divided amongst a family of fifteen, would give 12 pounds and 14 fractions of a pound to each individual. Knocking off the baby, for the sake of uniformity, and striking out the mother, both of whom might be supposed to take the fancy bread and the flour, which I have not included in my calculation, and in order to get even numbers, supposing that 194 pounds of bread might become 195 pounds by over weight, we should get the enormous quantity of fifteen full pounds weight of bread, or a stone and one-fourteenth, (more, positively, than anybody ought to eat), for the husband and each of the children (except the baby, who gets a moiety of the rolls) belonging to this starving family!!! You will see, Sir, how shamefully matters have been misrepresented by the Anti-Corn-Law demagogues; but let us now come to the butcher’s meat.

It will hardly be credited that I counted no less than fourteen sheep hanging up in the shop I have alluded to, while there was a bullock being skinned in the back yard, and a countless quantity of liver and lights all over the premises. Knocking off the infant again for the sake of uniformity, you will perceive that the fourteen sheep would be one sheep each for every member of this family, including the mother, to whom we gave half the rolls and flour in the former case, and there still remains (to say nothing of the entire bullock for the baby of three weeks, which no one will deny to be sufficient) a large quantity of lights, et cetera, for the cat or dog, if there should be such a wilful extravagance in the family. With these facts I close my report, and I trust that you will see how thoroughly I have proved the assertion of the Duke of Wellington—that if there is distress, it must be in some way quite unconnected with a want of food, for there is plenty to eat in every part of the country.

I shall be happy to undertake further inquiries, and shall have no objection to consider myself regularly under Government.

Yours obediently, PUNCH.

THE TEA SERVICE ON SEA SERVICE. LORD JOCELYN, in his recent work upon China, while writing upon the pastimes and amusements of the people, expresses great satisfaction at the entertainment afforded travellers in their private assemblies; though he confesses, as a general principle, he should always avoid making one in the more promiscuous

A sea-going ship guns and sinks a junk. CHINESE JUNKETTING.

[pg 171] THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER VII. CONTAINS A VERY FAIR BILL OF FARE. A vine-covered Simultaneously with the last chord of the last quadrille the important announcement was made that supper was ready—a piece of information that produced a visible commotion among the party. Young gentlemen who had incautiously engaged old or ugly partners evinced a decided desire to get rid of them, or, by the expression of their countenances, seemed to be inwardly cursing their unfortunate situation. Young ladies in whose bosoms the first “slight predilection” had taken up a residence, experienced, they knew not why, a mental and physical prostration at the absence of Orlando Sims or Tom Walker, who (how provoking!) were doing the gallant to some “horrid disagreeable coquettes.” Mamas, who really did like a good supper, and considered it an integral portion of their daily sustenance, crowded towards the door that led to the comestibles, fearing that they might not get eligible situations before the solids, but be placed among the bashful young gentlemen, who linger to the last to pull off their gloves in order to pull them on again, and look as though they considered they ought to be happy and were extremely surprised that they were not. The arrangement of the supper-table displayed the deep research of Mesdames Applebite and Waddledot in the mysteries of gastronomical architecture. Pagodas of barley-sugar glistened in the rays of thirty-six wax candles and four Argand lamps—parterres of jellies, gravelled round with ratafias or valanced with lemon-peel, trembled as though in sympathy with the agitated bosoms of their delicate concocters—custards freckled with nutmeg clustered the crystal handles of their cups together—sarcophagi of pound cakes frowned, as it were, upon the sweetness which surrounded them—whilst fawn-coloured elephants (from the confectionary menagerie of the celebrated Simpson of the Strand) stood ready to be slaughtered. Huge stratified pies courted the inquiries of appetite. Chickens boiled and roast reposed on biers of blue china bedecked with sprigs of green parsley and slices of yellow lemon. Tanks of golden sherry and

A 'Pasha' smokes a pipe. FULL-BODIED PORTE

wooed the thirsty revellers; and never since the unlucky dessert of Mother Eve have temptations been so willingly embraced. The carnage commenced—spoons dived into the jelly—knives lacerated the poultry and the raised pies—a colony of custards vanished in a moment—the elephants were demolished by “ivories11. Anglicè, Teeth.—THE one PIERCE.”—the sarcophagi were buried—and the glittering pagodas melted rapidly before the heat and the attacks of four little ladies in white muslin and pink sashes. The tanks of sherry and port were distributed by the young gentlemen into the glasses and over the dresses of the young ladies. The tipsy-cake, like the wreck of the Royal George, was rescued from the foaming ocean in which it had been imbedded. The diffident young gentlemen grew very red about the eyes, and very loquacious about the “next set after supper;” whilst the faces of the elderly ladies all over lie room looked like the red lamps on Westminster Bridge, and ought to have been beacons to warn the inexperienced that where they shone there was very little water. The violent clattering of the plates was at length succeeded by a succession of merry giggles and provoking little screams, occasioned by the rapid discharge of a park of bonbons.

Where the “slight predilection” was reciprocated, the Orlando Simses and the Tom Walkers were squeezing in beside the blushing idols of their worship and circling the waists of their divinities with their arms, in order to take up less room on the rout-stool.

Mamas were shaking heads at daughters who had ventured upon a tenth sip of a glass of sherry. Papas were getting extremely jocular about the probability of becoming grand-dittos. Everybody else was doing exactly what everybody pleased, when Mrs. Applebite’s uncle John emerged from behind an epergne, and vociferously commanded everybody to charge their glasses; a requisition which nobody was bold enough to dispute. Uncle John then wiped his lips in the table-cloth, and proceeded to inform the company of a fact that was universally understood, that they had met there to celebrate the first dental dawn of the heir of Applebite. “I have only to refer you,” said uncle John, “to the floor of the next room for the response to my request—namely, that you will drain your glasses; and, in the words of nephew Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite, ‘partake of our dental delight.’” This eloquent address was followed by immense cheering and a shower of sherry bottoms, which the gentlemen in their “entusymusy” scattered around them as Hesperus is reported to dispense his tee-total drops.

Nothing could be going on better—no woman could feel prouder than Mrs. Waddledot, when—we hope you don’t anticipate the catastrophe—when two of the Argand lamps gave olfactory demonstrations of dissolution. Sperm oil is a brilliant illuminator, but we never knew any one except an Esquimaux, or a Russian, who preferred it to lavender-water as a perfume. Old John was in a muddle of misery—evidently

A man looks down on a cradle with twin babies in it. LOOKING DOWN UPON HIS LUCK.—

and was only relieved from his embarrassment by the following fortunate occurrence:—

By-the-bye, we have just recollected that we have an invitation to dinner. Reader—au revoir.

NEW WORKS NOW IN THE PRESS. An Abstract and Brief Chronicle of the Times. Very small duodecimo. By Mr. ROEBUCK.

A New Dissertation on the Anatomy of the Figures of the Multiplication Table. By JOSEPH HUME.

Outlines of the Late Ministry, after Ten Years (Teniers). By Lord MELBOURNE.

Recollections of Place. By Lord JOHN RUSSELL.

Mythological Tract upon the Heathen Deity Cupid. By Lord PALMERSTON.

Explanatory Annotations on the Abstruse Works of the late Joseph (vulgo Joe) Miller. With a humorous etching of his tombstone, and Original Epitaph. By Colonel SIBTHORP.

Also, by the same Author, an Ornithological Treatise on the various descriptions of Water-fowl; showing the difference between Russia and other Ducks, and why the former are invariably sold in pairs.

A few words on Indefinite Subjects, supposed to be Sir Robert Peel’s Future Intentions. By Mr. WAKLEY.

[pg 172] AMERICAN CONGRESS. We hasten to lay before our readers the following authentic reports of the latest debates in the United States’ Congress, which have been forwarded to us by our peculiarly and especially exclusive Reporters.

New York.—The greatest possible excitement exists here, agitating alike the bosoms of the Whites, the Browns, and the Blacks; a universal sympathy appears to exist among all classes, the greater portion of whom are looking exceedingly blue. The all-absorbing question as to whether the “war is to be or not to be,” seems an exceedingly difficult one to answer. One party says “Yes,” and another party says “No,” and a third party says the above parties “Lie in their teeth;” and thereupon issue is joined, and bowie-knives are exchanged—the “Yes” walking away with “No’s” sheathed in the middle of his back, and the “No” making up for his loss by securing the “Yes’s” somewhere between his ribs. All the black porters are looking out for light jobs, and rushing about with shutters and cards of address, bearing high-minded “Loco-focos” and shot-down “democrats” to their respective surgeons and houses. This unusual bustle and activity gives the more political parts of the city an exceedingly brisk appearance, and has caused most of the eminent surgeons, not attached to either party, to be regularly retained by the principal speakers in these most interesting debates.

In Congress great attention is paid to the comfort of the various members, who are all provided with spittoons, though they are by no means compelled to tie themselves down to the exclusive use of those expectorant receptacles; on the contrary, much ingenuity is shown by some of the more practised in picking out other deposits; a vast majority of the Kentuckians will back themselves to “shoot through” the opposition member’s nose and eye-glass without touching “flesh or flints.”

The prevailing opinion appears to be, that should we come to a fight they will completely alter the costume of the country, and “whop us into fits.” Their style of elocution is masterly in the extreme, redolent with the sagest deductions, and overflowing with a magnificent and truly Eastern redundancy of the most poetical tropes. I will now proceed to give you an extract from the celebrated speaker on the war side—“the renowned Jonathan J. Twang.”

“I rather calculate that tarnal, pisoned, alligator of a ring-tailed, roaring, pestiferous, rattlesnake, that critter ‘the Old Country,’ would jist about give up one half its skin, and wriggle itself slick out of the other, rayther than go for to put our dander up at this present identical out-and-out important critical crisis! I conceit their min’stry have got jist about into as considerable a tarnation nasty fix, as a naked nigger in the stocks when the mosquitoes are steaming up a little beyond high pressure. I guess Prince Albert and the big uns don’t find their seats quite as soft as buttered eels in a mud bank! Look here—isn’t it considerable clear they’re all funking like burnt Cayenne in a clay pipe; or couldn’t they have made a raise some how to get a ship of their own, or borrow one, to send after that caged-up ’coon of a Macleod? It’s my notion, and pretty considerable clear to me, they’re all bounce, like bad chesnuts, very well to look at, but come to try them at the fire for a roast, and they turn out puff and shell. They talk of war as the boy did of whipping his father, but like him, they daresn’t do it, and why not? why, for the following elegant reasons:—Since they have been used to the advantages of doing their little retail trade with our own go-ahead and carry-all-before-it right slick-up-an-end double-distilled essence of a genuine fine and civilised country, the everlasting ’possums have become habituated to some of the manners of our enlightened inhabitants. We have nothing to do but refuse the supply of cottons, and leave them all with as little shirts to their backs as wool on a skinned eel. Isn’t it the intercourse with this here country that enables them to speak their very language with something rayther like a leetle correctness, though they’re just about as far behind us as the last jint of the sea-sarpent is from his eye-tooth?

“Doesn’t all international law consist in keeping an everlasting bright look-out on your own side, and jamming all other varments slick through a stone wall, as the waggon-wheel used up the lame frog? (Hear, hear.) I say—and mind you I’ll stick to it like a starved sloth to the back of a fat babby—I say, gentlemen, this country, the United States (particularly Kentucky, from which I come, and which will whip all the rest with out-straws and rotten bull-rushes agin pike, bagnet, mortars, and all their almighty fine artillery), I say, then, this country is considerable like a genuine fac-simile of the waggon-wheel, and the pretty oneasy busted-up old worn-out island of the bull-headed Britishers, ain’t nothing more than the tee-totally used-up frog. (Hear, hear.)

“I expect they’d have just as much chance with us as a muzzled monkey with a hiccory-nut. Talk of their fleet! I’ll bet six live niggers to a dead ’coon, our genuine Yankee clippers will whip them into as bad a fix as a flying-fish with a gull at his head and a shark at his tail. They’re jist about as much out of their reckoning as the pig that took to swimming for his health and cut his throat trying it on.

“It’s everlasting strange to me if, to all future posterity coming after us, the word ‘Macleod’ don’t shut up their jaws from bragging of British valour just about as tight as the death-squeeze of a boa-constrictor round a smashed-up buffalo!

“If it wa’n’t for the distance and leaving my plantation, I’d go over with any on you, and help to use up the lot myself! Let them ‘come on,’ as the tiger said to the young kid, and see what ‘I’ll do for you.’ They talk of sending out their chaps here, do they; let them; they’ll be just about as happy as a toad in hot tar, and that’s a fact.” Here Jonathan J. Twang sat down amid immense cheers; at the conclusion of which, Mr. Peter P. Pellican, from the back-woods, requested—he, Peter P. Pellican, being from Orleans—that Mr. Jonathan J. Twang would retract certain words derogatory to the state represented by Peter P. Pellican. Mr. Jonathan J. Twang replied in the following determined refusal:—“I beg to inform the last speaker, Mr. Peter P. Pellican, from the back-woods, that I’ll see him tee-totatiously tarred, feathered, and physicked with red-hot oil and fish-hooks, before I’ll retract one eternal syllable of my pretty particular correct assertions.”

This announcement created considerable confusion. The President behaved in the most impartial and manly manner, indiscriminately knocking down all such of both parties who came within reach of his mace, and not leaving the chair until he had received two black eyes and lost two front teeth. The general mêlée was carried on with immense spirit; the more violent members on either side pummelling each other with the most hearty and legislative determination. This exciting scene was continued for some time, until during a short cessation a member with a broken leg proposed an adjournment till the following day, when the further discussion could be carried on with Bowie-knives and pistols; this proposition was at once acceded to with immense delight by all parties. If well enough (as I have two broken ribs, my share of the row) I will forward you an authentic statement of this interesting proceeding.

EPITAPH ON A CANDLE. A wicked one lies buried here,

Who died in a decline;

He never rose in rank, I fear,

Though he was born to shine.

He once was fat, but now, indeed,

He’s thin as any griever;

He died,—the Doctors all agreed,

Of a most burning fever.

One thing of him is said with truth,

With which I’m much amused;

It is—That when he stood, forsooth,

A stick he always used.

Now winding-sheets he sometimes made,

But this was not enough,

For finding it a poorish trade,

He also dealt in snuff.

If e’er you said “Go out, I pray,”

He much ill nature show’d;

On such occasions he would say,

“Vy, if I do, I’m blow’d.”

In this his friends do all agree,

Although you’ll think I’m joking,

When going out ’tis said that he

Was very fond of smoking.

Since all religion he despised,

Let these few words suffice,

Before he ever was baptized

They dipp’d him once or twice.

SIBTHORP ON BORTHWICK. Our Sibthorp, while speaking of the asinine qualities of Peter Borthwick, remarked, that in his opinion that respectable member of the Lower House must be indebted to the celebrated medicine promising extreme “length of ears,” and advertised as

A man canes a boy. PARR’S SPECIFIC.

[pg 173] FIRE! FIRE! A REMONSTRANCE WITH THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER. How melancholy an object is a “polished front,” that vain-glorious and inhospitable array of cold steel and willow shavings, in which the emancipated hearth is annually constrained by careful housewives to signalise the return of summer, and its own consequent degradation from being a part of the family to become a piece of mere formal furniture. And truly in cold weather, which (thanks to the climate, for we love our country) is all the weather we get in England, the fire is a most important individual in a house: one who exercises a bland authority over the tempers of all the other inmates—for who could quarrel with his feet on the fender? one with whom everybody is anxious to be well—for who would fall out with its genial glow? one who submits with a graceful resignation to the caprices of every casual elbow—and who has never poked a fire to death? one whose good offices have endeared him alike to the selfish and to the cultivated,—at once a host, a mediator, and an occupation.

We have often had our doubts (but then we are partial) whether it be not possible to carry on a conversation with a fire. With the aid of an evening newspaper by way of interpreter, and in strict confidence, no third party being present, we feel that it can be done. Was there an interesting debate last night? were the ministers successful, or did the opposition carry it? In either case, did not the fire require a vigorous poke just as you came to the division? and did not its immediate flame, or, on the contrary, its dull, sullen glow, give you the idea that it entertained its own private opinions on the subject? And if those opinions seemed contrary to yours, did you not endeavour to betray the sparks into an untenable position, by submitting them to the gentle sophistry of a poker nicely insinuated between the bars? or did you not quench with a sudden retort of small coal its impertinent congratulation at an unfortunate result? until, when its cordial glow, penetrating that unseemly shroud, has given evidence of self-conviction, you felt that you had dealt too harshly with an old friend, and hastened to make it up with him again by a playful titillation, more in jest than earnest.

But this is all to come. Not yet (with us) have the kindly old bars, reverend in their attenuation, been restored to their time-honoured throne; not yet have the dingy festoons of pink and white paper disappeared from the garish mantel. Still desolate and cheerless shows the noble edifice. The gaunt chimney yawns still in sick anticipation of deferred smoke. The “irons,” innocent of coal, and polished to the tip, skulk and cower sympathetically into the extreme corner of the fender. The very rug seems ghastly and grim, wanting the kindly play of the excited flame. We have no comfort in the parlour yet: even the privileged kitten, wandering in vain in search of a resting-place, deems it but a chill dignity which has withdrawn her from the warm couch before the kitchen-fire. Things have become too real for home. We have no joy now in those delicious loiterings for the five minutes before dinner—those casual snatches of Sterne, those scraps of Steele. We have left off smiling; we are impregnable even to a pun. What is the day of the month?

Surely were not October retrospectively associated (in April and glorious May) with the grateful magnificence of ale, none would be so unpopular as the chilly month. There is no period in which so much of what ladies call “unpleasantness” occurs, no season when that mysterious distemper known as “warming” is so epidemic, as in October. It is a time when, in default of being conventionally cold, every one becomes intensely cool. A general chill pervades the domestic virtues: hospitality is aguish, and charity becomes more than proverbially numb.

In twenty days how different an appearance will things wear! The magic circle round the hearth will be filled with beaming faces; a score of hands will be luxuriously chafing the palpable warmth dispensed by a social blaze; some more privileged feet may perchance be basking in the extraordinary recesses of the fender. We shall consult the thermometer to enjoy the cold weather by contrast with the glowing comfort within. We shall remark how “time flies,” and that “it seems only yesterday since we had a fire before;” forgetful of the hideous night and the troublous dreams that have intervened since those sweet memories. And all this—in twenty days.

We are no innovators: we respect all things for their age, and some for their youth. But we would hope that, in humbly looking for a fire in the cold weather, even though November be still in the store of time, we should be exhibiting no dangerous propensities. If, as we are inclined to believe, fires were discovered previously to the invention of lord mayors, wherefore should we defer our accession to them until he is welcomed by those frigid antiquities Gog and Magog? Wherefore not let fires go out with the old lord mayor, if they needs must come in with the new? Wherefore not do without lord mayors altogether, and elect an annual grate to judge the prisoners at the bar in the Mansion House, and to listen to the quirks of the facetious Mr. Hob-ler?

AN APPROPRIATE GIFT. We perceive that the fair dames of Nottingham have, with compassionate liberality, presented to Mr. Walter, one of the Tory candidates at the late election, a silver salver. What a delicate and appropriate gift for a man so beaten as Master Walter!—the pretty dears knew where he was hurt, and applied a silver salve—we beg pardon, salver—to his wounds. We trust the remedy may prove consolatory to the poor gentleman.

NOT A STEP FA(R)THER. The diminutive chroniclers of Animalcula-Chatter, called small-talk, have been giving a minute description of the goings on of His Grace of Wellington at Walmer. They hint that he sleeps and wakes by clock-work, eats by the ounce, and drinks and walks by measure. During the latter recreation, it is his pleasure, they tell us, to use one of Payne’s pedometers to regulate his march. Thus it is quite clear the great Captain will never become a

A man walks with a girl and a baby. “SOLDIER TIRED.”

A MALE DUE. The Post-office in Downing-street has been besieged by various inquirers, who are anxiously seeking for some information as to the expected arrival of the Royal Male.

CURIOUS SYNONYMS. Sir Peter Laurie discovered during his residence in Boulogne that veau is the French for veal. On his return to England, being at a public dinner, he exhibited his knowledge of the tongues by asking a brother alderman for a slice of his weal or woe.

HAPPY LAND! Six young girls, inmates of the Lambeth workhouse, were brought up at Union Hall, charged with breaking several squares of glass. In their defence, they complained that they had been treated worse in the workhouse than they would be in prison, and said that it was to cause their committal to the latter place they committed the mischief. What a beautiful picture of moral England this little anecdote exhibits! What must be the state of society in a country where crime is punished less severely than poverty?

Old England, bless’d and favour’d clime!

Where paupers to thy prisons run;

Where poverty’s the only crime

That angry justice frowns upon.

THE NEW STATE STRETCHER. “What an uncomfortable bed Peel has made for himself!” observed Normanby to Palmerston. “That’s not very clear to me, I confess,” replied the Downing-street Cupid, “as it is acknowledged he sleeps on a bolstered cabinet.” The pacificator of Ireland closed his face for the remainder of the day.

The latest case of monomania, from our own specially-raised American correspondent:—A gentleman who fancied himself a pendulum always went upon tick, and never discovered his delusion until he was carefully wound up in the Queen’s Bench.

“VERY LIKE A WHALE.” The first of all the royal infant males

Should take the title of the Prince of Wales;

Because ’tis clear to seaman and to lubber,

Babies and whales are both inclined to blubber.

ARRIVED AT LAST. We perceived by a paragraph copied from the “John o’Groats Journal,” that an immense Whale, upwards of seventy-six feet in length, was captured a few days since at Wick. Sir Peter Laurie and Alderman Humphrey on reading this announcement naturally concluded that the Wick referred to was our gracious Queen Wic, and rushed off to Buckingham-palace to pay their united tribute of loyalty to the long- expected Prince of Wales.

EPIGRAM. I’m going to seal a letter, Dick,

Some wax pray give to me.

I have not got a single stick,

Or whacks I’d give to thee.

[pg 174] THE PICTORIAL HISTORY OF PARLIAMENT. In our last we briefly adverted to the gratifying fact that Mr. Barry had at least a thousand superficial feet on the walls of the new Houses of Parliament at the services of the historical painters of England; and we also, in a passing manner, suggested a few compositions worthy of their pencils. A reconsideration of the matter convinces us that the subject is too important—too national, to be adopted as merely the fringe of our article; and we have therefore determined within ourselves to devote our present essay to a serious discussion of the various pictures that are, or ought, to decorate the interior of the new House of Commons. As for the House of Lords, we see no necessity whatever for lavishing the fine inspirations of art on that temple of wisdom; inasmuch as the sages who deliberate there are, for the most part, born legislators, coming into the world with all the rudiments of government in embryo in their baby heads, and, on the twenty-first anniversary of their birthday, putting their legs out of bed adult, full-grown law-makers. It would be the height of democratic insolence to attempt to teach these chosen few: it would, in fact, be a misprision of treason against the sovereignty of Nature, who, when making the pia mater of a future peer of England, knows very well the delicate work she has in hand, and takes pains accordingly. It is different when she manufactures a mob of skulls which, by a jumble of worldly accidents, or by the satire of Fortune in her bitterest mood, may ultimately belong to Members of the House of Commons. These she makes, as they make blocks in Portsmouth-yard, a hundred a minute. All she has to do is to fulfil her contract with the world, taking care that there shall be no want of the raw material for Members of Parliament, leaving it to Destiny to work it up as she may. We have not the slightest doubt, by-the-by, that poor Nature is often very much confounded by the ultimate application of her own handiwork. We can fancy the venerable old gossip at her business, patting up skulls as serenely as our lamented great grandmother (she wrote a very pretty book on the beauties of population, and illustrated the work, too, with portraits from her own hand) was wont to pat up apple-dumplings:—we can imagine Nature—good old soul!—looking over her spectacles at the infant dough, and saying to herself as she finishes skull by skull—“Ha! that will do for a pawnbroker;”—“That, as it’s rather low and narrow, for a sharp attorney;”—“That for a parish constable;”—“That for a clown at a fair,”—and so on. And we can well imagine the astonishment of simple- hearted old Nature on getting a ticket for the gallery of the House of Commons (for very seldom, indeed, has she been known to show herself on the floor), to see her skull of a pawnbroker on the shoulders of a Chancellor of the Exchequer; her caput of the sharp attorney belonging to a Minister of the Home Department; her head of a parish constable as a Paymaster of the Forces; and the dough she had intended to swallow knives and eat fire at wakes and fairs gravely responded to as “an honourable and gallant member!” Whereupon, who can wonder at the amazement and indignation of Mother Nature, and that, with a keen sense of the misapplication of her skulls, she sometimes abuses Mother Fortune in good set terms, mingling with her reproaches the strongest reflections on her chastity?

We have thought it due to the full consideration of our subject so far, to dwell upon the natural difference between the skull of a Peer and the skull of a Commoner. The skull of the noble, as we have shown, is a thing made to order—fitted up, like Mr. MECHI’S pocket-dressing-case, with the ornamental and useful: no instrument can be added to it—the thing is complete. Hence, to employ historical painters for the education of the House of Lords would be a useless and profligate expenditure of art and money. It would be to paint the lily LONDONDERRY—to add a perfume to the violet ELLENBOROUGH. All Peers being from the first—indeed, even in utero—ordained law-makers, statute-making comes to them by nature. How much history goes to prove this, showing that the House of Lords—like the Solomons of the fleur-de-lis—have learned nothing, and forgotten nothing! To attempt to instruct a Peer would be as gross an impertinence to the instinct of his order as to present MINERVA—who no doubt came from the head of JOVE a Peeress in her own right—with a toy alphabet or horn-book.

For the skulls of the House of Commons,—that is, indeed, another question! We are so far utilitarian that we would have the pictures for which Mr. BARRY offers a thousand feet selected solely with a view to the dissemination of knowledge amongst the many benighted members of the House of Commons. We would have the subjects so chosen that they should entirely supersede Oldfield’s Representative History; never forgetting the wants of the most illiterate. For instance, for the politicians on the fifth form, the SIBTHORPS and PLUMPTRES, whose education in their youth has been shamefully neglected, we would have a nice pictorial political alphabet. We do not pride ourselves, be it understood, upon writing unwrinkled verse; we only present the subjoined as a crude idea of our plan, taken we confess, from certain variegated volumes, to be had either of Mr. SOUTER, St. Paul’s Churchyard, or Messrs. DARTON and HARVEY, Holborn.

A was King ALFRED, a monarch of note;

B is BURDETT, who can well turn a coat.

Here we would have the chief incidents of Alfred’s life nicely painted, with BURDETT, late Old Glory, and now Old Corruption. As for the poetry, when we consider the capacities of the learners, that cannot be too simple, too homely. The House, however, may order a Committee of Versification, if it please; all that we protest against is D’ISRAELI being of the number.

C is the CORN-LAWS, that famish’d the poor;

D is the DEBT, that will famish them more.

Here, for the imaginative artist, is an opportunity! To paint the wholesale wickedness and small villanies of the Corn-laws! What a contrast of scene and character! Squalid hovels, and princely residences—purse-proud, plethoric injustice, big and bloated with, its iniquitous gains, and gaunt, famine-stricken multitudes! Then for the Debt—that hideous thing begotten by war and corruption; what a tremendous moral lesson might be learned from a nightly conning of the terrific theme!

We have neither poetic genius nor space of paper to go through the whole of the alphabet; we merely throw out the above four lines—and were we not assured that they are better lines, far more musical, than any to be found in BULWER’S SIAMESE TWINS, we should blush much nearer scarlet than we do—to give an idea of the utility and beautiful comprehensiveness of our plan.

The great difficulty, however, will be to compress the subjects—so multitudinous are they—within the thousand feet allowed by the architect. To begin with the Wittenagemot, or meeting of the wise men, and to end with portraits of Mr. Roebuck’s ancestors—to say nothing of the fine imaginative sketch of the Member for Bath tilting, in the mode of Quixote with the steam-press of Printing-house-square—will require the most extraordinary powers of condensation on the parts of the artists. Nevertheless, if the undertaking be even creditably executed, it will be a monument of national wisdom and national utility to unborn generations of Members. What crowds of subjects press upon us! The History of Bribery might make a sort of Parliamentary Rake’s Progress, if we could but hit upon the artist to portray its manifold beauties. The Windsor Stables and the Education of the Poor would form admirable companion-pictures, in which the superiority of the horse over the human animal could be most satisfactorily delineated—the quadruped having considerably more than three times the amount voted to him for snug lodging, hay, beans, and oats, that the English pauper obtained from Parliament for that manure of the soil—as congregated piety at Exeter Hall denominates it—a Christian education!

What a beautiful arabesque border might be conceived from a perusal of the late Lord Castlereagh’s speeches! We should here have Parliamentary eloquence under a most fantastic yet captivating phase. Who, for instance, but the artist to PUNCH could paint CASTLEREAGH’S figure of a smug, contented, selfish traitor, the “crocodile with his hand in his breeches’ pocket?” Again, does not the reader recollect that extraordinary person who, according to the North Cray Demosthenes, “turned his back upon himself?” There would be a portrait!—one, too, presenting food for the most “sweet and bitter melancholy” to the GRAHAMS and the STANLEYS. There is also that immortal Parliamentary metaphor, emanating from the same mysterious source,—“The feature upon which the question hinges!” The only man who could have properly painted this was the enthusiastic BLAKE, who so successfully limned the ghost of a flea! These matters, however, are to be considered as merely supplementary ornaments to great themes. The grand subjects are to be sought for in Hansard’s Reports, in petitions against returns of members, in the evidence that comes out in the committee-rooms, in the abstract principles of right and wrong, that make members honest patriots, or that make them give the harlot “ay” and “no,” as dictated by the foul spirit gibbering in their breeches’ pockets.

That we may have painted all these things, Mr. BARRY offers up one thousand feet. Oh! Mr. B. can’t you make it ten!

Q.

[pg 175] PUNCH’s PENCILLINGS.—No. XV.

A sad-looking man regards a portrait of a kingly-looking man. REFLECTION.

“FAREWELL, A LONG FAREWELL, TO ALL MY GREATNESS.”—King Henry VIII.

[pg 177] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. 4.—OF THE MANNER IN WHICH THE FIRST SEASON PASSES. From the period of our last Chapter our friend commences to adopt the attributes of the mature student. His notes are taken as before at each lecture he attends, but the lectures are fewer, and the notes are never fairly transcribed; at the same time they are interspersed with a larger proportion of portraits of the lecturer, and other humorous conceits. He proposes at lunch-time every day that he and his companions should “go the odd man for a pot;” and the determination he had formed at his entry to the school, of working the last session for all the prizes, and going up to the Hall on the Thursday and the College on the Friday without grinding, appears somewhat difficult of being carried into execution.

It is at this point of his studies that the student commences a steady course of imaginary dissection: that is to say, he keeps a chimerical account of extremities whose minute structure he has deeply investigated (in his head), and received in return various sums of money from home for the avowed purpose of paying for them. If he really has put his name down for any heads and necks or pelvic viscera at the commencement of the season, when he had imbibed and cherished some lunatic idea “that dissection was the sheet-anchor of safety at the College,” he becomes a trafficker in human flesh, and disposes of them as quickly as he can to any hard-working man who has his examination in perspective.

He now assumes a more independent air, and even ventures to chalk odd figures on the black board in the theatre. He has been known, previously to the lecture, to let down the skeleton that hangs by a balance weight from the ceiling, and, inserting its thumb in the cavity of its nose, has there secured it with a piece of thread, and then, placing a short pipe in its jaws, has pulled it up again. His inventive faculties are likewise shown by various diverting objects and allusions cut with his knife upon the ledge before him in the lecture-room, whereon the new men rest their note-books and the old ones go to sleep. In vain do the directors of the school order the ledge to be coated with paint and sand mixed together—nothing is proof against his knife; were it adamant he would cut his name upon it. His favourite position at lecture is now the extremity of the bench, where its horse-shoe form places him rather out of the range of the lecturer’s vision; and, ten to one, it is here that he has cut a cribbage-board on the seat, at which he and his neighbour play during the lecture on Surgery, concealing their game from common eyes by spreading a mackintosh cape on the desk before them. His conversation also gradually changes its tone, and instead of mildly inquiring of the porter, on his entering the school of a morning, what is for the day’s anatomical demonstration, he talks of “the regular lark he had last night at the Eagle, and how jolly screwed he got!”—a frank admission, which bespeaks the candour of his disposition.

Careful statistics show us that it is about the end of November the new man first makes the acquaintance of his uncle; and observant people have remarked, as worthy of insertion in the Medical Almanack amongst the usual phenomena of the calendar—“About this time dissecting cases and tooth-instruments appear in the windows, and we may look for watches towards the beginning of December.” Although this is his first transaction on his own account, yet his property has before ascended the spout, when some unprincipled student, at the beginning of the season, picked his pocket of a big silver lancet-case, which he had brought up with him from the country; and having, pledged it at the nearest money- lender’s, sent him the duplicate in a polite note, and spent the money with some other dishonest young men, in drinking their victim’s health in his absence. And, by the way, it is a general rule that most new men delight to carry big lancet-cases, although they have about as much use for them as a lecturer upon practice of physic has for top boots.

Thus gradually approaching step by step towards the perfection of his state, the new man’s first winter-session passes; and it is not unlikely that, at the close of the course, he may enter to compete for the anatomical prize, which he sometimes gets by stealth, cribbing his answers from a tiny manual of knowledge, two inches by one-and-a-half in size, which he hides under his blotting-paper. This triumph achieved, he devotes the short period which intervenes before the commencement of the summer botanical course to various hilarious pastimes; and as the watch and dissecting-case are both gone, he writes the following despatch to his governor—

LETTER No. II.—(Copy.) MY DEAR FATHER,—You will, I am sure, be delighted to learn that I have gained the twenty-ninth honorary certificate for proficiency in anatomy which you will allow is a very high number when I tell you that only thirty are given. I have also the satisfaction of informing you that the various professors have given me certificates of having attended their lectures very diligently during the past courses.

I work very hard, but I need not inform you that, with all my economy, I am at some expense for good books and instruments. I have purchased Liston’s Surgery, Anthony Thompson’s Materia Medica, Burns and Merriman’s Midwifery, Graham’s Chemistry, Astley Cooper’s Dislocations, and Quain’s Anatomy, all of which I have read carefully through twice. I also pay a private demonstrator to go over the bones with me of a night; and I have bought a skeleton at Alexander’s—a great bargain. This, when I “pass,” I think of presenting to the museum of the hospital, as I am under great obligations to the surgeons. I think a ten-pound note willl clear my expenses, although I wish to enter to a summer course of dissections, and take some lessons in practical chemistry in the laboratories with Professor Carbon, but these I will endeavour to pay for out of my own pocket. With my best regards to all at home, believe me,

Your affectionate son, JOSEPH MUFF.

As soon as the summer course begins, the Botanical Lectures commence with it, and the polite Company of Apothecaries courteously request the student’s acceptance of a ticket of admission to the lectures, at their garden at Chelsea. As these commence somewhere about eight in the morning, of course he must get up in the middle of the night to be there; and consequently he attends very often, of course. But the botanical excursions that take place every Saturday from his own school are his especial delight. He buys a candle-box to contain all the chickweed, chamomiles, and dandelions he may collect, and slinging it over his shoulder with his pocket-handkerchief, he starts off in company with the Professor and his fellow-herbalists to Wandsworth Common, Battersea Fields, Hampstead Heath, or any other favourite spot which the cockney Flora embellishes with her offspring.

The conduct of medical students on botanical excursions generally appears in various phases. Some real lovers of the study, pale men in spectacles, who wear shoes and can walk for ever, collect every weed they drop upon, to which they assign a most extraordinary name, and display it at their lodgings upon cartridge paper, with penny pieces to keep the leaves in their places as they dry. Others limit their collections to stinging-nettles, which they slyly insert into their companions’ pockets, or long bulrushes, which they tuck under the collars of their coats; and the remainder turn into the first house of public entertainment they arrive at on emerging from the smoke of London to the rural districts, and remain all day absorbed in the mysteries of ground billiards and knock-‘em-downs, their principal vegetable studies being confined to lettuces, spring onions, and water-cresses. But all this is very proper—we mean the botanical part of the story—for the knowledge of the natural class and order of a buttercup must be of the greatest service to a practitioner in after-life in treating a case of typhus fever or ruptured blood-vessel. At some of the Continental Hospitals, the pupil’s time is wasted at the bedside of the patient, from which he can only get practical information. How much better is the primrose-investigating curriculum of study observed at our own medical schools!

SOME THINGS TO WHICH THE IRISH WOULD NOT SWEAR. MR. GROVE.—This insufferably ignorant, and, therefore, insolent magisterial cur, who has recently made himself an object of unenviable notoriety, by asserting that “the Irish would swear anything,” has shown himself to be as stupid as he is malignant. Would, for instance, the most hard-mouthed Irishman in existence venture to swear that—

Mr. Grove is a gentleman; or that— Sir Francis Burdett has brought honour to his grey hairs; or that— Colonel Sibthorp has more brains than beard; or that— Sir Robert Peel feels for anybody but himself; or that— Peter Borthwick was listened to with attention; or that— Sir Peter Laurie’s wisdom cannot be estimated; or that— Sir Edward George Erle Lytton Bulwer thinks very small beer of himself; or that— The Earl of Coventry carries a vast deal of sense under his hat; or that— Mr. Roebuck is the pet of the Times; or, in short, that— The Tories are the best and most popular governors that England ever had. If “the Irish would swear” to the above, we confess they “would swear anything.”

COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE THEM. SIR JAMES CLARK is in daily attendance at the Palace. We suppose that he is looking out for a new berth under Government.

[pg 178] HOSTILITIES IN PRIVATE LIFE. We have just heard of an event which has shaken the peace of a highly respectable house in St. Martin’s Court, from the chimney-pots to the coal-cellar. Mrs. Brown, the occupier of the first floor, happened, on last Sunday, to borrow of Mrs. Smith, who lived a pair higher in the world, a German silver teapot, on the occasion of her giving a small twankey party to a few select friends. But though she availed herself of Mrs. Smith’s German-silver, to add respectability to her soirée, she wholly overlooked Mrs. Smith, who was not invited to partake of the festivities. This was a slight that no woman of spirit could endure; and though Mrs. Smith’s teapot was German-silver, she resolved to let Mrs. Brown see that she had herself some real Britannia mettle in her composition. Accordingly when the teapot was sent up the following morning to Mrs. Smith’s apartments, with Mrs. Brown’s “compliments and thanks,” Mrs. Smith discovered or affected to discover, a serious contusion on the lid of the article, and despatched it by her own servant back to Mrs. Brown, accompanied by the subjoined note:—

“Mrs. Smith’s compliments to Mrs. Brown, begs to return the teapott to the latter—in consequence of the ill-usage it has received in her hands.”

Mrs. Brown, being a woman who piques herself upon her talent at epistolary writing, immediately replied in the following terms:—

“Mrs. Brown’s compliments to Mrs. Smith, begs to say that her paltry teapot received no ill usage from Mrs. Brown.—Mrs. B. will thank Mrs. S. not to put two t’s at the end of teapot in future.”

This note and the teapot were forthwith sent upstairs to Mrs. Smith, whose indignation being very naturally roused, she again returned the battered affair, with this spirited missive:—

“Mrs. Smith begs to inform Mrs. Brown, that she despises her insinuations, and to say, that she will put as many t’s as she pleases in her teapot.

“P.S.—Mrs. S. expects to be paid 10s. for the injured article.”

Again the teapot was sent upstairs, with the following reply from Mrs. Brown:—

“Mrs. Brown thinks Mrs. Smith a low creature.

“P.S.—Mrs. B. won’t pay a farthing.”

The correspondence terminated here, the German-silver teapot remaining in statu quo on the lobby window, between the territories of the hostile powers; and there it might have remained until the present moment, if Mrs. Brown had not declared, in an audible voice, at the foot of the stairs, that Mrs. Smith was acting under the influence of gin, which reaching the ears of the calumniated lady, she rushed down to the landing-place, and seizing the teapot, discharged it at Mrs. Brown’s head, which it fortunately missed, but totally annihilated a plaster figure of Napoleon, which stood in the hall, and materially damaged its own spout. Mrs. Brown, being wholly unsupported at the time, retired hastily within the defences of her own apartments, which Mrs. Smith cannonaded vigorously for upwards of ten minutes with a broom handle; and there is every reason to believe she would shortly have effected a practicable breach, if a reinforcement from the kitchen had not arrived to aid the besieged, and forced the assailant back to her second-floor entrenchments. Mrs. Smith then demanded a truce until evening, which was granted by Mrs. Brown; notwithstanding which the former lady was detected, in defiance of this arrangement, endeavouring to blow up Mrs. Brown through the keyhole.

There is no telling how this unhappy difference will terminate; for though at present matters appear tolerably quiet, we know not (as in the case of the Canadas) at what moment we may have to inform our readers that

A grumpy woman sits near a smoky candle. THE BORDERS ARE IN A FLAME.

GEOLOGY OF SOCIETY. SECTION II. We last week described the different strata of society comprehended in the INFERIOR SERIES, and the lower portion of the Clapham Group. We now beg to call the attention of our readers to a most important division in the next great formation—which has been termed the TRANSITION CLASS—because the individuals composing it are in a gradual state of elevation, and have a tendency to mix with the superior strata. By referring to the scale which we gave in our first section, it will be seen that the lowest layer in this class is formed by the people who keep shops and one-horse “shays,” and go to Ramsgate for three weeks in the dog-days. They all exhibit evidences of having been thrown up from a low to a high level. The elevating causes are numerous, but the most remarkable are those which arise from the action of unexpected legacies. Lotteries were formerly the cause of remarkable elevations; and speculation in the funds may be still considered as amongst the elevating causes, though their effect is frequently to cause a sudden sinking. Lying immediately above the “shop and shay” people, we find the old substantial merchant, who every day precisely as the clock strikes ten is in the act of hanging up his hat in his little back counting-house in Fenchurch-street. His private house, however, is at Brixton-hill, where the gentility of the family is supported by his wife, two daughters, a piano, and a servant in livery. The best and finest specimens of this strata are susceptible of a slight polish; they are found very useful in the construction of joint stock banks, railroads, and other speculations where a good foundation is required. We now come to the Russell-square group, which comprehends all those people who “live private,” and aim at being thought fashionable and independent. Many individuals of this group are nevertheless supposed by many to be privately connected with some trading concern in the City. It is a distinguishing characteristic of the second layer in this group to have a tendency to give dinners to the superior series, while the specimens of the upper stratum are always found in close proximity to a carriage. Family descent, which is a marked peculiarity of the SUPERIOR CLASS, is rarely to be met with in the Russell-square group. The fossil animals which exist in this group are not numerous: they are for the most part decayed barristers and superannuated doctors. Of the ST. JAMES’S SERIES it is sufficient to say that it consists of four strata, of which the superior specimens are usually found attached to coronets. Most of the precious stones, as diamonds, rubies, emeralds, are also to be found in this layer. The materials of which it is composed are various, and appear originally to have belonged to the inferior classes; and the only use to which it can be applied is in the construction of peers. Throughout all the classes there occur what are called veins, containing diverse substances. The larking vein is extremely abundant in the superior classes—it is rich in brass knockers, bell handles, and policemen’s rattles; this vein descends through all the lower strata, the specimens in each differing according to the situation in which they are found; the middle classes being generally discovered deposited in the Coal-hole Tavern or the Cider-cellars, while the individuals of the very inferior order are usually discovered in gin-shops and low pot-houses, and not unfrequently

A drunk lays on the floor surrounded by pitchers and pours the contents of one on his head. EMBEDDED IN QUARTS(Z).

THE WAPPING DELUGE. Father Thames, not content with his customary course, has been “swelling it” in the course of the week, through some of the streets of the metropolis. As if to inculcate temperance, he walked himself down into public-house cellars, filling all the empty casks with water, and adulterating all the beer and spirits that came in his way; turning also every body’s fixed into floating capital. Half empty butts, whose place was below, came sailing up into the bar through the ceiling of the cellar; saucepans were elevated from beneath the dresser to the dresser itself; while cups were made “to pop off the hooks” with surprising rapidity.

But the greatest consternation that prevailed was among the rats, particularly those in the neighbourhood of Downing-street, who were driven out of the sewers they inhabit with astounding violence.

The dairies on the banks of the Thames were obliged to lay aside their customary practice of inundating the milk; for such a “meeting of the waters” as would otherwise have ensued must have proved rather too much, even for the regular customers.

SAVORY CON. BY COX. Why is it impossible for a watch that indicates the smaller divisions of time ever to be new?—Because it must always be a second-hand one.

[pg 179] PUNCH’S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE.—No. V. NATURAL HISTORY (Continued). THE OPERA-DANCER (H. capernicus—CERITOE). So decidedly does this animal belong to the Bimana order of beings, that to his two legs he is indebted for existence. Most of his fellow bipeds live by the work of their hands, except indeed the feathered and tailor tribes, who live by their bills; but from his thighs, calves, ancles, and toes, does the opera-dancer derive subsistence for the less important portions of his anatomy.

Physiology.—The body, face, and arms of the opera-dancer present no peculiarities above the rest of his species; and it is to his lower extremities alone that we must look for distinguishing features. As our researches extend downwards from head to foot, the first thing that strikes us is a protuberance of the ante-occipital membranes, so great as to present a back view that describes two sides of a scalene triangle, the apex of which projects posteriorly nearly half way down the figure. That a due equilibrium may be preserved in this difficult position (technically called “the first”), the toes are turned out so as to form a right angle with the lower leg. Thus, in walking, this curious being presents a mass of animated straight lines that have an equal variety of inclination to a bundle of rods carelessly tied up, or to Signor Paganini when afflicted with the lumbago.

Habits.—The habits of the opera-dancer vary according as we see him in public or in private life. On the stage he is all spangles and activity; off the stage, seediness and decrepitude are his chief characteristics. It is usual for him to enter upon his public career with a tremendous bound and a hat and feathers. After standing upon one toe, he raises its fellow up to a line with his nose, and turns round until the applause comes, even if that be delayed for several minutes. He then cuts six, and shuffles up to a female of his species, who being his sweetheart (in the ballet), has been looking savage envy at him and spiteful indignation at the audience on account of the applause, which ought to have been reserved for her own capering—to come. When it does, she throws up her arms and steps upon tiptoe about three paces, looking exactly like a crane with a sore heel. Making her legs into a pair of compasses, she describes a circle in the air with one great toe upon a pivot formed with the other; then bending down so that her very short petticoat makes a “cheese” upon the ground, spreads out both arms to the roués in the stalls, who understand the signal, and cry “Brava! brava!!” Rising, she turns her back to display her gauze jupe élastique, which is always exceedingly bouffante: expectorating upon the stage as she retires. She thus makes way for her lover, who, being her professional rival, she invariably detests.

It is singular that in private life the habits of the animal differ most materially according to its sex. The male sometimes keeps an academy and a kit fiddle, but the domestic relations of the female remain a profound mystery; and although Professors Tom Duncombe, Count D’Orsay, Chesterfield, and several other eminent Italian-operatic natural historians, have spent immense fortunes in an ardent pursuit of knowledge in this branch of science, they have as yet afforded the world but a small modicum of information. Perhaps what they have learned is not of a nature to be made public.

Moral Characteristics.—None.

Reproduction.—The offspring of opera-dancers are not, as is sometimes supposed, born with wings; the truth is that these cherubim are frequently attached by their backs to copper wires, and made to represent flying angels in fairy dramas; and those appendages, so far from being natural, are supplied by the property-man, together with the wreaths of artificial flowers which each Liliputian divinity upholds.

Sustenance.—All opera-dancers are decidedly omnivorous. Their appetite is immense; quantity and (for most of them come from France), not quality, is what they chiefly desire. When not dining at their own expense, they eat all they can, and pocket the rest. Indeed, a celebrated sylphide—unsurpassed for the graceful airiness of her evolutions—has been known to make the sunflower in the last scene bend with the additional weight of a roast pig, an apple pie, and sixteen omelettes soufflées—drink, including porter, in proportion. Various philosophers have endeavoured to account for this extraordinary digestive capacity; but some of their arguments are unworthy of the science they otherwise adorn. For example, it has been said that the great exertions to which the dancer is subject demand a corresponding amount of nutriment, and that the copious transudation superinduced thereby requires proportionate supplies of suction; while, in point of fact, if such theorists had studied their subject a little closer, they would have found these unbounded appetites accounted for upon the most simple and conclusive ground: it is clear that, as most opera-dancers’ lives are passed in a pirouette, they must naturally have enormous twists!

The geographical distribution of opera-dancers is extremely well defined, as their names implies; for they most do congregate wherever an opera-house exists. Some, however, descend to the non-lyric drama, and condescend to “illustrate” the plays of Shakespeare. It is said that the classical manager of Drury Lane Theatre has secured a company of them to help the singers he has engaged to perform Richard the Third, Coriolanus, and other historical plays.

Why has a clock always a bashful appearance?—Because it always keeps its hands before its face.

KIDNAPPING EXTRAORDINARY. The Chronicle has been making a desperate attempt to come out in Punch’s line; he has absolutely been trying the “Too-too-tooit—tooit;” but has made a most melancholy failure of it. We could forgive him his efforts to be facetious (though we doubt that his readers will) if he had not kidnapped three of our own particular pets—the very men who lived and grew in the world’s estimation on our wits; we mean Peter Borthwick, Ben D’Israeli, and our own immortal Sibthorp. Of poor Sib. the joker of the Chronicle says in last Tuesday’s paper—

“We regret to hear that Col. Sibthorp has suffered severely by cutting himself in the act of shaving. His friends, however, will rejoice to learn that his whiskers have escaped, and that he himself is going on favourably.”

We spent an entire night in endeavouring to discover where the wit lay in this cutting paragraph; but were obliged at last to give it up, convinced that we might as well have made

A tailor measures a very tall man. AN ATTEMPT TO DISCOVER THE LONGITUDE.

SONGS OF THE SEEDY.—No. V. What am I? Mary, wherefore seek to know?

For mystery’s the very soul of love.

Enough, that wedding thee I’m not below,

Enough, that wooing thee I’m not above.

You smile, dear girl, and look into my face

As if you’d read my history in my eye.

I’m not, sweet maid, a footman out of place,

For that position would, I own, be shy.

What am I then, you ask? Alas! ’tis clear,

You love not me, but what I have a year.

What am I, Mary! Well, then, must I tell,

And all my stern realities reveal?

Come close then to me, dearest, listen well,

While what I am no longer I conceal.

I serve my fellow-men, a glorious right;

Thanks for that smile, dear maid, I know ’tis due.

Yes, many have I served by day and night;

With me to aid them, none need vainly sue.

Nay, do not praise me, love, but nearer come,

That I may whisper, I’m a bailiff’s bum.

Why start thus from me? am I then a thing

To be despised and cast aside by thee?

Oh! while to every one I fondly cling

And follow all, will no one follow me?

Oh! if it comes to this, dear girl, no more

Shalt thou have cause upon my suit to frown;

I’ll serve no writs again; from me secure,

John Doe may run at leisure up and down,

Come to my arms, but do not weep the less,

Thou art the last I’ll e’er take in distress.

A PAIR OF DUCKS. “Pray, Sir Peter,” said a brother Alderman to the City Laurie-ate the other day, while discussing the merits of Galloway’s plan for a viaduct from Holborn-hill to Skinner-street, “Pray, Sir Peter, can you inform me what is the difference between a viaduct and an aqueduct?” “Certainly,” replied our “City Correspondent,” with amazing condescension; “a via-duck is a land-duck, and an aqua-duck is a water- duck!” The querist confessed he had no idea before of the immensity of Sir Peter’s scientific knowledge.

[pg 180] PUNCH’S THEATRE. MARGARET MAYFIELD; OR, THE MURDER OF THE LONE FARM-HOUSE. A couple next to a flowery tree form a letter P. rodigious! The minor drama has exhausted its stock of major crimes: parricide is out of date; infanticide has become from constant occurrence decidedly low; homicide grows tame and uninteresting; and fratricide is a mere bagatelle, not worthy of attention. The dramatist must therefore awaken new sympathies by contriving new crimes—he must invent. In this the Sadler’s Wells genius has been fortunate. He has brought forward a novelty in assassination, which is harrowing in the extreme: it may be called Farm-house-icide! Just conceive the pitch of intense sympathy it is possible for one to feel, while beholding “the murder of a lone farm- house!” Arson is nothing to it.

Out of this novel domiciliary catastrophe the author of “Margaret Mayfield” has formed a melodrama, which in every other respect is founded, like a chancellor’s decree, upon precedent; it being a good old-fashioned, cut-throat piece, of the leather-breeches-and-gaiter, plough-and-pitchfork school. A country-inn parlour of course commences the story, where certain characters assemble, who reveal enough of themselves and of the characters assumed by their fellows (at that time amusing themselves in the green-room), to let any person the least acquainted with the literature of melodrama into the secret of the entire plot. There is the villain, who is as usual in love with the heroine, and in league with three ill-looking fellows sitting at a separate table. There too is the old-established farmer, who has about him a considerable sum of money—a fact he mentions for the information of his pot-companions, on purpose to be robbed of it. The low comedian as usual disports himself upon a three-legged stool, dressed in the never-to-be-worn-out short non-continuations, skirtless coat, and “eccentric” tile.

A scene or two afterwards, and we are surprised to find that the farmer is safely housed, and that he has not been robbed upon a bleak moor on a dark stage. But we soon feel a sensation of awe, when we learn that before us is the interior of the very farm-house that is going to be murdered. The farmer and his wife go through the long-standing dialogue of stage-stereotype, about love and virtue, the price of turnips, and their only child; and the husband goes to some fair with a friend, who had just been rejected by his sister-in-law in favour of the villain. The coast being left clear, the villain and his accomplices enter, and we know something dreadful is going to happen, for the farmer’s wife is gone out of the way on purpose not to interrupt. The villain draws a knife and drags his sweetheart into an out-house, and then the wife comes on to describe what is passing; for the audiences of Sadler’s Wells would tear up the benches if they dared to murder out of sight, without being told what is going on. Accordingly, we hear a scream, and the sister of the screamer exclaims,—“Ah, horror! He draws the knife across her throat! (Great applause.) But no; she takes up a broken ploughshare and escapes! (A slight tendency to hiss.) Now he seizes her hair, he throws her down. Ah! see how the blood streams from her——.” (Intense delight as the woman falls flat upon the boards, supposed to be overcome with dread.) A bloody knife, of course, next enters, grasped by the villain; who, as usual, remarks he is sorry for what has happened, but it can’t be helped, and must be made the best of. The woman having suddenly recovered, escapes into an additional private box, or trunk, placed on the stage for that purpose; stating that she will see what is going on from between the cracks. The villain then murders the child, and walks off with his hands in his pocket; leaving, as is always the case, the fatal knife in a most conspicuous part of the stage, which for some seconds it has all to itself. The farmer comes in, takes up the knife, and falls down in a fit, just in time for the constables to come in and to take him up for the murder. The wife jumps out of the box, and by her assistance a tableau is formed for the act-drop to fall to.

Our readers, of course, guess the rest. The farmer is condemned to be hanged; and in the last scene he is one of the never-omitted procession to the gallows. At the cue, “Now then, I am ready to meet my fate like a man,” the screech in that case always made and provided is heard at a distance. “Hold! hold! he is innocent!” are the next words; and enter the wife with a pair of pistols, and a witness. The executioner pardons the condemned on his own responsibility; and the villain comes on, on purpose to be shot, which is done by the farmer, who seems determined not to be accused of murder for nothing.

To these charming series of murders we may add that of the Queen’s English, which was shockingly maltreated, without the least remorse or mitigation.

THE TWO LAST IMPORTANT SITTINGS. Mr. Ross has had the last sitting of the Princess Royal for her portrait, and the Tories the last sitting of Mr. Walter for Nottingham.

SIBTHORPIAN PROBLEMS. Colonel Sibthorp presents his compliments to his dear friend and fellow, PUNCH, and seeing in the Times of Wednesday last a long account of the extraordinary arithmetical powers of a new calculating machine, invented by Mr. Wertheimber, he is desirous of asking the inventor, through the ubiquitous pages of PUNCH, whether his, Mr. W.’s apparatus—which, as his friend George Robins would say, is a lot which seems to be worthy only of the great Bidder—(he thinks he had him there)—whether this automatical American, or steam calculator, could solve for him the following queries:—

If the House of Commons be divided by Colonel Sibthorp on the Corn Laws, how much will it add to his credit?

How many times will a joke of Colonel Sibthorp’s go into the London newspapers?

Extract the root of Mr. Roebuck’s family tree, and say whether it would come out in anything but vulgar fractions.

Required the difference between political and imperial measures, and state whether the former belong to dry or superficial.

If thirty-six be six square, what is St. James’s-square?—and if the first circles be resident there, say whether this may not be considered as an approximation to the quadrature of the circle.

State the contents of the House of Commons upon the next motion of Sir Robert Peel, and whether the malcontents will be greater or less.

Required the capacities in feet between a biped, a quadruped, and a centipede, and say whether the foot of Mr. Joseph Hume, being just as broad as it is long, may not be considered as a square foot.

Express, in harmonious numbers, the proportion between the rhyme and the reason of Mr. Benjamin D’Israeli’s revolutionary epic, and say whether this is not a question of inverse ratio.

Whether, in political progression, the two extremes, Duke of Newcastle and Feargus O’Connor, are equal to the mean Joseph Hume.

Is it possible to multiply the difficulties of the Whigs, and, if so, am I the figure for the part?

What is the difference between the squares of Messrs. Tom Spring and John Gully, and whether the one is the fourth, fifth, or what power of the other?

A SLAP AT JOHN CHINAMAN’S CHOPS. Peter Borthwick lately arrived at the highest possible pressure of indignation, while reading some of the insolent fulminations from the Celestial Empire. But Peter was sorely at a loss to account for their singular names: he was instantly enlightened by the Finsbury interpreter, our Tom Duncombe, who rendered the matter clear by asserting it was because the Emperor was very partial to a

A Chinese soldier looks at another, surprised Chinese man looking at a paper. CHOP WITH CHINESE SAUCE.

HUME LEEDS—WAKLEY FOLLOWS. Joe Hume has written over to Wakley (postage unpaid) begging of him to take warning by his beating at Leeds; as he much fears, should Mr. Wakley continue his present line of conduct, when he next presents himself to his Finsbury constituents there is great probability of

A wagon followed by slaves and men wielding whips. FOLLOWING IN THE BEATEN TRACK.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. OCTOBER 30, 1841. [pg 181] THE GREAT CREATURE. That “great creature,” like some other “great creatures,” happened, as almanacs say, “about this time” to be somewhat “out at elbows;”—not in the way of costume, for the very plenitude of his wardrobe was the cause which produced this effect, inasmuch as the word “received” in the veritable autograph of Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy could nowhere be discovered annexed to the bills thereof: a slight upon their powers of penmanship which roused their individual, collective, and coparcenary ires to such a pitch, that they, Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy, through the medium of their Attorneys-at-law, Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, of Furnival’s Inn, forwarded a writ to the unfortunate Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam,—the which writ in process of time, being the legal seed, became ripened into a very vigorous execution, and was consigned to the care of a gentleman holding a Civil employment with a Military title, viz. that of “Officer” to the Sheriff of Middlesex, with strict injunctions to the said—anything but Civil or Military—nondescript “officer,” to secure and keep the person of Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam till such time as the debt due to Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy, and the legal charges of Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, should be discharged, defrayed, and liquidated.

Frequent were the meetings of Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles and their man-trap, and as frequent their disappointments:—Fitzflam always gave them the double! Having procured leave of absence from the Town Managers, and finding the place rather too hot to hold him, he departed for the country, and, as fate would have it, arrived at the inn then occupied by Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk.

In this out-of-the-way place he fondly imagined he had never been heard of. Judge then of his surprise, after his dinner and pint of wine, at the following information.

Fitz. “Waiter.”

“Yes, sar.”

“Who have you in the house?”

“Fust of company, sar;—alwaist, sar.”

“Oh! of course;—any one in particular?”

“Yes, sar, very particular: one gentleman very particular, indeed. Has his bed warmed with brown sugar in the pan, and drinks asses’ milk, sar, for breakfast!”

“Strange fellow! but I mean any one of name?”

“Yes, sar, a German, sar; with a name so long, sar, it take all the indoor servants and a stable-helper to call him up of a morning.”

“You don’t understand me. Have you any public people here?”

“Yes, sar—great man from town, sar—belongs to the Theatre—Mr. Fitzflam, sar—quite the gentleman, sar.”

“Thank you for the compliment” (bowing low).

“No compliment at all, sar; would you like to see him, sar?—sell you a ticket, sar; or buy one of you, sar.”

“What?”

“House expected to be full, sar—sure to sell it again, sar.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“The play, sar—Fitzflam, sar!—there’s the bill, sar, and (bell rings) there’s the bell, sar. Coming.” (Exit Waiter.)

The first thing that suggested itself to the mind of Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam was the absolute necessity of insisting upon that insane waiter’s submitting to the total loss of his well-greased locks, and enveloping his outward man in an extra-strong strait-waistcoat; the next was to look at the bill, and there he saw—“horror of horrors!”—the name, “the bright ancestral name”—the name he bore, bursting forth in all the reckless impudence of the largest type and the reddest vermilion!

Anger, rage, and indignation, like so many candidates for the exalted mutton on a greased pole, rushed tumultuously over each other’s heads, each anxious to gain the “ascendant” in the bosom of Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam. To reduce a six-and-ninepenny gossamer to the fac-simile of a bereaved muffin in mourning by one vigorous blow wherewith he secured it on his head, grasp his ample cane and three half-sucked oranges (in case it should come to pelting), and rush to the theatre, was the work of just twelve minutes and a half. In another brief moment, payment having been tendered and accepted, Fitzflam was in the boxes, ready to expose the swindle and the swindler!

The first act was over, and the audience were discussing the merits of the supposed Roscius.

“He is a sweet young man,” said a simpering damsel to a red-headed Lothario, with just brains enough to be jealous, and spirit enough to damn the player.

“I don’t see it,” responded he of the Rufusian locks.

“Such dear legs!”

“Dear legs—duck legs you mean, miss!”

“And such a voice!”

“Voice! I’ll holler with him for all he’s worth.”

“Ha’ done, do!”

“I shan’t: Fitzflam’s—an—umbug!”

“Sir!” exclaimed Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitz of “that ilk.”

“And Sir to you!” retorted “the child of earth with the golden hair.”

“I suppose I’m a right to speak my mind of that or any other chap I pays to laugh at!”

“It’s a tragedy, James.”

“All the funnier when sich as him comes to play in them.”

“Hush! the curtain’s up.”—So it was; and “Bravo! bravo!” shouted the ladies, and “Hurrah!” shouted the gentlemen. Never had Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam seen such wretched acting, or heard such enthusiastic applause. Round followed round, until, worked up to frenzy at the libel upon his name, and, as he thought, his art, he vociferously exclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, that man’s a d—d impostor! (“Turn him out! throw him over! break his neck!” shouted the gods. “Shame shame!” called the boxes. “You’re drunk,” exclaimed the pit to a man.) I repeat that man is—(“Take that!”—an apple in Fitzflam’s eye.) I say he is another (“There it is!”—in his other eye) person altogether—a—(“Boxkeeper!”) Nothing of the sort; a—(“Constable!”) I’ll take—(“Take that fellow out!”) Allow me to be—(“Off! off!”) I am—(“‘Out! out!”) Let me request.—(“Order! order!—hiss! hiss!—oh! oh!—ah! ah!—phit! phit!—Booh!—booh!—wooh!—oh!—ah!”)”

Here Mr. Fitzfunk came forward, and commenced bowing like a mandarin, while the gentleman who had blacked Fitzflam’s eye desisted from forcing him out of the box, to hear the “great creature” speak. Fitzfunk commenced, “Ahem—Ladies and gentlemen, surrounded as I am by all sorts of—(Bravos from all parts of the house.) Friends! Friends in the boxes!—(“Bravo!” from boxes, with violent waving of handkerchiefs.) Friends in the pit!—(“Hurrah!” and sundry excited hats performing extraordinary aerial gyrations.) And last, not least in my dear love, friends in the gallery!—(Raptures of applause; five minutes’ whistling; three chandeliers and two heads broken; and the owners of seventeen corns stamped up to frenzy!) Need I fear the malice of an individual? (“Never! never!” from all parts of the house.) Could I deceive you, an enlightened public? (“No! no! impossible! all fudge!”) Would I attempt such a thing? (“No! no! by no manner of means!”) I am, ladies and gentlemen—(“Fitzflam! Fitzflam!”) I bow to your judgment. I have witnesses; shall I produce them?” “No,” said two of his most enthusiastic supporters, scrambling out of the pit, and getting on the stage; “Don’t trouble yourself; we know you; (Omnes. “Hurrah!” To Fitzflam in boxes—“Shame! shame!”) we will swear to you; (Omnes, ” Fitzflam for ever!”) and—we don’t care who knows it—(Omnes. “Noble fellows!”) we arrest you at the suit of Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy, Regent’s-quadrant, tailors. Attorneys, Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, of Furnival’s Inn. Plaintiff claims 54l. debt and 65l. costs; so come along, will you!”

It was an exceedingly fortunate thing for the representatives of the Sheriff of Middlesex that their exit was marked by more expedition than elegance; for as soon as their real purpose was known, Fitzflam (as the audience supposed Fitzfunk to be) would have been rescued vi et armis. As it was, they hurried him to a back room at the inn, and carefully double-locked the door. It was also rather singular that from the moment of the officer’s appearance, the gentleman in the boxes whose doubts had caused the disturbance immediately owned himself in the wrong, apologised for his mistake, and withdrew. As the tragedy could not proceed without Fitzfunk, the manager proposed a hornpipe-in-fetters and general dance by the characters; instead of the last act which was accepted, and loudly applauded and encored by the audience.

Seated in his melancholy apartment, well guarded by the bailiff, certain of being discovered and perhaps punished as an impostor, or compelled to part with all his earnings to pay for coats and continuations he had never worn, the luckless Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk gave way to deep despondency, and various “ahs!” and “ohs!” A tap at the door was followed by the introduction of a three-cornered note addressed to himself. The following were its contents:—

“Sir,—It appears from this night’s adventure my name has heretofore been useful to you, and on the present occasion your impersonation of it has been useful to me. We are thus far quits. I, as the ‘real Simon Pure,’ will tell you what to do. Protest you are not the man. Get witnesses to hear you say so; and when taken to London (as you will be) and the men are undeceived, threaten to bring an action against the Sheriff unless those harpies, Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, give you 20l. for yourself, and a receipt in full for the debt and costs. Keep my secret; I’ll keep yours. Burn this.—H.F.F.”

No sooner read than done; and all came to pass as the note predicted. Gallowsworthy and Pickles grumbled, but were compelled to pay. Fitzflam and Fitzfunk became inseparable. Fitzflam was even heard to say, he thought in time Fitzfunk would make a decent walking gentleman; and Fitzfunk was always impressed with an opinion that he was the man of talent, and that Fitzflam would never have been able to succeed in “starring it” where he had been “The Great Creature.”

FUSBOS.

N.B.—The author of this paper has commenced adapting it for stage representation.

THE DESIRE OF PLEASING. “May I be married, ma?” said a lovely girl of fifteen to her mother the other morning. “Married!” exclaimed the astonished matron; “what put such an idea into your head?” “Little Emily, here, has never seen a wedding; and I’d like to amuse the child,” replied the obliging sister, with fascinating naïveté.

[pg 182] THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER VIII. A street sweeper forms a letter A together with his broom. serious accident to the double-bass was the extraordinary occurrence alluded to in our last chapter. It appeared that, contrary to the usual custom of the class of musicians that attend evening parties, the operator upon the double-bass had early in the evening shown slight symptoms of inebriety, which were alarmingly increased during supper-time by a liberal consumption of wine, ale, gin, and other compounds. The harp, flageolet, and first violin, had prudently abstained from drinking—at their own expense, and had reserved their thirstiness for the benefit of the bibicals of the “founder of the feast,” and, consequently, had only attained that peculiar state of sapient freshness which invariably characterises quadrille bands after supper, and had, therefore, overlooked the rapid obfuscation of their more imprudent companion in their earnest consideration of themselves.

Bacchus has long been acknowledged to be the cicerone of Cupid; and accordingly the God of Wine introduced the God of Love into the bosom of the double-bass, who, with a commendable feeling of sociality, instantly invited the cook to join the party. Now Susan, though a staid woman, and weighing, moreover, sixteen stone, was fond of a “hinnocent bit of nonsense,” kindly consented to take just a “sip of red port wine” with the performer upon catgut cables; and everything was progressing allegro, when Cupid wickedly stimulated the double-bass to chuck Susan’s double chin, and then, with the frenzy of a Bacchanal, to attempt the impossibility of encircling the ample waist of his Dulcinea. This was carrying the joke a leetle too far, and Susan, equally alarmed for her reputation and her habit-shirt, struggled to free herself from the embrace of the votary of Apollo; but the fiddler was not to be so easily disposed of, and he clung to the object of his admiration with such pertinacity that Susan was compelled to redouble her exertions, which were ultimately successful in embedding the double-bass in the body of his instrument. The crash was frightful, and Susan, having vainly endeavoured to free herself from the incubus which had fastened upon her, proceeded to scream most lustily as an overture to a faint. These sounds reached the supper-room, and occasioned the diversion in John’s favour; a simultaneous rush was instantly made to the quarter from whence they proceeded, as the whole range of accidents and offences flashed across the imaginations of the affrighted revellers.

Mrs. Waddledot decided that the china tea-service was no more. Mrs. Applebite felt certain that “the heir” had tumbled into the tea-urn, or had cut another tooth very suddenly. The gentlemen were assured that a foray had taken place upon the hats and cloaks below, and that cabs would be at a premium and colds at a discount. The ladies made various applications of the rest of the catalogue; whilst old John wound up the matter by the consolatory announcement that he “know’d the fire hadn’t been put out by the ingines in the morning.”

The general alarm was, however, converted into general laughter when the real state of affairs was ascertained; and Susan having been recovered by burning feathers under her nose, and pouring brandy down her throat, preparations were made for the disinterment of the double-bass. To all attempts to effect such a laudable purpose, the said double-bass offered the most violent opposition, declaring he should never be so happy again, and earnestly entreated Susan to share his heart and temporary residence.

Her refusal of both seemed to cause him momentary uneasiness, for hanging his head upon his breast he murmured out—

“Now she has left me her loss to deplore;”

and then burst into a loud huzza that rendered some suggestions about the police necessary, which Mr. Double-bass treated with a contempt truly royal. He then seemed to be impressed with an idea that he was the index to a “Little Warbler;” for at the request of no one he proceeded to announce the titles of all the popular songs from the time of Shield downwards. How long he would have continued this vocal category is uncertain; but as exertion seemed rather to increase than diminish his boisterous merriment, the suggestions respecting the police were ordered to be adopted, and accordingly two of the force were requested to remove him from the domicile where he was creating so much discord in lieu of harmony.

Double-bass still continued deaf to all entreaties for silence and progression, and when a stretcher was mentioned grew positively furious, and insisted that, as he had a conveyance of his own, he should be taken to whatever destination they chose to select for him on, or rather in, that vehicle. Accordingly a rattle was sprung, and duly answered by two or three more of those alphabetical gentlemen who emanate from Scotland- yard, by whose united efforts the refractory musician was carried out in triumph, firmly and safely seated in his own ponderous instrument, loudly insisting that he should be conveyed

A fellow sits on an upturned boat. WITH CARE—THIS SIDE UP.

The interruption occasioned by this interesting occurrence was productive of a general clearance of 24, Pleasant-place; and the apartments which were so lately filled with airy sylphs and trussed Adonises presented a strange jumble of rough coats, dingy silk cloaks, very passé bonnets, and numerous heads enveloped in faded white handkerchiefs. Everything began to look miserable; candles were seen in all directions flickering with their inevitable destiny; bouquets were thrown carelessly upon the ground; and the very faintest odour of a cigar found its way from the street-door into the drawing-room. Then came the hubbub of struggling jarvies; the hoarse, continued inquiries of those peculiar beings that emerge from some unknown quarter of the great metropolis, and “live and move and have their being” at the doorsteps of party-giving people. What tales could those benighted creatures tell of secret pressures of hands, whispered sentences of sweet words, which have led in after-days to many a blissful union! What sighs must have fallen upon their ears as they have rolled up the steps and slammed to the doors of the vehicle which bore away the idol of the evening! But they have no romance—no ambition but to call “My lord duke’s coach.”

Then came the desolate stillness of the “banquet-hall deserted;” the consciousness that the hour of grandeur had passed away. There was nothing to break the stillness but Mrs. Applebite counting up the spoons, and Mrs. Waddledot re-decanting the remainders.

BURKE’S HERALDRY. Our amiable friend and classical correspondent, Deaf Burke—“mind, yes”—has lately mounted a coat-of-arms, “Dexter and Sinister;” a Nose gules and Eye sable; three annulets of Ropes in chief, supported by two Prize-fighters proper. Motto,—

Two men hit at each other. KNOCK AND RING.

A SUGGESTION For the formation of a Society for the relief of foreigners afflicted with a short pocket and a long beard.

Mr. Muntz to be immediately waited upon by a body of the unhappy sufferers, and requested to give his countenance and assistance to the establishment of an INSTITUTION FOR THE GRATUITOUS SHAVING OF DESTITUTE AND HIRSUTE FOREIGNERS.

[pg 183] THE GOLD SNUFF-BOX. A vine-covered letter M y aunt, Mrs. Cheeseman, is the very reverse of her husband. He is a plain, honest creature, such as we read of in full-length descriptions by some folks, but equally comprehensive, though shortly done by others, under the simple name of John Bull—as ungarnished in his dress, as in his speech and action; whereas Mrs. Cheeseman, as I have just told you, is the counterpart of plainness; she has trinkets out of number, brooches, backed with every kind of hair, from “the flaxen-headed cow-boy” to the deep-toned “Jim Crow.” Then her rings—they are the surprise of her staring acquaintances; she has them from the most delicate Oriental fabric to the massiveness of dog’s collars.

Uncle Cheeseman says Mrs. C. thinks of nothing else; no sporting gentleman, handsomely furnished, in the golden days of pugilism, ever looked upon a ring with more delightful emotions. At going to bed, she bestows the same affectionate gaze upon them that mothers do upon their slumbering progeny; nor is that care and affection diminished in the morning: her very imagination is a ring, seeing that it has neither beginning nor end—her tender ideas are encircled by the four magical letters R—I—N—G. Even at church, we are told, she divides her time between sleeping and secret polishing. It has just occurred to me, that I might have saved you and myself much trouble had I at once told you that aunt Cheeseman is a regular Ring-worm.

But, to my uncle—the only finery sported by him (and I hardly think it deserving that word), besides a silver watch, sound and true as the owner, and the very prototype of his bulk and serenity, was a gold snuff-box, a large and handsome one, which he did not esteem for its intrinsic weight; he had a “lusty pride” in showing that it was a prize gained in some skilful agricultural contest. I am sorry at not recollecting what was engraven on it; but being a thorough Cockney, and knowing nothing more of the plough and harrow than that I have somewhere observed it as a tavern sign, must plead for my ignorance in out-o’-town matters.

You can remember, no doubt, the day the Queen went to dine with the City Nabobs at Guildhall. Cheeseman hurried impatiently to London for the sole purpose of seeing the sight, and upon finding my liking for the spectacle as powerful as his own, declared I was the only sensible child my mother ever had, and adding that as he was well able to push his way through a Lunnon crowd, if my father and mother were willing, under his protection I should see this grand affair. Not the slightest objection was put in opposition to my uncle’s proposal, consequently the next day, November the 9th, 1837, uncle Cheeseman and I formed integral portions of the huge mass of spectators which reached from St. James’s to the City.

After slipping off the pavement a score of times (and in some instances opportunely enough to be shoulder-grazed by a passing coach-wheel), stunning numberless persons by explosions of oaths for clumsy collisions and unintentional performances upon his tenderest corn, we reached the corner of St. Paul’s churchyard.

Having secured by a two-shilling bargain about three feet of a form, which, I suppose, upon any other day than a general holiday like the present was the locus in quo for little dears whose young ideas were taught to shoot at threepence a week, uncle took breath, and a pinch of snuff together: he smiled as I observed, that he’d be sure to take a refresher when her Majesty passed; and though he shook his head and designated me a sly young rogue, I could clearly perceive that he was plotting to perform, as if by chance, what I had predicated as a certainty; and although nineteen persons out of twenty would have marked (in this instance) his puerility, I doubt not but that the same number are (at some periods of their existence) innocent victims to the like weakness, whether it be generated in a snuff-box or a royal diploma.

By-and-by, a murmur from the distance, which succeeded a restless motion among the crowd (like a leafy agitation of trees coming as a kind of courier en avant to announce the regular hurricane), broke gradually, and at last uproariously upon us; straining our necks and eyes in the attractive direction. Uncle grasped me by the arm, and though he spoke not a word, he fairly stared, “Here it comes.” Now the thick tide of the moving portion of the spectators began to sweep past us, as they hedged in the soldiery and carriages; then came the shouting, accompanied by various kinds of squeezing, tearing, and stumbling; some screaming compliments to her Majesty, and in the same breath dispensing more violent compliments in an opposite direction, and of a decidedly different tendency. Shoes were trodden off, and bonnets crushed out of all fashion; coats were curtailed; samples of their quality were either seen dangling at the heels of the wearer, or were ignominiously trodden under foot; and many superfine Saxony trousers were double-milled without mercy.

Whilst we were pluming ourselves upon the snugness of our situations, and the attendant good fortune of being easy partners in the business of the day, and thus freed from the vexations and perplexities so largely distributed in our view, I was hindered from communicating my happiness upon these points, for at this moment down went my uncle Cheeseman, and as suddenly up flew his arms above his head, like Boatswain Smith at the height of exhortation on Tower Hill. I was surprised, and so appeared my unfortunate relation, who superadded an additional mixture of indignation as I caught a glimpse or two of his chameleon-like visage; for at the first sight I could have most honestly sworn it to have been white—at the second as crimson as the sudden consciousness of helpless injury could make it. Nevertheless, he sailed away from me in this extraordinary attitude for a short distance, when suddenly, as he lowered his arms, I observed sundry hands descend quickly, and, as I thought, kindly, lest he should lose his hat, upon the crown of it, until it encased more of his head than could be deemed either fashionable or comfortable. Presently, however, he was again seen viciously elbowing and writhing his way back to me, which after immense exertions he performed, in the full receipt of numerous anathemas and jocular insults. As he neared me, I inquired what he had been doing; why he had left me for such a short, difficult, and unprofitable journey—which queries, innocently playful as they were, appeared to produce a choking sensation, accompanied by a full-length stare at me; but his naturally kind heart was not kept long closed against me, and I gleaned the melancholy fact from his indignation, which was continually emitted in such short gusts as, “The villains”—“The scoundrels”—“And done so suddenly”—“The only thing I prized,”—“Well, this is a lesson for me.” As we returned home, uncle displayed a wish to thrust himself everywhere into the densest mass; there was a morbid carelessness in his manner that he had hitherto never shown; he was evidently another man, a fallen creature; his pride, his existence, the very theme of all his joys, his gold snuff-box, had departed for ever, and his heart was in that box: what would Mrs. Cheeseman say? He had been cleaned out to the very letter—ay, that letter—it perhaps contained matters of moment.

I have since that affair upon several occasions heard the poor fellow declare that much as he was heart-broken at the loss of his box, his feelings were lacerated to a greater degree when, in a curtain lecture, my staid, correct, frosty-hearted, jewel-hugging aunt said, “Cheeseman, it was a judgment for such conduct to a wife. In that letter, which you treated with such contumely, I strictly cautioned you not to take that valuable box about with you, if your madness for sight-seeing should lead you into a mob. Let this be a warning to you; and be sure that though woman be the weaker vessel, she is oftentimes the deepest.” We believe it.

THE PENSIVE PEEL. It is an unfounded calumny of the enemies of Sir Robert Peel to say that he has gone into the country to amuse himself—shooting, feasting, eating, and drinking—while the people are starving in the streets and highways. We know that the heart of the compassionate old rat bleeds for the distresses of the nation, and that he is at this moment living upon bread and water, and studying Lord John Russell’s hints on the Corn-laws, in

A rat in a cage with a book and a desk. THE MONASTERY OF LA TRAPPE.

DOMESTIC ECONOMY. Said Stiggins to his wife one day,

“We’ve nothing left to eat;

If things go on in this queer way,

We shan’t make both ends meet.”

The dame replied, in words discreet,

“We’re not so badly fed,

If we can make but one end meat,

And make the other bread.”

[pg 184] NIGGER PECULIARITIES. Perhaps no race of people on the face of the habitable globe are so strongly imbued with individual peculiarities as the free and slave negro population of the United States. Out- heroding Herod in their monstrous attempts of imitating and exceeding the fashions of the whites, the emulative “Darkies” may be seen on Sundays occupying the whole extent of the Broadway pavement, dressed in fashions carried to the very sublime of the ridiculous. Whatever is the order of the day, the highest ton among the whites is instantly adopted, with the most ludicrous exaggeration, by the blacks: if small brims be worn by the beaus of the former, they degenerate to nothing on the skulls of the latter; if width be the order of the day, the coloured gentlemen rush out in unmeasurable umbrellas of felt, straw, and gossamer. A long-tailed white is, in comparison, but a docked black. Should muslin trip from a carriage, tucked or flounced to the knee, the same material, sported by a sable belle, will take its next Sunday out fur-belowed from hip to heel. Parasols are parachutes; sandals, black bandages; large bonnets, straw sheds, and small ones, nonentities. So it is with colours: green becomes more green, blue more blue, orange more orange, and crimson more flaming, when sported by these ebon slaves of deep-rooted vanity.

The spirit of imitation manifests itself in all their actions: hence it is by no means an uncommon occurrence to see a tall, round-shouldered, woolly-headed, buck-shinned, and inky-complexioned “Free Nigger,” sauntering out on Sunday, shading his huge weather-proof face from the rays of the encroaching sun under a carefully-carried silk umbrella! And again, as in many of the places of worship the whole congregation cannot be accommodated with seats, many of the members supply their own; so these sable gentry may be frequently seen progressing to church with a small stool under their arms: and in one instance, rather than be disappointed, or obliged to stand,—a solemn-looking specimen of the species actually provided himself with a strong brick-bat, and having carefully covered it with his many and bright-coloured bandana, preserved his gravity, and, still more strange, his balance, with an irresistible degree of mirth-creating composure.

Their laziness and unequivocal antipathy to work is as true as proverbial. We know an instance of it in which the master ordered his sable “help” to carry a small box from the steam pier to the Astor-House Hotel, where his newly-married wife, an English lady, was waiting for it; judge of her surprise to see the dark gentleman arrive followed by an Irish lad bearing the freight intended for himself.

“Dar,” said the domineering conductor; “dar, dat will do; put da box down dar. Now, Missis, look here, jist give dat chap a shillin.”

“A shilling! What for?”

“Cos he bring up dar plunder from de bay.”

“Why didn’t you bring it yourself?”

“Look here. Somehow I rader guess I should ha let dar box fall and smashiated de contents, so I jist give dat white trash de job jest to let de poor crittur arn a shillin.”

Remonstrance was vain, so the money was paid; the lady declaring, for the future, should he think proper to employ a deputy, it must be at his own expense. The above term “white trash” is the one commonly employed to express their supreme contempt for the “low Irish wulgar set.”

Their dissensions among themselves are irresistibly comic. Threatening each other in the most outrageous manner; pouring out invectives, anathemas, and denunciations of the most deadly nature; but nine times in ten letting the strife end without a blow; affording in their quarrels an apt illustration of

“A tale full of sound and fury, Told by an idiot, signifying nothing.”

Suppose an affront, fancied or real, put by one on another, the common commencement of ireful expostulations generally runs as follows:—

“Look here! you d—m black nigger; what you do dat for, Sar?”

“Hoo you call black, Sar? D—m, as white as you, Sar; any day, Sar. You nigger, Sar!”

“Look here agin; don’t you call me a nigger, Sar. Now, don’t you do it.”

“Why not?”

“Neber mind; I’ve told you on it, so don’t you go to do it no more, you mighty low black, cos if you do put my dander up, and make me wrasey, I rader guess I’ll smash in your nigger’s head, like a bust-up egg-shell. Ise a ring-tailed roarer, I tell you!”

“Reckon I’m a Pottomus. Don’t you go to put my steam up; d—d if don’t bust and scald you out. I’m nothing but a snorter—a pretty considerable tarnation long team, and a couple of horses to spare; so jest be quiet, I tell you, or I’ll use you up uncommon sharp.”

“You use me up! Yoo, yoo! D—m! You and your wife and some nigger children, all ob you, was sold for a hundred and fifty dollars less than this nigger.”

“Look here, don’t you say dat agin; don’t you do it; I tell you, don’t you do it, or I’ll jist give you such an almighty everlasting shaking, dat you shall pray for a cold ague as a holiday. I’m worth considerable more dollars dan sich a low black man as you is worth cents. Why, didn’t dey offer to give you away, only you such dam trash no one would take you, so at last you was knocked down to a blind man.”

“What dat? Here! Stand clear dar behind, and get out ob de way in front, I’m jist going to take a run and butt dat nigger out of de State. Let me go, do you hear? Golly, if you hadn’t held me he’d a been werry small pieces by dis time. D—m, I’ll break him up.”

“Yoo, yoo! Your low buck-shins neber carry your black head fast enough to catch dis elegant nigger. You jist run; you’ll find I’m nothing but an alligator. You hab no more chance dan a black slug under de wheels of a plunder-train carriage. You is unnoticeable by dis gentleman.”

“Dar dat good, gentleman! Golly, dat good! Look here, don’t you neber speak to me no more.”

“And look here, nigger, don’t you neber speak to me.”

“See you d—m fust, black man.”

“See you scorched fust, nigger.”

“Good day, trash.”

“Good mornin, dirt!”

So generally ends the quarrel; but about half-an-hour afterwards the Trash and Dirt will generally be found lauding each other to the skies, and cementing a new six hours’ friendship over some brandy punch or a mint julep.

SONGS OF THE SEEDY.—No. VI. You bid me rove, Mary,

In the shady grove, Mary,

With you to the close of even;

But I can’t, my dear,

For I must, I swear,

Be off at a quarter to seven.

Nay, do not start, Mary;

Nor let your heart, Mary,

Be disturb’d in its innocent purity;

I’m sure that you

Wouldn’t have me do

My friend—my bail—my security!

That tearful eye, Mary,

Seems to ask me why, Mary,

I can wait till sunset on’y.

Ah! turn not away;

I am out for the day

On a Fleet and fleeting pony.

Your wide open mouth, Mary,

With its breath like the south, Mary,

Seems to ask for an explanation.

Well, though not of the schools,

I live within rules,

And am subject to observation.

But come to my arms, Mary;

Let no dread alarms, Mary,

In our present happiness warp us!

I’ve not the least doubt

Of soon getting out,

By a writ of habeas corpus.

Away with despair, Mary;

Let us cast in the air, Mary,

His dark and gloomy fetters.

Why should we be rack’d,

When we think of the Act

For relieving Insolvent Debtors.

A MAYOR’S NEST. Our friend the Sir Peter Laureate wishes to know whether the work upon “Horal Surgery” is not a new-invented description of almanack, as it is announced as

Two men boxing. CURTIS ON THE EAR11. Qy. Year.—Printer’s Devil.

[pg 185] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. 5.—OF HIS MATURITY, AND LATIN EXAMINATION. The second season arrives, and our pupil becomes “a medical student” in the fullest sense of the word. He has an indistinct recollection that there are such things as wards in the hospital as well as in a key or the city, and a vague wandering, like the morning’s impression of the dreams of the preceding night, that in the remote dark ages of his career he took some notes upon the various lectures, the which have long since been converted into pipe- lights or small darts, which, twisted up and propelled from between the forefingers of each hand, fly with unerring aim across the theatre at the lecturer’s head, the slumbering student, or any other object worth aiming at—an amusing way of beguiling the hour’s lecture, and only excelled by the sport produced, if he has the good luck to sit in a sunbeam, from making a tournament of “Jack-o’-lanthorns” on the ceiling. His locker in the lobby of the dissecting-room has long since been devoid of apron, sleeves, scalpels, or forceps; but still it is not empty. Its contents are composed of three bellpull-handles, a valuable series of shutter-fastenings, two or three broken pipes, a pewter “go” (which, if everybody had their own, would in all probability belong to Mr. Evans, of Covent Garden Piazza), some scraps of biscuit, and a round knocker, which forcibly recalls a pleasant evening he once spent, with the accompanying anecdotes of how he “bilked the pike” at Waterloo Bridge, and poor Jones got “jug’d” by mistake.

It must not, however, be supposed that the student now neglects visiting the dissecting-room. On the contrary, he is unremitting in his attendance, and sometimes the first there of a morning, more especially when he has, to use his own expression, been “going it rather fast than otherwise” the evening before, and comes to the school very early in the morning to have a good wash and refresh himself previously to snatching a little of the slumber he has forgotten to take during the night, which he enjoys very quietly in the injecting-room down stairs, amidst a heterogeneous assemblage of pipkins, subjects, deal coffins, sawdust, inflated stomachs, syringes, macerating tubs, and dried preparations. The dissecting-room is also his favourite resort for refreshment, and he broils sprats and red herrings on the fire-shovel with consummate skill, amusing himself during the process of his culinary arrangements by sawing the corners off the stone mantel-piece, throwing cinders at the new man, or seeing how long it takes to bore a hole through one of the stools with a red-hot poker. Indeed, these luckless pieces of furniture are always marked out by the student as the fittest objects on which to wreak his destructive propensities; and he generally discovers that the readiest way to do them up is to hop steeple-chases upon them from one end of the room to the other—a sporting amusement which shakes them to pieces, and irremediably dislocates all their articulations, sooner than anything else. Of course these pleasantries are only carried on in the absence of the demonstrator. Should he be present, the industry of the student is confined to poking the fire in the stove and then shutting the flue, or keeping down the ball of the cistern by some abdominal hooks, and then, before the invasion of smoke and water takes place, quietly joining a knot of new men who are strenuously endeavouring to dissect the brain and discover the hippocampus major, which they expect to find in the perfect similitude of a sea-horse, like the web-footed quadrupeds who paw the “reality” in the “area usually devoted to illusion,” or tank, at the Adelphi Theatre.

If one of the professors of his medical school chances to be addicted to making anti-Martin experiments on animals, or the study of comparative anatomy, the pursuits offer an endless fund of amusement to the jocose student. He administers poison to the toxicological guinea-pigs; hunts the rabbit kept for galvanism about the school; lets loose in the theatre, by accident, the sparrows preserved to show the rapidly fatal action of choke-damp upon life; turns the bladders, which have been provided to tie over bottles, into footballs; and makes daily contributions to the plate of pebbles taken from the stomach of the ostrich, and preserved in the museum to show the mode in which these birds assist digestion, until he quadruples the quantity, and has the quiet satisfaction of seeing exhibited at lecture, as the identical objects, the heap of small stones which he has collected from time to time in the garden of the school, or from any excavation for pipes or paving which he may have passed in his route from his lodgings.

The second or middle course of the three winter sessions which the medical student is compelled to go through, is the one in which he most enjoys himself, and indulges in those little outbreaks of eccentric mirth which eminently qualify him for his future professional career. During the first course he studies from novelty—during the last from compulsion; but the middle one passes in unlimited sprees and perpetual half-and-half. The only grand project he now undertakes is “going up for his Latin,” provided he had not courage to do so upon first coming to London. For some weeks before this period he is never seen without an interlined edition of Celsus and Gregory; not that he debars himself from joviality during the time of his preparation, but he judiciously combines study with amusement—never stirring without his translation in his pocket, and even, if he goes to the theatre, beguiling the time between the pieces by learning the literal order of a new paragraph. Every school possesses circulating copies of these works: they have been originally purchased in some wild moment of industrious extravagance by a new man; and when he passed, he sold them for five shillings to another, who, in turn, disposed of them to a third, until they had run nearly all through the school. The student grinds away at these until he knows them almost by heart, albeit his translation is not the most elegant. He reads—“Sanus homo, a sound man; qui, who; et, also; bene valet, well is in health; et, and; suæ spontis, of his own choice; est, is,” &c. This, however, is quite sufficient; and, accordingly, one afternoon, in a rash moment, he makes up his mind to “go up.” Arrived at Apothecaries’ Hall—a building which he regards with a feeling of awe far beyond the Bow-street Police Office—he takes his place amongst the anxious throng, and is at last called into a room, where two examiners politely request that he will favour them by sitting down at a table adorned with severe-looking inkstands, long pens, formal sheets of foolscap, and awfully-sized copies of the light entertaining works mentioned above. One of the aforesaid examiners then takes a pinch of snuff, coughs, blows his nose, points out a paragraph for the student to translate, and leaves him to do it. He has, with a prudent forethought, stuffed his cribs inside his double-breasted waistcoat, but, unfortunately, he finds he cannot use them; so when he sticks at a queer word he writes it on his blotting-paper and shoves it quietly on to the next man. If his neighbour is a brick, he returns an answer; but if he is not, our friend is compelled to take shots of the meaning and trust to chance—a good plan when you are not certain what to do, either at billiards or Apothecaries’ Hall. Should he be fortunate enough to get through, his schedule is endorsed with some hieroglyphics explanatory of the auspicious event; and, in gratitude, he asks a few friends to his lodgings that night, who have legions of sausages for supper, and drink gin-and-water until three o’clock in the morning. It is not, however, absolutely necessary that a man should go up himself to pass his Latin. We knew a student once who, by a little judicious change of appearance—first letting his hair grow very long, and then cutting it quite short—at one time patronizing whiskers, and at another shaving himself perfectly clean—now wearing spectacles, and now speaking through his nose—being, withal, an excellent scholar, passed a Latin examination for half the men in the hospital he belonged to, receiving from them, when he had succeeded, the fee which, in most cases, they would have paid a private teacher for preparing them.

The medical student does not like dining alone; he is gregarious, and attaches himself to some dining-rooms in the vicinity of his school, where, in addition to the usual journals, they take in the Lancet and Medical Gazette for his express reading. He is here the customer most looked up to by the proprietor, and is also on excellent terms with “Harriet,” who confidentially tells him that the boiled beef is just up; indeed, he has been seen now and then to put his arm round her waist and ask her when she meant to marry him, which question Harriet is not very well prepared to answer, as all the second season men have proposed to her successively, and each stands equally well in her estimation, which is kept up at the rate of a penny per diem. But Harriet is not the only waiting domestic with whom he is upon friendly terms. The Toms, Charleses, and Henrys of the supper-taverns enjoy equal familiarity; and when Nancy, at Knight’s, brings him oysters for two and asks him for the money to get the stout, he throws down the shilling with an expression of endearment that plainly intimates he does not mean to take back the fourpence change out of the pot. Should he, however, in the course of his wanderings, go into a strange eating-house, where he is not known, and consequently is not paid becoming attention, his revenge is called into play, and he gratifies it by the simple act of pouring the vinegar into the pepper-castor, and emptying the contents of the salt-cellar into the water-bottle before he gets up to walk away.

EXPRESS FROM AMERICA. We are authorised to state there is a man in New Orleans so exceedingly bright, that he uses the palm of his hand for a looking-glass.

[pg 186] POLITICS OF THE OUTWARD MAN! Wisdom is to be purchased only of the tailor. Morality is synonymous with millinery; whilst Truth herself—pictured by the poetry of the olden day in angelic nakedness—must now be full-dressed, like a young lady at a royal drawing-room, to be considered presentable. You may believe that a man with a gash in his heart may still walk, talk, pay taxes, and perform all the other duties of a highly civilised citizen; but to believe that the same man with a hole in his coat can discourse like a reasoning animal, is to be profoundly ignorant of those sympathetic subtleties existing between a man’s brain and a man’s broad-cloth. Party politics have developed this profound truth—the divine reason of the immortal creature escapes through ragged raiment; a fractured skull is not so fatal to the powers of ratiocination as a rent in the nether garments. GOD’S image loses the divine lustre of its origin with its nap of super- Saxony. The sinful lapse of ADAM has thrown all his unfortunate children upon the mercies of the tailor; and that mortal shows least of the original stain who wraps about it the richest purple and the finest linen. Hence, if you would know the value of a man’s heart, look at his waistcoat.

Philosophers and anatomists have quarrelled for centuries as to the residence of the soul. Some have vowed that it lived here—some there; some that, like a gentleman with several writs in pursuit of him, it continually changed its lodgings; whilst others have lustily sworn that the soul was a vagrant, with no claim to any place of settlement whatever. Nevertheless, a vulgar notion has obtained that the soul dwelt on a little knob of the brain; and that there, like a vainglorious bantam-cock on a dunghill, it now claps its wings and crows all sorts of triumph—and now, silent and scratching, it thinks of nought but wheat and barley. The first step to knowledge is to confess to a late ignorance. We avow, then, our late benighted condition. We were of the number of sciolists who lodged the soul in the head of man: we are now convinced that the true dwelling place of the soul is in the head’s antipodes. Let SOLOMON himself return to the earth, and hold forth at a political meeting; SOLOMON himself would be hooted, laughed at, voted an ass, a nincompoop, if SOLOMON spoke from the platform with a hole in his breeches!

PLATO doubtless thought that he had imagined a magnificent theory, when he averred that every man had within him a spark of the divine flame. But, silly PLATO! he never considered how easily this spark might be blown out. At this moment, how many Englishmen are walking about the land utterly extinguished! Had men been made on the principle of the safety-lamp, they might have defied the foul breath of the world’s opinion—but, alas! what a tender, thin-skinned, shivering thing is man! His covering—the livery of original sin, bought with the pilfered apples—is worn into a hole, and Opinion, that sour-breathed hag, claps her blue lips to the broken web, gives a puff, and—out goes man’s immortal spark! From this moment the creature is but a carcase: he can eat and drink (when lucky enough to be able to try the experiment), talk, walk, and no more; yes, we forgot—he can work; he still keeps precedence of the ape in the scale of creation—for he can work for those who, thickly clothed, and buttoned to the throat, have no rent in their purple, no stitch dropped in their superfine, to expose their precious souls to an annihilating gust, and who therefore keep their immortal sparks like tapers in burglars’ dark-lanthorns, whereby to rob and spoil with greater certainty!

Gentle reader, think you this a fantastic chapter on holes? If so, then of a surety you do not read those instructive annals of your country penned by many a TACITUS of the daily press—by many a profound historian who unites to the lighter graces of stenography the enduring loveliness of philosophy.

Some days since a meeting was held in the parish of Saint Pancras of the “Young Men’s Anti-Monopoly Association.” The place of gathering, says the reporter, was “a ruined penny theatre!” It is evident in the brain of the writer that the small price at which the theatre was ruined made its infamy: to be blighted for a penny was the shame. Drury Lane and Covent Garden have been ruined over and over again—but then their ruin, like PHRYNE’S, has ever been at a large price of admission; hence, like court harlots, their ruin has been dignified by high remuneration. What, however, could be expected from a theatre that, with inconceivable wickedness, suffered itself to be undone for a penny? Let the reporter answer:—

“—— FORSTER, Esq., advanced, and, assuming a teapot position on the stage, moved the first resolution, to the effect ‘That the bread-tax was the cause of all distress, and that they should use their strenuous efforts to remove it.’ ‘Ladies (there was one old woman in a shocking bad black and white straw bonnet present) and gentlemen (said he), this is a public meeting to all intents and purposes.’”

For ourselves we care not for an orator’s standing like a teapot, if what he pours out be something better than mere hot-water or dead small beer. If, however, we were to typify orators in delf, there are many Tory talkers whom we would associate with more ignominious shapes of crockery than that of a teapot—senators who are taken by the handle, and by their party used for the dirtiest offices.

We now come to the bad old woman whose excess of iniquity was blazoned in her “bad black and white straw bonnet.” This woman might have been an ASPASIA, a DE STAEL, a Mrs. SOMERVILLE,—nay, the SYBILLA CUMEA herself. What of that? The “bad” bonnet must sink the large souled Grecian to a cinder-wench, make the Frenchwoman a trapes from the Palais Royal, our fair astronomer a gipsy of Greenwich Park, and the fate-foretelling sybil a crone crawled from the worst garret of Battle-bridge. The head is nothing; the bonnet’s all. Think you that Mrs. Somerville could have studied herself into reputation, that the moon and stars would have condescended to smile upon her, if she had not attended their evening parties in a handsome turban, duly plumed and jewelled?

Come we now to the next recorded atrocity:—

“There jumped now upon the stage a red-haired, laughing-hyena faced, fustian-coated biped, exclaiming—‘My name is Wall! I have a substantive amendment to move to the resolution now proposed—(‘Go off, off! ooh, ooh, ooh! turn him out, out, out!’) We are met in a place where religion is taught (groans). Well, then, we are met where they “teach the young idea how to shoot”’—(laughter, groans, and ‘Go on, Wall.’) Turning to the young gents on the platform, ‘You,’ quoth Mr. Wall, ‘have not read history: you clerks at 16s. a week, with your gold chains and pins.’”

Red hair was first made infamous by JUDAS ISCARIOT; hence the reporter not only shows the intensity of his Christianity, but his delicate knowledge of human character, by the fine contempt cast upon the felon locks of the speaker. Red hair is doubtless the brand of Providence; the mark set upon guilty man to give note and warning to his unsuspicious fellow-creatures. Like the scarlet light at the North Foreland, it speaks of shoals, and sands, and flats. The emperor Commodus, who had all his previous life rejoiced in flaxen locks, woke, the morning after his first contest in the arena, a red-haired man! But then, with a fine knowledge of the wholesome prejudices of the world, he turned the curse upon his head into a beauty; for he—powdered it with gold-dust. Could Mr. WALL, of the penny theatre, induce the Master of the Mint to play his coiffeur, how would the reporter fall on his knees and worship the divinity!

Mr. WALL, being of the opposite faction, in addition to the unpowdered ignominy of his hair, has also the face of a hyena! This fact opens a question too vast for our one solitary page. We lack at least the amplitude of a quarto to prove that all men are fashioned, even in the womb, with features that shall hereafter beautifully harmonise with the politics of the grown creature. Now WALL, being ordained a poor man and a Chartist, is endowed with a “laughing hyena” countenance. He even loses the vantage ground of our common humanity, and is sunk by his poverty and his politics to the condition of a beast, and of a most unamiable beast into the bargain. However, the vast enfolding iniquity is yet to be displayed and duly shuddered at; for WALL, the biped hyena, wears—a fustian coat!

As journalists, we trust we have our common share—which is no little—of human vanity. Nevertheless, with the highest private opinion of our own powers, we feel we can add nothing to the picture drawn by the reporter. The fustian coat, with a tongue in every button-hole, discourses on its own inwoven infamy.

We recognise with great pleasure a growing custom on the part of political reporters to merge the orators and listeners at public meetings in their several articles of dress. This practice has doubtless originated in a most philosophical consideration of the sympathies between the outer and the inner man, and has its source in the earliest records of human life. The patriarchs rent their garments in token of the misery that lacerated their souls: then rags and tatters were ennobled by sorrow—there was a deep sentiment in sackcloth and ashes. We have, however, improved upon the ignorance of primitive days; and though we still admit the covering of man to be typical of his condition of mind, we wisely keep our respect for super-Saxony, and expend contempt and ridicule on corduroy and fustian. We yet hope to see the day when certain political meetings will be briefly reported as follow:—

“Faded Blue Coat, with tarnished Brass Buttons, took the chair.

“Velveteen Jacket moved the first resolution, which was seconded by Check Shirt and Ankle-jacks.

“Brown Great Coat, with holes in elbows, moved the second resolution—seconded by Greasy Drab Breeches and Dirty Leather Gaiters.

“After thanks to Blue Coat had been moved by Brown Surtout and Crack under both Arms, the Fustian Jackets departed.”

Would not this be quite sufficient? Knowing the philosophy of appearance in England, might we not by our imagination supply a truer speech to every orator than could be taken down by the most faithful reporter?

Q.

[pg 187] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XVI. A group of men in masons garb. THE NEW PARLIAMENTARY MASONS.

“WE HAVE A PLAN, WHICH, FROM ITS ORIGINALITY, SHOULD DRAW DOWN UPON US THE GRATITUDE OF THE NATION . WE PROPOSE THAT, DURING THE PROROGATION, AT LEAST, MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT, SHOULD, LIKE BEAVERS, BUILD THEIR OWN HOUSES.”

Vide PUNCH

[pg 189] LIST OF THE PREMIUMS AWARDED BY THE HOOKHAM-CUM-SNIVEY LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETY, FOR THE YEAR 1841. FIRST PREMIUM. MANAGEMENT OF LANDED PROPERTY. To Count D’Orsay, for the most approved Essay on Cultivating a Flower Pot, and the Expediency of growing Mignionette in preference to Sweet Pea on the Window-sills—

The Pasteboard Medal of the Society.

SECOND PREMIUM. METHOD OF GROWING PERMANENT WHISKERS. To Colonel Sibthorp, for a Report of several successful Experiments in laying down his own Cheeks for a permanent growth of Whisker, with a description of the most approved Hair-fence worn on the Chin, and the exact colour adapted to all seasons—

The Pasteboard Medal and a Bottle of Balm of Columbia.

THIRD PREMIUM. IMPROVING THE CONDITION OF THE POOR, BY INVENTING A VALUABLE SUBSTITUTE FOR MEAT, BREAD, VEGETABLES, AND OTHER MASTICATORY ALIMENT. To the Poor-Law Commissioners, for their valuable Essay on Cheap Feeding, and an Account of several Experiments made in the Unions throughout the Kingdom; by which they have satisfactorily demonstrated that a man may exist on stewed chips and sawdust—also for their original receipt for making light, cheap workhouse soup, with a gallon of water and a gooseberry—

The Pasteboard Medal and a Mendicity Ticket.

FOURTH PREMIUM. QUANTITY OF BRAINS REQUIRED TO MAKE A MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT. To Peter Borthwick, for his ingenious Treatise, proving logically that a Member requires no Brains, instancing his own case, where the deficiency was supplied by the length of his ears—

The Pewter Medal, and a Copy of Enfield's Speaker.

FIFTH PREMIUM. AMOUNT OF CASH REQUIRED BY A GENTLEMAN TO KEEP A WALKING- STICK, A PAIR OF MOUSTACHES, AND A CIGAR. To the Society of Law Clerks, for the best Account of how Fifteen Shillings a week may be managed, to enable the Possessor to “draw it rather brisk” after office-hours in Regent-street, including board and lodging for his switch and spurs, and Warren’s jet for his Wellingtons—

The Tin Medal and a Penny Cuba.

SIXTH PREMIUM. FATTENING ALDERMEN. To Sir Peter Laurie, for a Bill of Fare of the various viands demolished at the Lord Mayors’ Dinners for the last ten years—also, for an account of certain experiments made to ascertain the contents of the Board of Aldermen at City Feasts, by the application of a new regulating-belt, called the Gastronometer—

A German Silver Medal and a Gravy Spoon.

PUNCH’S REVIEW. THE MEMOIRS OF MADAME LAFFARGE. The title, I think, will strike. The fashion, you know, now, is to do away with old prejudices, and to rescue certain characters from the illiberal odium with which custom has marked them. Thus we have a generous Israelite, an amiable cynic, and so on. Now, Sir, I call my play—The Humane Footpad.—SYLVESTER DAGGERWOOD.

Some four or five seasons since, the eccentric Buckstone produced a three-act farce, which, by dint of its after title—The School for Sympathy—and of much highly comic woe, exhibited in the acting of Farren and Nisbett, was presented to uproariously-affected audiences during some score nights. The hinge of the mirth was made to turn upon the irresistible drollery of one man’s running away with another man’s wife, and the outrageous fun of the consequent suicide of the injured husband; the bons mots being most tragically humorous, and the aphorisms of the several characters facetiously concatenative of the nouns contained in the leading name of the piece—“Love and Murder.”

Now this was a magnificent idea—one of those brilliant efforts which cannot but tend to lift the theatre in the estimation of every man of delicacy and education. A new source of attraction was at once discovered,—a vast fund of available fuel was suddenly found to recruit the cinerulent embers of the drama withal. It became evident that, after Joe Miller, the ordinary of Newgate was the funniest dog in the world. Manslaughter, arson, and the more practical jokes in the Calendar, were already familiar to the stage; it was a refinement of the Haymarket authors to introduce those livelier sallies of wit—crim. con. and felo- de-se. The “immense coalitions” of all manner of crimes and vices in the subsequent “highway school”—the gradual development of every unnatural tendency in the youthful Jack Sheppard (another immor-t-al work by the author of the afore-lauded comedy)—the celebration, by a classic chaunt, of his reaching the pinnacle of depravity; this was the ne plus ultra of dramatic invention. Robbers and murderers began to be treated, after the Catholic fashion, with extreme unction; audiences were intoxicated with the new drop; sympathy became epidemic; everybody was bewildered and improved; and nobody went and threw themselves off the Monument with a copy of the baleful drama in his pocket!

But the magnificence of the discovery was too large to be grasped by even the gluttonous eye of the managers, The Adelphi might overflow—the Surrey might quake with reiterated “pitsfull”—still there remained over and above the feast-crumbs sufficient for the battenings of other than theatrical appetites. Immediately the press-gang—we beg pardon, the press—arose, and with a mighty throe spawned many monsters. Great drama! Greater Press! GREATEST PUBLIC!

Now this was all excellent well as far as it went; but still there was something wanted of more reality than the improvisations of a romancist. Ainsworth might dip his pen in the grossest epithets; Boz might dabble in the mysterious dens of Hebrew iniquity; even Bulwer might hash up to us his recollections of St. Giles’s dialogue; and yet it was evident that they were all the while only “shamming”—only cooking up some dainty dish according to a recipe, or, as it is still frequently pronounced, a receipt,—which last, with such writers, will ever be the guide-post of their track.

But something more was wanted; and here it is—here, in the Memoirs of Marie Cappelle.

This lady, perhaps the most remarkable woman of her age, has published a book—half farce, half novel—in which she treats by turns with the clap- trap agony of a Bulwer, the quaint sneer of a Dickens, and the effrontery of an Ainsworth, that serious charge which employed the careful investigation of the most experienced men in France for many weeks, and which excited a degree of interest in domestic England almost unexampled in the history of foreign trials. This work is published by a gentleman who calls himself “Publisher in ordinary to her Majesty,” and may be procured at any book-seller’s by all such as have a guinea and a day’s leisure at the mercy of the literary charlatan who contrived it.

In the strictest confidence we would suggest, that if a treaty could be ratified with Madame Marie Cappelle Laffarge, we do not doubt that our nursery—yea, our laundry—maids would learn to spell the precious sentences, to their own great edification and that of the children placed under their charge.

OUR TRADE REPORT. Coals are a shade blacker than they were last week, but not quite so heavy; and turnips are much lighter than they have been known for a very considerable period.

Great complaints are made of the ticketing system; and persons going to purchase shawls, as they supposed, at nine-pence three-farthings each, are disgusted at being referred to a very small one pound sixteen marked very lightly in pencil immediately before the 9¾d., which is very large and in very black ink. There were several transactions of this kind during the whole morning.

The depressed state of the Gossamer-market has long been a subject of conversation among the four-and-niners who frequent the cheap coffee- shops in the City; but no one knows the cause of what has taken place, nor can they exactly state what the occurrence is that they are so loudly complaining of.

Bones continue to fetch a penny for two pounds; but great murmurs are heard of the difficulty of making up a pound equal to the very liberal weights which the marine-store keepers use when making their purchases; they, however, make up for it by using much lighter weights when they sell, which is so far fair and satisfactory.

The arrivals in baked potatoes have been very numerous; fifty cans were entered outwards on Saturday.

RELATIVE GENTILITY. Two ladies of St. Giles’s disputing lately on the respectability of each other’s family, concluded the debate in the following way:—“Mrs. Doyle, ma’am, I’d have you know that I’ve an uncle a bannister of the law.” “Much about your bannister,” retorted Mrs. Doyle; “haven’t I a first cousin a corridor in the navy?”

KEEPING IT DARK. Jim Bones, a free nigger of New York, has a child so exceedingly dark that he cannot be seen on the lightest day.

[pg 190] THE GENTLEMAN’S OWN BOOK. REVENONS A NOS MOUTONS—i.e. (for the benefit of country members) to return to our mutton, or rather the “trimmings.” The ornaments which notify the pecuniary superiority of the wearer include chains, rings, studs, canes, watches, and purses. Chains should be of gold, and cannot be too ostentatiously displayed; for a proper disposition of these “braveries” is sure to induce the utmost confidence in the highly useful occupants of Pigot’s and Robson’s Directory. We have seen some waistcoats so elaborately festooned, that we would stake our inkstand that the most unbelieving money-lender would have taken the personal security of the wearer without hesitation. The perfection to which mosaic-work has arrived may possibly hold out a strong temptation to the thoughtless to substitute the shadow for the reality. Do not deceive yourself; an experienced eye will instantly detect the imposition, though your ornaments may be

A bald man in a frilly shirt applies carmine to his cheeks. FRESH EVERY DAY;

for, we will defy any true gentleman to preserve an equanimity of expression under the hint—either visual or verbal—that (to use the language of the poet) you are “a man of brass.”

We have a faint recollection of a class of gentlemen who used to attach an heterogeneal collection of massive seals and keys to one end of a chain, and a small church-clock to the other. The chain then formed a pendulum in front of their small-clothes, and the dignified oscillation of the appendages was considered to distinguish the gentleman. They were also used as auxiliaries in argument; for whenever an hiatus occurred in the discussion, the speaker, by having resort to his watch-chain, could frequently confound his adversary by commencing a series of rapid gyrations. But the fashion has descended to merchants, lawyers, doctors, et sui generis, who never drive bargains, ruin debtors, kill patients, et cetera, without having recourse to this imposing decoration.

Rings are the next indicators of superfluous cash. As they are merely ornamental, they should resemble vipers, tapeworms, snakes, toads, monkey’s, death’s heads, and similar engaging and pleasing subjects. The more liberally the fingers are enriched, the greater the assurance that the hand is never employed in any useful labour, and is consequently only devoted to the minisitration of indulgences, and the exhibition of those elegant productions which distinguish the highly-civilised gentleman from the highly-tattooed savage.

Mourning-rings have an air of extreme respectability; for they are always suggestive of a legacy, and of the fact that you have been connected with somebody who was not buried at the expense of the parish.

Studs should be selected with the greatest possible care, and in our opinion the small gold ones can only be worn by a perfect gentleman; for whilst they perform their required office, they do not distract the attention from the quality and whiteness of your linen. Some that we have seen were evidently intended for cabinet pictures, rifle targets and breast-plates.

Pins.—These necessary adjuncts to the cravat of a gentleman have undergone a singular revolution during late years; but we confess we are admirers of the present fashion, for if it is desirable to indulge in an ornament, it is equally desirable that everybody should be gratified by the exhibition thereof. We presume that it is with this commendable feeling that pins’-heads (whose smallness in former days became a proverb) should now resemble the apex of a beadle’s staff; and, as though to make “assurance doubly sure,” a plurality is absolutely required for the decoration of a gentleman. In these times, when political partisanship is so exceedingly violent, why not make the pins indicative of the opinions of the wearer, as the waistcoat was in the days of Fox. We could suggest some very appropriate designs; for instance, the heads of Peel and Wakley, connected by a very slight link—Sibthorp and Peter Borthwick by a series of long-car rings—Muntz and D’Israeli cut out of very hard wood, and united by a hair-chain; and many others too numerous to mention.

HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY. PARODIED BY A XX TEETOTALLER. To drink, or not to drink? That is the question.

Whether ’tis nobler inwardly to suffer

The pangs and twitchings of uneasy stomach,

Or to take brandy-toddy ’gainst the colic,

And by imbibing end it? To drink,—to sleep,—

To snore;—and, by a snooze, to say we end

The head-ache, and the morning’s parching thirst

That drinking’s heir to;—’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d. To drink,—to pay,—

To pay the waiter’s bill?—Ay—there’s the rub;

For in that snipe-like bill, a stop may come,

When we would shuffle off our mortal score,

Must give us pause. There’s the respect

That makes sobriety of so long date;

For who could bear to hear the glasses ring

In concert clear—the chairman’s ready toast—

The pops of out-drawn corks—the “hip hurrah!”

The eloquence of claret—and the songs,

Which often through the noisy revel break,

When a man—might his quietus make

With a full bottle? Who would sober be,

Or sip weak coffee through the live-long night;

But that the dread of being laid upon

That stretcher by policemen borne, on which

The reveller reclines,—puzzles me much,

And makes me rather tipple ginger beer,

Than fly to brandy, or to—

A man with his foot caught in a trap. —HODGE’S SIN?

Thus poverty doth make us Temp’rance men.

“TRY OUR BEST SYMPATHY.” It is a fact, when the deputation of the distressed manufacturers waited upon Sir Robert Peel to represent to him their destitute condition, that the Right Honourable Baronet declared he felt the deepest sympathy for them. This is all very fine—but we fear greatly, if Sir Robert should be inclined to make a commercial speculation of his sympathy, that he would go into the market with

A merchant hands stockings to a little girl. A VERY SMALL STOCK-IN(G) TRADE.

[pg 191] THE MAN OF HABIT. I meet with men of this character very frequently, and though I believe that the stiff formality of the past age was more congenial than the present to the formation and growth of these peculiar beings, there are still a sufficient number of the species in existence for the philosophical cosmopolite to study and comment upon.

A true specimen of a man of habit should be an old bachelor,—for matrimony deranges the whole clock-work system upon which he piques himself. He could never endure to have his breakfast delayed for one second to indulge “his soul’s far dearer part” with a prolonged morning dream; and he dislikes children, because the noisy urchins make a point of tormenting him wherever he goes. The Man of Habit has a certain hour for all the occupations of his life; he allows himself twenty minutes for shaving and dressing; fifteen for breakfasting, in which time he eats two slices of toast, drinks two cups of coffee, and swallows two eggs boiled for two and a half minutes by an infallible chronometer. After breakfast he reads the newspaper, but lays it down in the very heart and pith of a clever article on his own side of the question, the moment his time is up. He has even been known to leave the theatre at the very moment of the dénouement of a deeply-interesting play rather than exceed his limited hour by five minutes. He will be out of temper all day, if he does not find his hat on its proper nail and his cane in its allotted corner. He chooses a particular walk, where he may take his prescribed number of turns without interruption, for he would prefer suffering a serious inconvenience rather than be obliged to quicken or slacken his pace to suit the speed of a friend who might join him. My uncle Simon was a character of this cast. I could take it on my conscience to assert that, every night for the forty years preceding his death, he had one foot in the bed on the first stroke of 11 o’clock, and just as the last chime had tolled, that he was enveloped in the blankets to his chin. I have known him discharge a servant because his slippers were placed by his bed-side for contrary feet; and I have won a wager by betting that he would turn the corner of a certain street at precisely three minutes before ten in the morning. My uncle used to frequent a club in the City, of which he had become the oracle. Precisely at eight o’clock he entered the room—took his seat in a leather-backed easy chair in a particular corner—read a certain favourite journal—drank two glasses of rum toddy—smoked four pipes—and was always in the act of putting his right arm into the sleeve of his great-coat, to return home, as the clock struck ten. The cause of my uncle’s death was as singular as his life was whimsical. He went one night to the club, and was surprised to find his seat occupied by a tall dark-browed man, who smoked a meerschaum of prodigious size in solemn silence. Numerous hints were thrown out to the stranger that the seat had by prescriptive right and ancient custom become the property of my uncle; he either did not or would not understand them, and continued to keep his possession of the leather-backed chair with the most imperturbable sang-froid. My uncle in despair took another seat, and endeavoured to appear as if nothing had occurred to disturb him,—but he could not dissimulate. He was pierced to the heart,—and

A man is eating on a bench. “I SAW THE IRON ENTER HIS SOLE.”

My uncle left the club half-an-hour before his time; he returned home—went to bed without winding his watch—and the next morning he was found lifeless in his bed.

PUNCH’S POLITICAL ECONOMY. The subject of political economy is becoming so general a portion of education, that it will doubtless soon be introduced at the infant schools among the other eccentric evolutions or playful whirls of Mr. Wilder-spin. At it is the fashion to comprehend nothing, but to have a smattering of everything, we beg leave to smatter our readers with a very thin layer of political economy. In the first place, “political” means “political,” and “economy” signifies “economy,” at least when taken separately; but put them together, and they express all kinds of extravagance. Political economy contemplates the possibility of labouring without work, eating without food, and living without the means of subsistence. Social, or individual economy, teaches to live within our means; political economy calls upon us to live without them. In the debates, when more than usual time has been wasted in talking the most extravagant stuff, ten to one that there has been a good deal of political economy. If you bother a poor devil who is dying of want, and speak to him about consumption, it is probably “political economy” that you will have addressed to him. If you talk to a man sinking with hunger about floating capital, you will no doubt have given him the benefit of a few hints in “political economy:” while, if to a wretch in tattered rags you broach the theory of rent, he must be an ungrateful beast indeed if he does not appreciate the blessings of “political economy.” That “labour is wealth” forms one of the most refreshing axioms of this delicious science; and if brought to the notice of a man breaking stones on the road, he would perhaps wonder where his wealth might be while thinking of his labour, but he could not question your proficiency in “political economy.” In fact, it is the most political and most economical science in the world, if it can only be made to achieve its object, which is to persuade the hard-working classes that they are the richest people in the universe, for their labour gives value, and value gives wealth; but who gets the value and the wealth is a consideration that does not fall within the province of “political economy.”

There is another branch of the subject at which we shall merely glance; but one hint will open up a wide field of observation to the student. The branch to which we allude is the tremendous extent to which political economy is carried by those who interfere so much in politics with so very little political knowledge, and who consequently display a most surprising share of “political economy,”

As a very little goes a great way, and particularly as the most diminutive portion of knowledge communicated by ourselves is, like the “one small pill constituting a dose,” much more efficacious than the 40 Number Ones and 50 Number Twos of the mere quacks, we close for the present our observations on Political Economy.

ON THE KEY-VIVE. There can be no doubt as to the primâ facie evidence of the hostile intentions of the destroyed American steamer, with respect to the disaffected on Navy Island, as, from the acknowledged inquisitiveness of the gentler sex, there can be no doubt that Caroline would have a natural predilection for

A maid listens at a door. PRIVATE (H)EERING.

LAST NEW SAYINGS. Come, none of your raillery; as the stage-coach indignantly said to the steam-engine.

That “strain” again; as the Poor-law Commissioner generously said to the water-gruel sieve.

I paid very dear for my whistle; as the steam-engine emphatically said to the railroad.

Peel for ever! as the church bells joyously said to Conservative hearts.

There is at present a man in New York whose temper is so exceedingly hot that he invariably reduces all his shirts to tinder.

[pg 192] PUNCH’S THEATRE. THE MAID OF HONOUR. The Adelphi “Correspondent from Paris” has favoured that Theatre with an adaptation of Scribe’s “Verre d’Eau,” which he has called “The Maid of Honour.”

Everybody must remember that, last year, the trifling affair of the British Government was settled by the far more momentous consideration of who should be Ladies of the Bed-chamber. The Parisians, seeing the dramatic capabilities of this incident, put it into a farce, resting the whole affair upon the shoulders of a former Queen whose Court was similarly circumstanced. This is the piece which Mr. Yates has had the daring to get done into English, and transplanted into Spain, and interspersed with embroidery, confectionary, and a Spanish sentence; the last judiciously entrusted to that accomplished linguist, Mr. John Saunders.

Soon after the rising of the curtain, we behold the figure of Mr. Yates displayed to great advantage in the dress usually assigned to Noodle and Doodle in the tragedy of “Tom Thumb.” He represents the Count Ollivarez, and the head of a political party—the opposition. The Court faction having for its chief the Duchess of Albafurez, who being Mistress of the Queen’s robes is of course her favourite; for the millinery department of the country which can boast of a Queen Regnant is of far higher importance than foreign or financial affairs, justice, police, or war—consequently, the chief of the wardrobe is far more exalted and better beloved than a mere Premier or Secretary of State. The Count is planning an intrigue, the agents of which are to be Henrico, a Court page, and Felicia, a court milliner. Not being able to make much of the page, he turns over a new leaf, and addresses himself to the dress- maker; so, after a few preliminary hems, he draws out the thread of his purpose to her, and cuts out an excellent pattern for her guidance, which if she implicitly follow will assuredly make her a Maid of Honour.

A comedy without mystery is Punch without a joke; Yates without a speech to the audience on a first night; or Bartley’s pathos without a pocket- handkerchief. The Court page soon opens the book of imbroglio. He is made a Captain of the Queen’s Guard by some unknown hand; he has always been protected by the same unseen benefactor, who, as if to guard him from every ill that flesh is heir to, showers on him his or her favours upon condition that he never marries! “Happy man,” exclaims the Count. “Not at all,” answers the other, “I am in love with Felicia!” Nobody is surprised at this, for it is a rule amongst dramatists never to forbid the banns until the banned, poor devil, is on the steps of the altar. Henrico, now a Captain, goes off to flesh his sword; meets with an insult, and by the greatest good luck kills his antagonist in the precincts of the palace; so that if he be not hanged for murder, his fortune is made. The victim is the Count’s cousin, to whom he is next of kin. “Good Heavens!” ejaculates Ollivarez, “You have made yourself a criminal, and me—a Duke! Horrible!”

By the way, this same Henrico, as performed by that excellent swimmer (in the water-piece), Mr. Spencer Forde, forms a very entertaining character. His imperturbable calmness while uttering the heart-stirring words, assigned by the author to his own description of the late affair- of-honourable assassination, was highly edifying to the philosophic mind. The pleasing and amiable tones in which he stated how irretrievably he was ruined, the dulcet sweetness of the farewell to his heart’s adored, the mathematical exactitude of his position while embracing her, the cool deliberation which marked his exit—offered a picture of calm stoicism just on the point of tumbling over the precipice of destruction not to be equalled—not, at least, since those halcyon dramatic days when Osbaldiston leased Covent Garden, and played Pierre.

Somehow or other—for one must not be too particular about the wherefores of stage political intrigues—Felicia is promoted from the office of making dresses for the Queen to that of putting them on. Behold her a maid of honour and of all-work; for the Queen takes her into her confidence, and in that case people at Court have an immense variety of duties to perform. The Duchess’s place is fast becoming a sinecure, and she trembles for her influence—perhaps, in case of dismissal, for her next quarter’s salary to boot—so she shakes in her shoes.

It is at this stage of the plot that we perceive why the part of Henrico was entrusted to the gentleman who plays it,—the mystery we have alluded to being by this arrangement very considerably increased; for we now learn that no fewer than three ladies in the piece are in love with him, namely, Felicia, the Queen, and the Duchess. Now the most penetrating auditor would never, until actually informed of the fact, for a moment suspect a Queen, or even a Duchess, of such bad taste; for, as far as our experience goes, we have generally found that women do not cast their affections to men who are sheepish, insensible, cold, ungainly, with small voices, and not more than five feet high. Surprise artfully excited and cleverly satisfied is the grand aim of the dramatist. How completely is it here fulfilled! for when we discover that the personator of Henrico is meant for an Adonis, we are astonished.

The truth is then, that the secret benefactor of this supposed-to-be irresistible youth has always been the Duchess Albafurez, who, learning from Ollivarez that her pet has new claims upon her heart for having killed her friend the Duke, determines to assist him to escape, which however is not at all necessary, for Ollivarez is entrusted with the warrant for apprehending the person or persons unknown who did the murder. But could he injure the man who has made him a Duke by a lucky coup-d’épée? No, no. Let him cross the frontier; and, when he is out of reach, what thundering denunciations will not the possessor of the dukedom fulminate against the killer of his cousin! It is shocking to perceive how intimately acquainted old Scribe must be with manners, customs, and feelings, as they exist at Court.

The necessary passports are placed before the Queen for her signature (perhaps her Spanish Majesty can’t afford clerks); but when she perceives whom they threaten to banish from behind her chair, she declines honouring them with her autograph. The Duchess thus learns her secret. “She, too, love Henrico? Well I never!” About this time a tornado of jealousy may be expected; but court etiquette prevents it from bursting; and the Duchess reserves her revenge, the Queen sits down to her embroidery frame, and one is puzzled to know what is coming next.

This puzzle was not on Monday night long in being resolved. Ollivarez entered, and a child in the gallery commenced crying with that persevering quality of tone which threatens long endurance. Mr. Yates could not resist the temptation; and Ollivarez, the newly-created Duke of Medina, promised the baby a free admission for four, any other night, if it would only vacate the gallery just then. These terms having been assented to by a final screech, the infant left the gallery. After an instant’s pause—during which the Manager tapped his forehead, as much as to say, “Where did I leave off?”—the piece went on.

We had no idea till last night how difficult it was for a Queen to indulge in a bit of flirtation! A most elaborate intrigue is, it seems, necessary to procure for her a tender interview with her innamorato. A plan was invented, whose intricacy would have bothered the inventor of spinning-jennies, whereby Henrico was to be closeted with her most Christian Majesty,—its grand accomplishment to take place when the Queen called for a glass of ice (the original Scribe wrote “water,” but the Adelphi adapter thought ice would be more natural, for fear the piece should run till Christmas). The Duchess overhears the entire plot, but fails in frustrating it. Hence we find Henrico, Felicia, and the Queen together, going through a well-contrived and charmingly-conducted scene of equivoque—the Queen questioning Henrico touching the state of his heart, and he answering her in reference to Felicia, who is leaning over the embroidery frame behind the Queen, and out of her sight.

This felicitous situation is interrupted by the spiteful Duchess; the lover escapes behind the window curtains to avoid scandal—is discovered, and his sovereign’s reputation is only saved by the declaration of Felicia, that the Captain is there on her account. Ollivarez asserts that they are married, to clench the fib—the Queen sees her folly—the Duchess is disgraced—all the characters stand in the well-defined semicircle which is the stage method of writing the word “finis”—Mrs. Yates speaks a very neat and pointed “tag”—and that’s all.

For this two-act Comidetta, dear Yates, we pronounce absolution and remission of thy sins, so wickedly committed in the washy melo-drama, and cackling vaudeville, thou hast recently affronted common-sense withal! Thine own acting as the courtier was natural, except when thou didst interpolate the dialogue with the baby—a crying sin, believe us. Else, thy bows were graceful; and thy shoulder-shrugs—are they not chronicled in the mind’s eye of thy most distant admirers? The little touches of humour that shone forth in the dialogue assigned to thee, were not exaggerated by the too-oft-indulged-in grimaces—in short, despite thy too monstrous chapeau-bras—which was big enough for a life- boat—thou lookedst like a Duke, a gentleman, and what in truth thou really art—an indefatigable intriguant. Thy favoured help-mate, too, gave a reality to the scene by her captivating union of queenly dignity and feminine tenderness. But most especially fortunate art thou in thy Felicia. Alas for our hunch and our hatchet nose! but O, alas! and alas! that we have a Judy! for never did we regret all three so deeply as while Miss Ellen Chaplin was on the stage. In our favourite scene with the Queen and her lover, how graceful and expressive were her dumb answers to what ought to have been Henrico’s eloquent declarations, spoken through the Queen. We charge thee, dear friend, to “call” her on Monday morning at eleven, and to rehearse unto her what we are going to say. Tell her that as she is young, a bright career is before her if she will not fall into the sin of copying some other favourite actress—say, for instance, Mrs. Yates—instead of our arch-mistress, Nature; say, moreover, that at the same time, she must be unwearying in acquiring art; lastly, inform her, that Punch has his eye upon her, and will scold her if she become a backslider and an imitator of other people’s faults.

As to poor Mr. Spencer Forde, he, too, is young; and you do wrong, O Yates! in giving him a part he will be unequal to till he grows big enough for a coat. A smaller part would, we doubt not, suit him excellently.

Lastly, give our best compliments to Mrs. Fosbroke, to the illustrious Mr. Freeborn, to Mr. John Saunders, and our especial commendations to thy scene-painter, thy upholsterer, and the gentleman lamp-lighter thou art so justly proud of; for each did his and her best to add a charm to “The Maid of Honour.”

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. NOVEMBER 6, 1841. [pg 193] A DAY-DREAM AT MY UNCLE’S. The result of a serious conversation between the authors of my being ended in the resolution that it was high time for me to begin the world, and do something for myself. The only difficult problem left for them to solve was, in what way I had better commence. One would have thought the world had nothing in its whole construction but futile beginnings and most unsatisfactory methods of doing for one’s self. Scheme after scheme was discussed and discarded; new plans were hot-beds for new doubts; and impossibilities seemed to overwhelm every succeeding though successless suggestion. At the critical moment when it appeared perfectly clear to me either that I was fit for nothing or nothing was fit for me, the authoritative “rat-tat” of the general postman closed the argument, and for a brief space distracted the intense contemplations of my bewildered parents.

“Good gracious!” “Well, I never!” “Who’d ha’ thought it?” and various other disjointed mutterings escaped my father, forming a sort of running commentary upon the document under his perusal. Having duly devoured the contents, he spread the sheet of paper carefully out, re-wiped his spectacles, and again commenced the former all-engrossing subject.

“Tom, my boy, you are all right, and this will do for you. Here’s a letter from your uncle Ticket.”

I nodded in silence.

“Yes, sir,” continued my father, with increasing emphasis and peculiar dignity, “Ticket—the great Ticket—the greatest”—

“Pawnbroker in London,” said I, finishing the sentence.

“Yes, sir, he is; and what of that?”

“Nothing further; I don’t much like the trade, but”—

“But he’s your uncle, sir. It’s a glorious money-making business. He offers to take you as an apprentice. Nancy, my love, pack up this lad’s things, and start him off by the mail to-morrow. Go to bed, Tom.”

So the die was cast! The mail was punctual; and I was duly delivered to Ticket—the great Ticket—my maternal, and everybody else’s undefinable, uncle. Duly equipped in glazed calico sleeves, and ditto apron, I took my place behind the counter. But as it was discovered that I had a peculiar penchant for giving ten shillings in exchange for gilt sixpences, and encouraging all sorts of smashing by receiving counterfeit crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, I received a box on the ear, and a positive command to confine myself to the up-stairs, or “top- of-the-spout department” for the future. Here my chief duties were to deposit such articles as progressed up that wooden shaft in their respective places, and by the same means transmit the “redeemed” to the shop below. This was but dull work, and in the long dreary evenings, when partial darkness (for I was allowed no candle) seemed to invite sleep, I frequently fell into a foggy sort of mystified somnolency—the partial prostration of my corporeal powers being amply compensated by the vague wanderings of indistinct imagination.

In these dozing moods some of the parcels round me would appear not only imbued with life, but, like the fabled animals of Æsop, blessed with the gift of tongues. Others, though speechless, would conjure up a vivid train of breathing tableaux, replete with their sad histories. That tiny relic, half the size of the small card it is pinned upon, swells like the imprisoned genie the fisherman released from years of bondage, and the shadowy vapour takes once more a form. From the small circle of that wedding ring, the tear-fraught widow and the pallid orphan, closely dogged by Famine and Disease, spring to my sight. That brilliant tiara opens the vista of the rich saloon, and shows the humbled pride of the titled hostess, lying excuses for her absent gems. The flash contents of that bright yellow handkerchief shade forth the felon’s bar; the daring burglar eyeing with confidence the counsel learned in the law’s defects, fee’d by its produce to defend its quondam owner. The effigies of Pride, Extravagance, honest Distress, and reckless Plunder, all by turns usurp the scene. In my last waking sleep, just as I had composed myself in delicious indolence, a parcel fell with more than ordinary force on one beneath. These were two of my talking friends. I stirred not, but sat silently to listen to their curious conversation, which I now proceed to give verbatim.

Parcel fallen upon.—“What the d—l are you?”

Parcel that fell.—“That’s my business.”

“Is it? I rather think its mine, though. Why don’t you look where you’re going?”

“How can I see through three brown papers and a rusty black silk handkerchief?”

“Ain’t there a hole in any of ‘em?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity; but when you’ve been here as long as I have, the moths will help you a bit.”

“Will they?”

“Certainly.”

“I hope not.”

“Hope if you like; but you’ll find I’m right.”

“I trust I didn’t hurt you much.”

“Not very. Bless you, I’m pretty well used to ill-treatment now. You’ve only rubbed the pile of my collar the wrong way, just as that awkward black rascal would brush me.”

“Bless me! I think I know your voice.”

“Somehow, I think I know yours.”

“You ain’t Colonel Tomkins, are you?”

“No.”

“Nor Count Castor?”

“No.”

“Then I’m in error.”

“No you’re not. I was the Colonel once; then I became the Count by way of loan; and then I came here—as he said by mistake.”

“Why, my dear fellow, I’m delighted to speak to you. How did you wear?”

“So-so.”

“When I first saw you, I thought you the handsomest Petersham in town. Your velvet collar, cuffs, and side-pockets, were superb; and when you were the Colonel, upon my life you were the sweetest cut thing about the waist and tails I ever walked with.”

“You flatter me.”

“Upon my honour, no.”

“Well, I can return the compliment; for a blue, with chased buttons and silk lining, you beat anything I ever had the honour of meeting. But I suppose, as you are here, you are not the Cornet now?”

“Alas! no.”

“May I ask why?”

“Certainly. His scoundrel of a valet disgraced his master’s cloth and me at the same time. The villain went to the Lowther Arcade—took me with him by force. Fancy my agony; literally accessory to handing ices to milliners’ apprentices and staymakers; and when the wretch commenced quadrilling it, he dos-a-dos’d me up against a fat soap-boiler’s wife, in filthy three-turned-and-dyed common satin.”

“Scoundrel!”

“Rascal! But he was discovered—he reeled home drunk. I, that is, as it’s known, we make the men. The Cornet saw him, and thrashed him soundly with a three-foot Crowther.”

“That must have been delightful to your feelings.”

“Not very.”

“Why not? revenge is sweet.”

“So it is; but as the Cornet forgot to order him to take me off, I got the worst of the drubbing. I was dreadfully cut about. Two buttons fearfully lacerated—nothing but the shanks left.”

“How did it end?”

“The valet mentioned something about wages and assault warrants, so I was given to him to make the matter up. Between you and I, the Cornet was very hard up.”

“Indeed!”

“Certain of it. You remember the French-grey trousers we used to walk out with—those he strapped so tight over the remarkably chatty and pleasant French-polished boots whose broken English we used to admire so much?”

“Of course I do; they were the most charming greys I ever met. They beat the plaids into fits; and the plaids were far from ungentlemanly, only they would always talk with a sham Scotch accent, and quote the ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night.’”

“Certainly that was a drawback. But to return to our friends, and the Cornet’s friends, they must have been bad, for those very greys were seated.”

“Impossible!”

“Fact, I assure you. My tails were pinned over the patch for three weeks.”

“How did they bear it?”

“Shockingly. A general break up of the constitution—went all to pieces. First, decay appeared in the brace buttons; then the straps got out of order. They did say it was owing to the heels of the French-polished boots going down on one side, but the boots would never admit it.”

“How did you get here?”

“I came from the Bench for eggs and bacon for the Cornet and his Valet’s breakfast! What brought you?”

“The Count’s landlady, for a week’s rent.”

“What did you fetch?”

“A guinea!”

“Bless me, you must have worn well.”

“No; hold your tongue—I think I shall die with laughing,—ha! ha!—When they took me in, I returned the compliment. I’ve been—”

“What?”

“Cuffed and collared!”

“Ha! ha! ha! ha!” shouted both coats; and “Ha! ha!” shouted I; “And I’ll teach you to ‘ha! ha!’ and neglect your business” shouted the Governor; and the reality of a stunning box on the ear dispelled the illusion of my “Day-dream at my Uncle’s.”

FUSBOS.

“BLOW GENTLE BREEZE.” The Reverend Henry Snow, M.A., has been inducted by the Bishop of Gloucester, to the Vicarage of Sherborne cum Windrush.

From Glo’ster see, a windrush came, and lo!

On Sherborne Vicarage it drifted Snow.

[pg 194] THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER VIII. SHOWS WHAT’S AFTER A PARTY, AND WHAT’S IN A NAME. A sad man's face encircled by a letter U. ndoubtedly on the following day 24 Pleasant-terrace was the most uncomfortable place in the universe. Some one has said that wherever Pleasure is, Pain is certain not to be far off; and the truth of the allegory is never better exemplified than on the day after “a most delightful party.” We can only compare it to the morning succeeding a victory by which the conqueror has gained a great deal of glory at a very considerable expenditure of matériel. Let us accompany the mistress of the house as she proceeds from room to room, to ascertain the damage done by the enemy upon the furniture and decorations. A light damask curtain is found to have been saturated with port wine; a ditto chair- cushion has been doing duty as a dripping-pan to a cluster of wax- lights; a china shepherdess, having been brought into violent collision with the tail of a raging lion on the mantel-piece, has reduced the noble beast to the short-cut condition of a Scotch colley. A broken candle has perversely fallen the only way in which it could have done any damage, and has thrown the quicksilver on the back of a large looking-glass into an alarming state of eruption. The return of “cracked and broken” presents a fearful list of smashage and fracture: the best tea-set is rendered unfit for active service, being minus two saucers, a cup-handle, and a milk-jug; the green and gold dessert-plates have been frightfully reduced in numbers; two fiddle-handle spoons are completely hors de combat, having been placed under the legs of the supper-table to keep it steady; seven straw-stemmed wine-glasses awfully shattered during the “three-times-three” discharge in honour of the toast of the Heir of Applebites; four cut tumblers injured past recovery in a fit of “entusymusy” by four young gentlemen who were accidentally left by themselves in the supper-room; eighteen silver-plated dessert-knives reduced to the character of saws, by a similar number of “nice fellows” who were endeavouring to do the agreeable with the champagne, and consequently could distinguish no difference between wire and grape- stalks. The destruction in the kitchen had been equally great: the extra waiter had placed his heel on a ham-sandwich, and, consequently, sat down rather hurriedly on the floor with a large tray of sundries in his lap, the result of which was, according to the following

OFFICIAL RETURN, Two decanters starred; One salt-cellar smithereened; Four tumblers cracked uncommonly; An extra waiter many bruises, and fractured pantaloons. The day after a party is certain to be a sloppy day; and as the street-door is constantly being opened and shut, a raw, rheumatical wind is ever in active operation. Both these miseries were consequent upon the Applebite festivities, and Agamemnon saw a series of catarrhs enter the house as the rout-stools made their exit. He was quite right; for the next fortnight neck-of-mutton broth was the standard bill of fare, only varied by tea, gruel, and toast-and-water.

There is no evil without its attendant good; and the temporary imprisonment of the Applebite family induced them to consider the propriety of naming the infant heir, for hitherto he had been called “the cherub,” “the sweet one,” “the mother’s duck of the world,” and “daddy’s darling.” Several names had been suggested by the several friends and relatives of the family, but nothing decisive had been agreed to.

Agamemnon wished his heir to be called Isaac, after his grandfather, the member for Puddingbury, “in the hope,” as he expressed himself, “that he might in after years be stimulated to emulate the distinguished talents and virtues of his great ancestor.” (Overruled by Mrs. Waddledot, Mrs. Applebite, and the rest of the ladies. Isaac declared vulgar, except in the case of the member for Puddingbury.)

Mrs. Waddledot was anxious that the boy should be christened Roger de Dickey, after her mother’s great progenitor, who was said to have come over with William the Conqueror, but whether in the capacity of a lacquey or a lord-in-waiting was never, and perhaps never will be, determined. (Opposed by Agamemnon, on the ground that ill-natured people would be sure to dispense with the De, and his heir would be designated as Roger Dickey. In this opinion Mrs. Applebite concurred.)

The lady-mother was still more perplexing; she proposed that he should be called—

ALBERT (we give her own reasons)—because the Queen’s husband was so named.

AGAMEMNON—because of the alliteration and his papa.

DAVIS—because an old maiden lady who was independent had said that she thought it a good name for a boy, as her own was Davis.

MONTAGUE—because it was a nice-sounding name, and the one she intended to address him by in general conversation.

COLLUMPSION—as her papa.

PHIPPS—because she had had a dream in which a number of bags or gold were marked P.H.I.P.P.S.; and

APPLEBITE—as a matter of course.

(Objected to by Mrs. Waddledot, for—nothing in particular, and by Agamemnon on the score of economy. The heir being certain to employ a lawyer, would be certain to pay an enormous interest in that way alone.)

Friends were consulted, but without any satisfactory result; and at length it was agreed that the names should be written upon strips of paper and drawn by the nominees. The necessary arrangements being completed, the three proceeded to the ballot.

Mrs. Waddledot drew Isaac. Agamemnon drew Roger de Dickey. Mrs. Applebite drew Phipps. As a matter of course everybody was dissatisfied; but with a “stern virtue” everybody kept it to themselves, and the heir was accordingly christened Isaac Roger de Dickey Phipps Applebite.

Old John soon realised Agamemnon’s fears of Mrs. Waddledot’s selection, for, whether the patronym of the Norman invader was more in accordance with his own ideas of propriety, or was more readily suggestive to his mind of the infant heir, he was continually speaking of little master Dicky; and upon being remonstrated with upon the subject promised amendment for the future. All, however, was of no use, for John jumbled the Phipps, the Roger, the Dickey, and the De together, but always contriving most perversely to

A cart with a horse hooked up behind it. “PUT THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE.”

A SCANDALOUS REPORT. We are requested to contradict, by authority, the report that Colonel Sibthorp was the Guy Fawkes seen in Parliament- street. It is true that a deputation waited upon him to solicit him to take the chair on the 5th of November, but the gallant Colonel modestly declined, much to the disappointment of the young gentlemen who presented the requisition; so much so indeed, that, after exhausting their oratorical powers, they slightly hinted at having recourse to

A woman threatens a boy with a switch. PHYSICAL FORCE.

“ROB ME THE EXCHEQUER, HAL.” No wonder Smith Exchequer Bills,

Should have a taste for gorging,

For since the work the pocket fills,

What Smith’s averse to forging?

[pg 195] THE FIRE AT THE TOWER. This is a sad business, there is no doubt, and the excitement which prevailed may probably excuse the eccentricities that occurred, and to which we beg leave to call the public attention.

In the first place, by way of ensuring the safety of the property, precautions were taken to shut out every one from the building; and as military rule knows of no exception, the orders given were executed to the letter by preventing the ingress of the firemen with their engines until the general order of exclusion was followed by a countermand. This of course took time, leaving the fire to devour at its leisure the enormous meal that fate had prepared for it.

After the admission of the firemen there was the usual mishap of no water where it could be got at, but an abundant supply where there was no possibility of reaching it. The tanks which the hose could be got into were almost dry, while the Thames was in the most provoking way almost overflowing its banks in the very neighbourhood of the fire; and yet, if the pipes were laid on to the water, they were laid off too far from the building to have the least effect upon it.

The next eccentricity consisted in the sudden idea that suggested itself to somebody, that all energy should be devoted to saving the jewels, which were not in the smallest danger, and even if they had been, there was nobody knew how to get at them, the key being some miles off in the possession of the Lord Chamberlain. It might as well have been at the bottom of the Thames; and, of course, everybody began tugging at the iron bars, which were at length forced, and the jewels were, at a great cost of time and trouble, removed to a place of safety from a position of the most perfect security!! However, this showed activity if nothing else, and of course made the subject of paragraphs about “presence of mind,” “indefatigable exertions,” and “superhuman efforts” on the part of certain persons who, for the good they were doing, might just as well have been carrying the piece of artillery in St. James’s Park into the enclosure opposite.

While the jewels were being hurried from one part of the Tower, where they were quite safe, to another where they were not more so, it never occurred to any one to rescue from danger the arms, which were being quietly consumed, while the crown and regalia were being jolted about with the most injurious activity.

The treatment of some of the reporters was another curious point of this melancholy business; and a gentleman from a weekly journal, on applying at head-quarters, found his own head suddenly quartered by a blow from a musket. This was rather unceremonious treatment on the part of the privates of the line to a person who is also

A fish says 'I say old fellow if you want me just drop me a line,' to which a fisherman replies 'Yes I will with a hook.' ATTACHED TO THE LINE.

—the penny-a-line we mean; but with a true gusto for accidents, and a relish for calamities, which nothing could subdue, he still pressed forward, with blood streaming from his fractured skull, for additional particulars. The American reporter whose hand was blown off, and had the good fortune to be upon the spot, is not to be compared with the hero who had the exclusive advantage of being able to supply practical information of the ruffianly conduct pursued by the soldiery.

It is not stated whether the fire-escape was on the spot; but as no one lived in the building that was burnt, it is highly probable that every effort was made to save the lives of the inhabitants. There is no doubt that the ladder was strenuously directed towards the clock tower, with the view, probably, of saving the “jolly cock” who used to adorn the top of it.

The reporters mark as a miracle the extraordinary fact, that during the whole time of the fire, the weathercock continued to vary with the wind. The gentlemen of the press, probably, expected that the awful solemnity of the scene would have rendered any man, not entirely lost to every sense of feeling, completely motionless. The apathy of the weathercock that went on whirling about as if nothing had happened, is in the highest degree disgusting, and we can scarcely regret the fate of such an unfeeling animal.

PLEASE TO REMEMBER THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. November, that month of fires, fogs, felo de ses, and Fawkes, has been ushered in with becoming ceremony at the Tower and at various other parts of the metropolis. In vain has an Act of Parliament been passed for the suppression of bonfires—November asserts her rights, and will have her modicum of “flare up” in spite of the law; but with the trickery of an Old Bailey barrister she has thrown the onus upon October. Nor is this all! Like a traitorous Eccalobeion she has already hatched several conspiracies, as though everybody now thought of getting rid of others or themselves.

The Right Hon. Spring-heel Rice Baron Jamescrow, commonly known as the Lord Monteagle, has, like his historical synonym, been favoured with a communication which being considerably beyond his own comprehension, he has in a laudable spirit submitted it to Punch—an evidence of wisdom which we really did not expect from our friend Baron Jamescrow.

We subjoin the introductory epistle—

DEAR PUNCH,—I hasten to forward you the awful letter enclosed—we are all abroad here concerning it—by the bye, how are you all at home—to say the least, it certainly does look very ugly. Mrs. P., I hope, has improved in appearance. Something terrible is evidently about to happen. I intend to pay you a visit shortly. I trust we may not have to encounter any more Guys—you may expect to see me on my Friday. I can only add my prayers for the nation’s safety and my compliments to Mrs. Punch and the young P.s.

Yours ever, MONTEAGLE.

P.S. Let me have your advice and your last Number immediately I have made a few notes, and paid the postage.

The following is the letter referred to by the Baron Jamescrow:—

MY LORD,—Being known to some of your friends I would advise you, as you tender your peace and quiet, to devise some excuse to shift off your attendance at your house (clearly the House of Lords—Monteagle), for fire and brimstone have united to destroy the enemies of man (evidently gunpowder, lucifer-matches, and the Peers—Monteagle). Think not lightly of my advertisement (see Dispatch), but retire yourself in the country (I should think I would—Monteagle), where you may abide in safety; for though there be no appearance of any punæ; (what the deuce does this mean? Puny’s little—Monteagle), yet they will receive a terrible blow-up (By punæ he means members of Parliament, and he is another Guy!—Monteagle); yet they shall not see who hurts them, though the place shall be purified and the enemy completely destroyed.

I am, your Lordship’s servant, and destroyer to her Majesty and the two Houses of Parliament. T.I.F. Fin.

We are surprised at our friend Monteagle troubling us with a matter evidently as plain as the nose on our own face. It requires neither a Solon nor a Punch to solve the enigma. It is merely a letter from Tiffin, the bug destroyer to her Majesty, and refers to his peculiar plan of persecuting the punæ.

We have no doubt that Lords and Commons will be blown up on the re- assembling of Parliament; and as an assurance that we do not speak upon conjecture only, we beg to subjoin a portrait of the delinquent.

A caricature with a downcast head. THE MODERN GUY VAUX.

[pg 196] THE RIVAL CANDIDATES. Be not afraid, gentle reader, that, from the title of our present article, we are about to prescribe for you any political draught. No! be assured that we know as little about politics as pyrotechny—that we are as blissfully ignorant of all that relates to the science of government as that of gastronomy—and have ever since our boyhood preferred the solid consistency of gingerbread to the crisp insipidity of parliament. The candidates of whom we write were no would- be senators—no sprouting Ciceros or embryo Demosthenes’—they were no aspirants for the grand honour of representing the honest and independent stocks and stones of some ancient rotten borough, or, what is about the same thing, the enlightened ten-pound voters of some modern reformed one—they were not ambitious of the proud privilege of appending for seven years two letters to their names, and of franking some half- dozen others per diem. No! the rivals who form the theme of our present paper were emulous of obtaining no place in Parliament, but, what is far more desirable, a place in the affections of a lovely maid. They sought not for the suffrages of the unwashed, but for the smiles of a fair one,—they neither desired to be returned as the representative of so many sordid voters for the term of seven years (a term of transportation common alike to M.P.s and pickpockets), but for the more permanent honour of being elected as the partner of a certain lady for life.

Georgiana Gray was the lovely object of the rivalry of the above candidates; and a damsel more eminently qualified to be the innocent cause of contention could not be found within the whole catalogue of those dear destructive little creatures who, from Eve downwards, have always possessed a peculiar patent for mischief-making. Georgiana was as handsome as she was rich. She was, in the superlative sense of the word, a beauty, and—what ought to be written in letters of gold—an heiress. She had the figure of a sylph, and the purse of a nabob. Her face was lovely and animated enough to enrapture a Raffaelle, and her fortune ample enough to captivate a Rothschild. She had a clear rent-roll of 20,000l. per annum,—and a pair of eyes that, independent of her other attractions, were sufficiently fascinating to seduce Diogenes himself into matrimony.

Philosophers generally affirm that the only substance capable of producing a magnetic effect is steel; but had they been witnesses of the great attraction that the fortune of our fair heroine had for its many eager pursuers, they would doubtless have agreed with us that the metal possessing the greatest possible power of magnetism is decidedly—gold. Innumerable were the butterflies that were drawn towards the lustre of the lovely Georgiana’s money; and many a suitor, who set a high value upon his personal qualifications, might be found at her side endeavouring to persuade its pretty possessor of the eligible investment that might be made of the property in himself. Report, however, had invidiously declared that Georgiana looked with a cold and contemptuous eye upon the addresses of all save two.

Augustus Peacock and Julius Candy (this enviable duo) were two such young men as may be met with in herds any fine afternoon publishing their persons to the frequenters of Regent-street. They did credit to their tailors, who were liberal enough to give them credit in return. Their coats were guiltless of a wrinkle, their gloves immaculate in their chastity, and their boots resplendent in their brilliancy. Indeed they were human annuals—splendidly bound, handsomely embellished—but replete with nothing but fashionable frivolities. They never ventured out till such time as they imagined the streets were well-aired, and were never known to indulge in an Havannah till twelve o’clock P.M. They were scrupulous in their attentions to the Opera and the figurantes, and had no objection to wear the chains of matrimony provided the links were made of gold. In fine, they were of that common genus of gentlemen who lounge through life, and leave nothing behind them but a tombstone and a small six-shilling advertisement amongst the Deaths of some morning newspaper as a record of their having existed.

Such were the persons and the qualifications of the gentlemen to whom report had assigned the possession of the hand and fortune of the fair Georgiana Gray. But, happy as they respectively felt to be thus singled out for the proud distinction, still the knowledge of there being a rival in the field to dispute the glories of the conquest materially detracted from that feeling. They had each heard of the pretensions of the other; and while the peace of the one was repeatedly disturbed by the panegyrics of Mr. P., the harmony of the other met with an equal violation from the eulogies of Mr. C.; and although their respective vanities would not allow them to believe that the lady in question could be so deficient in taste as to prefer any other person to their precious selves, still it was but natural that they should neither look upon the other with any other feeling than that of disgust at the egregious impudence, and contempt for the superlative conceit, that could lead any other man to enter the lists as an opponent to themselves. Repeatedly had Mr. P. been heard to express his desire to lengthen the olfactory organ of Mr. C.; while the latter had frequently been known to declare that nothing would confer greater gratification upon him than to endorse with his cane the person of Mr. P. In fact, they hated each other with all possible cordiality. Fortunately, however, circumstances had never brought them into collision.

It was a lovely afternoon in May. All the world were returning to town. Georgiana Gray had just forsaken Harrowgate and its waters, to participate in the thickening gaieties of the metropolis. Augustus Peacock had abandoned the moors of Scotland for the beauties of Almack’s; and Julius Candy had hastened from the banks of the Wye for the fascinations of Taglioni and the Opera.

The first object of Augustus on returning to town was to hasten and pay his devoirs to his intended. With this intent he proceeded to the mansion of Georgiana, and was ushered into the drawing-room, with the assurance that the lady would be with him immediately. The servant, however, had no sooner quitted the apartment than Mr. Candy, actuated by a similar motive, knocked at the door, and was speedily conducted into the presence of his rival.

The two gentlemen, being mutually ignorant of the person of the other, bowed with all the formality usual to a first introduction.

“Fine day, sir,” said Augustus Peacock, after a short pause, little aware that he was holding communion with his rival.

“It is—very fine, sir,” returned Julius Candy with a smile, which, had he been conscious of the person he was addressing, would instantly have been converted into a most contemptuous sneer.

“Have you had the pleasure of seeing Miss Gray, sir, since her return from Harrowgate?” inquired Augustus, with the soft civility of a man of fashion.

“No,—I have not yet had that honour, sir; no,”—replied Julius, with a slight inclination of his body.

“Charming girl, sir,” remarked Mr. Peacock.

“Fascinating creature,” responded Mr. Candy.

“Did you ever see such eyes, sir?” continued Mr. P.

“Never! ’pon my honour! never!”—exclaimed Julius, in a tone of moderate enthusiasm. “You may call them eyes, sir,” and here he elevated his own.

“And what lips?”

“Positively provoking!”

“Ah, sir!” languishingly remarked Augustus, “he will be a happy may who gets possession of such a treasure!”

“He will, indeed, sir,” returned his unknown rival, with an air of self- satisfaction, as if he believed that happiness was likely to be his own.

“You are aware, I suppose, sir,” proceeded the communicative Mr. Peacock, “that there is a certain party whom Miss Gray looks upon with particular favour”—and the gentleman, to give peculiar emphasis to the remark, slightly elevated his cravat.

“I should think I ought to be”—pointedly returned Mr. C.—simpering somewhat diffidently at the idea that the observation was levelled at himself.

The two rivals looked at each other, tittered, and bowed.

“Ah! yes—I dare say—observed it, no doubt!” said Augustus, when his emotion had subsided.

“Why, yes—I should have been blind indeed could I have failed to remark it,” responded Julius.

“Ah yes—you’re right—yes—Miss Gray’s attentions have been particularly marked, certainly—yes.”

“They have been, sir, very, very marked—she’s quite taken, poor thing, I believe!”

“Yes, poor creature!—sadly smitten indeed!—The lady has confessed as much to you perhaps, sir?”

Mr. Candy looked surprised at the remark of his companion, and replied “Why really, sir, that is a question which”—

“Ah, yes, I beg pardon, I was wrong—yes, I ought to have considered—but candidly, sir, what do you think of the match?”

“’Pon my honour, my dear sir,” exclaimed Julius most feelingly, colouring slightly at the question, which he thought was rather home- thrust.

“Ah, yes, to be sure, it is rather a delicate question, considering, you know, that one is in the presence of the party himself, is it not?”

“Very, very delicate, I can assure you,” said Julius, who, “laying the flattering unction to his soul” that he was the party alluded to, thought it rather an indelicate one.

Augustus observed the embarrassment of his companion, and could not refrain from laughter, and turning round to his companion, enquired significantly, “whether he did not think he was a happy man?”

Julius, who was in a measure similarly affected by the excitement of his unknown friend, observed, that the gentleman certainly did seem of a peculiarly gay disposition; and the two rivals, each delighted with the fancied approval of his suit by the other, indulged a mutual cachinnation.

“I suppose,” after a slight pause remarked Augustus, with apparently perfect indifference, “you are aware that there was a rival in the field?”

“Oh! ah! did hear of a fellow,” responded Julius, with equal insouciance, “but the idea of any other man carrying off the prize, perfectly ridiculous!”

“Oh! absolutely ludicrous, ’pon my soul! Ha! ha! ha!”

“It is astonishing the confounded vanity of some people!”

“And their preposterous obtuseness! why, a man with half an eye might see the folly of such presumption.”

“To be sure, stupid dolt!”

“Impudent puppy!”

“Conceited fool!”

“The fellow must be out of his senses!”

“Yes, a horsewhipping perhaps might bring him to!”

“Ay, or a good kicking might be salutary!”

The unanimity of the rival candidates produced, as might be supposed from their ignorance of the pretensions of each other, a feeling of mutual satisfaction and friendship, which, after a volley of anathemas had been fired by each gentleman against his rival, in absolute unconsciousness of [pg 197]his presence, ultimately displayed itself by each of them rising from his chair, and shaking the other most energetically by the hand.

“Really, my dear sir,” exclaimed Augustus in an inordinate fit of enthusiasm, at the supposed sympathy of his companion, “I never met with a gentleman so peculiarly to my fancy as yourself.”

“The feeling is perfectly reciprocal, believe me, my dear sir,” returned Julius, equally delighted with the imagined friendship of Mr. P.

“I trust that our acquaintance will not end here.”

“I shall be most proud to cultivate it, I can assure you.”

“Will you allow me to present you with a card?”

“I shall be too happy to exchange it for one of my own!” and so saying, the parties searched for their cases—Mr. P., in the mean time, protesting his gratification “to meet with a gentleman whose opinions so thoroughly coincided with his own,”—and Mr. C. as emphatically declaring “that he should ever consider this the most fortunate occurrence of his life.”

“Believe me, I shall be most happy to see you at any time,” observed Mr. Augustus Peacock, smiling as he placed the small oblong of cardboard which bore his name and address in the hand of his companion.

“I shall feel too proud if you will honour me with a call at your earliest convenience,” said Mr. Julius Candy bowing, while he presented to his fancied friend the little pasteboard parallelogram inscribed with his title and residence.

The eyes of the two gentlemen, however, were no sooner directed to the cards, which had been placed in their hands, than the smiles which had previously gladdened their countenances were instantaneously changed into expressions of the most indignant scorn and surprise.

“Peacock!” shouted Candy.

“Candy!” vociferated Peacock.

“Sir!” exclaimed the furious Mr. P., “had I known that Candy was the name of the man, sir, whom I was addressing, sir, my conduct you would have found, sir, of a very different character!”

“And had I been aware,” retorted the exasperated Mr. C., “that Peacock was the title of the fellow” (and he laid a forty-horse power of emphasis upon the word) “with whom I have been conversing, my card would never have been delivered to him but with a different motive.”

“Fellow, sir! I think you said—Fellow, sir!”

“I did, sir,—fellow was the word I used, and I repeat it—fellow—fellow!”

“You do, sir! and I throw back in your teeth, sir, with the addition of fool, sir!”

“Fool!—no, no—not quite a fool—only near one, sir!”

“You’re a conceited puppy, sir!”

“And you are an impudent scoundrel, sir!”

This brought matters to a crisis. The parties embraced their canes with more than ordinary ardour, and, by their lowering looks, indicated a fervent desire to violate the peace of her blessed Majesty, when the fair cause of their contention suddenly entered the apartment.

It was no difficult matter, in the positions they occupied, for Georgiana to divine the reason of their animosity; which she effectually allayed by informing the angry disputants, “that either had no reason to look upon the other with any degree of jealousy, for she humbly begged to assure them that her affections were devoted to—neither.”

This, of course, put a full stop to their chivalry: each party seized his hat, bowing distantly to the insensible Georgiana, and left the house, vowing certain destruction to the other; but, upon cool reflection, Messrs. C. and P. doubtless deemed it advisable not to endanger the small quantum of brains they individually possessed, by fighting for a lady who was so utterly blind to their manifold merits.

Thus ended the feud of THE RIVAL CANDIDATES.

SIR FRANCIS BURDETT’S VISIT TO THE TOWER. On the news of the fire in the Tower of London being told to Sir Francis Burdett, he hurried to the scene of the conflagration, which must have suggested some unpleasing reminiscences of his lost popularity and faded glory. Some thirty years ago, those very walls received him like a second Hampden, the undaunted defender of his country’s rights;—on last Monday he entered them a broken-down unhonoured parasite. Gazing on the black and smouldering ruins before him—he perhaps compared them to his own patriotism, for he was heard to matter audibly—

A man brushes his thinning hair. CAN IT BE THAT THIS IS ALL REMAINS OF THEE?

REFORM YOUR LAWYERS’ BILLS. It is a well-known and established fact, that nothing so far conduces to the domestic happiness of all circles as the golden system of living within one’s income. Luxuries cease to be so if after-reflection produces vexatious results; comfort flies before an exorbitant and unprepared-for demand; and the debtor dunned by the merciless creditor sinks into something worse than a cipher, as nothingness is denied him, and the one standing before him but aggravates, and multiplies his painful annoyances. The great secret of satisfactory existence derives its origin from well-calculated and moderate expenditure. Ten thousand a year renders pines cheap at 1l. 11s. 6d. per pound; ten hundred is better exemplified by Ribston pippins!

So in all grades are there various matters of taste which become extravagance if rushed into by persons unbreeched for the occasion. Luckily for the present day, the tastes of the gourmand and epicure are merged in more manly sports; the great class of Corinthian aristocrats cull sweets from the blackened eyes of policemen—raptures from wrenched- off knockers—merriment in contusions—and frantic delight in fractured limbs! These innocent amusements have in their prosecution plunged many of their thoughtless and high-spirited devotees into pecuniary difficulties, simply from their ignorance of the costs attendant upon such exciting, fashionable, and therefore highly proper amusements.

Ever anxious to ameliorate the suffering and persecuted of ail classes, Messrs. Quibble and Quirk, attorneys-at-law, beg to offer their professional services at the following fixed and equitable rate,—they, Messrs. Q. and Q., pledging themselves that on no occasion shall the charge exceed the sum opposite the particular amusement in the following list.

N.B. Five per cent, per annum taken off for terms of imprisonment.

? N.B. For prompt payment only.

Messrs. Q. and Q.’s card of charges for defending a Nobleman, Right Honble., Baronet, Knight, Esquire., Gentleman, Younger Son, Head Clerk, Junior do., Westminster Boy, Medical Student, Grecian at Christ’s Church, Monitor, or any other miscellaneous individual aping or belonging to the aristocracy, from the following prosecutions:—

£ s. To breaking a policeman’s neck 50 0 To producing witnesses to swear policeman broke same himself 10 0 To choice of situation of house in street where done, from roof of which policeman fell; fee to landlord for number and affidavit 10 10 Total for neck, acquittal, witnesses, and perjury £70 10 For do. leg, ribs, arms, head, nose, or other unimportant member 15 0 For receipt written by wife of handsome provision 1 0 For writing and indorsing same 5 5 Extras for alibis, if necessary; hire of clothes for witnesses to look decent, including loss by their absconding with the name 10 10 Total £31 15 For knockers by gross in populous neighbourhoods 20 0 For carpenter proving same never fitted their respective doors there engaged 3 3 All extras included 1 1 Total £24 4 N.B.—Messrs. Q. and Q. beg to suggest, as the above charges are low, the old iron may as well be left at their offices.

For railings, per knob or dozen, assaults on police included, if not amounting to fracture 5 5 For suppressing police reports, or getting them put in in a sporting manner, the word gentleman substituted for prisoner, and “seat on the bench” for “place at the bar” 10 10 Total £15 15 And all other legal articles in the above lines at equally low charges.

Noblemen and gentlemen contracting for seven years allowed a handsome discount. No connexion with any other house.

“WHEN VULCAN FORGED,” &c. “Bless my soul!” said Sir Peter Laurie, rushing into the Justice-room the morning the Exchequer Bill affair was discovered, and seizing Hobler by the button; “This is a dreadful business. Have you any idea, Hobler, who the delinquent is?” “Why really, Sir Peter, ’tis difficult to say; but from an inspection of the forged instruments I should say it was Smith’s work.” Sir Peter felt the importance of the suggestion, and rushed off to Sir Robert Peel to recommend the stoppage of all the forges in the kingdom.

[pg 198] PEEL’S PRE-EXISTENCE! “Every man is not only himself,” says Sir THOMAS BROWNE; “there hath been many Diogenes, and as many Timons, though but few of that name. Men are lived over again. The world is now as it was in ages past: there was none then but there hath been some one since that parallels him, and, as it were, his revived self.” We are devout believers in the creed.

HERR VON TEUFELSKOPF was a High German doctor, of the first class. He had taken his diploma of Beelzebub in the Black Forest, and was gifted with as fine a hand to force a card—with as glib a tongue to harangue a mob at wakes and fairs, as any professor since the birth of the fourth grace of life,—swindling. He would talk until his head smoked of his list of miraculous cures—of his balsams, his anodynes, his elixirs; in the benevolence of his soul he would, to accommodate the pockets of the poor, sell a pennyworth of the philosopher’s stone; and, as a further illustration of his sympathy for suffering man or woman, give, even for a kreutzer, a mouthful of the Fountain of Youth. As a water-doctor, too, his Sagacity was inconceivable. A hundred years ago, he told to a fraction the amount of the national debt, from a single glance at the specimen sent him by JOHN BULL; and more, for five-and-twenty years predicted who would be the incoming Lord Mayor of London, from an inspection of a pint of water presented to him every season from Aldgate-pump. He could prophesy all the politics of the Court of Aldermen from a phial filled at Fleet-ditch; and could at any time—no trifling task—tell the amount of corruption in the House of Commons, by taking up a handful of water at Westminster-bridge. On his stolen visit to England—for the honour he has done our country has never been generally known—he calculated to a nicety how many puppies and kittens were annually drowned in the Thames, and how many suicides—particularising the sex and dress of each sufferer—were committed in the same period, from a bottlefull of Thames water brought to him wherewith to dilute his brandy at the Ship public house, Greenwich—a hostelry much frequented by Doctor TEUFELSKOPF. We have seen the calculation very beautifully illuminated on ass’s skin, and at this moment deposited in the college of Heligoland. It is not generally known that the Doctor died in this country; lustily predicting, however, that after a nap of a score or so of years he would return to this life in an entirely new character. The Doctor has kept his word. HERR VON TEUFELSKOPF, as Sir THOMAS BROWNE says, is “lived over again” in Sir ROBERT PEEL!

It is impossible to reflect upon the enlarged humanity of Sir ROBERT—for though, indeed, he is no other than the old German quack revived, we will not refuse to him his new name—toward the sufferers of Paisley, without feeling that the fine spirit of finesse which made the reputation of the student of the Black Forest has in no way suffered from its long sleep; but, on the contrary, has risen very much refreshed for new practice. The Doctor never compassed so fine a sleight as Sir ROBERT when lately, playing the philanthropist, he struck his breeches’ pocket with a spasm of benevolence, and pulled therefrom—fifty pounds! Only a few weeks before, Sir ROBERT had sworn by all his list of former cures, that he would clothe the naked and feed the hungry, if he were duly authorised and duly paid for such Christian-like solicitude. He is called in; he then prorogues Parliament to the tune of “Go to the devil and shake yourself,” and sits down in the easy chair of salary, and tries to think! Disturbed in his contemplations by the groans and screams of the famishing, he addresses the starving multitude from the windows of Downing-street, telling them he can do nothing for them in a large way, but—the fee he has received to cure them can afford as much—graciously throwing them fifty pounds from his private compassion! As a statesman he is powerless; but he has no objection to subscribe to the Mendicity Society.

It is an old hacknied abuse of NERO, that when Rome was in flame he accompanied the crackling of doors and rafters with his very best fiddle. We grant this showed a want of fine sympathy on the part of NERO; there was, nevertheless, a boldness, an exhibition of nerve, in such instrumentation. Any way, it leaves us with a higher respect for NERO than if he had been found playing on the burning Pantheon with a penny squirt. His mockery of the Romans, bad as it was, was not the mockery of compassion.

“I will make bread cheap for you,” says Sir ROBERT PEEL to the Paisley sufferers; “I will not enable you to buy the quartern loaf at a reduced rate by your own industry, but I will treat you to a penny roll, at its present size, from my own purse.” Whereupon the Tories clap their hands and cry, “What magnanimity!”

What should we say if, on another Pie-lane conflagration of London, the Minister were to issue an order commanding all the fire-offices to make no attempt to extinguish the flames, and were then to exclaim to the sufferers, “My friends, I deeply sympathize with you; but the Phœnix shall not budge, the Hand-in-Hand mustn’t move a finger, the Eagle must stay where it is; nevertheless, there is a little private fire-engine of my own at Tamworth; you are heartily welcome to the use of it, and pray heaven it may put this terrible fire out, and once more make you snug and comfortable.”

Quackery is of more ancient birth than many very honest people suspect; nay, more than, were the register of its nativity laid before their eyes, they would be willing to admit. We have no space for its voluminous history; but it is our belief, since quackery first plied its profitable trade with human incredulity, it never perpetrated so successful a trick as that exhibited by Sir ROBERT PEEL in his motion of want of confidence. The first scene of the farce is only begun. We have seen how Sir ROBERT has snatched the cards out of the hands of the Whigs, and shall find how he will play the self-same trumps assorted by his opponents. A change is already coming over the Conservatives; they are meek and mild, and, with their pocket handkerchiefs at their eyes, lisp about the distresses of the people. “When the geese gaggle,” says a rustic saw, “expect a change of weather.” Lord LONDONDERRY has already begun to talk of an alteration of the Corn-laws.

“Who knows what a minister may be compelled to do?” says Lord LONDONDERRY. These are new words for the old harridan Toryism. She was wont, like Falstaff, to blow out her cheeks and defy compulsion. But the truth is, Toryism has a new host to contend with. Her old reign was supported by fictitious credit—by seeming prosperity—and, more than all, by the ignorance of the people. Well, the bills drawn by Toryism (at a long date we grant) have now to be paid—paper is to be turned into Bank gold. Arithmetic is a great teacher, and, with the taxman’s ink horn at his button-hole, gives at every door lessons that sink into the heart of the scholar. Public opinion, which, in the good old days “when George the Third was king,” was little more than an abstraction—a thing talked of, not acknowledged—is now a tangible presence. The said public opinion is now formed of hundreds of thousands whose existence, save in the books of the Exchequer, was scarcely admitted by any reigning minister. Sir ROBERT PEEL has now to give in his reckoning to the hard-heads of Manchester, of Birmingham, of Leeds—he must pass his books with them, and tens of thousands of their scholars scattered throughout the kingdom; or, three months after the next meeting of Parliament, he is nought.

At this moment, it is said, Sir ROBERT is studying what taxes he can best lay upon the people. We confess to the difficulty of the case. At this moment there is scarcely a feather so light, the addition of which will not crack the camel’s back. No; Sir ROBERT will come to the Whig measures of relief, having so disguised them as, like Plagiary’s metaphors, to make them pass for his own. The object of himself and party is, however, attained. He has juggled himself into place. With the genius of his former existence, as TEUFELSKOPF, the Premier has shuffled himself into Downing-street; and there he will leave nothing untried that he may remain. “If Cato gets drunk, then is drunkenness no shame”—“If Sir ROBERT PEEL alter the Corn-laws, then is it proper that the Corn-laws should be changed.” This will be the cry of the Conservatives; and we shall see men, who before would have vowed themselves to slow starvation before they would admit an ear of wheat from Poland or Egypt, vote for a sliding-scale or no scale at all, as their places and the strength of their party may be best assured.

Doctor VON TEUFELSKOPF for years of his life was wont to eat fire and swallow a sword. We shall see how once more Sir ROBERT PEEL will eat his own principles—swallow his own words. When men call this apostacy, the Doctor will blandly smile, and denominate it a sacrifice to public opinion. We have no doubt that, as long as he can, the Premier will put off the remedy; he will try this and that; but at length public opinion will compel him to cast aside his own nostrums and use RUSSELL’S—bread pills!

Q.

EPIGRAMS ON A LOUD AND SILLY TALKER. If it be true man’s tongue is like a steed,

Which bears his mind,—why then, none wonder need,

That Timlin’s tongue can run at such a rate,

Because it only carries—feather weight.

When Timlin speaks, his voice so shrill and loud

Fills with amazement all the list’ning crowd;

But soon the wonder ceases, when ’tis found

That empty vessels make the greatest sound.

PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XVII. [pg 199] A man gives a paper marked '£200,000' to a man behind a desk marked 'Treasury' SIR ROBERT MACAIRE

ENDEAVOURING TO DO AN EXCHEQUER BILL.

[pg 201] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. 6.—OF THE GRINDER AND HIS CLASS. Two people kiss through a frame in the shape of the letter O. ne fine morning, in the October of the third winter session, the student is suddenly struck by the recollection that at the end of the course the time will arrive for him to be thinking about undergoing the ordeals of the Hall and College. Making up his mind, therefore, to begin studying in earnest, he becomes a pro tempore member of a temperance society, pledging himself to abstain from immoderate beer for six months: he also purchases a coffee-pot, a reading-candlestick, and Steggall’s Manual; and then, contriving to accumulate five guineas to pay a “grinder,” he routs out his old note-books from the bottom of his box, and commences to “read for the Hall.”

Aspirants to honours in law, physic, or divinity, each know the value of private cramming—a process by which their brains are fattened, by abstinence from liquids and an increase of dry food (some of it very dry), like the livers of Strasbourg geese. There are grinders in each of these three professional classes; but the medical teacher is the man of the most varied and eccentric knowledge. Not only is he intimately acquainted with the different branches required to be studied, but he is also master of all their minutiæ. In accordance with the taste of the examiners, he learns and imparts to his class at what degree of heat water boils in a balloon—how the article of commerce, Prussian blue, is more easily and correctly defined as the Ferrosesquicyanuret of the cyanide of potassium—why the nitrous oxyde, or laughing gas, induces people to make such asses of themselves; and, especially, all sorts of individual inquiries, which, if continued at the present rate, will range from “Who discovered the use of the spleen?” to “Who killed cock robin?” for aught we know. They ask questions at the Hall quite as vague as these.

It is twelve o’clock at noon. In a large room, ornamented by shelves of bottles and preparations, with varnished prints of medical plants and cases of articulated bones and ligaments, a number of young men are seated round a long table covered with baize, in the centre of whom an intellectual-looking man, whose well-developed forehead shows the amount of knowledge it can contain, is interrogating by turns each of the students, and endeavouring to impress the points in question on their memories by various diverting associations. Each of his pupils, as he passes his examination, furnishes him with a copy of the subjects touched upon; and by studying these minutely, the private teacher forms a pretty correct idea of the general run of the “Hall questions.”

“Now, Mr. Muff,” says the gentleman to one of his class, handing him a bottle of something which appears like specimens of a chestnut colt’s coat after he had been clipped; “what’s that, sir?”

“That’s cow-itch, sir,” replies Mr. Muff.

“Cow what? You must call it at the Hall by its botanical name—dolichos pruriens. What is it used for?”

“To strew in people’s beds that you owe a grudge to,” replies Muff; whereat all the class laugh, except the last comer, who takes it all for granted, and makes a note of the circumstance in his interleaved manual.

“That answer would floor you,” continues the grinder. “The dolichos is used to destroy worms. How does it act, Mr. Jones?” going on to the next pupil—a man in a light cotton cravat and no shirt collar, who looks very like a butler out of place.

“It tickles them to death, sir,” answers Mr. Jones.

“You would say it acts mechanically,” observes the grinder. “The fine points stick into the worms and kill them. They say, ‘Is this a dagger which I see before me?’ and then die. Recollect the dagger, Mr. Jones, when you go up. Mr. Manhug, what do you consider the best sudorific, if you wanted to throw a person into a perspiration?”

Mr. Manhug, who is the wag of the class, finishes, in rather an abrupt manner, a song he was humming, sotto voce, having some allusion to a peer who was known as Thomas, Lord Noddy, having passed a night at a house of public entertainment in the Old Bailey previous to an execution. He then takes a pinch of snuff, winks at the other pupils as much as to say, “See me tackle him, now;” and replies, “The gallery door of Covent Garden on Boxing-night.”

“Now, come, be serious for once, Mr. Manhug,” continues the teacher; “what else is likely to answer the purpose?”

“I think a run up Holborn-hill, with two Ely-place knockers on your arm, and three policemen on your heels, might have a good effect,” answers Mr. Manhug.

“Do you ever think you will pass the Hall, if you go on at this rate?” observes the teacher, in a tone of mild reproach.

“Not a doubt of it, sir,” returns the imperturbable Manhug. “I’ve passed it twenty times within this last month, and did not find any very great difficulty about it; neither do I expect to, unless they block up Union- street and Water-lane.”

The grinder gives Mr. Manhug up as a hopeless case, and goes on to the next. “Mr. Rapp, they will be very likely to ask you the composition of the compound gamboge pill: what is it made of?”

Mr. Rapp hasn’t the least idea.

“Remember, then, it is composed of cambogia, aloes, ginger, and soap—C, A, G, S,—cags. Recollect Cags, Mr. Rapp. What would you do if you were sent for to a person poisoned by oxalic acid?”

“Give him some chalk,” returns Mr. Rapp.

“But suppose you had not got any chalk, what would you substitute?”

“Oh, anything; pipeclay and soapsuds.”

“Yes, that’s all very right; but we will presume you could not get any pipeclay and soapsuds; in fact, that there was nothing in the house. What would you do then?”

Mr. Manhug cries out from the bottom of the table—“Let him die and be ——!”

“Now, Mr. Manhug, I really must entreat of you to be more steady,” interrupts the professor. “You would scrape the ceiling with the fire- shovel, would you not? Plaster contains lime, and lime is an antidote. Recollect that, if you please. They like you to say you would scrape the ceiling, at the Hall: they think it shows a ready invention in emergency. Mr. Newcome, you have heard the last question and answer?”

“Yes sir,” says the fresh arrival, as he finishes making a note of it.

“Well; you are sent for, to a man who has hung himself. What would be your first endeavour?”

“To scrape the ceiling with the fire-shovel,” mildly observes Mr. Newcome; whereupon the class indulges in a hearty laugh, and Mr. Newcome blushes as deep as the red bull’s-eye of a New-road doctor’s lamp.

“What would you do, Mr. Manhug? perhaps you can inform Mr. Newcome.”

“Cut him down, sir,” answers the indomitable farceur.

“Well, well,” continues the teacher; “but we will presume he has been cut down. What would you strive to do next?”

“Cut him up, sir, if the coroner would give an order for a post mortem examination.”

“We have had no chemistry this morning,” observes one of the pupils.

“Very well, Mr. Rogers; we will go on with it if you wish. How would you endeavour to detect the presence of gold in any body?”

“By begging the loan of a sovereign, sir,” interrupts Mr. Manhug.

“If he knew you as well as I do, Manhug,” observes Mr. Jones, “he’d be sure to lend it—oh, yes!—I should rayther think so, certainly,” whereupon Mr. Jones compresses his nostril with the thumb of his right hand, and moves his fingers as if he was performing a concerto on an imaginary one handed flageolet.

“Mr. Rapp, what is the difference between an element and a compound body?”

Mr. Rapp is again obliged to confess his ignorance.

“A compound body is composed of two or more elements,” says the grinder, “in various proportions. Give me an example, Mr. Jones.”

“Half-and-half is a compound body, composed of the two elements, ale and porter, the proportion of the porter increasing in an inverse ratio to the respectability of the public-house you get it from,” replies Mr. Jones.

The professor smiles, and taking up a Pharmacopœia, says, “I see here directions for evaporating certain liquids ‘in a water-bath.’ Mr. Newcome, what is the most familiar instance of a water-bath you are acquainted with?”

“In High Holborn, sir; between Little Queen-street and Drury-lane,” returns Mr. Newcome.

“A water-bath means a vessel placed in boiling-water. Mr. Newcome, to keep it at a certain temperature. If you are asked at the Hall for the most familiar instance, they like you to say a carpenter’s glue-pot.”

And in like manner the grinding-class proceeds.

[pg 202] THE LORD MAYORS AND THE QUEEN. By the Correspondent of the Observer.

The interesting condition of Her Majesty is a source of the most agonising suspense to the Lord Mayors of London and Dublin, who, if a Prince of Wales is not born before their period of office expires, will lose the chance of being created baronets.

According to rumour, the baby—we beg pardon, the scion of the house of Brunswick—was to have been born—we must apologise again; we should say was to have been added to the illustrious stock of the reigning family of Great Britain—some day last month, and of course the present Lord Mayors had comfortably made up their minds that they should be entitled to the dignity it is customary to confer on such occasions as that which the nation now ardently anticipates. But here we are at the beginning of November, and no Prince of Wales. We have reason to know that the Lord Mayor of London has not slept a wink since Saturday, and his lady has not smiled, according to an authority on which we are accustomed to rely, since Thursday fortnight. Some say it is done on purpose, because the present official is a Tory; and others insinuate that the Prince of Wales is postponed in order that there may be an opportunity of making Daniel O’Connell a baronet. Others suggest that there will be twins presented to the nation! one on the night of the 8th of November, the other on the morning of the 9th, so as to conciliate both parties; but we are not disposed at present to pronounce a decided opinion on this part of the question. We know that politics have been carried most indelicately into the very heart of the Royal Household; but we hope, for the honour of all parties, that the confinement of the Queen is not to be made a matter of political arrangement. If it is, we can only say that it will be most indecent, we might almost venture to say unbecoming; but our dislike to the use of strong language is well known, or at least it ought to be.

If there are any other particulars, we shall give them in a second edition; that is to say, if we should have anything to add, and should think it worth while to publish another impression for the purpose of stating it.

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—No. 10. You talk of love—I would believe

Thy words were truth;

Nor deem that thou wouldst e’er deceive

My artless youth:

But when we part,

Within my heart

A small voice whispers low—

Beware! Beware!

Fond girl, the snare!

it’s all no go!

You talk of love—yet would betray

The heart you seek,

And smile upon its slow decay,

If ’twould not break.

In vain you swear

That I am fair,

That heaven is on my lip!

I know each vow

Is worthless now;

A couple embraces; the man points angrily at his lips. YOU’VE MISS’D YOUR TIP.

THE TWO NEW EQUITY JUDGES. “Between the two new Equity Courts, the suitors in Chancery will be much better off than formerly”—said Fitzroy Kelly, lately, to an intimate. “Undoubtedly,” replied the friend, “they may now choose between the frying-pan and the fire.”

MR. PUNCH, ARTIST IN PHILOSOPHY AND FIREWORKS11. Baylis., BEGS TO INFORM THE HOBBEDEHOYITY AND INFANTRY OF THE METROPOLIS AND THE WORLD IN GENERAL, That, for the proper commemoration of the anniversary of the 5th of November, he had engaged the services of the following

EMINENT THAMESIAN INCENDIARIES. SIR PETER LAURIE, to furnish materials for squibs.

MR. ROEBUCK, for flower-pots, containing the beautiful figure of a genealogical tree.

COLONEL SIBTHORP, for sky-rockets being constructed after his own plan; warranted to flare up at starting, and to come down—a stick.

DANIEL O’CONNELL, Esq., for the importation of Roman candles,

MR. WAKLEY, SIR JAMES GRAHAM, LORD STANLEY, and SIR FRANCIS BURDETT, for Catherine-wheels, which are guaranteed to turn round with great celerity, and to exhibit curious designs.

LORD MINTO, for Chinese fire, prepared from the recipes of his gallant relative, the Honourable Captain Elliot, which have been procured at an immense outlay.—(See next year’s “Budget.”)

The MARQUIS OF WATERFORD, the celebrated Purveyor to the Police Force in general, for the supply of crackers.

MR. CHARLES PEARSON, for port-fires.

SIR ROBERT PEEL, assisted by his CABINET, for a golden rain.

*** A large supply of these articles always on hand. Apply at Mr. P.’s Office every Saturday.

AN EXTRACT FROM THE SPECTATOR. Carter, the lion-tamer, previous to his late exhibition, when the tiger broke loose, had given an order to an old acquaintance to come and witness his performance; by great good luck, he and the rest of the affrighted spectators effected their escape; but he was heard vehemently declaring he had been deceived in the most beastly manner, as he would not have come but that he supposed he was

A man looks through a window at another man holding a woman on his lap. LOOKING IN UPON A FRIEND.

SHIP NEWS. Off Battersea Mills, in the reeds, La Gitana (wherry Z.9), Execution Dock, with loss of sculls; deserted. On nearing her, discovered the Master with his wooden leg in the mud, to which he had made fast the head-line, with his left leg over his right shoulder, high and dry.

A boat, supposed to belong to the Union Aquatic Sons of Shop Walkers, was washed ashore on Hungerford Muds, with an old ribbon-box, apparently used for a sea-chest, containing wearing apparel, 1s. 8d. in fourpenny pieces, and sundry small pieces of paper, with “Dry,” sign of the “Three Balls,” printed thereon, and endorsed, “Shawl, 3s. 6d., 30 remnants of ribbon 7s. 6d., waistcoat satin, 1 yard 3s. 6d.,” &c. &c. The crew supposed to have abandoned her off the “Swan,” where they were seen in a state of beer.

CAUSE AND EFFECT. A great fall of chalk occurred at Mertsham on the Brighton Railway on last Thursday morning; a corresponding fall in milk took place in London on the following day.

[pg 203] SHOULD THIS MEET THE EYE— A man pushes a barrel marked 'Garden Engine' which is pouring liquid into a nearby woman's mouth. of Sir ROBERT PEEL, LORD STANLEY, or any of Her Majesty’s Ministers, in want of an active cad, or light porter; the advertiser, a young man at present out of place, would be anxious to make himself generally useful, and is not particular in what capacity. Respectability not so great an object as a good salary. Application to be made to T. WAKLEY, at the Rad’s Arms, Turn’em Green.

HARD AND FAST. That very slow coach, and would be “faster,” the licensed to-carry-no-thing-inside “Bernard Cavannah,” has been recently confined in a room, wherein he has lived upon the “cameleon’s dish,” eating the air—“jugged,” we presume. Wakley declares he is an impostor; but as he has an interest in an inquest, and Bernard survives, this may be attributed to professional disappointment. Dr. Elliotson declares, from his own experience, any man can live upon nothing. The whole medical profession are getting to very high words; Anglice,—indulging in very low language. The fraternity of physicians, apothecaries, and surgeons, are growing so warm upon the living subject, that we may shortly expect to witness a beautiful tableau vivant of

A man hits another man with a pail on his head. SURGERE IN ARMIS.

PUNCH’S THEATRE. MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE. Let every amateur, professor, and enthusiastic raver concerning “native talent” go down on his knees, and, after the manner of the ancient heathen, return thanksgiving unto Apollo for having at last sent us a singer who knows her business! One who can sing as if she had a soul; who can act as if she were not acting, but existing amidst reality; who is, in short, a performer entirely new to the British stage; to whom we have not a parallel example to produce,—a heroine of the lyric drama.

Such, in the most exalted sense of the term, is Miss Adelaide Kemble. Unlike nearly every other English singer, she has not set up with the small stock-in-trade of a good voice, and learned singing on the stage; making the public pay for her tuition. On the contrary, nature has manifestly not been bountiful to her in this respect. Her voice—the mere organ—may have been in her earlier years exceeded in quality by many other vocalists. But what is it now? Perfect in intonation; its lower tones forcible; the middle voice firm and full; the upper interval sweet and rich beyond comparison.

But how comes this? How has this moderately-good organ been brought to such perfection? By a process not very prevalent amongst English singers—practice the most constant, study the most unwearied. Punch will bet a wager with any sporting dilettante that Miss Kemble has sung more while learning her art, than many old stagers while professing and practising it.

She seems, then,—as far as one may judge of that kind of perfection—a perfect mistress of her voice; she can do what she likes with it, she can sustain a note in any part of the soprano compass—swell, diminish, and keep it exactly to the same pitch for an incredible space of time. She can burst forth a torrent of sound expressive of our strongest passions, without losing an atom of tone, and she can diminish it to a whisper, in sotto voce, as distinct as it is thrilling and true intonation.

Having obtained this vocal mastery, she has unfettered energies to devote to her acting; which, in Norma, has all the elements of tragic dignity—all the tenderness of natural feeling. In one word, Miss Kemble is a mistress of every branch of her art; and we can now say, what we have so seldom had an opportunity to boast of, that our English stage possesses a singer who is also an actress and musician!

The opera is excellently put upon the stage. Miss Kemble, or somebody else, electrified the choruses; for, wonderful to relate, they condescended to act—to perform—to pretend to be what they are meant for! Never was so efficient, so well-disciplined, so unanimous a chorus heard or seen before on the English stage. The chorus-master deserves everybody’s, and has our own, especial commendations.

NINA SFORZA. A new melo-drama in five acts, by a gentleman who rejoices in exactly the same number of titles—namely, “R. Zouch S. Troughton, Esquire”—made its appearance for Miss H. Fancit’s benefit on Monday last, at the Haymarket.

The old-fashioned recipe for cooking up a melo-dramatic hero has been strictly followed in “Nina Sforza.” Raphael Doria, the heir-apparent to the dukedom of Genoa, is a man about town in Venice—is accompanied, on most occasions, by a faithful friend and a false one—saves the heroine from drowning, and, of course, falls in love with her on the spot, or rather on the water. She, of course, returns the passion; but is, as usual, loved by the villain—a regular thorough-paced Mephistopheles of the Surrey or Sadler’s Wells genus. These ingredients, having been carefully compounded in the first act, are—quite selon les règles—allowed to simmer till the end of the fourth, and to boil over in the fifth. Thus we have a tragedy after the manner of those lively productions that flourished in the time of Garrick; when Young, Murphy, and Francklin were Melpomene’s head-cooks.

Modern innovation has, however, added a sprinkle of spice to the hashes of the above-named school. This is most commonly thrown in, by giving to the stock-villain a dash of humour or sarcasm, so as to bring out his savagery in bolder relief. He is also invested with an unaccountable influence over the hero, who can on no account be made to see his bare and open treachery till about the middle of the fifth act, when the dupe’s eyes must be opened in time for the catastrophe.

These improvements have been carefully introduced into the present old new tragedy. Ugone Spinola is the presiding genius of Doria’s woes: and dogs him about for the pleasure of making him miserable. He is a finished epicure in revenge; picking little tit-bits of it with the most savage gôut all through; but particularly towards the end of the play. This taste was, it seems, first acquired in consequence of a feud that formerly existed between Doria’s family and his own, in which his side came off so decidedly second-best, that he only remains of his race; all the rest having been murdered by Doria and his father’s faction. From such deadly foes, it may be observed, that tragic heroes always select their most trusted friends.

Doria’s father dies, and Nina’s consents to his marriage; so that we see them, at the opening of the third act, the picture of connubial bliss, in a garden belonging to the Duke’s palace at Genoa, exchanging sentiments which would be doubtless extremely tender if they were quite intelligible. A great deal is said about genius being like love; which gives rise to a simile touching a rose-bud in a poor poet’s window, and other incoherencies quite natural for persons to utter who are supposed to be in love. This peaceful scene is interrupted by an alarm of war; and the Prince goes to fight the Florentines.

The battle takes place between the acts; and we next see the Genoese halting near their city after a victory. Doria, who in the first act has been represented to us as an exceedingly gay young fellow, is here described as indulging, in his tent, his old propensities; having brought away, with other trophies, a fair Florentine, who is diverting him with her guitar at that moment. This is excellent news for Spinola; the more so as we are soon made to understand that Nina, being impatient of her husband’s return, has fled to his tent to meet him, and discovers the fair Florentine in the very act of guitar-playing, and her spouse in the midst of his raptures thereat.

A scene follows, in which Spinola, as a new edition of Iago, and Nina, in the form of a female Othello, get scope for a great variety of that kind of acting which performers call “effective.” The wife—in this scene really well-drawn—will not believe Doria’s falsehood, in spite of strong [pg 204]circumstantial evidence. Spinola offers to strengthen it; and the last scene of this act—the fourth—presents a highly melo-dramatic situation. It is a street scene; and Spinola has brought Nina to watch her husband into her rival’s house. She sees him approach it—he wavers—she hopes he will pass the door. Alas, he does not, and actually goes in! Of course she swoons and falls. So does the act drop.

The entire business of the last act is to bring about the catastrophe; and, as not one step towards it has been previously taken, there is no time to lose. Spinola, therefore, is made not to mince the matter, but to come boldly on at once, with a bottle of poison! This he blandly insinuates to Nina might be used with great effect upon her husband, so as effectually to put a stop to future intrigues with any forthcoming fair Florentines. She, however, declines putting the poison to any such use; but, nevertheless, honours Spinola’s draught, by accepting it. The villain expresses himself extremely grateful for her condescension, and exits, to make way for Doria.

Directly he appears, you at once perceive that he has done something exceedingly naughty, for his countenance is covered with remorse and a certain white powder which is the stage specific for pallor. The lady complains of being unwell, and her husband kindly advises her to go to bed. She replies, that she has a cordial within which will soon restore her, and entreats her beloved lord to administer the potion with his own dear hand; he consents—and they both retire, and the audience shudders, because they pretty well guess that she is going to toss off the dose, of which Spinola has been the dispensing chemist.

And here we may be forgiven for a short digression on the subject of the dramatic Materia Medica, and poison-ology. The sleeping draughts of the stage are, for example, generally speaking, uncommon specimens of chemical perfection. When taken—even if the patient be ever so well shaken—nothing on earth, or on the stage, can wake him after the cue for his going to sleep, and before the cue for his getting up, have been given; while it never allows him to dose an instant longer than the plot of the piece requires. Then as to poisons; there are some which kill the taker dead on the spot, like a fly in a bottle of prussic acid; others, which—swallowed with a sort of time-bargain—are warranted to do the business within a few seconds of so many hours hence; others again there are (particularly adapted for villains) that cause the most incessant torment, which nothing can relieve but death; a fourth compound (always administered to such characters as Nina Sforza) are peculiarly mild in their operation—no stomach-ache—no contortions—but still effectual.

The contents of the phial given to Nina by Spinola are compounded of the second and fourth of these formulæ. The drink, though deadly, is guaranteed to be a mild, rather-pleasant-than-otherwise poison, warranted to operate at a given hour; one calculated to allow the heroine plenty of time to die, and to make her go off in great physical comfort.

Nina has taken the poison; but, having a peculiar desire to die at home, orders a “trusty page” to provide horses for herself and attendant secretly, at the northern gate, that she may return to her native Venice. With this determination we lose sight of her.

Doria is aroused by a hunting-party who have risen so early that they seem to have forgotten to take off their nightcaps, to which the Italian hood, as worn by the Haymarket hunters, bears an obstinate resemblance. The Prince discovers his wife has fled, and orders his chasseurs to divert their attention from the game they had purposed to ride to cover for, and to hunt up the missing Nina.

“In the deep recesses of a wood” Spinola and Doria meet, the latter having, by some instinct, found out his pseudo-friend’s treachery; of course they fight: Doria falls; but Spinola is too great a glutton in revenge to kill him till he knows of his wife’s death, so, after gloating over his prostrate enemy, and poking him about with his rapier for several minutes, all he does is to steal his sword; this being found upon him by some of the hunters, who meet him quite by accident, they suppose he has killed Doria, and so kill him. Thus, Spinola being disposed of, there are only two more that are left to die.

In her flight Nina has been taken unwell—with the poison—just in that part of the forest where her spouse is left, by his enemy, in a swoon. They meet, and she dies in his arms. Two being now defunct, only one remains; but there is some difficulty in getting rid of Doria, for he is (as is always the case when a stage felo-de-se impends) unprovided with a weapon. Going up to his trusty friend D’Estala, he engages him in talk, and, with the dexterity of a footpad, steals his dagger, and stabs himself. All the principal characters being now dead, the piece cannot go on, and the curtain drops.

A word or two on the merits of Nina Sforza. There are two classes of dramatists who are just now contending for fame—those who cannot get their plays acted because they are not dramatic, and those who can, because their pieces are merely dramatic. Mr.—we beg pardon, R. Zouch S. Troughton, Esquire,—belongs to the latter class. He is evidently well acquainted with the mechanics of the stage; he knows all about “situation”—that is, sacrificing nature to startling effect. His language is essentially dramatic, and only fails where it aims at being poetical. His characters, too, are not drawn from life, from nature, but are copied—and cleverly copied—from other characters that strut about in the “stock” tragedies of Rowe et hoc genus. The fable, or plot, is deficient, from the absence of one sustaining, pervading incident to excite, and keep up a progressive interest. With every new act a new circumstance arises, which, though it is in some instances (especially in the fourth act) conducted with great skill, yet the interest it produces is not sustained, being made to give place to the author’s succeeding effort to get up a new “situation” by a new incident. Though the tragedy possesses little originality, it will, from its melo- dramatic and exciting character, be most likely a very successful one. Besides, it is very well acted, by Miss Faucit, Wallack, and Macready, as Spinola; which, being a most unnatural character, is well calculated for so conventional an actor as Macready.

The author will doubtless become a successful dramatist, because he has taken the trouble to learn what is proper for, and effective on, the stage. Having gained that acquirement, if he will now study nature, and put men and women upon the stage that act and speak like real mortals, we may safely predict an honourable dramatic career for Mr. ——; but our space is limited, and we can’t afford enough of it to print his names a third time.

THE QUADROON SLAVE. A new discussion of the Slave question seems to have been much wanted on the stage. It is, alas, the black truth that “The Slave” par excellence, in spite of the brothers Sharpset and Bishop’s music, ceases to interest. The woes of “Gambia” have been turned into ridicule by the capers of “Jim Crow,” and the twin pleasantries of “Jim along Josey.” Since the moral British public gave away twenty millions to emancipate the black population, and to raise the price of brown sugars, they are not nearly so sweet upon the niggers as formerly; for they discover that, now Cæsar being “massa-pated, him no work—dam if he do!”

To meet this dramatic exigency, the “Quadroon Slave” has been produced. It may be classed as an argumentative drama; carried on with that stage logic which always makes the heroine get the best of it. The emancipation side of the question is supported by Julie, ably backed by Vincent St. George, but opposed by Alfred Pelham; and the lingual combatants rush in medias res at the very rising of the curtain—the “house,” immediately taking sides, vehemently applauding the arguments of their respective favourites. Vincent St. George—ably entrusted to that interesting advocate Mr. J. Webster—opened the discussion by protesting against the flogging system, especially as applied to females. Alfred Pelham answered him; the reply being taken up by the heroine Julie in broken French, because she is personated by Madlle. Celeste. The state of parties as here developed turns out to be curious. The heroine, a quadroon, is on the point of matrimonial union with her antagonist, and openly resents the tender advances of her ally. “Call ye this backing of your friends?” Vincent St. George, disgusted at such gross tergiversation, flies entirely away from the point at issue, and applies those remarks to Julie which all disappointed lovers seem to be bound to utter in such cases. Indeed, on the re-appearance of his rival, he challenges him—unblushingly forsaking every branch of the main point, by engaging in a long and not very lively discourse on the subject of duelling; amidst, however, impatient cries of “question!” “question!” from the audience.

This brings Vincent back to the point, and with a vengeance! Like a great many other orators on the liberal side of the black question, he is a slave-owner himself, having—as his “attorney” Vipper is careful to tell us—no fewer than two hundred and eight of those animals. Now, before he took upon himself to become an emancipationist, he might—one cannot help thinking—have had the decency—like Saint Fowell Buxton—to sell his slaves to somebody else, and to come into court with clean hands. But so far from doing so, Vipper having discovered that Julie is a run-away slave from Vincent’s estate, just as she is ending the first act by going to be married, the latter takes the whole of the second act to claim her!

Though the argufiers change sides on account of the change of affairs—Vincent insisting, as liberals so often do, upon his vested rights in Julie as opposed to Pelham’s matrimonial ones—though the heroine renders her pathetics affecting by a prostration or two before the rivals—though she rushes upon a parapet to commit suicide—though she is saved, and at length succeeds by force of mere argument to get her new-found master to give her up to her husband; yet this second act was somewhat dull; insomuch that the audience did not seem to regret when the curtain dropped the subject, and announced their own emancipation from the theatre.

Besides the parts we have named, Webster the elder played a Telemachus Hearty, who, further than skipping about the stage, talking very fast, and making himself not altogether disagreeable, had no more to do with the piece than his namesake, or Fénélon Archbishop of Cambray himself.

This attempt to discuss moot points upon the stage—to turn as it were the theatre into a debating society—will certainly not succeed. Audiences—especially Haymarket ones—have a taste for being amused rather than reasoned with; besides, those on that side of the question which the author chooses shall be the weaker, do not like to see the stage- orators get the upper hand, without having a chance of answering them. Even dancing is preferred by them to didactics, though it be

A minstrel conducts a dog's barking. A PAS SEUL TO A BARK-AROLE.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. NOVEMBER 13, 1841. [pg 205] THE BIRTH OF THE PRINCE OF WALES. (By the Observer’s own Correspondent.)

It will be seen that we were not premature in announcing the probability of the birth of a Prince of Wales; and though it was impossible that any one should be able to speak with certainty, our positive tone upon the occasion serves to show the exclusive nature of all our intelligence. We are enabled now to state that the Prince will immediately take, indeed he has already taken, the title of Prince of Wales, which it is generally understood he will enjoy—at least if a child so young can be said to enjoy anything of the kind—until an event shall happen which we hope will be postponed for a very protracted period. The Prince of Wales, should he survive his mother, will ascend the throne; but whether he will be George the Fifth, Albert the First, Henry the Ninth, Charles the Third, or Anything the Nothingth, depends upon circumstances we are not at liberty to allude to—at present; nor do we think we shall be enabled to do so in a second edition.

Our suggestion last week, that the royal birth should take place on Lord Mayor’s Day, has, we are happy to see, been partially attended to; but we regret that the whole hog has not been gone, by twins having been presented to the anxious nation, so that there might have been a baronetcy each for the outgoing and incoming Lord Mayors of Dublin and London. Perhaps, however, it might have been attended with difficulty to follow our advice to the very letter; but we nevertheless think it might have been arranged; though if others think otherwise, we, of course, have nothing further to say upon the matter alluded to.

We very much regret to make an announcement, and are glad at being the first to do so, though we are sorry to advert to the subject, touching an alarming symptom in the Princess Royal. Her Royal Highness, ever since the birth of the Prince, whom we think we may now venture to call her brother, has suffered from an affection of the nose, which is said to be quite out of joint since the royal stranger (for we hope we may take the liberty of alluding to the Prince of Wales as a stranger, for he is a stranger to us, at least we have never seen him) came into existence.

We hear it on good authority that when the Princess was taken to see her brother, Her Royal Highness, who begins to articulate a few sounds, exclaimed, “Tar!” with unusual emphasis. It is supposed, from this simple but affecting circumstance, that the Prince of Wales will eventually become a Tar, and perhaps regain for his country the undisputed dominion of the seas, which, by-the-bye, has not been questioned, and probably will not be, in which case the naval attributes of His Royal Highness will not be brought into activity.

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. Master Smith took an airing on the 5th, accompanied by a Guy Fawkes and a very numerous suite. In the evening there was a select circle, and a bonfire.

Mr. Baron Nathan and family are still at Kennington. The Baron danced the college hornpipe, last Wednesday, on one leg, before a party of private friends; and the Honourable Miss Nathan went through the Cracovienne, amidst twenty-four coffee-cups and an inverted pitcher, surmounted by a very long champagne-glass. Upon inspecting the cups after the graceful performance was concluded, there was not a chip upon one of them. The champagne glass, though it frequently rattled in its perilous position, retained it through the whole of the dance, and was carefully picked up at its conclusion by the Baroness, who we were happy to find looking in more than her usual health, and enjoying her accustomed spirits.

Bill Bunks has a new feline provisional equipage ready to launch. The body is a dark black, and the wheels are of the same rich colour, slightly picked out here and there with a chalk stripe. The effect altogether is very light and pretty, particularly as the skewers to be used are all new, and the board upon which the ha’porths are cut has been recently planed with much nicety.

The travelling menagerie at the foot of Waterloo-bridge was visited yesterday by several loungers. Amongst the noses poked through the wires of the cage, we remarked several belonging to children of the mobility. The spirited proprietor has added another mouse to his collection, which may now be pronounced the first—speaking, of course, Surreysideically—in (entering) London.

SONGS FOR CATARRHS. “The variable climate of our native land,” as Rowland the Minstrel of Macassar has elegantly expressed it, like a Roman epicure, deprives our nightingales of their tongues, and the melodious denizens of our drawing-rooms of their “sweet voices.”

Vainly has Crevelli raised a bulwark of lozenges against the Demon of Catarrh! Soreness will invade the throat, and noses run in every family, seeming to be infected with a sentimental furor for blooming—we presume from being so newly blown. We have seen noses chiseled, as it were, from an alabaster block, grow in one short day scarlet as our own, as though they blushed for the continual trouble they were giving their proprietors; whilst the peculiar intonation produced by the conversion of the nasals into liquids, and then of the liquids ultimately into mutes, leads to the inference that there must be a stoppage about the bridge, and should be placarded, like that of Westminster, “No thoroughfare.”

It has been generally supposed that St. Cecilia with a cold in her head would be incompetent to “Nix my Dolly;” and this erroneous and popular prejudice is continually made the excuse for vocal inability during the winter months. Now the effect which we have before described upon the articulation of the catarrhed would be, in our opinion, so far from displeasing, that we feel it would amply compensate for any imperfections of tune. For instance, what can be finer than the alteration it would produce in the well-known ballad of “Oh no, we never mention her!”—a ballad which has almost become wearisome from its sweetness and repetition. With a catarrh the words would run thus:—

“O lo, we lever beltiol her,

Her labe is lever heard.”

Struck with this modification of sound, PUNCH, anxious to cater even for the catarrhs of his subscribers, begs to furnish them with a “calzolet,” which he trusts will be of more service to harmonic meetings than pectoral lozenges and paregoric, as we have anticipated the cold by converting every m into b, and every n into l.

A SONG FOR A CATARRH. By Bary Alle is like the sul,

Whel at the dawl it flilgs

Its goldel sbiles of light upol

Earth’s greel and lolely thilgs.

Il vail I sue, I olly wil

Frob her a scorlful frowl;

But sool as I by prayers begil,

She cries O lo! begole.

Yes! yes! the burthel of her solg

Is lo! lo! lo! begole!

By Bary Alle is like the mool,

Whel first her silver sheel,

Awakes the lightilgale’s soft tule,

That else had silelt beel.

But Bary Alle, like darkest light,

Ol be, alas! looks dowl;

Her sbiles ol others beab their light,

Her frowls are all by owl.

I’ve but ole burthel to by solg—

Her frowls are all by owl.

“POSSUM UP A GUM TREE!” A grand gladiatorial tongue-threshing took place lately in a field near Paisley, between the two great Chartist champions—Feargus O’Connor and the Rev. Mr. Brewster. The subject debated was, Whether is moral or physical force the fitter instrument for obtaining the Charter? The Doctor espoused the moral hocussing system, and Feargus took up the bludgeon for physical force. After a pretty considerable deal of fireworks had been let off on both sides, it was agreed to divide the field, when Feargus, waving his hat, ascended into a tree, and called upon his friends to follow him. But, alas! few answered to the summons,—he was left in a miserable minority; and the Doctor, as the Yankees say, decidedly “put the critter up a tree.” Feargus, being a Radical, should have kept to the root instead of venturing into the higher branches of political economy. At all events the Doctor, as the Yankees say, “put the critter up a tree,” where we calculate he must have looked tarnation ugly. The position was peculiarly ill-chosen—for when a fire-and-faggot orator begins to speak trees-on, it is only natural that his hearers should all take their leaves!

AN UNDIVIDED MOIETY. The Herald gives an account of two persons who were carried off suddenly at Lancaster by a paralytic attack each. We should have been curious to know the result if, instead of an attack each, they had had one between them.

[pg 206] THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER IX. SHOWS THAT DOCTORS DIFFER. A large letter H with flowering vines twining it. aving christened his child, Agamemnon felt it to be his bounden duty to have him vaccinated; but his wife’s mother, with a perversity strongly characteristic of the genus, strenuously opposed Dr. Jenner’s plan of repealing the small pox11. Baylis., and insisted upon having him inoculated. Poor Mrs. Applebite was sorely perplexed between her habitual reverence for the opinions of her mama and the dread which she naturally felt of converting the face of the infant heir into a plum-pudding. Agamemnon had evidently determined to be positive upon this point, and all that could be extracted from him was the one word—vaccination!

To which Mrs. Waddledot replied,

“Vaccination, indeed!—as though the child were a calf! I’m sure and certain that the extreme dulness of young people of the present day is entirely owing to vaccination—it imbues them with a very stupid portion of the animal economy.”

As Agamemnon could not understand her, he again ejaculated—“Vaccination!”

“But, my dear,” rejoined Mrs. Applebite, “Mama has had so much experience that her opinion is worth listening to; I know that you give the preference to—”

“Vaccination!” interrupted Collumpsion.

“And so do I; but we have heard of grown-up people—who had always considered themselves secure—taking the small pox, dear.”

“To be sure we have,” chimed in Mrs. Waddledot; “and it’s a very dreadful thing, after indulgent and tender parents have been at the expense of nursing, clothing, physicking, teaching music, dancing, Italian, French, geography, drawing, and the use of the globes, to a child, to have it carried off because a misguided fondness has insisted upon—”

“Vaccination!” shouted pater Collumpsion.

“Exactly!” continued the “wife’s mother.” “Now inoculate at once, say I, before the child’s short-coated.”

Agamemnon rose from his seat, and advancing deliberately and solemnly to the table at which his wife and his wife’s mother were seated, he slowly raised his dexter arm above his head, and then, having converted his hand into a fist, he dashed his contracted digitals upon the rosewood as though he dared not trust himself with more than one word, and that one was—“Vaccination!”

Mrs. Waddledot’s first impulse was to jump out of her turban, in which she would have succeeded had not the mystic rolls of gauze which constituted that elaborate head-dress been securely attached to the chestnut “front” with which she had sought for some years to cheat the world into a forgetfulness of her nativity.

“I was warned of this! I was warned of this!” exclaimed the disarranged woman, as soon as she obtained breath enough for utterance. “But I wouldn’t believe it. I was told that the member for Puddingbury had driven one wife to her grave and the other to drinking.—I was told that it would run in the family, and that Mr. A.C. Applebite would be no better than Mr. I. Applebite!”

“Oh! Mama—you really wrong Aggy,” exclaimed Theresa.

“It’s lucky for you that you think so, my dear. If ever there was an ill-used woman, you are that unhappy individual. Oh, that ever—I—should live—to see a child of mine—have a child of hers vaccinated against her wish!” and here Mrs. Waddledot (as it is emphatically styled) burst into tears; not that we mean to imply that she was converted into an explosive jet d’eau, but we mean that she—she—what shall we say?—she blubbered.

It is really surprising how very sympathetic women are on all occasions of weeping, scolding, and scandalising; and accordingly Mrs. Applebite “opened the fountains of her eyes,” and roared in concert with her mama.

Agamemnon felt that he was an injured man—injured in the tenderest point—his character for connubial kindness; and he secretly did what many husbands have done openly—he consigned Mrs. Waddledot to the gentleman who is always represented as very black, because where he resides there is no water to wash with.

At this agonising moment Uncle Peter made his appearance; and as actors always play best to a good audience, the weeping ladies continued their lachrymose performance with renewed vigour. Uncle Peter was a plain man—plain in every meaning of the word; that is to say, he was very ugly and very simple; and when we tell you that his face resembled nothing but a half-toasted muffin, you can picture to yourself what it must have looked like under the influence of surprise; but nevertheless, both Agamemnon and the ladies simultaneously determined to make him the arbitrator in this very important matter.

“Uncle Peter,” said Agamemnon.

“Brother Peter,” sobbed Mrs. Waddledot.

“Which are you an advocate for?” hystericised Mrs. Applebite.

“Vaccination or inoculation?” exclaimed everybody ensemble.

Now whether Uncle John did clearly understand the drift of the question put to him, or whether he conceived that he was solicited to be the subject of some benevolent experiments for the advantage of future generations, it is certain that no man ever looked more positively

A man sits hooked on the crescent of the moon and waves at a passing balloon. ON THE HORN OF A DILEMMA

than Uncle Peter. At length the true state of the case was made apparent to him; and the conclusion that he arrived at reflects the greatest possible credit upon his judgment. He decided, that as the child was a divided property, for the sake of peace and quietness, the heir of Applebite should be vaccinated in one arm and inoculated in the other.

FALSE ALARM. We were paralysed the other day at seeing a paragraph headed “Sibthorpe’s conversion.” Our nose grew pale with terror; our hump heaved with agitation. We thought there existed a greater genius than ourselves and that some one had discovered that Sibthorp could be converted into anything but a Member for Lincoln, and buffoon-in-waiting to the House of Commons. We found, however, that it alluded to a Reverend, and not to OUR Colonel. Really the newspaper people should be more careful. Such startling announcements are little better than

A jester cuts the tail off of a dog. SHEE(A)R CRUELTY.

DOING THE STATE SOME SERVICE. During the conflagration of the Tower, it was apprehended at one time that the portion of it called the White Tower would have shared the fate of the grand store-house,—this was however prevented by hanging wet blankets around it, in which capacity Peter Borthwick, Mr. Plumtre, Col. Percival, and Lord Castlereagh, kindly offered their personal services and were found admirably adapted for the purpose.

[pg 207] THE GENTLEMAN’S OWN BOOK. We will now proceed to the consideration of that indispensable adjunct to a real gentleman—his purse. This little talisman, though of so much real importance, is very limited in the materials of its formation, being confined exclusively to silk. It should generally be of net work, very sparingly powdered with small beads, and of the most delicate colours, such conveying the idea that the fairy fingers of some beauteous friend had wove the tiny treasury. We have seen some of party colours, intended thereby to distinguish the separate depository of the gold and silver coin with which it is (presumed) to be stored. This arrangement we repudiate; for a true gentleman should always appear indifferent to the value of money, and affect at least an equal contempt for a sovereign as a shilling. We prefer having the meshes of the purse rather large than otherwise, as whenever it is necessary—mind, we say necessary—to exhibit it, the glittering contents shining through the interstices are never an unpleasing object of contemplation.

The purse should be used at the card-table; but never produced unless you are called upon as a loser to pay. It may then be resorted to with an air of nonchalance; and when the demand upon it has been honoured, it should be thrown carelessly upon the table, as though to indicate your almost anxiety to make a further sacrifice of its contents. Should you, however, be a winner, any exhibition of the purse might be construed into an unseemly desire of “welling,” or securing your gains, which of course must always be a matter of perfect indifference to you; and whatever advantages you obtain from chance or skill should be made obvious to every one are only destined to enrich your valet, or be beneficially expended in the refreshment of cabmen and ladies of faded virtue. In order to convey these intentions more conspicuously, should the result of an evening be in your favour, your winnings should be consigned to your waistcoat pocket; and if you have any particular desire to heighten the effect, a piece of moderate value may be left on the table.

A horse throws a man into the roof of a house. A GENTLEMAN TAKING A FIRST FLOOR

cannot do better than find an excuse for a recurrence to his purse; and then the partial exhibition of the coin alluded to above will be found to be productive of a feeling most decidedly confirmatory in the mind of the landlady that you are a true gentleman.

The same cause will produce the same effect with a tradesman whose album—we beg pardon, whose ledger—you intend honouring with your name.

You should never display your purse to a poor friend or dependant, or the sight of it might not only stimulate their cupidity, or raise their expectations to an inordinate height, but prevent you from escaping with a moderate douceur by “the kind manner in which you slipped a sovereign into their hand at parting.”

A servant should never be rewarded from a purse; it makes the fellows discontented; for if they see gold, they are never satisfied with a shilling and “I must see what can be done for you, James.”

Should you be fortunate enough to break a policeman’s head, or drive over an old woman, you will find that your purse will not only add to the éclat of the transaction, but most materially assist the magistrate before whom you may be taken in determining that the case is very trifling, and that a fine of 5s. will amply excuse you from the effects of that polite epidemic known vulgo as drunkenness. There cannot be a greater proof of the advantages of a purse than the preceding instance, for we have known numerous cases in which the symptoms have been precisely the same, but the treatment diametrically opposite, owing to the absence of that incontrovertible evidence to character—the purse.

None but a parvenu would carry his money loose; and we know of nothing more certain to ensure an early delivery of your small account than being detected by a creditor in the act of hunting a sovereign into the corner of your pocket.

We have known tailors, bootmakers, hatters, hosiers, livery-stable- keepers, &c., grow remarkably noisy when refused assistance to meet heavy payments, which are continually coming due at most inconvenient seasons; and when repeated denials have failed to silence them, the exhibition only of the purse has procured the desired effect,—we presume, by inspiring the idea that you have the means to pay, but are eccentric in your views of credit—thus producing with the most importunate dun

A gentleman's queue is burning. A BRILLIANT TERMINATION.

TREMENDOUS FAILURE. The Editors present their compliments to their innumerable subscribers, and beg to say that, being particularly hard up for a joke, they trust that they will accept of the following as an evidence of

Girls stand under a sign 'Curds and Whey Sold Here' while a bowl pours onto them. GETTING UNDER WHEY.

A THOROUGH DRAUGHT. The extreme proficiency displayed by certain parties in drawing spurious exchequer-bills has induced them to issue proposals for setting up an opposition exchequer office, where bills may be drawn on the shortest notice. As this establishment is to be cunningly united to the Art-Union in Somerset-House, the whole art of forgery may be there learned in six lessons. The manufacture of exchequer-bills will be carried on in every department, from printing the forms to imitating the signatures; in short, the whole art of

A man pulls on a horse drawing a cart full of people. DRAWING TAUGHT.

[pg 208] THE O’CONNELL PAPERS. OUR EXTRAORDINARY AND EXCLUSIVE CORRESPONDENCE. We have been favoured by the transmission of the following singular correspondence by the new Mayor of Dublin’s private secretary. We hasten to lay the interesting documents before our readers, though we must decline incurring the extreme responsibility of advising which offer it would be most advantageous for Mr. O’Connell to accept.