Chapter 4

Theatre to negotiate with you for a few nights’ performance in a local drama, which shall be written for the occasion, and in which you are requested to represent the Civic dignitary in the identical robes which have become immortalised by your wearing. Mr. Dibdin Pitt is of opinion that something might be done with “Whittington and his Cat,” merely transferring the scene from London to Dublin; and, as he hears your county is highly celebrated for the peculiar breed, sending to Ireland for one of the esteemed “Kilkenny species,” which would give a greater reality to the dramatis personæ and feline adjunct. This is a mere suggestion, as any other subject you may prefer—such as the Rebellion of ’98, Donnybrook Fair, the Interior of the Irish Mansion House, or the House of Commons, can be rendered equally effective. I beg to call your attention to the fact that you shall have a clear stage and every advantage, as Mr. N.T. Hicks will be left out of the cast altogether, or else play a very small dumb villain; so that you need not fear losing your oratorical reputation by being out-shouted. Should you feel disposed to accept the terms, one clear half the nightly receipt, pray forward an answer by return, that we may get out a woodcut of the small- clothes, and underline the identical stockings.

I have the honour to be, Your obedient servant, BEN. FAIRBROTHER.

D. O’Connell, Esq.

T. R. D. L.

SIR,—The intense interest created in the bosoms of mankind in general by the graphic account of your splendid appearance and astounding performance of the arduous character of the Lord Mayor of Dublin, induces Mr. W.C. Macready to make you an offer of engagement for the performance of Shakspere’s heroic functionary in the forthcoming revival of Richard the Third, which is about to be produced under his classic management at the Theatre Royal Drury-lane, Mr. W.C. Macready offers to replace the breeches if cracked in stooping; also, to guarantee a liberal allowance of hair-powder to fall from the wig, and make the usual effective and dignified huge point while the Mayor is bowing to the king. An early answer will oblige your obedient servant,

T. J. SERLE.

P.S. Can you bring your own Aldermen, as we are anxious to do it with the

A silhouette of a man tugging on a horse. MAYOR (MARE) AND CORPORATION.

P.P.S.—Think of the fame and the twelve-sheet posters, and be moderate.

Theatre Royal, Adelphi.

DEAR DAN,—The Adelphi is open to you and your robes. Couldn’t we do something with a hero from Blarney, and let you be discovered licking the stone, amid tableaux, blue fire, and myriads of nymph-like Kate Kearneys? Or would you prefer an allegory, yourself a Merman, or the Genius of Ireland, distributing real whiskey-and-water from the tank, which shall be filled with grog for that purpose. Think it over.

Truly yours, F. YATES.

D. O’Connell, Esq. &c. &c. &c.

Theatre Royal, Haymarket.

Mr. Webster presents his compliments to Daniel O’Connell, Esq., Mayor and M.P., and begs to suggest, as the “Rent Day” was originally produced at his theatre, it will be an excellent field for any further dramatic attempt of Mr. D. O’C. A line from Mr. D. O’C. will induce Mr. B.W. to put the drama in rehearsal.

“D. O’Connell, Esq. &c. &c.”

Royal Victoria.

SIR,—As sole lessee of the Royal Victoria I shall be happy to engage you to appear in costume, in the Mayor of Garratt, or, for the sake of the name Mayor, any other Mayor you like. If you think all the old ones too stupid, we can look upon something new, and preserve the title. You shall be supported by Miss Vincent and Susan Hopley, with two murders by Messrs. Dale and Saville in the after-piece. Awaiting your reply, I remain

Your obedient servant, D.W. OSBALDISTON.

D. O’Connell, Esq.

Royal Pavilion Theatre.

SIR,—If you mean to come on the stage, come to me. I know what suits the public. If you can’t come yourself, send your cocked hat, and Mrs. Denvil shall dramatise it. We have a carpenter of your name; we can gag him and gammon the public, as follows:—

IMMENSE ATTRACTION! SCENERY MOVED BY O’CONNELL; FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE GREAT AGITATOR!!! “REAL COCKED HAT.” Yours, &c. HY. DENVIL.

Garrick Theatre.

SIR,—We should be proud to avail ourselves of your professional services to do a little in the domestic and appalling murder line; but our forte is ballet or pantomime; perhaps, as you have your own silk tights, the latter department might suit you best. Our artist is considered very great, and shall convert our “Jim Along Josey” wood-cuts into your portrait. We will also pledge ourselves to procure an illuminated cocked hat. An early answer, stating terms, will oblige

Your obedient Servants, GOMERSAL AND CONQUEST.

D. O’Connell, Esq.

T.R. Sadler’s Wells.

SIR,—Understanding you are about to figure publicly and professionally in London, may I draw your attention to my unique establishment. I can offer you an excellent engagement as the figure-head of a vessel about to be produced in a new nautical drama. It is at present called “The Shark and the Alligator,” but may be altered with equal effect to “The Mayor and the Agitator.” Begging a reply,

I remain, Sir, Your’s obediently, ROBERT HONNER.

D. O’Connell, Esq.

P.S. Do you do anything in the hornpipe line?

A PÆAN FOR DAN. BY ONE OF THE “FINEST PISANTRY IN THE WORLD.” We have received the following genuine “Irish version” of a scene from and for the times, from our own peculiar and poetic correspondent:—

“DEAR PUNCH,—

I beg pardon that yoursilf I’m now troublin,

But I must let you know what I just seen in Dublin;

There Daniel O’Connell,—Mayor and great agitator,—

Has been making a Judy of himself, the poor unhappy cratur.

At his time of life, too! tare and ounds its mighty shocking!

He shoved ach of his big legs into a span bran new silk stocking:

How the divil them calves by any manes was thrust in,

Is a mistery to ev’ry one, without them black silks busting.

And instead of a dacent trousers hanging to his suspenders,

He has button’d-up one-half of him in a pair of short knee-enders.

Now, Punch, on your oath, did you ever hear the likes o’ that?

But oh, houly Paul, if you only seen his big cock’d hat,

Stuck up on the top of his jazy;—a mighty illegant thatch,

With hair like young Deaf Burke’s, all rushing up to the scratch,

You must have been divarted; and, Jewil, then he wore

A thund’ring big Taglioni-cut purple velvet roquelore.

And who but Misther Dan cut it fat in all his pride,

Cover’d over with white favors, like a gentle blushing bride;

And wasn’t he follow’d by all the blackguards for his tail,

Shouting out for their lives, ‘Success to Dan O’Connell and Rapale.’

But the Old Corporation has behaved mighty low and mane,

As they wouldn’t lend him the loan of the ancient raal goold chain,

Nor the collar; as they said they thought (divil burn ’em),

If they’d done so, it was probable Dan never would return ’em.

But, good-bye, I must be off,—he’s gone to take the chair!

So my love to Mrs. Punch, and no more about the Mayor.”

[pg 209] PUNCH’S PÆAN TO THE PRINCELET. Huzza! we’ve a little prince at last,

A roaring Royal boy;

And all day long the booming bells

Have rung their peals of joy.

And the little park-guns have blazed away,

And made a tremendous noise,

Whilst the air hath been fill’d since eleven o’clock

With the shouts of little boys;

And we have taken our little bell,

And rattled and laugh’d, and sang as well,

Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!

Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

Our little Prince will be daintily swathed,

And laid on a bed of down,

Whilst his cradle will stand ’neath a canopy

That is deck’d with a golden crown.

O, we trust when his Queenly Mother sees

Her Princely boy at rest,

She will think of the helpless pauper babe

That lies at a milkless breast!

And then we will rattle our little bell.

And shout and laugh, and sing as well—

Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!

Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

Our little Prince, we have not a doubt,

Has set up a little cry;

But a dozen sweet voices were there to soothe,

And sing him a lullaby.

We wonder much if a voice so small

Could reach our loved Monarch’s ear;

If so, she said “God bless the poor!

Who cry and have no one near.”

So then we will rattle our little bell,

And shout and laugh, and sing as well—

Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!

Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

Our little Prince (though he heard them not)

Hath been greeted with honied words,

And his cheeks have been fondled to win a smile

By the Privy Council Lords.

Will he trust the “charmer” in after years,

And deem he is more than man?

Or will he feel that he’s but a speck

In creation’s mighty plan?

Let us hope the best, and rattle our bell,

And shout and laugh, and sing as well—

Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!

Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

Our little Prince, when be grows a boy,

Will be taught by men of lore,

From the “dusty tome” of the ancient sage,

As Kings have been taught before.

But will there be one good, true man near,

To tutor the infant heart?

To tell him the world was made for all,

And the poor man claims his part?

We trust there will; so we’ll rattle our bell,

And shout and laugh, and sing as well—

Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!

Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

A CON-CONSTITUTIONAL. Why is the little Prince of Wales like the 11th Hussars?—Because it is Prince Albert’s own.

HARD TO REMEMBER. Lord Monteagle, on being shown one of the Exchequer Bills, supposed to have been forged, declared that he did not know if the signature attached to it was his handwriting or not. We do not feel surprised at this—his Lordship has put his hand to so many jobs that it would be impossible he could remember every one of them.

THE CROPS. A most unfounded report of the approaching demise of Colonel Sibthorp reached town early last week. Our Leicester correspondent has, however, furnished us with the following correct particulars, which will be read with pleasure by those interested in the luxuriant state of the gallant orator’s crops. The truth is, he was seen to enter a hair- dresser’s shop, and it got about amongst the breathless crowd which soon collected, that the imposing toupée, the enchanting whiskers that are the pride of the county, were to be cropped! This mistake was unhappily removed to give place to a more fatal one; for instead of submitting to the shears, the venerable joker bought a paper of poudre unique, from which arose the appalling report that he was about to dye!

Our kind friend the indefatigable “correspondent” of the Observer, informs us from authority upon which every reliance may be placed, that Mr. Grant, the indefatigable statist and author of “Lights and Shadows of London Life,” is now patiently engaged in researches of overwhelming importance to the public. He will, in his next edition of the above- named work, be enabled to state from personal inquiry, how many ladies residing within a circuit of ten miles round London wear false fronts, with the colours respectively of their real and their artificial hair, together with the number of times per year the latter are dressed. Besides this, this untiring author has called at every hairdresser’s in the London Directory, to ascertain the number of times per quarter each customer has his hair cut, with the quantity and length denuded. From these materials a result will be drawn up, showing the average duration of crops; and also how far the hair-cuttings of every day in London would reach, if each hair were joined together and placed somewhere, so as to go—when enough is collected—round the world.

The Morning Herald of Monday informs us, that the King of Hanover has passed a law to regulate the crops not only of the army, but of those in the civil employ of government. The moustaches of the former are to be, we hear, exact copies of those sported by Muntz. The hair is to be cut close, so as to be woven into regulation whiskers for those to whom nature has denied them. The pattern whisker was lately submitted by Mr. Truefit, who is to be the army contractor for the same. It curls over the cheek, and meets the moustaches at the corners of the mouth.

In consequence of this measure, large sales in bear’s grease were made by the Russian merchants on ‘Change yesterday for the German markets. A consequent rise in this species of manure took place; this will, it is feared, have a bad effect upon the British crops, which have already assumed a dry and languid appearance.

ELIGIBLE INVESTMENTS!—SPLENDID OPPORTUNITY!—UNRIVALLED BARGAINS! EXTRAORDINARY SALE OF UNREDEEMED PLEDGES. MESSRS. MACHIN and DEBENHAM respectfully inform the particularly curious, and the public in general, they have the honor to announce the unreserved sale of the following particularly and unprecedentedly attractive Unredeemed Pledges.

N.B.—The auction duty to be paid by the purchasers,—if not, the inmates of St. Luke’s have offered to subscribe for their liquidation.

LOT I. A perfect collection of the original speeches of Sir Francis Burdett—previous to his visit to the Tower; his fulminations issued from the same; and a catalogue of the unredeemed pledges made to the electors of Westminster, and originally taken in by them—a compliment very handsomely returned by the honourable Baronet, who kindly took his constituents in in return. Very curious, though much dogs-eared, thumbed, and as far as the author’s name goes, totally erased.

LOT II. A visionary pedigree and imaginative genealogical account of Roebuck’s ancestors—commencing in the year 1801, and carefully brought down to the present time. Very elaborate, but rather doubtful.

LOT III. A full account of Wakley’s parliamentary ratting, or political felo-de-se; beautifully authenticated by his late Finsbury electors—with sundry cuts by his former friends.

LOT IV. An extraordinary large batch of uncommonly cheap bread, manufactured by one John Russell. A beautiful electioneering and imaginative production, though now rather stale.

LOT V. A future contract for the continuance of the poor-laws, and the right of pumps for the guardians to concoct the soup.

N.B. Filters used if too strong.

LOT VI. Daniel O’Connell’s opinions upon the repeal of the union, now that he is Lord Mayor of Dublin: to be sold without reserve to the highest bidder.

The whole of the above are submitted to the public, in the sincere hope of their meeting purchasers—as the price is all that is wanting to ensure a bonâ fide sale. No catalogues—no particulars—no guarantees—no deductions—and no money returned.

[pg 210] SIR PETER LAURIE ON HUMAN LIFE. Sir PETER LAURIE has set his awful face against suicide! He will in no way “encourage” felo-de-se. Fatal as this aldermanic determination may be to the interests of the shareholders of Waterloo, Vauxhall, and Southwark Bridges, Sir PETER has resolved that no man—not even in the suicidal season of November—shall drown, hang, or otherwise destroy himself, under any pretence soever! Sir PETER, with a very proper admiration of the pleasures of life, philosophises with a full stomach on the ignorance and wickedness of empty-bellied humanity; and Mr. HOBLER—albeit in the present case the word is not reported—doubtless cried “Amen!” to the wisdom of the alderman. Sir PETER henceforth stands sentinel at the gate of death, and any hungry pauper who shall recklessly attempt to touch the knocker, will be sentenced to “the treadmill for a month as a rogue and vagabond!”

One William Simmons, a starving tailor, in a perishing condition, attempts to cut his throat. He inflicts upon himself a wound which, “under the immediate assistance of the surgeon of the Compter,” is soon healed; and the offender being convalescent, is doomed to undergo the cutting wisdom of Sir PETER LAURIE. Hear the alderman “Don’t you know that that sort of murder (suicide) is as bad as any other?” If such be the case—and we would as soon doubt the testimony of Balaam’s quadruped as Sir PETER—we can only say, that the law has most shamefully neglected to provide a sufficing punishment for the enormity. Sir PETER speaks with the humility of true wisdom, or he would never have valued his own throat for instance—that throat enriched by rivulets of turtle soup, by streams of city wine and city gravies—at no more than the throat of a hungry tailor. There never in our opinion was a greater discrepancy of windpipe. Sir PETER’S throat is the organ of wisdom—whilst the tailor’s throat, by the very fact of his utter want of food, is to him an annoying superfluity. And yet, says Sir PETER by inference, “It is as bad, William Simmons, to cut your own throat, as to cut mine!” If true Modesty have left other public bodies, certainly she is to be found in the court of aldermen.

Sir PETER proceeds to discourse of the mysteries of life and death in a manner that shows that the executions of his shrievalty were not lost upon his comprehensive spirit. Suicides, however, have engaged his special consideration; for he says—

“Suicides and attempts, or apparent attempts, to commit suicide, very much increase, I regret to say. I know that a morbid humanity exists, and does much mischief as regards the practice. I shall not encourage attempts of the kind, but shall punish them; and I sentence you to the treadmill for a month, as a rogue and vagabond. I shall look very narrowly at the cases of persons brought before me on such charges.”

Sir PETER has, very justly, no compassion for the famishing wretch stung and goaded “to jump the life to come.” Why should he? Sir PETER is of that happy class of men who have found this life too good a thing to leave. “They call this world a bad world,” says ROTHSCHILD on a certain occasion; “for my part, I do not know of a better.” And ROTHSCHILD was even a greater authority than Sir PETER LAURIE on the paradise of £ s. d.

The vice of the day—“a morbid humanity” towards the would-be suicide—is, happily, doomed. Sir PETER LAURIE refuses to patronise any effort at self-slaughter; and, moreover, threatens to “look very narrowly at the cases” of those despairing fools who may be caught in the attempt. It would here be well for Sir PETER to inform the suicidal part of the public what amount of desperation is likely to satisfy him as to the genuineness of the misery suffered. William Simmons cuts a gash in his throat; the Alderman is not satisfied with this, but having looked very narrowly into the wound, declares it to be a proper case for the treadmill. We can well believe that an impostor trading on the morbid humanity of the times—and there is a greater stroke of business done in the article than even the sagacity of a LAURIE can imagine—may, in this cold weather, venture an immersion in the Thames or Serpentine, making the plunge with a declaratory scream, the better to extract practical compassion from the pockets of a morbidly humane society; we can believe this, Sir PETER, and feel no more for the trickster than if our heart were made of the best contract saddle-leather; but we confess a cut- throat staggers us; we fear, with all our caution, we should be converted to a belief in misery by a gash near the windpipe. Sir PETER, however, with his enlarged mind, professes himself determined to probe the wound—to look narrowly into its depth, breadth, and length, and to prescribe the treadmill, according to the condition of the patient! Had the cautious Sir PETER been in the kilt of his countryman Macbeth, he would never have exhibited an “admired disorder” on the appearance of Banquo with his larynx severed in two; not he—he would have called the wound a slight scratch, having narrowly looked into it, and immediately ordered the ghost to the guard-house.

The Duke of WELLINGTON, who has probably seen as many wounds as Sir PETER LAURIE, judging the case, would, by his own admission, have inflicted the same sentence upon the tailor Simmons as that fulminated by the Alderman. ARTHUR and PETER would, doubtless, have been of one accord, Simmons avowed himself to be starving. Now, in this happy land—in this better Arcadia—every man who wants food is proved by such want an idler or a drunkard. The victor of Waterloo—the tutelary wisdom of England’s counsels—has, in the solemnity of his Parliamentary authority, declared as much. Therefore it is most right that the lazy, profligate tailor, with a scar in his throat, should mount the revolving wheel for one month, to meditate upon the wisdom of Dukes and the judgments of Aldermen!

We no more thought of dedicating a whole page to one Sir PETER LAURIE, than the zoological Mr. CROSS would think of devoting an acre of his gardens to one ass, simply because it happened to be the largest known specimen of the species. But, without knowing it, Sir PETER has given a fine illustration of the besetting selfishness of the times. Had LAURIE been born to hide his ears in a coronet, he could not have more strongly displayed the social insensibility of the day. The prosperous saddler, and the wretched, woe-begone tailor, are admirable types of the giant arrogance that dominates—of the misery that suffers.

There is nothing more talked of with less consideration of its meaning and relative value than—Life. Has it not a thousand different definitions? Is it the same thing to two different men?

Ask the man of independent wealth and sound body to paint Life, and what a very pretty picture he will lay before you. He lives in another world—has, as Sir Anthony Absolute says, a sun and moon of his own—a realm of fairies, with attending sprites to perform his every compassable wish. To him life is a most musical monosyllable; making his heart dance, and thrilling every nerve with its so-potent harmony. Life—but especially his life—is, indeed, a sacred thing to him; and loud and deep are his praises of its miracles. Like the departed ROTHSCHILD, “he does not know a better;” certain we are, he is in no indecent haste to seek it.

Demand of the prosperous man of trade—of the man of funds, and houses, and land, acquired by successful projects—what is Life? He will try to call up a philosophic look, and passing his chin through his hand—(there is a brilliant on his little finger worth at least fifty guineas)—he will answer, “Life, sir—Life has its ups and downs; but taken altogether, for my part, I think a man a great sinner, a very great sinner, who doesn’t look upon life as a very pretty thing. But don’t let’s talk of such dry stuff—take off your glass—hang it!—no heel-taps.”

Ask another, whose whole soul, like a Ready Reckoner, is composed of figures,—what is Life? He, perhaps, will answer, “Why, sir, Life—if you insure at our office—is worth more than at any other establishment. We divide profits, and the rate of insurance decreases in proportion,” &c. &c.; and thus you will have Life valued, by the man who sees nothing in it but a privilege to get money, as the merest article of commercial stock.

Inquire of many an Alderman what is Life? He will tell you that it is a fine, dignified, full-bellied, purple-faced creature, in a furred and violet-coloured gown. “Life,” he will say, “always has its pleasures; but its day of great delight is the Ninth of November. Life, however, is especially agreeable in swan-hopping season, when white-bait abounds at Blackwall and Greenwich, and when the Lord Mayor gives his Easter-ball; and ‘keeps up the hospitalities of his high office.’” Not, however, that life is without its graver duties—its religious observations. Oh, no! it is the duty of well-to-do Life to punish starving men for forgetting its surpassing loveliness—it is a high obligation of Life to go to church in a carriage, and confess itself a miserable sinner—it is the duty of Life to read its bible; and then the Alderman, to show that he is well versed in the volume, quotes a passage—“when the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.”

Now ask the Paisley weaver what is Life? Bid the famine-stricken multitudes of Bolton to describe with their white lips the surpassing beauty of human existence. Can it be possible that the glorious presence—the beneficent genius that casts its blessings in the paths of other men—is such an ogre, a fiend, to the poor? Alas! is he not a daily tyrant, scourging with meanest wants—a creature that, with all its bounty to others, is to the poor and destitute more terrible than Death? Let Comfort paint a portrait of Life, and now Penury take the pencil. “Pooh! pooh!” cry the sage LAURIES of the world, looking at the two pictures—“that scoundrel Penury has drawn an infamous libel. That Life! with that withered face, sunken eye, and shrivelled lip; and what is worse, with a suicidal scar in its throat! That Life! The painter Penury is committed for a month as a rogue and vagabond. We shall look very narrowly into these cases.”

We agree with the profound Sir PETER LAURIE that it is a most wicked, a most foolish act of the poor man to end his misery by suicide. But we think there is a better remedy for such desperation than the tread-mill. The surest way for the rich and powerful of the world to make the poor man more careful of his life is to render it of greater value to him.

Q.

[pg 211] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XVIII. Several men in (female) theatrical costumes. POLITICAL THEATRICALS EXTRAORDINARY.

NORMA.

NORMA (the Deserted) LORD MELBOURNE. ADALGISA (the Seductive) SIR R. PEEL. POLLIO (the Faithless) MR. WAKLEY. CHILDREN MASTERS RUSSELL & MORPETH. [pg 213] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. 7.—OF VARIOUS OTHER DIVERTING MATTERS CONNECTED WITH GRINDING. A man carrying a load forms a letter F. rom experience we are aware that the invention of the useful species of phrenotypics, alluded to in our last chapter, does not rest with the grinder alone. We once knew a medical student (and many even now at the London hospitals will recollect his name without mentioning it), who, when he was grinding for the Hall, being naturally of a melodious and harmonic disposition, conceived the idea of learning the whole of his practice of physic by setting a description of the diseases to music. He had a song of some hundred and twenty verses, which he called “The Poetry of Steggall’s Manual;” and this he put to the tune of the “Good Old Days of Adam and Eve.” We deeply lament that we cannot produce the whole of this lyrical pathological curiosity. Two verses, however, linger on our memory, and these we have written down, requesting that they may be said or sung to the air above-mentioned, and dedicating them to the gentlemen who are going up next Thursday evening. They relate to the symptoms, treatment, and causes of Hæmoptysis and Hæmatemesis; which terms respectively imply, for the benefit of the million unprofessional readers who weekly gasp for our fresh number, a spitting of blood from the lungs and a vomiting of ditto from the stomach. The song was composed of stanzas similar to those which follow, except the portion relating to Diseases of the Brain, which was more appropriately separated into the old English division of Fyttes.

HÆMOPTYSIS. A sensation of weight and oppression at the chest, sirs;

With tickling at the larynx, which scarcely gives you rest, sirs;

Full hard pulse, salt taste, and tongue very white, sirs;

And blood brought up in coughing, of colour very bright, sirs.

It depends on causes three—the first’s exhalation;

The next a ruptured artery—the third, ulceration.

In treatment we may bleed, keep the patient cool and quiet,

Acid drinks, digitalis, and attend to a mild diet.

Sing hey, sing ho, we do not grieve

When this formidable illness takes its leave.

HÆMATEMESIS. Clotted blood is thrown up, in colour very black, sirs,

And generally sudden, as it comes up in a crack, sirs.

It’s preceded at the stomach by a weighty sensation;

But nothing appears ruptured upon examination.

It differs from the last, by the particles thrown off, sirs,

Being denser, deeper-coloured, and without a bit of cough, sirs.

In plethoric habits bleed, and some acid draughts pour in, gents,

With Oleum Terebinthinæ (small doses) and astringents.

Sing hey, sing ho; if you think the lesion spacious,

The Acetate of Lead is found very efficacious.

Thus, in a few lines a great deal of valuable professional information is conveyed, at the same time that the tedium of much study is relieved by the harmony. If poetry is yet to be found in our hospitals—a queer place certainly for her to dwell, unless in her present feeble state the frequenters of Parnassus have subscribed to give her an in-patient’s ticket—we trust that some able hand will continue this subject for the benefit of medical students generally; for, we repeat, it is much to be regretted that no more of this valuable production remains to us than the portion which Punch has just immortalized, and set forth as an apt example for cheering the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties. The gifted hand who arranged this might have turned Cooper’s First Lines of Surgery into a tragedy; Dr. Copeland’s Medical Dictionary into a domestic melodrama, with long intervals between the acts; and the Pharmacopoeia into a light one-act farce. It strikes us if the theatres could enter into an arrangement with the Borough Hospitals to supply an amputation every evening as the finishing coup to an act, it would draw immensely when other means failed to attract.

The last time we heard this poem was at an harmonic meeting of medical students, within twenty shells’ length of the —— School dissecting-room. It was truly delightful to see these young men snatching a few Anacreontic hours from their harassing professional occupations. At the time we heard it, the singer was slightly overcome by excitement and tight boots; and, at length, being prevailed upon to remove the obnoxious understandings, they were passed round the table to be admired, and eventually returned to their owner, filled with half-and- half, cigar-ashes, broken pipes, bread-crusts, and gin-and-water. This was a jocular pleasantry, which only the hilarious mind of a medical student could have conceived.

As the day of examination approaches, the economy of our friend undergoes a complete transformation, but in an inverse entomological progression—changing from the butterfly into the chrysalis. He is seldom seen at the hospitals, dividing the whole of his time between the grinder and his lodgings; taking innumerable notes at one place, and endeavouring to decipher them at the other. Those who have called upon him at this trying period have found him in an old shooting-jacket and slippers, seated at a table, and surrounded by every book that was ever written upon every medical subject that was ever discussed, all of which he appears to be reading at once—with little pieces of paper strewn all over the room, covered with strange hieroglyphics and extraordinary diagrams of chemical decompositions. His brain is just as full of temporary information as a bad egg is of sulphuretted hydrogen; and it is a fortunate provision of nature that the dura mater is of a tough fibrous texture—were it not for this safeguard, the whole mass would undoubtedly go off at once like a too tightly-rammed rocket. He is conscious of this himself, from the grinding information wherein he has been taught that the brain has three coverings, in the following order:—the dura mater, or Chesterfield overall; the tunica arachnoidea, or “dress coat of fine Saxony cloth;” and, in immediate contact, the pia mater, or five-and-sixpenny long cloth shirt with linen wristbands and fronts. This is a brilliant specimen of the helps to memory which the grinder affords, as splendid in its arrangement as the topographical methods of calling to mind the course of the large arteries, which define the abdominal aorta as Cheapside, its two common iliac branches, as Newgate-street and St. Paul’s Churchyard, and the medio sacralis given off between them, as Paternoster-row.

Time goes on, bringing the fated hour nearer and nearer; and the student’s assiduity knows no bounds. He reads his subjects over and over again, to keep them fresh in his memory, like little boys at school, who try to catch a last bird’s-eye glance of their book before they give it into the usher’s hands to say by heart. He now feels a deep interest in the statistics of the Hall, and is horrified at hearing that “nine men out of thirteen were sent back last Thursday!” The subjects, too, that they were rejected upon frighten him just as much. One was plucked upon his anatomy; another, because he could not tell the difference between a daisy and a chamomile; and a third, after “being in” three hours and a quarter, was sent back, for his inability to explain the process of making malt from barley,—an operation, whose final use he so well understands, although the preparation somewhat bothered him. And thus, funking at the rejection of a clever man, or marvelling at the success of an acknowledged fool—determining to take prussic acid in the event of being refused—reading fourteen hours a day—and keeping awake by the combined influence of snuff and coffee—the student finds his first ordeal approach.

TRUE ECONOMY. Peter Borthwick experienced a sad disappointment lately. Having applied to the City Chamberlain for the situation of Lord Mayor’s fool, he was told that the Corporation, in a true spirit of economy, had decided upon dividing the duties amongst themselves. Peter was—but we were not—surprised that between the Aldermen and tom-foolery there should exist

Two men connected with handcuffs. A STRONG ATTACHMENT.

[pg 214] THE LORD MAYOR’S FOOL. We are happy in being able to announce that it is the intention of the new potentate of Guildhall to revive the ancient and honourable office of “Lord Mayor’s Fool.” A number of candidates have already offered themselves, whose qualifications for the situation are so equally balanced, that it is a matter of no small difficulty to decide amongst them. The Light of the City has, we understand, called in Gog and Magog—Sir Peter Laurie and Alderman Humphrey—to assist him in selecting a fit and proper person upon whom to bestow the Civic cap and bells.

The following is a list of the individuals whose claims are under consideration:—

The Marquis of Londonderry, who founds his claims upon the fact of his always creating immense laughter whenever he opens his mouth.

Lord Brougham, who grounds his pretensions upon the agility displayed by him in his favourite character of “the Political Harlequin.”

Lord Normanby, upon the peculiar fitness of his physiognomy to play the Fool in any Court.

Daniel O’Connell, upon his impudence, and his offer to fool it in his new scarlet gown and cocked-hat.

Peter Borthwick, upon his brilliant wit, which it is intended shall supersede the Bude Light in the House of Commons.

Colonel Sibthorp, upon his jokes, which have convulsed all the readers of PUNCH, including himself.

George Stephens, upon the immense success of his tragedy of “Martinuzzi,” which, to the outrageous merriment of the audience, turned out to be a farce.

T. Wakley, upon the comical way in which he turns his Cap of Liberty into a Wellington-Wig and back again at the shortest notice.

Sir Francis Burdett, upon the exceeding complacency with which he wears his own fool’s-cap.

Ben D’Israeli, upon his unadulterated simplicity, and the unfurnished state of his attic.

Mr. Muntz, upon the primâ facie evidence that he is a near relative of Gog and Magog, and therefore the best entitled to the Civic Foolship.

PUNCH’S CATECHISM OF GEOGRAPHY. The astonishing increase of the great metropolis in every direction—the growing up of Brixton and Clapham—the discovery of inhabited streets and houses in the terra incognita to the northward of Pentonville—and the spirit of maritime enterprise which the late successful voyages made by the Bridegroom steam-boat to the coast of Chelsea has excited in the public mind—has induced a thirst for knowledge, and a desire to be acquainted with the exact geographical position of this habitable world, of which it is admitted Pinnock’s work does not give the remotest idea. To supply this deficiency, PUNCH begs leave to offer to his friends and readers his Catechism of Geography, which, if received with the extraordinary favour it deserves from the public, may be followed by catechisms on other interesting branches of knowledge.