Chapter 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.

FOR THE WEEK ENDING JULY 24, 1841.

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A MODEST METHOD OF FORMING A NEW BUDGET

SO AS TO PROVIDE FOR THE DEFICIENCY OF THE REVENUE.

_Mem_. The hunt meet again on Monday next, as information has been received that a splendid knocker occupies the door of Laing's shooting gallery in the Haymarket.

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STENOTYPOGRAPHY.

Our _printer's devil_, with a laudable anxiety for our success, has communicated the following pathetic story. As a specimen of stenotypography, or compositor's short-hand, we consider it _unique_.

SERAPHINA POPPS;

OR, THE BEAUTY OF BLOOMSBURY.

Seraphina Popps was the daughter of Mr. Hezekiah Popps, a highly respectable pawnbroker, residing in ---- Street, Bloomsbury. Being an only child, from her earliest infancy she wanted for 0, as everything had been made ready to her [Symbol: hand hand].

She grew up as most little girls do, who live long enough, and became the universal ![1] of all who knew her, for

"None but herself could be her ||."[2]

Amongst the most devoted of her admirers was Julian Fitzorphandale. Seraphina was not insensible to the worth of Julian Fitzorphandale; and when she received from him a letter, asking permission to visit her, she felt some difficulty in replying to his ?[3]; for, at this very critical .[4], an unamiable young man, named Augustus St. Tomkins, who possessed considerable £. _s._ _d._ had become a suitor for her [Symbol: hand]. She loved Fitzorphandale +[5] St. Tomkins, but the former was [Symbol: empty] of money; and Seraphina, though sensitive to an extreme, was fully aware that a competency was a very comfortable "appendix."

She seized her pen, but found that her mind was all 6's and 7's. She spelt Fitzorphandale, P-h-i-t-z; and though she commenced ¶[6] after ¶, she never could come to a "finis." She upbraided her unlucky * *, either for making Fitzorphandale so poor, or St. Tomkins so ugly, which he really was. In this dilemma we must leave her at present.

Although Augustus St. Tomkins was a [Symbol: Freemason][7], he did not possess the universal benevolence which that ancient order inculcates; but revolving in his mind the probable reasons for Seraphina's hesitation, he came to this conclusion: she either loved him -[8] somebody else, or she did not love him at all. This conviction only X[9] his worst feelings, and he resolved that no [Symbol: scruple scruple][10] of conscience should stand between him and his desires.

On the following day, Fitzorphandale had invited Seraphina to a pic-nic party. He had opened the &[11] placed some boiled beef and ^^[12] on the verdant grass, when Seraphina exclaimed, in the mildest ``´´[13], "I like it well done, Fitzorphandale!"

As Julian proceeded to supply his beloved one with a §[14] of the provender, St. Tomkins stood before them with a [Symbol: dagger][15] in his [Symbol: hand].

Want of space compels us to leave the conclusion of this interesting romance to the imagination of the reader, and to those ingenious playwrights who so liberally supply our most popular authors with gratuitous catastrophes.

NOTES BY THE FLY-BOY.

1. Admiration. 2. Parallel. 3. Note of Interrogation. 4. Period. 5. More than. 6. Paragraph. 7. Freemason. 8. Less than. 9. Multiplied. 10. Scruples. 11. Hampers-and. 12. Carets. 13. Accents. 14. Section. 15. Dagger.

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NEWS OF EXTRAORDINARY INTEREST.

A mechanic in Berlin has invented a balance of extremely delicate construction. Sir Robert Peel, it is said, intends to avail himself of the invention, to keep his political principles so nicely balanced between Whig and Tory, that the most accurate observer shall be unable to tell which way they tend.

The London Fire Brigade have received directions to hold themselves in readiness at the meeting of Parliament, to extinguish any conflagration that may take place, from the amazing quantity of inflammatory speeches and political fireworks that will be let off by the performers on both sides of the house.

The following extraordinary inducement was held out by a solicitor, who advertised last week in a morning paper, for an office-clerk; "A small salary will be given, but he will have enough of _over-work_ to make up for the deficiency."

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"MORE WAYS THAN ONE," &c.

The incomplete state of the Treasury has been frequently lamented by all lovers of good taste. We are happy to announce that a tablet is about to be placed in the front of the building, with the following inscription:--

TREASURY. FINISHED BY THE WIGS, ANNO DOM. MDCCCXLI.

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A CON. BY TOM COOKE.

Why is the common chord in music like a portion of the Mediterranean?--Because it's the E G & C (Ægean Sea).

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MONSIEUR JULLIEN.

"One!"--crash! "Two!"--clash! "Three!"--dash! "Four!"--smash! Diminuendo, Now crescendo:-- Thus play the furious band, Led by the kid-gloved hand Of Jullien--that Napoleon of quadrille, Of Piccolo-nians shrillest of the shrill; Perspiring raver Over a semi-quaver; Who tunes his pipes so well, he'll tell you that The natural key of Johnny Bull's--A flat. Demon of discord, with mustaches cloven-- Arch impudent _improver_ of Beethoven-- Tricksy professor of _charlatanerie_-- Inventor of musical artillery-- Barbarous rain and thunder maker-- Unconscionable money taker-- Travelling about both near and far, Toll to exact at every _bar_-- What brings thee here again, To desecrate old Drury's fane? Egregious attitudiniser! Antic fifer! com'st to advise her 'Gainst intellect and sense to close her walls? To raze her benches, That Gallic wenches Might play their brazen antics at masked balls? _Ci-devant_ waiter Of a _quarante-sous traiteur_, Why did you leave your stew-pans and meat-oven, To make a fricassee of the great Beet-hoven? And whilst your piccolos unceasing squeak on, Saucily serve Mozart with _sauce-piquant_; Mawkishly cast your eyes to the cerulean-- Turn Matthew Locke to _potage à la julienne_! Go! go! sir, do, Back to the _rue_, Where lately you Waited upon each hungry feeder, Playing the _garçon_, not the leader. Pray, put your hat on, _Coupez votre bâton._ Bah _Va!!_

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CLAR' DE KITCHEN.

It is now pretty well understood, that if the Tories come into office, there will be a regular turn out of the present royal household. Her Majesty, through the gracious condescension of the new powers, will be permitted to retain her situation in the royal establishment, but on the express condition that there shall be--

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A PARTY OF MEDALLERS.

A subscription has been opened for a medal to commemorate the return of Lord John Russell for the city of London. We would suggest that his speech to the citizens against the corn-laws would form an appropriate inscription for the face of the medal, while that to the Huntingdonshire farmers in favour of them would be found just the thing for the _reverse_.

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A CHAPTER ON BOOTS.

"Boots? Boots!" Yes, Boots! we can write upon boots--we can moralise upon boots; we can convert them, as _Jacques_ does the weeping stag in "As You Like It," (or, whether you like it or not,) into a thousand similes. First, for--but, "our _sole's_ in arms and eager for the fray," and so we will at once head our dissertation as we would a warrior's host with

WELLINGTONS.

These are the most judicious species of manufactured calf-skin; like their great "godfather," they are perfect as a whole; from the binding at the top to the finish at the toe, there is a beautiful unity about their well-conceived proportions: kindly considerate of the calf, amiably inclined to the instep, and devotedly serviceable to the whole foot, they shed their protecting influence over all they encase. They are walked about in not only as protectors of the feet, but of the honour of the wearer. Quarrel with a man if you like, let your passion get its steam up even to blood-heat, be magnificent while glancing at your adversary's Brutus, grand as you survey his chin, heroic at the last button of his waistcoat, unappeased at the very knees of his superior kersey continuations, inexorable at the commencement of his straps, and about to become abusive at his shoe-ties, the first cooler of your wrath will be the Hoby-like arched instep of his genuine Wellingtons, which, even as a drop of oil upon the troubled ocean, will extend itself over the heretofore ruffled surface of your temper.--Now for

BLUCHERS.

Well, we don't like them. They are shocking impostors--walking discomforts! They had no right to be made at all; or, if made, 'twas a sin for them to be so christened (are Bluchers Christians?).