Chapter 2

They are Wellingtons cut down; so, in point of genius, was their baptismal sponsor: but these are _vilely tied_, and that the hardy old Prussian would never have been while body and soul held together. He was no beauty, but these are decidedly ugly commodities, chiefly tenanted by swell purveyors of cat's-meat, and burly-looking prize-fighters. They have the _fortiter in re_ for kicking, but not the _suaviter in modo_ for corns. Look at them villanously treed out at the "Noah's Ark" and elsewhere; what are they but eight-and-six-penny worth of discomfort! They will no more accommodate a decent foot than the old general would have turned his back in a charge, or cut off his grizzled mustachios. If it wasn't for the look of the thing, one might as well shove one's foot into a box-iron. We wouldn't be the man that christened them, and take a trifle to meet the fighting old marshal, even in a world of peace; in short, they are ambulating humbugs, and the would-be respectables that wear 'em are a huge fraternity of "false pretenders." Don't trust 'em, reader; they are sure to do you! there's deceit in their straps, prevarication in their trousers, and connivance in their distended braces. We never met but one exception to the above rule--it was John Smith. Every reader has a friend of the name of John Smith--in confidence, that _is_ the man. We would have sworn by him; in fact, we did swear by him, for ten long years he was our oracle. Never shall we forget the first, the only time our faith was shaken. We gazed upon and loved his honest face; we reciprocated the firm pressure of his manly grasp; our eyes descended in admiration even unto the ground on which he stood, and there, upon that very ground--the ground whose upward growth of five feet eight seemed Heaven's boast, an "honest man"--we saw what struck us sightless to all else--a pair of Bluchers!

We did not dream _his_ feet were in them; ten years' probation seemed to vanish at the sight!--we wept! He spoke--could we believe our ears? "Marvel of marvels!" despite the propinquity of the Bluchers, despite their wide-spreading contamination, his voice was unaltered. We were puzzled! we were like the first farourite when "he has a leg," or, "a LEG has him," i.e., nowhere!

John Smith coughed, not healthily, as of yore; it was a hollow emanation from hypocritical lungs: he sneezed; it was a vile imitation of his original "hi-catch-yew!" he invited us to dinner, suggested the best cut of a glorious haunch--we had always had it in the days of the Wellingtons--now our imagination conjured up cold plates, tough mutton, gravy thick enough in grease to save the Humane Society the trouble of admonitory advertisements as to the danger of reckless young gentlemen skating thereon, and a total absence of sweet sauce and currant-jelly. We paused--we grieved--John Smith saw it--he inquired the cause--we felt for him, but determined, with Spartan fortitude, to speak the truth. Our native modesty and bursting heart caused our drooping eyes once more to scan the ground, and, next to the ground, the wretched Bluchers. But, joy of joys! we saw them all! ay, all!--all--from the seam in the sides to the leech-like fat cotton-ties. We counted the six lace-holes; we examined the texture of the stockings above, "curious three-thread"--we gloated over the trousers uncontaminated by straps, we hugged ourselves in the contemplation of the naked truth.

John Smith--our own John Smith--your John Smith--everybody's John Smith--again entered the arm-chair of our affections, the fire of our love stirred, like a self-acting poker, the embers of cooling good fellowship, and the strong blaze of resuscitated friendship burst forth with all its pristine warmth. John Smith wore Bluchers but he wore them like an honest man; and he was the only specimen of the _genus homo_ (who sported trowsers) that was above the weakness of tugging up his suspenders and stretching his broadcloth for the contemptible purpose of giving a fictitious, Wellingtonian appearance to his eight-and-sixpennies.

ANKLE-JACKS,

to indulge in the sporting phraseology of the _Racing Calendar_, appear to be "got by Highlows out of Bluchers." They thrive chiefly in the neighbourhoods of Houndsditch, Whitechapel, and Billingsgate. They attach themselves principally to butchers' boys, Israelitish disposers of _vix_ and _pinthils_, and itinerant misnomers of "live fish." On their first introduction to their masters, by prigging or purchase, they represent some of the glories of "Day and Martin;" but, strange to say, though little skilled in the penman's art, their various owners appear to be imbued with extraordinary veneration for the wholesome advice contained in the round-text copy, wherein youths are admonished to "avoid useless repetition," hence that polish is the Alpha and Omega of their shining days. Their term of servitude varies from three to six weeks: during the first they are fastened to the topmost of their ten holes; the next fortnight, owing to the breaking of the lace, and its frequent knotting, they are shorn of half their glories, and upon the total destruction of the thong (a thing never replaced), it appears a matter of courtesy on their parts to remain on at all. On some occasions various of their wearers have transferred them as a legacy to very considerable mobs, without particularly stating for which especial individual they were intended. This kicking off their shoes "because they wouldn't die in them," has generally proved but a sorry method of lengthening existence.

HESSIANS,

are little more than ambitious Wellingtons, curved at the top--wrinkled at the bottom (showing symptoms of superannuation even in their infancy), and betasselled in the front, offering what a _Wellington_ never did--a weak point for an enemy to seize and shake at his pleasure.

There's no "speculation" in them--they are entirely superficial: like a shallow fellow, you at once see through, and know all about them. There is no mystery as to the height they reach, how far they are polished, or the description of leg they cling round. Save Count D'Oraay, we never saw a calf in a pair of them--that is, we never saw a leg with a calf. Their general tenants are speculative Jew clothesmen who have bought them "vorth the monish" (at tenth hand), seedy chamber counsel, or still more seedy collectors of rents. They are fast falling into decay; like _dogs_, they have had their "Day (and Martin's") Acts, but both are past. But woh! ho!

TOPS! TOPS!! TOPS!!!

Derby!--Epsom!--Ledger!--Spring Summer, Autumn Meetings--Miles, Half-miles--T.Y.C.--Hurdles, Heats, names, weights, colours of the riders--jockies, jackets,--Dead Heats--sweats--distances--trainings--scales--caps, and all--what would you be without Top Boots? What! and echo answers--nothing!

Ay, worse than nothing--a chancery suit without money--an Old Bailey culprit without an _alibi_--a debtor without an excuse--a new play without a titled author--a manager without impudence--a thief without a character--a lawyer without a wig--or a Guy Faux without matches!

Tops, you must be "made to measure." Wellingtons, Hessians, Bluchers, Ankle-Jacks, and Highlows, can be chosen from, fitted, and tried on; but _you_ must be measured for, lasted, back-strapped, top'd, wrinkled and bottomed, according to order.

So it is with your proprietors--the little men who ride the great running horses. There's an impenetrable mystery about those little men--they _are_, we know that, but we know not how. Bill Scott is in the secret--Chifney is well aware of it--John Day could enlighten the world--but they won't! They know the value of being "light characters"--their fame is as "a feather," and _downey_ are they, even as the illustration of that fame. They conspire together like so many little Frankensteins. The world is treated with a very small proportion of very small jockeys; they never increase beyond a certain number, which proves they are not born in the regular way: as the old ones drop off, the young ones just fill their places, and not one to spare. Whoever heard of a "mob of jockeys," a glut of "light-weights," or even a handful of "feathers?"--no one!

It's like Freemasonry--it's an awful mystery! Bill Scott knows all about the one, and the Duke of Sussex knows all about the other, but the uninitiated know nothing of either! Jockeys are wonders--so are their boots! Crickets have as much calf, grasshoppers as much ostensible thigh; and yet these superhuman specimens of manufactured leather fit like a glove, and never pull the little gentlemen's legs off. That's the extraordinary part of it; they never even so much as dislocate a joint! Jockey bootmakers are wonderful men! Jockeys ain't men at all!

Look, look, look! Oh, dear! do you see that little fellow, with his merry-thought-like looking legs, clinging round that gallant bright chesnut, thoro'bred, and sticking to his ribs as if he meant to crimp him for the dinner of some gourmand curious in horse-flesh! There he is, screwing his sharp knees into the saddle, sitting well up from his loins, stretching his neck, curving his back, stiffening the wire-like muscles of his small arms, and holding in the noble brute he strides, as a saftey-valve controls the foaming steam; only loosing him at his very pleasure.

Look, look! there's the grey filly, with the other made-to-measure feather on her back; do you notice how she has crawled up to the chesnut? Mark, mark! his arms appear to be India-rubber! Mercy on us, how they stretch! and the bridle, which looked just now like a solid bar of wrought iron, begins to curve! See how gently he leans over the filly's neck; while the chesnut's rider turns his eyes, like a boiled lobster, almost to the back of his head! Oh, he's awake! he still keeps the lead: but the grey filly is nothing but a good 'un. Now, the Top-boots riding her have become excited, and commence tickling her sides with their flashing silver spurs, putting an extra foot into every bound. She gains upon the chesnut! This is something like a race! The distance-post is reached! The Top-boots on the grey are at work again. Bravo! the tip of the white nose is beyond the level of the opposing boots! Ten strides, and no change! "She must win!" "No, she can't!" "Grey for ever!" "Chesnut for a hundred!" "Done! done!"--Magnificent!--neck and neck!--splendid!--any body's race! Bravo grey!--bravo chesnut!--bravo both! Ten yards will settle it. The chesnut rider throws up his arms--a slight dash of blood soils the "Day and Martin"--an earth-disdaining bound lands chesnut a winner of three thousand guineas! and all the world are in raptures with the judgment displayed in the last kick of the little man's TOP BOOTS.

FUSBOS.

* * * * *

HINTS ON MELO-DRAMATIC MUSIC.

It has often struck us forcibly that the science of melo-dramatic music has been hitherto very imperfectly understood amongst us. The art of making "the sound an echo of the sense"--of expressing, by orchestral effects, the business of the drama, and of forming a chromatic commentary to the emotions of the soul and the motions of the body, has been shamefully neglected on the English stage. Ignorant composers and ignoble fiddlers have attempted to develop the dark mysteries and intricate horrors of the melo-drama; but unable to cope with the grandeur of their subject, they have been betrayed into the grossest absurdities. What, for instance, could be more preposterous than to assign the same music for "storming a fort," and "stabbing a virtuous father!" Equally ridiculous would it be to express "the breaking of the sun through a fog," and "a breach of promise of marriage;" or the "rising of a ghost," and the "entrance of a lady's maid," in the same keys.

The adaptation of the different instruments in the orchestra to the circumstance of the drama, is also a matter of extreme importance. How often has the effect of a highly-interesting suicide been destroyed by an injudicious use of the trombone; and a scene of domestic distress been rendered ludicrous by the intervention of the double-drum!

If our musical composers would attend more closely than they have been in the habit of doing, to the minutiæ of the scene which is intrusted to them to illustrate, and study the delicate lights and shades of human nature, as we behold it nightly on the Surrey stage, we might confidently hope, at no very distant period, to see melo-drama take the lofty position it deserves in the histrionic literature of this country. We feel that there is a wide field here laid open for the exercise of British talent, and have therefore, made a few desultory mems. on the subject, which we subjoin; intended as modest hints for the guidance of composers of melodramatic music. The situations we have selected from the most popular Melos. of the day; the music to be employed in each instance, we have endeavoured to describe in such a manner as to render it intelligible to all our readers.

Music for the entrance of a brigand in the dark, should be slow and mysterious, with an effective double _bass_ in it.

Ditto, for taking wine--an allegro, movement, with _da capo_ for the second glass.

Ditto, for taking porter, beer, or any other inferior swipes--a similar movement, but not _con spirito_.

Ditto, for the entrance of an attorney--a _coda_ in one sharp, 6-8 time. If accompanied by a client, an accidental _flat_ may be introduced.

Ditto, for discovering a lost babby--a simply _affettuoso_ strain, in a _minor_ key.

Ditto, for recognising a disguised count--a flourish of trumpets, and three bars rest, to allow time for the countess to faint in his arms.

Ditto, for concealing a lover in a closet, and the sudden appearance of the father, guardian, or husband, as the case may be--a _prestissimo_ movement, with an agitated _cadenza_.

Ditto, for taking an oath or affidavit--slow, solemn music, with a marked emphasis when the deponent kisses the book.

Ditto, for a lover's vow--a tender, broken _adagio_.

Ditto, for kicking a low comedy man--a brisk rapid _stoccato_ passage, with a running accompaniment on the kettle-drums.

The examples we have given above will sufficiently explain our views; but there are a vast number of dramatic situations that we have not noticed, which might be expressed by harmonious sounds, such as music for the appearance of a dun or a devil--music for paying a tailor--music for serving a writ--music for an affectionate embrace--music for ditto, very warm--music for fainting--music for coming-to--music for the death of a villain, with a confession of bigamy; and many others "too numerous to mention;" but we trust from what we have said, that the subject will not be lost sight of by those interested in the elevation of our national drama.

* * * * *

THE RISING SUN.

The residence of Sir Robert Peel has been so besieged of late by place-hunters, that it has been aptly termed the _New Post Office_.

* * * * *

THE PUNCH CORRESPONDENCE.

In presenting the following epistle to my readers, it may be necessary to apprise them, that it is the genuine production of my eldest daughter, Julia, who has lately obtained the situation of lady's-maid in the house of Mr. Samuel Briggs, an independent wax and tallow-chandler, of Fenchurch-street, City, but who keeps his family away from business, in fashionable style, in Russell-square, Bloomsbury. The example of many of our most successful literary _chiffonniers_, who have not thought it disgraceful to publish scraps of private history and unedited scandal, picked up by them in the houses to which they happened to be admitted, will, it is presumed, sufficiently justify my daughter in communicating, for the amusement of an enlightened public, and the benefit of an affectionate parent, a few circumstances connected with Briggs' family, with such observations and reflections of her own as would naturally suggest themselves to a refined and intelligent mind. Should this first essay of a timid girl in the thorny path of literature be favourably received by my friends and patrons, it will stimulate her to fresh exertions; and, I fondly hope, may be the means of placing her name in the same rank by those of Lady Morgan, Madame Tussaud, Mrs. Glasse, the Invisible Lady, and other national ornaments of the feminine species.--[PUNCH.

Russl Squear, July 14.

Dear PA,--I nose yew will he angxious to ear how I get on sins I left the wing of the best of feathers. I am appy to say I am hear in a very respeckble fammaly, ware they keeps too tawl footmen to my hand; one of them is cawld John, and the other Pea-taw,--the latter is as vane as a P-cock of his leggs, wich is really beutyful, and puffickly streight--though the howskeaper ses he has bad angles; but some pipple loox at things with only 1 i, and sea butt there defex. Mr. Wheazey is the ass-matick butler and cotchman, who has lately lost his heir, and can't get no moar, wich is very diffycult after a serting age, even with the help of Rowland's Madagascar isle. Mrs. Tuffney, the howsekeaper, is a prowd and oystere sort of person. I rather suspex that she's jellows of me and Pea-taw, who as bean throwink ship's i's at me. She thinks to look down on me, but she can't, for I hold myself up; and though we brekfists and t's at the same _board_, I treat with a _deal_ of _hot-tar_, and shoes her how much I dispeyses her supper-silly-ous conduck. Besides these indyvidules, there's another dome-stick, wich I wish to menshun particlar--wich is the paige Theodore, that, as the poat says, as bean

"--contrived a double debt to pay, A _paige_ at night--a _tigger_ all the day."

In the mornink he's a tigger, drest in a tite froc-cote, top-boots, buxkin smawl-closes, and stuck up behind Master Ahghustusses cab. In the heavening he gives up the tigger, and comes out as the paige, in a fansy jackit, with too rose of guilt buttings, wich makes him the perfeck immidge of Mr. Widdycomb, that ice sea in the serkul at Hashley's Amphitheatre. The paige's bisiness is to _weight_ on the ladies, wich is naterally _light_ work; and being such a small chap, you may suppose they can never make enuff of him. These are all the upper servants, of coarse, I shan't lower myself by notusing the infearyour crechurs; such as the owsmade, coke, _edcett rar_, but shall purceed drackly to the other potion of the fammaly, beginning with the old guv'nor (as Pee-taw cawls him), who as no idear of i life, and, like one of his own taller lites, has only _dipped_ into good sosiety. Next comes Missus:--in fact, I ot to have put her fust, for the grey mayor is the best boss in our staybill, (Exkews the wulgarisrm.) After Missus, I give persedince to Mr. Ahghustuss, who, bean the only sun in the house, is natrally looked up to by everybody in it. He as bean brot up a perfick genelman, at Oxfut, and is consekently fond of spending his knights in _le trou de charbon_, and afterwards of skewering the streets--twisting double knockers, pulling singlebelles, and indulging in other fashonable divertions, to wich the low-minded polease, and the settin madgistrets have strong objexions. His Pa allows him only sicks hundred a-year, wich isn't above 1/2 enuff to keep a cabb, a cupple of hosses, and other thinks, which it's not necessary to elude to here. Isn't it ogious to curb so fine a spirit? I wish you see him, Pa; such i's, and such a pear of beutyful black musquitoes on his lip--enuff to turn the hidds of all the wimming he meats. The other membranes of this fammaly are the 3 dorters--Miss Sofiar, Miss Selinar, and Miss Jorgina, wich are all young ladyes, full groan, and goes in public characters to the Kaledonian bawls, and is likewise angxious to get off hands as soon as a feverable opportunity hoffers. It's beleaved the old guv'nor can give them ten thowsand lbs. a-peace, wich of coarse will have great weight with a husband. There's some Qrious stoaries going--Law! there's Missuses bell. I must run up-stairs, so must conclewd obroply, but hope to resoom my pen necks weak.

Believe me, my dear Pa, Your affeckshnt JULIA PUNCH.

* * * * *

CHARACTERISTIC CORRESPONDENCE.

The following notes actually passed between two (_now_) celebrated comedians:--

Dear J----, Send me a shilling. Yours, B----, P.S.--On second thoughts, make it _two_.

To which his friend replied--

Dear B----, I have but one shilling in the world. Yours, J----, P.S.--On second thoughts, I want that for dinner.

* * * * *

A young artist in Picayune takes such perfect likenesses, that a lady married the portrait of her lover instead of the original.

* * * * *

PUNCH AND PEEL.

Arcades ambo.

READER.--God bless us, Mr. PUNCH! who is that tall, fair-haired, somewhat parrot-faced gentleman, smiling like a schoolboy over a mess of treacle, and now kissing the tips of his five fingers as gingerly as if he were doomed to kiss a nettle?

PUNCH.--That, Mr. Reader, is the great cotton-plant, Sir Robert Peel; and at this moment he has, in his own conceit, seized upon "the white wonder" of Victoria's hand, and is kissing it with Saint James's devotion.

READER.--What for, Mr. PUNCH?

PUNCH.--What for! At court, Mr. Reader, you always kiss when you obtain an honour. 'Tis a very old fashion, sir--old as the court of King David. Well do I recollect what a smack Uriah gave to his majesty when he was appointed to the post which made Bathsheba a widow. Poor Uriah! as we say of the stag, that was when his horns were in the velvet.

READER.--_You_ recollect it, Mr. PUNCH!--_you_ at the court of King David!

PUNCH.--I, Mr. Reader, I!--and at every court, from the court of Cain in Mesopotamia to the court of Victoria in this present, flinty-hearted London; only the truth is, as I have travelled I have changed my name. Bless you, half the _Proverbs_ given to Solomon are mine. What I have lost by keeping company with kings, not even Joseph Hume can calculate.

READER.--And are you really in court confidence at this moment?

PUNCH.--Am I? What! Hav'n't you heard of the elections? Have you not heard the shouts _Io Punch_? Doesn't my nose glow like coral--ar'n't my chops radiant as a rainbow--hath not my hunch gone up at least two inches--am I not, from crown to toe-nails, brightened, sublimated? Like Alexander--he was a particular friend of mine, that same Alexander, and therefore stole many of my best sayings--I only know that I am mortal by two sensations--a yearning for loaves and fishes, and a love for Judy.

READER.--And you really take office under Peel?

PUNCH.--Ha! ha! ha! A good joke! Peel takes office under _me_. Ha! ha! I'm only thinking what sport I shall have with the bedchamber women. But out they must go. The constitution gives a minister the selection of his own petticoats; and therefore there sha'n't be a yard of Welsh flannel about her Majesty that isn't of my choice.

READER.--Do you really think that the royal bedchamber is in fact a third house of Parliament--that the affairs of the state are always to be put in the feminine gender?

PUNCH.--Most certainly: the ropes of the state rudder are nothing more than cap-ribbons; if the minister hav'n't hold of them, what can he do with the ship? As for the debates in parliament, they have no more to do with the real affairs of the country than the gossip of the apple-women in Palace-yard. They're made, like the maccaroni in Naples, for the poor to swallow; and so that they gulp down length, they think, poor fellows, they get strength. But for the real affairs of the country! Who shall tell what correspondence can be conveyed in a warming-pan, what intelligence--for