Chapter 3

"There may be wisdom in a papillote"--

may be wrapt up in the curl-papers of the Crown? What subtle, sinister advice may, by a crafty disposition of royal pins, be given on the royal pincushion? What minister shall answer for the sound repose of Royalty, if he be not permitted to make Royalty's bed? How shall he answer for the comely appearance of Royalty, if he do not, by his own delegated hands, lace Royalty's stays? I shudder to think of it; but, without the key of the bedchamber, could my friend Peel be made responsible for the health of the Princess? Instead of the very best and most scrupulously-aired diaper, might not--by negligence or design, it matters not which--the Princess Royal be rolled in an Act of Parliament, wet from Hansard's press?

READER.--Dreadful, soul perturbing suggestion! Go on, Mr. PUNCH.

PUNCH.--Not but what I think it--if their constitution will stand damp paper--an admirable way of rearing young princesses. Queen Elizabeth--my wife Judy was her wet nurse--was reared after that fashion.

READER.--David Hume says nothing of it.

PUNCH.--David Hume was one of the wonders of the earth--he was a lazy Scotchman; but had he searched the State Paper Office, he would have found the documents there--yes, the very Acts of Parliament--the very printed rollers. To those rollers Queen Elizabeth owed her knowledge of the English Constitution.

READER.--Explain--I can't see how.

PUNCH.--Then you are very dull. Is not Parliament the assembled wisdom of the country?

READER.--By a fiction, Mr. PUNCH.

PUNCH--Very well, Mr. Reader; what's all the world but a fiction? I say, the assembled wisdom; an Act of Parliament is the sifted wisdom of the wise--the essence of an essence. Very well; know you not the mystic, the medicinal effects of printer's ink? The devil himself isn't proof to a blister of printer's ink. Well, you take an Act of Parliament--and what is it but the finest plaster of the finest brains--wet, reeking wet from the press. Eschewing diaper, you roll the Act round the royal infant; you roll it up and pin it in the conglomerated wisdom of the nation. Now, consider the tenderness of a baby's cuticle; the pores are open, and a rapid and continual absorption takes place, so that long before the Royal infant cuts its first tooth, it has taken up into its system the whole body of the Statutes.

READER.--Might not some patriots object to the application of the wisdom of the country to so domestic a purpose?

PUNCH.--Such patriots are more squeamish than wise. Sir, how many grown up kings have we had, who have shown no more respect for the laws of the country, than if they had been swaddled in 'em?

READER.--Do you think your friend Sir Robert is for statute rollers?

PUNCH.--I can answer for Sir Robert on every point. His first attack before he kisses hands--and he has, as you perceive, been practising this half-hour--will be upon the women of the bedchamber. The war with China--the price of sugar--the corn-laws--the fourteen new Bishops about to be hatched--timber--cotton--a property tax, and the penny post--all these matters and persons are of secondary importance to this greater question--whether the female who hands the Queen her gown shall think Lord Melbourne a "very pretty fellow in his day;" or whether she shall believe my friend Sir Robert to be as great a conjuror as Roger Bacon or the Wizard of the North--if the lady can look upon O'Connell and not call for burnt feathers or scream for _sal volatile_; or if she really thinks the Pope to be a woman with a naughty name, clothed in most exceptionable scarlet. It is whether Lady Mary thinks black, or Lady Clementina thinks white; whether her father who begot her voted with the Marquis of Londonderry or Earl Grey--_that_ is the grand question to be solved, before my friend Sir Robert can condescend to be the saviour of his country. To have the privilege of making a batch of peers, or a handful of bishops is nothing, positively nothing--no, the crowning work is to manufacture a lady's maid. What's a mitre to a mob-cap--what the garters of a peer to the garters of the Lady Adeliza?

READER.--You are getting warm, Mr. PUNCH--very warm.

PUNCH.--I always do get warm when I talk of the delicious sex: for though now and then I thrash my wife before company, who shall imagine how cosy we are when we're alone? Do you not remember that great axiom of Sir Robert's--an axiom that should make Machiavelli howl with envy--that "_the battle of the Constitution is to fought in the bedchamber_."

READER.--I remember it.

PUNCH.--That was a great sentence. Had Sir Robert known his true fame, he would never after have opened his mouth.

READER.--Has the Queen sent for Sir Robert yet?

PUNCH.--No: though I know he has staid at home these ten days, and answers every knock at the door himself, in expectation of a message.

READER.--They say the Queen doesn't like Sir Robert.

PUNCH.--I'm also told that her Majesty has a great antipathy to physic--yet when the Constitution requires medicine, why--

READER.--Sir Robert must be swallowed.

PUNCH.--Exactly so. We shall have warm work of it, no doubt--but I fear nothing, when we have once got rid of the women. And then, we have a few such nice wenches of our own to place about her Majesty; the Queen shall take Conservatism as she might take measles--without knowing it.

READER.--And when, Mr. PUNCH--when you have got rid of the women, what do you and Sir Robert purpose then?

PUNCH.--I beg your pardon: we shall meet again next week: it's now two o'clock. I have an appointment with half-a-dozen of my godsons; I have promised them all places in the new government, and they're come to take their choice.

READER.--Do tell me this: Who has Peel selected for Commander of the Forces?

PUNCH.--Who? Colonel Sibthorp.

READER.--And who for Chancellor of the Exchequer?

PUNCH.--Mr. Henry Moreton Dyer!

* * * * *

PUNCH'S PENCILLINGS.--No. II.

* * * * *

THE ELECTION OF BALLINAFAD.

(FROM OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.)

We have been at considerable expense in procuring the subjoined account of the election which has just terminated in the borough of Ballinafad, in Ireland. Our readers may rest assured that our report is perfectly exclusive, being taken, as the artists say, "on the spot," by a special bullet-proof reporter whom we engaged, at an enormous expense, for this double hazardous service.

BALLINAFAD, 20th JULY.

_Tuesday Morning, Eight o'clock._--The contest has begun! The struggle for the independence of Ballinafad has commenced! Griggles, the opposition candidate, is in the field, backed by a vile faction. The rank, wealth, and independence of Ballinafad are all ranged under the banner of Figsby and freedom. A party of Griggles' voters have just marched into the town, preceded by a piper and a blind fiddler, playing the most obnoxious tunes. A barrel of beer has been broached at Griggles' committee-rooms. We are all in a state of the greatest excitement.

_Half-past Eight._--Mr. Figsby is this moment proceeding from his hotel to the hustings, surrounded by his friends and a large body of the independent teetotal electors. A wheelbarrow full of rotten eggs has been sent up to the hustings, to be used, as occasion requires, by the Figsby voters, who are bent upon

A serious riot has occurred at the town pump, where two of the independent teetotalers have been ducked by the opposite party. Stones are beginning to fly in all directions. A general row is expected.

_Nine o'clock._--Polling has commenced. Tom Daly, of Galway, the fighting friend of Mr. Figsby, has just arrived, with three brace of duelling pistols, and a carpet-bag full of powder and ball. This looks like business. I have heard that six of Mr. Figsby's voters have been locked up in a barn by Griggles' people. The poll is proceeding vigorously.

_Ten o'clock._--State of the poll to this time:--

Figsby 19 Griggles 22

The most barefaced bribery is being employed by Griggles. A lady, known to be in his interest, was seen buying half-a-pound of tea, in the shop of Mr. Fad, the grocer, for which she paid with a whole sovereign, _and took no change_. _Two legs of mutton_ have also been sent up to Griggles' house, by Reilly, the butcher. Heaven knows what will be the result. The voting is become serious--four men with fractured skulls have, within these ten minutes, been carried into the apothecary's over the way. A couple of policemen have been thrown over the bridge; but we are in too great a state of agitation to mind trifles.

_Half-past Twelve o'clock._--State of the poll to this time:--

Figsby 27 Griggles 36

You can have no idea of the frightful state of the town. The faction are employing all sorts of bribery and intimidation. The wife of a liberal greengrocer has just been seen with the Griggles ribbons in her cap. Five pounds have been offered for a sucking-pig. Figsby must come in, notwithstanding two cart-loads of the temperance voters are now riding up to the poll, most of them being too drunk to walk. Three duels have been this morning reported. Results not known. The coroner has been holding inquests in the market-house all the morning.

_Three o'clock._--State of the poll to this time:--

Figsby 45 Griggles 39

The rascally corrupt assessor has decided that the temperance electors who came up to vote for the Liberal candidate, being too drunk to speak, were disentitled to vote. Some dead men had been polled by Griggles.

The verdict of the coroner's inquest on those who unfortunately lost their lives this morning, has been, "Found dead." Everybody admires the sagacious conclusion at which the jury have arrived. It is reported that Figsby has resigned! I am able to contradict the gross falsehood. Mr. F. is now addressing the electors from his committee-room window, and has this instant received a plumper--in the eye--in the shape of a rotten potato. I have ascertained that the casualties amount to no more than six men, two pigs, and two policemen, killed; thirteen men, women, and children, wounded.

_Four o'clock_--State of the poll up to this time:--

Figsby 29 Griggles 41

The poll-clerks on both sides are drunk, the assessor has closed the booths, and I am grieved to inform you that Griggles has just been duly elected.

_Half past Four o'clock._--Figsby has given Grigglcs the lie on the open hustings. Will Griggles fight?

_Five o'clock._--His wife insists he shall; so, of course, he must. I hear that a message has just been delivered to Figsby. Tom Daly and his carpet-bag passed under my window a few minutes ago.

_Half-past Five o'clock._--Two post-chaises have just dashed by at full speed--I got a glimpse of Tom Daly smoking a cigar in one of them.

_Six o'clock._--I open my letter to tell you that Figsby is the favourite; 3 to 1 has been offered at the club, that he wings his man; and 3 to 2 that he drills him. The public anxiety is intense.

_Half-past Six._--I again open my letter to say, that I have nothing further to add, except that the betting continues in favour of the popular candidate.

_Seven o'clock._--Huzza!--Griggles is shot! The glorious principles of constitutional freedom have been triumphant! The town is in an uproar of delight! We are making preparations to illuminate. BALLINAFAD IS SAVED! FIGSBY FOR EVER!

* * * * *

EPIGRAM.

Lord Johnny from Stroud thought it best to retreat. Being certain of getting the sack, So he ran to the City, and begged for a seat, Crying, "Please to _re-member Poor Jack_!"

* * * * *

CONUNDRUMS BY COL. SIBTHORP.

Why is a tall nobleman like a poker?--Because he's a _high'un_ belonging to the _great_.

Why is a defunct mother like a dog?--Because she's a _ma-stiff_.

When is _a horse_ like _a herring?_--When he's _hard rode_.

* * * * *

EPIGRAM ON SEEING AN EXECUTION.

One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop, To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop: "Alas!" cried one as round in air he spun, "That miserable wretch's _race is run_." "True," said the other drily, "to his cost, The race is run--but, by a _neck_ 'tis lost."

* * * * *

FASHIONABLE ARRIVALS.

Lord John Russell has arrived at a conviction--that the Whigs are not so popular as they were.

Sir Peter Laurie has arrived at the conclusion--that Solon was a greater man than himself.

* * * * *

THE POET FOILED.

To win the maid the poet tries, And sonnets writes to Julia's eyes;-- She likes a _verse_--but cruel whim, She still appears _a-verse_ to him.

* * * * *

A most cruel hoax has recently been played off upon that deserving class the housemaids of London, by the insertion of an advertisement in the morning papers, announcing that a servant in the above capacity was wanted by Lord Melbourne. Had it been for a _cook_, the absurdity would have been too palpable, as Melbourne has frequently expressed his opposition to sinecures.

* * * * *

ECCLESIASTICAL TRANSPORTATION.

Now B--y P--l has beat the Whigs, The Church can't understand Why Bot'ny Bay should be all sea, And have no _see_ on land.

For such a lamentable want Our good Archbishop grieves; 'Tis very strange the Tories should Remind him _of the thieves!_

* * * * *

EPIGRAM.

An American paper tells us of a woman named Dobbs, who was killed in a preaching-house at Nashville, by the fall of a chandelier on her head. Brett's Patent Brandy poet, who would as soon make a witticism on a cracked crown as a cracked bottle, has sent us the following:--

"The _light of life_ comes from above," Old Dingdrum snuffling said; "The _light_ came down on Peggy Dobbs, And Peggy Dobbs was _dead_."

* * * * *

A man in Kentucky was so absent, that he put himself on the toasting-fork, and did not discover his mistake until he was _done brown_.

* * * * *

CONSISTENCY.

No wonder Tory landlords flout "Fix'd Duty," for 'tis plain, With them the Anti-Corn-Law Bill Must _go against the grain._

* * * * *

The anticipated eruption of Mount Vesuvius is said to have been prevented by throwing a box of Holloway's Ointment into the crater.

* * * * *

THE SAILOR'S SECRET.

In the year--let me see--but no matter about the date--my father and mother died of a typhus fever, leaving me to the care of an only relative, and uncle, by my father's side. His name was Box, as my name is Box. I was a babby in long clothes at that time, not even so much as christened; so uncle, taking the hint, I suppose, from the lid of his sea-chest, had me called Bellophron Box. Bellophron being the name of the ship of which he was sailing-master.

I sha'n't say anything about my education; though I was brought up in

It's not much to boast of; but as soon as I could bear the weight of a cockade and a dirk, uncle got me a berth as midshipman on board his own ship. So there I was, _Mr._ Bellophron Box. I didn't like the sea or the service, being continually disgusted at the partiality shown towards me, for in less than a month I was put over the heads of all my superior officers. You may stare--but it's true; for _I was mast-headed_ for a week at a stretch. When we put into port, Captain ---- called me into his cabin, and politely informed me that if I chose to go on shore, and should find it inconvenient to return, no impertinent inquiries should be made after me. I availed myself of the hint, and exactly one year and two months after setting foot on board the Bellophron, I was _Master_ Bellophron Box again.

Well, now for my story. There was one Tom Johnson on board, a _fok'sell_ man, as they called him, who was very kind to me; he tried to teach me to turn a quid, and generously helped me to drink my grog. As I was unmercifully quizzed in the cockpit, I grew more partial to the society of Tom than to that of my brother middies. Tom always addressed me,'Sir,' and they named me Puddinghead; till at last we might be called friends. During many a night-watch, when I have sneaked away for a snooze among the hen-coops, has Tom saved me from detection, and the consequent pleasant occupation of carrying about a bucket of water on the end of a capstan bar.

I had been on board about a month--perhaps two--when the order came down from the Admiralty, for the men to cut off their tails. Lord, what a scene was there! I wonder it didn't cause a mutiny! I think it would have done so, but half the crew were laid up with colds in their heads, from the suddenness of the change, though an extra allowance of rum was served out to rub them with to prevent such consequences; but the purser not giving any definite directions, whether the application was to be external or internal, the liquor, I regret to say, for the honour of the British navy, was applied much lower down. For some weeks the men seemed half-crazed, and were almost as unmanageable as ships that had lost their rudders. Well, so they had! It was a melancholy sight to see piles of beautiful tails with little labels tied to them, like the instructions on a physic-bottle; each directed to some favoured relative or sweetheart of the _curtailed_ seamen. What a strange appearance must Portsmouth, and Falmouth, and Plymouth, and all the other mouths that are filled with sea-stores, have presented, when the precious remembrances were distributed! I wish some artist would consider it; for I think it's a shame that there should be no record of such an interesting circumstance.

One night, shortly after this visitation, it blew great guns. Large black clouds, like chimney-sweepers' feather-beds, scudded over our heads, and the rain came pouring down like--like winking. Tom had been promoted, and was sent up aloft to reef a sail, when one of the horses giving way, down came Tom Johnson, and snap went a leg and an arm. I was ordered to see him carried below, an office which I readily performed, for I liked the man--and they don't allow umbrellas in the navy.

"What's the matter?" said the surgeon.

"Nothing particular, sir; on'y Tom's broke his legs and his arms by a fall from the yard," replied a seaman.

Tom groaned, as though he _did_ consider it something _very_ particular.

He was soon stripped and the shattered bones set, which was no easy matter, the ship pitching and tossing about as she did. I sat down beside his berth, holding on as well as I could. The wind howled through the rigging, making the vessel seem like an infernal Eolian harp; the thunder rumbled like an indisposed giant, and to make things more agreeable, a gun broke from its lashings, and had it all its own way for about a quarter of an hour. Tom groaned most pitiably. I looked at him, and if I were to live for a thousand years, I shall never forget the expression of his face. His lips were blue, and--no matter, I'm not clever at portrait painting: but imagine an old-fashioned Saracen's Head--not the fine handsome fellow they have stuck on Snow Hill, but one of the griffins of 1809--and you have Tom's phiz, only it wants touching with all the colours of a painter's palette. I was quite frightened, and could only stammer out, "Why T-o-o-m!"

"It's all up, sir," says he; "I must go; I feel it."

"Don't be foolish," I replied; "Don't die till I call the surgeon." It was a stupid speech, I acknowledge, but I could not help it at the time.

"No, no; don't call the surgeon, Mr. Box; he's done all he can, sir. But it's here--it's here!" and then he made an effort to thump his heart, or the back of his head, I couldn't make out which.

I trembled like a jelly. I had once seen a melodrama, and I recollected that the villain of the piece had used the same action, the same words.

"Mr. Box," groaned Tom, "I've a-a-secret as makes me very uneasy, sir,"

"Indeed, Tom," I replied; "hadn't you better confess the mur--" murder, I was a going to say, but I thought it might not be polite, considering Tom's situation.

The ruffian, for such he looked then, tried to raise himself, but another lurch of the Bellophron sent him on his back, and myself on my beam-ends. As soon as I recovered my former position, Tom continued--

"Mr. Box, dare I trust you, sir? if I could do so, I'm sartin as how I should soon be easier."

"Of course," said I, "of course; out with it, and I promise never to betray your confidence."

"Then come, come here," gasped the suffering wretch; "give us your hand, sir."

I instinctively shrunk back with horror!

"Don't be long, Mr. Box, for every minute makes it worse," and then his Saracen's Head changed to a feminine expression, and resembled the _Belle Sauvage_.

I couldn't resist the appeal; so placing my hand in his, Tom put it over his shoulder, and, with a ghastly smile, said, "Pull it out, sir!"

"Pull what out?"

"My secret, Mr. Box; it's hurting on me!"

I thought that he had grown delirious; so, in order to soothe him as much as possible, I forced my hand under his shirt-collar, and what do you think I found? Why, a PIGTAIL--his pigtail, which he had contrived to conceal between his shirt and his skin, when the barbarous order of the Admiralty had been put into execution.

* * * * *

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.

No. II.

You say you would find But one, and one only, Who'd feel without you That the revel was lonely: That when you were near, Time ever was fleetest, And deem your loved voice Of all music the sweetest. Who would own her heart thine, Though a monarch beset it, And love on unchanged-- Don't you wish you may get it?

You say you would rove Where the bud cannot wither; Where Araby's perfumes Each breeze wafteth thither. Where the lute hath no string That can waken a sorrow; Where the soft twilight blends With the dawn of the morrow; Where joy kindles joy, Ere you learn to forget it, And care never comes-- Don't you wish you may get it?

* * * * *

"SYLLABLES WHICH BREATHE OF THE SWEET SOUTH."

JOEY HUME is about to depart for Switzerland: for, finding his flummery of no avail at Leeds, we presume he intends to go to _Schaff_-hausen, to try the _Cant_-on.

MARRIAGE AND CHRISTENING EXTRAORDINARY.

We beg to congratulate Lord John Russell on his approaching union with Lady Fanny Elliot. His lordship is such a persevering votary of Hymen, that we think he should be named "_Union-Jack_."

* * * * *

OMINOUS.

LORD PALMERSTON, on his road to Windsor, narrowly escaped being upset by a gentleman in a gig. We have been privately informed that the party with whom he came in collision was--Sir Robert Peel.

* * * * *

CROSS READINGS.