Chapter 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.

FOR THE WEEK ENDING JULY 31, 1841.

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POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE.

Let me earnestly implore you, good Mr. PUNCH, to give publicity to a new invention in the art of poetry, which I desire only to claim the merit of having discovered. I am perfectly willing to permit others to improve upon it, and to bring it to that perfection of which I am delightedly aware, it is susceptible.

It is sometimes lamented that the taste for poetry is on the decline--that it is no longer relished--that the public will never again purchase it as a luxury. But it must be some consolation to our modern poets to know (as no doubt they do, for it is by this time notorious) that their productions really do a vast deal of service--that they are of a value for which they were never designed. They--I mean many of them--have found their way into the pharmacopoeia, and are constantly prescribed by physicians as soporifics of rare potency. For instance--

"---- not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world. Shall ever usher thee to that sweet sleep"

to which a man shall be conducted by a few doses of Robert Montgomery's Devil's Elixir, called "Satan," or by a portion, or rather a potion, of "Oxford." Apollo, we know, was the god of medicine as well as of poetry. Behold, in this our bard, his two divine functions equally mingled!

But waiving this, of which it was not my intention to speak, let me remark, that the reason why poetry will no longer go down with the public, _as poetry_, is, that the whole frame-work is worn out. No new rhymes can be got at. When we come to a "mountain," we are tolerably sure that a "fountain" is not very far off; when we see "sadness," it leads at once to "madness"--to "borrow" is sure to be followed by "sorrow;" and although it is said, "_when_ poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window,"--a saying which seems to imply that poverty _may_ sometimes enter at the chimney or elsewhere--yet I assure you, in poetry, "the poor" _always_ come in, and always go out at "the door."

My new invention has closed the "door," for the future, against the vulgar crew of versifiers. A man _must_ be original. He must write common-sense too--hard exactions I know, but it cannot be helped.

I transmit you a specimen. Like all great discoveries, the chief merit of my invention is its simplicity. Lest, however, "the meanest capacity" (which cannot, by the way, be supposed to be addicted to PUNCH) should boggle at it, it may be as well to explain that every letter of the final word of each alternate line must be pronounced as though Dilworth himself presided at the perusal; and that the last letter (or letters) placed in _italics_ will be found to constitute the rhyme. Here, then, we have

A RENCONTRE WITH A TEA-TOTALLER.

On going forth last night, a friend to see, I met a man by trade a s-n-o-_b_; Reeling along the path he held his way. "Ho! ho!" quoth I, "he's d-r-u-n-_k_." Then thus to him--"Were it not better, far, You were a little s-o-b-e-_r_? 'Twere happier for your family, I guess, Than playing off such rum r-i-g-_s_. Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see 'em, Are taken up at once by t-h-_e_-_m_." "Me drunk!" the cobbler cried, "the devil trouble you! You want to kick up a blest r-o-_w_. Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby, If drain I've had!" (the lying s-n-o-_b_!) "I've just return'd from a tee-total party, Twelve on us jamm'd in a spring c-a-_r_-_t_. The man as lectured, now, _was_ drunk; why, bless ye, He's sent home in a c-h-a-i-_s_-_e_. He'd taken so much lush into his belly, I'm blest if he could t-o-dd-_l_-_e_. A pair on 'em--hisself and his good lady;-- The gin had got into her h-e-_a_-_d_. (My eye and Betty! what weak mortals _we_ are; They said they took but ginger b-e-_e_-_r_!) But as for me, I've stuck ('twas rather ropy) All day to weak imperial p-o-_p_. And now we've had this little bit o'sparrin', Just stand a q-u-a-r-t-e-_r_-_n_!"

* * * * *

A man in New-York enjoys such very _excellent spirits_ that he has only to drink water to intoxicate himself.

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TO JOBBING PATRIOTS.

MR. GEORGE ROBINS. with unparalleled gratification, begs to state that he has it in Command to announce, that in consequence of LORD JOHN RUSSELL'S LETTER to the citizens of London having satisfactorily convinced her MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY that a change of ministry CANNOT be productive of a corresponding transformation of measures, and that the late POLITICO-GLADIATORIAL STRUGGLE for the guerdon of office could only have emanated from a highly commendatory desire on the part of the disinterested and patriotic belligerents TO SERVE THEMSELVES or their country, HIS ROYAL MISTRESS, ever solicitous to enchain the hearts of her devoted subjects, by an impartial exercise of her prerogative, has determined to submit to the ARBITRATION OF HIS HUMBLE HAMMER, some of those desirable _places_, so long known as the _stimuli_ to the LACTANT LYCURGI of the nineteenth century.

LOT 1. FIRST LORD OF THE TREASURY, at present in possession of Lord Melbourne. This will be found a most eligible investment, as it embraces a considerable extent of female patronage, comprising the appointments of those valuable legislative adjuncts, THE LADIES OF THE BEDCHAMBER, AND THE ROYAL NURSES, WET AND DRY; together with those household desiderata, COALS AND CANDLES, and an unlimited RUN OF THE ROYAL KITCHEN.

LOT 2. SECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE COLONIAL DEPARTMENT, at present occupied by Lord John Russell. This lot must possess considerable attraction for a gastronomical experimentalist, as its present proprietor has for a long time been engaged in the discovery of how few pinches of oatmeal and spoonsful of gruel are sufficient for a human pauper, and will be happy to transfer his data to the next fortunate proprietor. Any gentleman desirous of embarking in the manufacture of SUGAR CANDY, MATCHES, OR CHEAP BREAD, would find this a desirable investment, more particularly should he wish to form either A PAROCHIAL OR MATRIMONIAL UNION, as there are plans for the one, and hints for the other, which will be thrown into the bargain, being of no further use to the present noble incumbent.

LOT 3. SECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE HOME DEPARTMENT, at present the property of Lord Normanby. Is admirably calculated for any one of a literary turn of mind, offering resources peculiarly adapted for a proper cultivation of the Jack Sheppard and James Hatfield "men-of-elegant-crimes" school of novel-writing--the archives of Newgate and Horsemonger-lane being open at all times to the inspection of the favoured purchaser. "YES" OR "NO" will determine the sale of this desirable lot in a few days.

LOT 4. SECRETARY OF STATE FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS, now in the occupancy of Lord Palmerston. Possesses advantages rarely to be met with. From its connexion with the continental powers, Eau de Cologne, bear's grease, and cosmetics of unrivalled excellence, can be procured at all times, thus insuring the favour of the divine sex,

"From the rich peasant-cheek of bronze, And large black eyes that flash on you a volley Of rays, that say a thousand things at once, To the high dama's brow more melancholy."

The only requisite (besides money) for this desirable lot is, that the purchaser must write a bold round hand for PROTOCOLS, understand French and Chinese, and be an EXPERT TURNER.

LOT 5. SEVERAL UNDER SECRETARYSHIPS, admirably adapted for younger sons and poor relatives.

The whole of the proceeds (by the advice of her Majesty's Cabinet Council) will be devoted to the erection of a UNION FOR DECAYED MINISTERS.

Cards to view may be had at the Treasury any day after the meeting of Parliament.

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"Very like a whale!" as the schoolmaster said when he examined the boy's back after severely flogging him.

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THE DIARY OF A LORD MAYOR.

All the world is familiar with the "Diary of a Physician," the "Diary of an Ennuyée," the "Diary of a Lady of Rank," and Heaven knows how many other diaries besides! but who has ever heard of, or saw, the "_Diary of a Lord Mayor_,--that day-book, or blotter, as it may be commercially termed, of a gigantic mind? Who has ever perused the autobiography of the Lama of Guildhall, Cham of Cripplegate, Admiral of Fleet Ditch, Great Turtle-hunter and Herod of Michaelmas geese? We will take upon ourselves to answer--not one! It was reserved for PUNCH to give to his dear friends, the public, the first and only extract which has ever been made from the genuine diary of a _late_ Lord Mayor of London, or, as that august individual was wont, when in Paris, to designate himself on his visiting tickets--

"Mr. ---- "FEU LORD MAYOR DE LONDRES."

How the precious MS. came into our possession matters little to the reader; suffice it to say, it is a secret which must ever remain confined to the bosoms of PUNCH and his cheesemonger.

DIARY.

_Nov. 10, eight o'clock._--Dreamed a horrid dream--thought that I was stretched in Guildhall with the two giants sitting on my chest, and drinking rum toddy out of firemen's buckets--fancied the Board of Aldermen were transformed into skittle-pins, and the police force into bottles of _Harvey's sauce_. Tried to squeak, but couldn't. Then I imagined that I was changed into the devil, and that Alderman Harmer was St. Dunstan, tweaking my nose with a pair of red-hot tongs. This time, I think, I _did_ shout lustily. Awoke with the fright, and found my wife pulling my nose vigorously, and calling me "My Lord!" Pulled off my nightcap, and began to have an idea I was somebody, but could not tell exactly who. Suddenly my eye rested upon the civic gown and chain, which lay upon a chair by my bed-side:--the truth flashed upon my mind--I felt I was a _real_ Lord Mayor. I remembered clearly that yesterday I had been sworn into office. I had a perfect recollection of the glass-coach, and the sheriffs, and the men in armour, and the band playing "Jim along Josey," as we passed the Fleet Prison, and the glories of the city barge at Blackfriars-bridge, and the enthusiastic delight with which the assembled multitude witnessed--

I could also call to mind the dinner--the turtle, venison, and turbot--and the popping of the corks from the throats of the champagne bottles. I was conscious, too, that I had made a speech; but, beyond this point, all the events of the night were lost in chaotic confusion. One thing, however, was certain--I was a _bonâ fide_ Lord Mayor--and being aware of the arduous duties I had to perform, I resolved to enter upon them at once. Accordingly I arose, and as some poet says--

"Commenced sacrificing to the Graces, By putting on my breeches."

Sent for a barber, and authorised him to remove the superfluous hair from my chin--at the same time made him aware of the high honour I had conferred upon him by placing the head of the city under his razor--thought I detected the fellow's tongue in his cheek, but couldn't be certain. _Mem._ Never employ the rascal again.

_9 o'clock._--Dressed in full fig--sword very troublesome--getting continually between my legs. Sat down to breakfast--her ladyship complimented me on my appearance--said I looked the _beau ideal_ of a mayor--took a side glance at myself in the mirror--her ladyship was perfectly right. Trotter the shoemaker announced--walked in with as much freedom as he used to do into my shop in Coleman-street--smelt awfully of "best calf" and "heavy sole"--shook me familiarly by the hand, and actually called me "Bob." The indignation of the Mayor was roused, and I hinted to him that I did not understand such liberties, upon which the fellow had the insolence to laugh in my face--couldn't stand his audacity, so quitted the room with strong marks of disgust.

_10 o'clock._--Heard that a vagabond was singing "Jim Crow" on Tower-hill--proceeded with a large body of the civic authorities to arrest him, but after an arduous chase of half-an-hour we unfortunately lost him in Houndsditch. Suppressed two illegal apple-stalls in the Minories, and took up a couple of young black-legs, whom I detected playing at chuck-farthing on Saffron-hill. Issued a proclamation against mad dogs, cautioning all well-disposed persons to avoid their society.

_12 o'clock._--Waited upon by the secretary of the New River Company with a sample of the water they supply to the City--found that it was much improved by compounding it with an equal portion of cognac--gave a certificate accordingly. Lunched, and took a short nap in my cocked hat.

_1 o'clock._--Police-court. Disposed of several cases summarily--everybody in court amazed at the extraordinary acuteness I displayed, and the rapidity with which I gave my decisions--they did not know that I always privately tossed up--heads, complainant wins, and tails, defendant--this is the fairest way after all--no being humbugged by hard swearing or innocent looks--no sifting of witnesses--no weighing of evidence--no deliberating--no hesitating--the thing is done in an instant--and, if the guilty should escape, why the fault lies with fortune, and not with justice.

_3 o'clock._--Visited the Thames Tunnel--found Brunel a devilish _deep_ fellow--he explained to me the means by which he worked, and said he had got nearly over all his difficulties--I suppose he meant to say he had nearly got _under_ them--at all events the tunnel, when completed, will be a vast convenience to the metropolis, particularly to the _lower_ classes. From the Tunnel went to Billingsgate-market--confiscated a basket of suspicious shrimps, and ordered them to be conveyed to the Mansion-house. _Mem._ Have them for breakfast to-morrow. Return to dress for dinner, having promised to take the chair at the Grand Annual Metropolitan Anti-Hydro-without-gin-drinking Association.

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Here a hiatus occurs in the MS.; but from cotemporary authorities we are enabled to state that his lordship was conveyed home at two o'clock on the following morning, by some jolly companions.

"Slowly and sadly they smoothed his bed, And they told his wife and daughter To give him, next day, a couple of red- Herrings and soda-water."

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THE LOVES OF THE PLANTS.

The gay _Daffodilly_, an amorous blade, Stole out of his bed in the dark, And calling his brother, _Jon-Quil_, forth he stray'd To breathe his love vows to a _Violet_ maid Who dwelt in a neighbouring park.

A spiteful old _Nettle-aunt_ frown'd on their love; But _Daffy_, who laugh'd at her power, A _Shepherd's-purse_ slipp'd in the nurse's _Fox-glove_, Then up _Jacob's-ladder_ he crept to his love, And stole to the young _Virgin's-bower_.

The _Maiden's-blush Rose_--and she seem'd all dismay'd, Array'd in her white _Lady's-smock_, She call'd _Mignonette_--but the sly little jade, That instant was hearing a sweet serenade From the lips of a tall _Hollyhock_.

The _Pheasant's eye_, always a mischievous wight, For prying out something not good, Avow'd that he peep'd through the keyhole that night; And clearly discern'd, by a glow-worm's pale light, Their _Two-faces-under-a-hood_.

Old Dowager _Peony_, deaf as a door, Who wish'd to know more of the facts, Invited Dame _Mustard_ and Miss _Hellebore_, With Miss _Periwinkle_, and many friends more, One evening to tea and to tracts.

The _Butter-cups_ ranged, defamation ran high, While every tongue join'd the debate; Miss _Sensitive_ said, 'twixt a groan and a sigh, Though she felt much concern'd--yet she thought her dear _Vi_-- Had grown rather bulbous of late.

Thus the tale spread about through the busy parterre: Miss _Columbine_ turn'd up her nose, And the prude Lady _Lavender_ said, with a stare, That her friend, _Mary-gold_, had been heard to declare, The creature had toy'd with the _Rose_.

Each _Sage_ look'd severe, and each _Cocks-comb_ look'd gay, When _Daffy_ to make their mind easy, Miss _Violet_ married one morning in May, And, as sure as you live, before next Lady-day, She brought him a _Michaelmas-daisy_.

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NOTHING WONDERFUL.

The Duke of Normandie accounts for the non-explosion of his percussion-shells, by the fact of having incautiously used some of M'Culloch's pamphlets on the corn laws. If this be the case, no person can be surprised at their _not going off_.

* * * * *

MODERN WAT TYLERS.

The anxiety of the Whigs to repeal the timber duties is quite pardonable, for, with their _wooden heads_, they doubtlessly look upon it in the light of a _poll-tax_.

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CIVILISATION.

"If an European," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, in one of his Discourses, "when he has cut off his beard, and put false hair on his head, or bound up his own hair in formal, hard knots, as unlike nature as he can make it, and after having rendered them immoveable by the help of the fat of hogs, has covered the whole with flour, laid on by a machine with the utmost regularity--if, when thus attired, he issues forth and meets a Cherokee Indian who has bestowed as much time at his toilet, and laid with equal care and attention his yellow and red ochre on such parts of his forehead and cheeks as he judges most becoming, whichever of these two despises the other for this attention to the fashion of his country, whichever first feels himself provoked to laugh, is the barbarian."

Granting this, the popular advocates of civilisation certainly are not the most civilised of individuals. They appear to consider yellow ochre and peacocks' feathers the climax of barbarism--marabouts and kalydor the acme of refinement. A ring through the nose calls forth their deepest pity--a diamond drop to the ear commands their highest respect. To them, nothing can show a more degraded state of nature than a New Zealand chief, with his distinctive coat of arms emblazoned on the skin of his face; nor anything of greater social elevation than an English peer, with the glittering label of his "nobility" tacked to his breast. To a rational mind, the one is not a whit more barbarous than the other; they being, as Sir Joshua observes, the real barbarians who, like these _soi-disant_ civilisers, would look upon their own monstrosities as the sole standard of excellence.

The philosophy of the present age, however, is peculiarly the philosophy of outsides. Few dive deeper into the human breast than the bosom of the shirt. Who could doubt the heart that beats beneath a cambric front? or who imagine that hand accustomed to dirty work which is enveloped in white kid? What Prometheus was to the physical, Stultz is to the moral man--the one made human beings out of clay, the other cuts characters out of broad-cloth. Gentility is, with us, a thing of the goose and shears; and nobility an attribute--not of the mind, but (supreme civilisation!) of _a garter_!

Certain modern advocates appear to be devout believers in this external philosophy. They are touchingly eloquent upon the savage state of those who indulge in yellow ochre, but conveniently mute upon the condition of those who prefer carmine. They are beautifully alive to the degradation of that race of people which crushes the feet of its children, but wonderfully dead to the barbarism of that race, nearer home, which performs a like operation upon the ribs of its females. By them, also, we are told that "words would manifestly fail in portraying _so low a state of morals as is pictured in the lineaments of an Australian chief_,"--a stretch of the outside philosophy which we certainly were not prepared to meet with; for little did we dream that this noble science could ever have attained such eminence, that men of intellect would be able to discover immorality in particular noses, and crime in a certain conformation of the chin.

That an over-attention to the adornment of the person is a barbarism all must allow; but that the pride which prompts the Esquimaux to stuff bits of stone through a hole in his cheek, is a jot less refined than that which urges the dowager-duchess to thrust coloured crystals through a hole in her ear, certainly requires a peculiar kind of mental squint to perceive. Surely there is as great a want of refinement among us, in this respect, as among the natives of New Zealand. Why rush for subjects for civilisation to the back woods of America, when thousands may be found, any fine afternoon, in Regent-street? Why fly to Biddy Salamander and Bulkabra, when the Queen of Beauty and Count D'Orsay have equally urgent claims on the attention and sympathies of the civiliser?