Chapter 1

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.

FOR THE WEEK ENDING NOVEMBER 6, 1841.

* * * * *

A DAY-DREAM AT MY UNCLE'S.

The result of a serious conversation between the authors of my being ended in the resolution that it was high time for me to begin the world, and do something for myself. The only difficult problem left for them to solve was, in what way I had better commence. One would have thought the world had nothing in its whole construction but futile beginnings and most unsatisfactory methods of doing for one's self. Scheme after scheme was discussed and discarded; new plans were hot-beds for new doubts; and impossibilities seemed to overwhelm every succeeding though successless suggestion. At the critical moment when it appeared perfectly clear to me either that I was fit for nothing or nothing was fit for me, the authoritative "rat-tat" of the general postman closed the argument, and for a brief space distracted the intense contemplations of my bewildered parents.

"Good gracious!" "Well, I never!" "Who'd ha' thought it?" and various other disjointed mutterings escaped my father, forming a sort of running commentary upon the document under his perusal. Having duly devoured the contents, he spread the sheet of paper carefully out, re-wiped his spectacles, and again commenced the former all-engrossing subject.

"Tom, my boy, you are all right, and this will do for you. Here's a letter from your uncle Ticket."

I nodded in silence.

"Yes, sir," continued my father, with increasing emphasis and peculiar dignity, "Ticket--the great Ticket--the greatest"--

"Pawnbroker in London," said I, finishing the sentence.

"Yes, sir, he is; and what of that?"

"Nothing further; I don't much like the trade, but"--

"But he's your uncle, sir. It's a glorious money-making business. He offers to take you as an apprentice. Nancy, my love, pack up this lad's things, and start him off by the mail to-morrow. Go to bed, Tom."

So the die was cast! The mail was punctual; and I was duly delivered to Ticket--the great Ticket--my maternal, and everybody else's undefinable, uncle. Duly equipped in glazed calico sleeves, and ditto apron, I took my place behind the counter. But as it was discovered that I had a peculiar _penchant_ for giving ten shillings in exchange for gilt sixpences, and encouraging all sorts of smashing by receiving counterfeit crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, I received a box on the ear, and a positive command to confine myself to the up-stairs, or "top-of-the-spout department" for the future. Here my chief duties were to deposit such articles as progressed up that wooden shaft in their respective places, and by the same means transmit the "redeemed" to the shop below. This was but dull work, and in the long dreary evenings, when partial darkness (for I was allowed no candle) seemed to invite sleep, I frequently fell into a foggy sort of mystified somnolency--the partial prostration of my corporeal powers being amply compensated by the vague wanderings of indistinct imagination.

In these dozing moods some of the parcels round me would appear not only imbued with life, but, like the fabled animals of Æsop, blessed with the gift of tongues. Others, though speechless, would conjure up a vivid train of breathing tableaux, replete with their sad histories. That tiny relic, half the size of the small card it is pinned upon, swells like the imprisoned genie the fisherman released from years of bondage, and the shadowy vapour takes once more a form. From the small circle of that wedding ring, the tear-fraught widow and the pallid orphan, closely dogged by Famine and Disease, spring to my sight. That brilliant tiara opens the vista of the rich saloon, and shows the humbled pride of the titled hostess, lying excuses for her absent gems. The flash contents of that bright yellow handkerchief shade forth the felon's bar; the daring burglar eyeing with confidence the counsel learned in the law's defects, fee'd by its produce to defend its quondam owner. The effigies of Pride, Extravagance, honest Distress, and reckless Plunder, all by turns usurp the scene. In my last waking sleep, just as I had composed myself in delicious indolence, a parcel fell with more than ordinary force on one beneath. These were two of my talking friends. I stirred not, but sat silently to listen to their curious conversation, which I now proceed to give verbatim.

_Parcel fallen upon_.--"What the d--l are you?"

_Parcel that fell_.--"That's my business."

"Is it? I rather think its mine, though. Why don't you look where you're going?"

"How can I see through three brown papers and a rusty black silk handkerchief?"

"Ain't there a hole in any of 'em?"

"No."

"That's a pity; but when you've been here as long as I have, the moths will help you a bit."

"Will they?"

"Certainly."

"I hope not."

"Hope if you like; but you'll find I'm right."

"I trust I didn't hurt you much."

"Not very. Bless you, I'm pretty well used to ill-treatment now. You've only rubbed the pile of my collar the wrong way, just as that awkward black rascal would brush me."

"Bless me! I think I know your voice."

"Somehow, I think I know yours."

"You ain't Colonel Tomkins, are you?"

"No."

"Nor Count Castor?"

"No."

"Then I'm in error."

"No you're not. I was the Colonel once; then I became the Count by way of loan; and then I came here--as he said by mistake."

"Why, my dear fellow, I'm delighted to speak to you. How did you wear?"

"So-so."

"When I first saw you, I thought you the handsomest Petersham in town. Your velvet collar, cuffs, and side-pockets, were superb; and when you were the Colonel, upon my life you were the sweetest cut thing about the waist and tails I ever walked with."

"You flatter me."

"Upon my honour, no."

"Well, I can return the compliment; for a blue, with chased buttons and silk lining, you beat anything I ever had the honour of meeting. But I suppose, as you are here, you are not the Cornet now?"

"Alas! no."

"May I ask why?"

"Certainly. His scoundrel of a valet disgraced his master's cloth and me at the same time. The villain went to the Lowther Arcade--took me with him by force. Fancy my agony; literally accessory to handing ices to milliners' apprentices and staymakers; and when the wretch commenced quadrilling it, he dos-a-dos'd me up against a fat soap-boiler's wife, in filthy three-turned-and-dyed common satin."

"Scoundrel!"

"Rascal! But he was discovered--he reeled home drunk. _I_, that is, as it's known, _we_ make the men. The Cornet saw him, and thrashed him soundly with a three-foot Crowther."

"That must have been delightful to your feelings."

"Not very."

"Why not? revenge is sweet."

"So it is; but as the Cornet forgot to order him to take me off, I got the worst of the drubbing. I was dreadfully cut about. Two buttons fearfully lacerated--nothing but the shanks left."

"How did it end?"

"The valet mentioned something about wages and assault warrants, so I was given to him to make the matter up. Between you and I, the Cornet was very hard up."

"Indeed!"

"Certain of it. You remember the French-grey trousers we used to walk out with--those he strapped so tight over the remarkably chatty and pleasant French-polished boots whose broken English we used to admire so much?"

"Of course I do; they were the most charming greys I ever met. They beat the plaids into fits; and the plaids were far from ungentlemanly, only they would always talk with a sham Scotch accent, and quote the 'Cotter's Saturday Night.'"

"Certainly that was a drawback. But to return to our friends, and the Cornet's friends, they must have been bad, for those very greys were seated."

"Impossible!"

"Fact, I assure you. My tails were pinned over the patch for three weeks."

"How did they bear it?"

"Shockingly. A general break up of the constitution--went all to pieces. First, decay appeared in the brace buttons; then the straps got out of order. They did say it was owing to the heels of the French-polished boots going down on one side, but the boots would never admit it."

"How did you get here?"

"I came from the Bench for eggs and bacon for the Cornet and his Valet's breakfast! What brought you?"

"The Count's landlady, for a week's rent."

"What did you fetch?"

"A guinea!"

"Bless me, you must have worn well."

"No; hold your tongue--I think I shall die with laughing,--ha! ha!--When they took me in, I returned the compliment. I've been--"

"What?"

"Cuffed and collared!"

"Ha! ha! ha! ha!" shouted both coats; and "Ha! ha!" shouted I; "And I'll teach you to 'ha! ha!' and neglect your business" shouted the Governor; and the reality of a stunning box on the ear dispelled the illusion of my "Day-dream at my Uncle's."

FUSBOS.

* * * * *

"BLOW GENTLE BREEZE."

The Reverend Henry _Snow_, M.A., has been inducted by the Bishop of Gloucester, to the Vicarage of Sherborne cum _Windrush_.

From Glo'ster _see_, a _windrush_ came, and lo! On Sherborne Vicarage it drifted _Snow_.

* * * * *

THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE.

CHAPTER VIII.

SHOWS WHAT'S AFTER A PARTY, AND WHAT'S IN A NAME.

* * * * *

A SCANDALOUS REPORT.

We are requested to contradict, by authority, the report that Colonel Sibthorp was the Guy Fawkes seen in Parliament-street. It is true that a deputation waited upon him to solicit him to take the chair on the 5th of November, but the gallant Colonel modestly declined, much to the disappointment of the young gentlemen who presented the requisition; so much so indeed, that, after exhausting their oratorical powers, they slightly hinted at having recourse to

* * * * *

"ROB ME THE EXCHEQUER, HAL."

No wonder Smith Exchequer Bills, Should have a _taste_ for gorging, For since the work the pocket fills, What _Smith_'s averse to _forging_?

* * * * *

THE FIRE AT THE TOWER.

This is a sad business, there is no doubt, and the excitement which prevailed may probably excuse the eccentricities that occurred, and to which we beg leave to call the public attention.

In the first place, by way of ensuring the safety of the property, precautions were taken to shut out every one from the building; and as military rule knows of no exception, the orders given were executed to the letter by preventing the ingress of the firemen with their engines until the general order of exclusion was followed by a countermand. This of course took time, leaving the fire to devour at its leisure the enormous meal that fate had prepared for it.

After the admission of the firemen there was the usual mishap of no water where it could be got at, but an abundant supply where there was no possibility of reaching it. The tanks which the hose could be got into were almost dry, while the Thames was in the most provoking way almost overflowing its banks in the very neighbourhood of the fire; and yet, if the pipes were laid on to the water, they were laid off too far from the building to have the least effect upon it.

The next eccentricity consisted in the sudden idea that suggested itself to somebody, that all energy should be devoted to saving the jewels, which were not in the smallest danger, and even if they had been, there was nobody knew how to get at them, the key being some miles off in the possession of the Lord Chamberlain. It might as well have been at the bottom of the Thames; and, of course, everybody began tugging at the iron bars, which were at length forced, and the jewels were, at a great cost of time and trouble, removed _to a place of safety_ from _a position of the most perfect security!!_ However, this showed activity if nothing else, and of course made the subject of paragraphs about "presence of mind," "indefatigable exertions," and "superhuman efforts" on the part of certain persons who, for the good they were doing, might just as well have been carrying the piece of artillery in St. James's Park into the enclosure opposite.

While the jewels were being hurried from one part of the Tower, where they were quite safe, to another where they were not more so, it never occurred to any one to rescue from danger the arms, which were being quietly consumed, while the crown and regalia were being jolted about with the most injurious activity.

The treatment of some of the reporters was another curious point of this melancholy business; and a gentleman from a weekly journal, on applying at head-quarters, found his own head suddenly quartered by a blow from a musket. This was rather unceremonious treatment on the part of the privates of the line to a person who is also

--the penny-a-line we mean; but with a true _gusto_ for accidents, and a relish for calamities, which nothing could subdue, he still pressed forward, with blood streaming from his fractured skull, for additional particulars. The American reporter whose hand was blown off, and had the good fortune to be upon the spot, is not to be compared with the hero who had the exclusive advantage of being able to supply practical information of the ruffianly conduct pursued by the soldiery.

It is not stated whether the fire-escape was on the spot; but as no one lived in the building that was burnt, it is highly probable that every effort was made to save the lives of the inhabitants. There is no doubt that the ladder was strenuously directed towards the clock tower, with the view, probably, of saving the "jolly cock" who used to adorn the top of it.

The reporters mark as a miracle the extraordinary fact, that during the whole time of the fire, the weathercock continued to vary with the wind. The gentlemen of the press, probably, expected that the awful solemnity of the scene would have rendered any man, not entirely lost to every sense of feeling, completely motionless. The apathy of the weathercock that went on whirling about as if nothing had happened, is in the highest degree disgusting, and we can scarcely regret the fate of such an unfeeling animal.

* * * * *

PLEASE TO REMEMBER THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER.

November, that month of fires, fogs, _felo de ses_, and Fawkes, has been ushered in with becoming ceremony at the Tower and at various other parts of the metropolis. In vain has an Act of Parliament been passed for the suppression of bonfires--November asserts her rights, and will have her modicum of "flare up" in spite of the law; but with the trickery of an Old Bailey barrister she has thrown the onus upon October. Nor is this all! Like a traitorous Eccalobeion she has already hatched several conspiracies, as though everybody now thought of getting rid of others or themselves.

The Right Hon. Spring-heel Rice Baron Jamescrow, commonly known as the Lord Monteagle, has, like his historical synonym, been favoured with a communication which being considerably beyond his own comprehension, he has in a laudable spirit submitted it to Punch--an evidence of wisdom which we really did not expect from our friend Baron Jamescrow.

We subjoin the introductory epistle--

DEAR PUNCH,--I hasten to forward you the awful letter enclosed--we are all abroad here concerning it--by the bye, how are you all at home--to say the least, it certainly does look very ugly. Mrs. P., I hope, has improved in appearance. Something terrible is evidently about to happen. I intend to pay you a visit shortly. I trust we may not have to encounter any more Guys--you may expect to see me on my Friday. I can only add my prayers for the nation's safety and my compliments to Mrs. Punch and the young P.s.

Yours ever,

MONTEAGLE.

P.S. Let me have your advice and your last Number immediately I have made a few notes, and paid the postage.

The following is the letter referred to by the Baron Jamescrow:--

MY LORD,--Being known to some of your friends I would advise you, as you tender your peace and quiet, to devise some excuse to shift off your attendance at your house (clearly the House of Lords--_Monteagle_), for fire and brimstone have united to destroy the enemies of man (evidently gunpowder, lucifer-matches, and the Peers--_Monteagle_). Think not lightly of my advertisement (see _Dispatch_), but retire yourself in the country (I should think I would--_Monteagle_), where you may abide in safety; for though there be no appearance of any _punæ_; (what the deuce does this mean? Puny's little--_Monteagle_), yet they will receive a terrible blow-up (By punæ he means members of Parliament, and he _is_ another Guy!--_Monteagle_); yet they shall not see who hurts them, though the place shall be purified and the enemy completely destroyed.

I am, your Lordship's servant,

and destroyer to her Majesty and the two Houses of Parliament.

T.I.F. Fin.

We are surprised at our friend Monteagle troubling us with a matter evidently as plain as the nose on our own face. It requires neither a Solon nor a Punch to solve the enigma. It is merely a letter from Tiffin, the bug destroyer to her Majesty, and refers to his peculiar plan of persecuting the _punæ_.

We have no doubt that Lords and Commons will be blown up on the re-assembling of Parliament; and as an assurance that we do not speak upon conjecture only, we beg to subjoin a portrait of the delinquent.

* * * * *

THE RIVAL CANDIDATES.