Chapter 4

To drink, or not to drink? That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler inwardly to suffer The pangs and twitchings of uneasy stomach, Or to take brandy-toddy 'gainst the colic, And by imbibing end it? To drink,--to sleep,-- To snore;--and, by a snooze, to say we end The head-ache, and the morning's parching thirst That drinking's heir to;--'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To drink,--to pay,-- To pay the waiter's bill?--Ay--there's the rub; For in that snipe-like bill, a stop may come, When we would shuffle off our mortal score, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes sobriety of so long date; For who could bear to hear the glasses ring In concert clear--the chairman's ready toast-- The pops of out-drawn corks--the "hip hurrah!" The eloquence of claret--and the songs, Which often through the noisy revel break, When a man--might his quietus make With a full bottle? Who would sober be, Or sip weak coffee through the live-long night; But that the dread of being laid upon That stretcher by policemen borne, on which The reveller reclines,--puzzles me much, And makes me rather tipple ginger beer, Than fly to brandy, or to-- [Illustration: --HODGE'S SIN?] Thus poverty doth make us Temp'rance men.

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"TRY OUR BEST SYMPATHY."

It is a fact, when the deputation of the distressed manufacturers waited upon Sir Robert Peel to represent to him their destitute condition, that the Right Honourable Baronet declared he felt the deepest sympathy for them. This is all very fine--but we fear greatly, if Sir Robert should be inclined to make a commercial speculation of his _sympathy_, that he would go into the market with

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THE MAN OF HABIT.

I meet with men of this character very frequently, and though I believe that the stiff formality of the past age was more congenial than the present to the formation and growth of these peculiar beings, there are still a sufficient number of the species in existence for the philosophical cosmopolite to study and comment upon.

A true specimen of a _man of habit_ should be an old bachelor,--for matrimony deranges the whole clock-work system upon which he piques himself. He could never endure to have his breakfast delayed for one second to indulge "his soul's far dearer part" with a prolonged morning dream; and he dislikes children, because the noisy urchins make a point of tormenting him wherever he goes. The Man of Habit has a certain hour for all the occupations of his life; he allows himself twenty minutes for shaving and dressing; fifteen for breakfasting, in which time he eats two slices of toast, drinks two cups of coffee, and swallows two eggs boiled for two and a half minutes by an infallible chronometer. After breakfast he reads the newspaper, but lays it down in the very heart and pith of a clever article on his own side of the question, the moment his time is up. He has even been known to leave the theatre at the very moment of the _dénouement_ of a deeply-interesting play rather than exceed his limited hour by five minutes. He will be out of temper all day, if he does not find his hat on its proper nail and his cane in its allotted corner. He chooses a particular walk, where he may take his prescribed number of turns without interruption, for he would prefer suffering a serious inconvenience rather than be obliged to quicken or slacken his pace to suit the speed of a friend who might join him. My uncle Simon was a character of this cast. I could take it on my conscience to assert that, every night for the forty years preceding his death, he had one foot in the bed on the first stroke of 11 o'clock, and just as the last chime had tolled, that he was enveloped in the blankets to his chin. I have known him discharge a servant because his slippers were placed by his bed-side for contrary feet; and I have won a wager by betting that he would turn the corner of a certain street at precisely three minutes before ten in the morning. My uncle used to frequent a club in the City, of which he had become the oracle. Precisely at eight o'clock he entered the room--took his seat in a leather-backed easy chair in a particular corner--read a certain favourite journal--drank two glasses of rum toddy--smoked four pipes--and was always in the act of putting his right arm into the sleeve of his great-coat, to return home, as the clock struck ten. The cause of my uncle's death was as singular as his life was whimsical. He went one night to the club, and was surprised to find his seat occupied by a tall dark-browed man, who smoked a _meerschaum_ of prodigious size in solemn silence. Numerous hints were thrown out to the stranger that the seat had by prescriptive right and ancient custom become the property of my uncle; he either did not or would not understand them, and continued to keep his possession of the leather-backed chair with the most imperturbable _sang-froid_. My uncle in despair took another seat, and endeavoured to appear as if nothing had occurred to disturb him,--but he could not dissimulate. He was pierced to the heart,--and

My uncle left the club half-an-hour before his time; he returned home--went to bed without winding his watch--and the next morning he was found lifeless in his bed.

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PUNCH'S POLITICAL ECONOMY.

The subject of political economy is becoming so general a portion of education, that it will doubtless soon be introduced at the infant schools among the other eccentric evolutions or playful whirls of _Mr. Wilder-spin_. At it is the fashion to comprehend nothing, but to have a smattering of everything, we beg leave to smatter our readers with a very thin layer of political economy. In the first place, "political" means "political," and "economy" signifies "economy," at least when taken separately; but put them together, and they express all kinds of extravagance. Political economy contemplates the possibility of labouring without work, eating without food, and living without the means of subsistence. Social, or individual economy, teaches to live _within_ our means; political economy calls upon us to live _without_ them. In the debates, when more than usual time has been wasted in talking the most _extravagant_ stuff, ten to one that there has been a good deal of _political economy_. If you bother a poor devil who is dying of want, and speak to him about _consumption_, it is probably "political economy" that you will have addressed to him. If you talk to a man sinking with hunger about _floating_ capital, you will no doubt have given him the benefit of a few hints in "political economy:" while, if to a wretch in tattered rags you broach the theory of _rent_, he must be an ungrateful beast indeed if he does not appreciate the blessings of "political economy." That "labour is wealth" forms one of the most refreshing axioms of this delicious science; and if brought to the notice of a man breaking stones on the road, he would perhaps wonder where his wealth might be while thinking of his labour, but he could not question your proficiency in "political economy." In fact, it is the most political and most economical science in the world, if it can only be made to achieve its object, which is to persuade the hard-working classes that they are the richest people in the universe, for their labour gives value, and value gives wealth; but who gets the value and the wealth is a consideration that does not fall within the province of "political economy."

There is another branch of the subject at which we shall merely glance; but one hint will open up a wide field of observation to the student. The branch to which we allude is the tremendous extent to which political economy is carried by those who interfere so much in politics with so very little political knowledge, and who consequently display a most surprising share of "political economy,"

As a very little goes a great way, and particularly as the most diminutive portion of knowledge communicated by ourselves is, like the "one small pill constituting a dose," much more efficacious than the 40 Number Ones and 50 Number Twos of the mere quacks, we close for the present our observations on _Political Economy_.

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ON THE KEY-VIVE.

There can be no doubt as to the _primâ facie_ evidence of the hostile intentions of the destroyed American steamer, with respect to the disaffected on Navy Island, as, from the acknowledged inquisitiveness of the gentler sex, there can be no doubt that _Caroline_ would have a natural predilection for

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LAST NEW SAYINGS.

_Come, none of your raillery_; as the stage-coach indignantly said to the steam-engine.

_That "strain" again_; as the Poor-law Commissioner generously said to the water-gruel sieve.

_I paid very dear for my whistle_; as the steam-engine emphatically said to the railroad.

_Peel for ever!_ as the church bells joyously said to Conservative hearts.

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There is at present a man in New York whose temper is so exceedingly hot that he invariably reduces all his shirts to tinder.

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PUNCH'S THEATRE.

THE MAID OF HONOUR.

The Adelphi "Correspondent from Paris" has favoured that Theatre with an adaptation of Scribe's "_Verre d'Eau_," which he has called "The Maid of Honour."

Everybody must remember that, last year, the trifling affair of the British Government was settled by the far more momentous consideration of who should be Ladies of the Bed-chamber. The Parisians, seeing the dramatic capabilities of this incident, put it into a farce, resting the whole affair upon the shoulders of a former Queen whose Court was similarly circumstanced. This is the piece which Mr. Yates has had the daring to get done into English, and transplanted into Spain, and interspersed with embroidery, confectionary, and a Spanish sentence; the last judiciously entrusted to that accomplished linguist, Mr. John Saunders.

Soon after the rising of the curtain, we behold the figure of Mr. Yates displayed to great advantage in the dress usually assigned to _Noodle_ and _Doodle_ in the tragedy of "Tom Thumb." He represents the _Count Ollivarez_, and the head of a political party--the opposition. The Court faction having for its chief the _Duchess of Albafurez_, who being Mistress of the Queen's robes is of course her favourite; for the millinery department of the country which can boast of a Queen Regnant is of far higher importance than foreign or financial affairs, justice, police, or war--consequently, the chief of the wardrobe is far more exalted and better beloved than a mere Premier or Secretary of State. The Count is planning an intrigue, the agents of which are to be _Henrico_, a Court page, and _Felicia_, a court milliner. Not being able to make much of the page, he turns over a new leaf, and addresses himself to the dress-maker; so, after a few preliminary hems, he draws out the thread of his purpose to her, and cuts out an excellent pattern for her guidance, which if she implicitly follow will assuredly make her a Maid of Honour.

A comedy without mystery is Punch without a joke; Yates without a speech to the audience on a first night; or Bartley's pathos without a pocket-handkerchief. The Court page soon opens the book of _imbroglio_. He is made a Captain of the Queen's Guard by some unknown hand; he has always been protected by the same unseen benefactor, who, as if to guard him from every ill that flesh is heir to, showers on him his or her favours upon condition that he never marries! "Happy man," exclaims the Count. "Not at all," answers the other, "I am in love with _Felicia_!" Nobody is surprised at this, for it is a rule amongst dramatists never to forbid the banns until the banned, poor devil, is on the steps of the altar. _Henrico_, now a Captain, goes off to flesh his sword; meets with an insult, and by the greatest good luck kills his antagonist in the precincts of the palace; so that if he be not hanged for murder, his fortune is made. The victim is the Count's cousin, to whom he is next of kin. "Good Heavens!" ejaculates _Ollivarez_, "You have made yourself a criminal, and me--a Duke! Horrible!"

By the way, this same _Henrico_, as performed by that excellent swimmer (in the water-piece), Mr. Spencer Forde, forms a very entertaining character. His imperturbable calmness while uttering the heart-stirring words, assigned by the author to his own description of the late affair-of-honourable assassination, was highly edifying to the philosophic mind. The pleasing and amiable tones in which he stated how irretrievably he was ruined, the dulcet sweetness of the farewell to his heart's adored, the mathematical exactitude of his position while embracing her, the cool deliberation which marked his exit--offered a picture of calm stoicism just on the point of tumbling over the precipice of destruction not to be equalled--not, at least, since those halcyon dramatic days when Osbaldiston leased Covent Garden, and played _Pierre_.

Somehow or other--for one must not be too particular about the wherefores of stage political intrigues--_Felicia_ is promoted from the office of making dresses for the Queen to that of putting them on. Behold her a maid of honour and of all-work; for the Queen takes her into her confidence, and in that case people at Court have an immense variety of duties to perform. The Duchess's place is fast becoming a sinecure, and she trembles for her influence--perhaps, in case of dismissal, for her next quarter's salary to boot--so she shakes in her shoes.

It is at this stage of the plot that we perceive why the part of _Henrico_ was entrusted to the gentleman who plays it,--the mystery we have alluded to being by this arrangement very considerably increased; for we now learn that no fewer than three ladies in the piece are in love with him, namely, _Felicia_, the Queen, and the Duchess. Now the most penetrating auditor would never, until actually informed of the fact, for a moment suspect a Queen, or even a Duchess, of such bad taste; for, as far as our experience goes, we have generally found that women do not cast their affections to men who are sheepish, insensible, cold, ungainly, with small voices, and not more than five feet high. Surprise artfully excited and cleverly satisfied is the grand aim of the dramatist. How completely is it here fulfilled! for when we discover that the personator of Henrico is meant for an Adonis, we _are_ astonished.

The truth is then, that the secret benefactor of this supposed-to-be irresistible youth has always been the _Duchess Albafurez_, who, learning from _Ollivarez_ that her pet has new claims upon her heart for having killed her friend the Duke, determines to assist him to escape, which however is not at all necessary, for Ollivarez is entrusted with the warrant for apprehending the person or persons unknown who did the murder. But could he injure the man who has made him a Duke by a lucky _coup-d'épée_? No, no. Let him cross the frontier; and, when he is out of reach, what thundering denunciations will not the possessor of the dukedom fulminate against the killer of his cousin! It is shocking to perceive how intimately acquainted old Scribe must be with manners, customs, and feelings, as they exist at Court.

The necessary passports are placed before the Queen for her signature (perhaps her Spanish Majesty can't afford clerks); but when she perceives whom they threaten to banish from behind her chair, she declines honouring them with her autograph. The Duchess thus learns her secret. "She, too, love Henrico? Well I never!" About this time a tornado of jealousy may be expected; but court etiquette prevents it from bursting; and the Duchess reserves her revenge, the Queen sits down to her embroidery frame, and one is puzzled to know what is coming next.

This puzzle was not on Monday night long in being resolved. _Ollivarez_ entered, and a child in the gallery commenced crying with that persevering quality of tone which threatens long endurance. Mr. Yates could not resist the temptation; and Ollivarez, the newly-created Duke of Medina, promised the baby a free admission for four, any other night, if it would only vacate the gallery just then. These terms having been assented to by a final screech, the infant left the gallery. After an instant's pause--during which the Manager tapped his forehead, as much as to say, "Where did I leave off?"--the piece went on.

We had no idea till last night how difficult it was for a Queen to indulge in a bit of flirtation! A most elaborate intrigue is, it seems, necessary to procure for her a tender interview with her innamorato. A plan was invented, whose intricacy would have bothered the inventor of spinning-jennies, whereby _Henrico_ was to be closeted with her most Christian Majesty,--its grand accomplishment to take place when the Queen called for a glass of ice (the original _Scribe_ wrote "water," but the Adelphi adapter thought ice would be more natural, for fear the piece should run till Christmas). The Duchess overhears the entire plot, but fails in frustrating it. Hence we find _Henrico, Felicia_, and the Queen together, going through a well-contrived and charmingly-conducted scene of equivoque--the Queen questioning _Henrico_ touching the state of his heart, and he answering her in reference to _Felicia_, who is leaning over the embroidery frame behind the Queen, and out of her sight.

This felicitous situation is interrupted by the spiteful Duchess; the lover escapes behind the window curtains to avoid scandal--is discovered, and his sovereign's reputation is only saved by the declaration of Felicia, that the Captain is there on _her_ account. Ollivarez asserts that they are married, to clench the fib--the Queen sees her folly--the Duchess is disgraced--all the characters stand in the well-defined semicircle which is the stage method of writing the word "finis"--Mrs. Yates speaks a very neat and pointed "tag"--and that's all.

For this two-act Comidetta, dear Yates, we pronounce absolution and remission of thy sins, so wickedly committed in the washy melo-drama, and cackling vaudeville, thou hast recently affronted common-sense withal! Thine own acting as the courtier was natural, except when thou didst interpolate the dialogue with the baby--a crying sin, believe us. Else, thy bows were graceful; and thy shoulder-shrugs--are they not chronicled in the mind's eye of thy most distant admirers? The little touches of humour that shone forth in the dialogue assigned to thee, were not exaggerated by the too-oft-indulged-in grimaces--in short, despite thy too monstrous _chapeau-bras_--which was big enough for a life-boat--thou lookedst like a Duke, a gentleman, and what in truth thou really art--an indefatigable _intriguant_. Thy favoured help-mate, too, gave a reality to the scene by her captivating union of queenly dignity and feminine tenderness. But most especially fortunate art thou in thy Felicia. Alas for our hunch and our hatchet nose! but O, alas! and alas! that we have a Judy! for never did we regret all three so deeply as while Miss Ellen Chaplin was on the stage. In our favourite scene with the Queen and her lover, how graceful and expressive were her dumb answers to what ought to have been Henrico's eloquent declarations, spoken _through_ the Queen. We charge thee, dear friend, to "call" her on Monday morning at eleven, and to rehearse unto her what we are going to say. Tell her that as she is young, a bright career is before her if she will not fall into the sin of copying some other favourite actress--say, for instance, Mrs. Yates--instead of our arch-mistress, Nature; say, moreover, that at the same time, she must be unwearying in acquiring _art_; lastly, inform her, that Punch has his eye upon her, and will scold her if she become a backslider and an imitator of other people's faults.

As to poor Mr. _Spencer_ Forde, he, too, is young; and you do wrong, O Yates! in giving him a part he will be unequal to till he grows big enough for a coat. A smaller part would, we doubt not, suit him excellently.

Lastly, give our best compliments to Mrs. Fosbroke, to the illustrious Mr. Freeborn, to Mr. John Saunders, and our especial commendations to thy scene-painter, thy upholsterer, and the gentleman lamp-lighter thou art so justly proud of; for each did his and her best to add a charm to "The Maid of Honour."

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