Chapter 3

At length, PEEL is called in "in a regular way." Being assured of his quarterly fee, the state physician may now, in the magnanimity of his soul, prescribe new life for moribund John Bull. Whether he has resolved within himself to emulate the generous dealing of kindred professors--of those sanative philosophers, whose benevolence, stamped in modest handbills, "crieth out in the street," exclaiming "No cure no pay,"--we know not; certain we are, that such is not the old Tory practice. On the contrary, the healing, with Tory doctors, has ever been in an inverse ratio to the reward. Like the faculty at large, the Tories have flourished on the sickness of the patient. They have, with _Falstaff_, "turned diseases to commodity;" their only concern being to keep out the undertaker. Whilst there's life, there's profit,--is the philosophy of the Tory College; hence, poor Mr. Bull, though shrunk, attenuated,--with a blister on his head, and cataplasms at his soles,--has been kept just alive enough to pay. And then his patience under Tory treatment--the obedience of his swallow! "Admirable, excellent!" cried a certain doctor (we will not swear that his name was not PEEL), when his patient pointed to a dozen empty phials. "Taken them all, eh? Delightful! My dear sir, you are _worthy_ to be ill." JOHN BULL having again called in the Tories, is "worthy to be ill;" and very ill he will be.

The tenacity of life displayed by BULL is paralleled by a case quoted by LE VAILLANT. That naturalist speaks of a turtle that continued to live after its brain was taken from its skull, and the cavity stuffed _with cotton_. Is not England, with spinning-jenny PEEL at the head of its affairs, in this precise predicament? England may live; but inactive, torpid; unfitted for all healthful exertion,--deprived of its grandest functions--paralyzed in its noblest strength. We have a Tory Cabinet, but where is the _brain_ of statesmanship?

Now, however, there are no Tories. Oh, no! Sir ROBERT PEEL is a Conservative--LYNDHURST is a Conservative--all are Conservative. Toryism has sloughed its old skin, and rejoices in a new coat of many colours; but the sting remains--the venom is the same; the reptile that would have struck to the heart the freedom of Europe, elaborates the self-same poison, is endowed with the same subtilty, the same grovelling, tortuous action. It still creeps upon its belly, and wriggles to its purpose. When adders shall become eels, then will we believe that Conservatives cannot be Tories.

When folks change their names--unless by the gracious permission of the _Gazette_--they rarely do so to avoid the fame of brilliant deeds. It is not the act of an over-sensitive modesty that induces _Peter Wiggins_ to dub himself _John Smith_. Be certain of it, _Peter_ has not saved half a boarding-school from the tremendous fire that entirely destroyed "Ringworm House"--_Peter_ has not dived into the Thames, and rescued some respectable attorney from a death hitherto deemed by his friends impossible to him. It is from no such heroism that _Peter Wiggins_ is compelled to take refuge in _John Smith_ from the oppressive admiration of the world about him. Certainly not. Depend upon it, _Peter_ has been signalised in the _Hue and Cry_, as one endowed with a love for the silver spoons of other men--as an individual who, abusing the hospitality of his lodgings, has conveyed away and sold the best goose feathers of his landlady. What then, with his name ripe enough to drop from the tree of life, remains to _Wiggins_, but to subside into _Smith_? What hope was there for the well-known swindler, the posted pickpocket, the callous-hearted, slug-brained _Tory_? None: he was hooted, pelted at; all men stopped the nose at his approach. He was voted a nuisance, and turned forth into the world, with all his vices, like ulcers, upon him. Well, _Tory_ adopts the inevitable policy of _Wiggins_; he changes his name! He comes forth, curled and sweetened, and with a smile upon his mealy face, and placing his felon hand above the _vacuum_ on the left side of his bosom--declares, whilst the tears he weeps would make a crocodile blush--that he is by no means the _Tory_ his wicked, heartless enemies would call him. Certainly not. His name is--_Conservative!_ There was, once, to be sure, a _Tory_--in existence;

"But he is dead, and nailed in his chest!"

He is a creature extinct, gone with the wolves annihilated by the Saxon monarch. There may be the skeleton of the animal in some rare collections in the kingdom; but for the living creature, you shall as soon find a phoenix building in the trees of Windsor Park, as a _Tory_ kissing hands in Windsor Castle!

The lie is but gulped as a truth, and _Conservative_ is taken into service. Once more, he is the _factotum_ to JOHN BULL. But when the knave shall have worn out his second name--when he shall again be turned away--look to your feather-beds, oh, JOHN! and foolish, credulous, leathern-eared Mr. BULL--be sure and count your spoons!

Can it be supposed that the loss of office, that the ten years' hunger for the loaves and fishes endured by the Tory party, has disciplined them into a wiser humanity? Can it be believed that they have arrived at a more comprehensive grasp of intellect--that they are ennobled by a loftier consideration of the social rights of man--that they are gifted with a more stirring sympathy for the wants that, in the present iniquitous system of society, reduce him to little less than pining idiotcy, or madden him to what the statutes call crime, and what judges, sleek as their ermine, preach upon as rebellion to the government--the government that, in fact, having stung starvation into treason, takes to itself the loftiest praise for refusing the hangman--a task--for appeasing _Justice_ with simple transportation?

Already the Tories have declared themselves. In the flush of anticipated success, PEEL at the Tamworth election denounced the French Revolution that escorted Charles the Tenth--with his foolish head still upon his shoulders--out of France, as the "triumph of might over right." It was the right--the divine right of Charles--(the sacred _ampoule_, yet dropping with the heavenly oil brought by the mystic dove for Clovis, had bestowed the privilege)--to gag the mouth of man; to scourge a nation with decrees, begot by bigot tyranny upon folly--to reduce a people into uncomplaining slavery. Such was his right: and the burst of indignation, the irresistible assertion of the native dignity of man, that shivered the throne of Charles like glass, was a felonious might--a rebellious, treasonous potency--the very wickedness of strength. Such is the opinion of Conservative PEEL! Such the old Tory faith of the child of Toryism!

Since the Tamworth speech--since the scourging of Sir ROBERT by the French press--PEEL has essayed a small philanthropic oration. He has endeavoured to paint--and certainly in the most delicate water-colours--the horrors of war. The premier makes his speech to the nations with the palm-branch in his hand--with the olive around his brow. He has applied arithmetic to war, and finds it expensive. He would therefore induce France to disarm, that by reductions at home he may not be compelled to risk what would certainly jerk him out of the premiership--the imposition of new taxes. He may then keep his Corn Laws--he may then securely enjoy his sliding scale. Such are the hopes that dictate the intimation to disarm. It is sweet to prevent war; and, oh! far sweeter still to keep out the Wigs!

The Duke of WELLINGTON, who is to be the moral force of the Tory Cabinet, is a great soldier; and by the very greatness of his martial fame, has been enabled to carry certain political questions which, proposed by a lesser genius, had been scouted by the party otherwise irresistibly compelled to admit them. (Imagine, for instance, the Marquis of Londonderry handling Catholic Emancipation.) Nevertheless, should "The follies of the Wise"--a chronicle much wanted--be ever collected for the world, his Grace of Wellington will certainly shine as a conspicuous contributor. In the name of famine, what could have induced his Grace to insult the misery at this moment, eating the hearts of thousands of Englishmen? For, within these few days, the Victor of Waterloo expressed his conviction that England was the only country in which "_the poor man, if only sober and industrious_, WAS QUITE CERTAIN _of acquiring a competency!_" And it is this man, imbued with this opinion, who is to be hailed as the presiding wisdom--the great moral strength--the healing humanity of the Tory Cabinet. If rags and starvation put up their prayer to the present Ministry, what must be the answer delivered by the Duke of Wellington? "YE ARE DRUNKEN AND LAZY!"

If on the night of the 24th of August--the memorable night on which this heartless insult was thrown in the idle teeth of famishing thousands--the ghosts of the victims of the Corn Laws,--the spectres of the wretches who had been ground out of life by the infamy of Tory taxation, could have been permitted to lift the bed-curtains of Apsley-House,--his Grace the Duke of Wellington would have been scared by even a greater majority than ultimately awaits his fellowship in the present Cabinet. Still we can only visit upon the Duke the censure of ignorance. "He knows not what he says." If it be his belief that England suffers only because she is drunken and idle, he knows no more of England than the Icelander in his sledge: if, on the other hand, he used the libel as a party warfare, he is still one of the "old set,"--and his "crowning carnage, Waterloo," with all its greatness, is but a poor set-off against the more lasting iniquities which he would visit upon his fellow-men. Anyhow, he cannot--he must not--escape from his opinion; we will nail him to it, as we would nail a weasel to a barn-door; "_if Englishmen want competence, they must be drunken--they must be idle_." Gentlemen Tories, shuffle the cards as you will, the Duke of Wellington either lacks principle or brains.

Next week we will speak of the Whigs; of the good they have done--of the good they have, with an instinct towards aristocracy--most foolishly, most traitorously, missed.

Q.

* * * * *

PUNCH'S PENCILLINGS--No. IX.

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ROYAL NURSERY EDUCATION REPORT--NO. 3.

WHO KILLED COCK RUSSELL?

A NEW VERSION OF THE CELEBRATED NURSERY TALE, WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THE PRINCESS ROYAL.

Who Kill'd Cock Russell? I, said Bob Peel, The political eel, I kill'd Cock Russell.

Who saw him die? We, said the nation, At each polling station, We saw him die.

Who caught his place? I, for I _can_ lie, Said turn-about _Stan_ley, I caught his place.

Who'll make his shroud? We, cried the poor From each Union door, We'll make his shroud.

Who'll dig his grave? Cried the corn-laws, The fool Has long been our tool, We'll dig his grave.

Who'll be the parson? I, London's bishop, A sermon will dish up, I'll be the parson.

Who'll be the clerk? Sibthorp, for a lark, If you'll all keep it dark, He'll be the clerk.

Who'll carry him to his grave? The Chartists, with pleasure, Will wait on his leisure, They'll carry him to his grave.

Who'll carry the link? Said Wakley, in a minute, I _must_ be in it, I'll carry the link.

Who'll be chief mourners? We, shouted dozens Of out-of-place cousins, We'll be chief mourners.

Who'll bear the pall? As they loudly bewail, Both O'Connell and tail, They'll bear the pall.

Who'll go before? I, said old Cupid, I'll still head the stupid, I'll go before.

Who'll sing a psalm? I, Colonel Perceval, (Oh, Peel, be merciful!) I'll sing a psalm.

Who'll throw in the dirt? I, said the _Times_, In lampoons and rhymes, I'll throw in the dirt.

Who'll toll the bell? I, said John Bull, With pleasure I'll pull,-- I'll toll the bell.

All the Whigs in the world Fell a sighing and sobbing, When wicked Bob Peel Put an end to their jobbing.

* * * * *

TRANSACTIONS AND YEARLY REPORT OF THE HOOKHAM-CUM-SNIVEY LITERARY, SCIENTIFIC, AND MECHANICS' INSTITUTION.

Collected and elaborated expressly for "PUNCH," by Tiddledy Winks, Esq., Hon. Sec., and Editor of the _Peckham Evening Post_ and _Camberwell-Green Advertiser_.

Previously to placing the results of my unwearied application before the public, I think it will be both interesting and appropriate to trace, in a few words, the origin of this admirable society, by whose indefatigable exertions the air-pump has become necessary to the domestic economy of every peasant's cottage; and the Budelight and beer-shops, optics and out-door relief, and Daguerrotypes and dirt, have become subjects with which they are equally familiar.

About the close of last year, a few scientific labourers were in the habit of meeting at a "Jerry" in their neighbourhood, for the purpose of discussing such matters as the comprehensive and plainly-written reports of the British Association, as furnished by the _Athenæum_, offered to their notice, in any way connected with philosophy or the _belles lettres_. The numbers increasing, it was proposed that they should meet weekly at one another's cottages, and there deliver a lecture on any scientific subject; and the preliminary matters being arranged, the first discourse was given "On the Advantage of an Air-gun over a Fowling-piece, in bringing Pheasants down without making a noise." This was so eminently successful, that the following discourses were delivered in quick succession:--

On the Toxicological Powers of Coculus Indicus in Stupifying Fish. On the Combustion of Park-palings and loose Gate-posts. On the tendency of Out-of-door Spray-piles to Spontaneous Evaporation, during dark nights. On the Comparative Inflammatory properties of Lucifer Matches, Phosphorus Bottles, Tinder-boxes, and Congreves, as well as Incandescens Short Pipes, applied to Hay in particular and Ricks in general. On the value of Cheap Literature, and Intrinsic Worth (by weight) of the various Publications of the Society for the Confusion of Useless Knowledge.

The lectures were all admirably illustrated, and the society appeared to be in a prosperous state. At length the government selected two or three of its most active members, and despatched them on a voyage of discovery to a distant part of the globe. The institution now drooped for a while, until some friends of education firmly impressed with the importance of their undertaking, once more revived its former greatness, at the same time entirely reorganizing its arrangements. Subscriptions were collected, sufficient to erect a handsome turf edifice, with a massy thatched roof, upon Timber Common; a committee was appointed to manage the scientific department, at a liberal salary, including the room to sit in, turf, and rushlights, with the addition, on committee nights, of a pint of intermediate beer, a pipe, and a screw, to each member. Gentlemen fond of hearing their own voices were invited to give gratuitous discourses from sister institutions: a museum and library were added to the building already mentioned, and an annual meeting of _illuminati_ was agreed upon.

Amongst the papers contributed to be read at the evening meetings of the society, perhaps the most interesting was that communicated by Mr. Octavius Spiff, being a startling and probing investigation as to whether Sir Isaac Newton had his hat on when the apple tumbled on his head, what sort of an apple it most probably was, and whether it actually fell from the tree upon him, or, being found too hard and sour to eat, had been pitched over his garden wall by the hand of an irritated little boy. I ought also to make mention of Mr. Plummycram's "Narrative of an Ascent to the summit of Highgate-hill," with Mr. Mulltour's "Handbook for Travellers from the Bank to Lisson-grove," and "A Summer's-day on Kennington-common." Mr. Tinhunt has also announced an attractive work, to be called "Hackney: its Manufactures, Economy, and Political Resources."

It is the intention of the society, should its funds increase, to take a high place next year in the scientific transactions of the country. Led by the spirit of enterprise now so universally prevalent, arrangements are pending with Mr. Purdy, to fit up two punts for the Shepperton expedition, which will set out in the course of the ensuing summer. The subject for the Prize Essay for the Victoria Penny Coronation Medal this year is, "The possibility of totally obliterating the black stamp on the post-office Queen's heads, so as to render them serviceable a second time;" and, in imitation of the learned investigations of sister institutions, the Copper Jinks Medal will also be given to the author of the best essay upon "The existing analogy between the mental subdivision of invisible agencies and circulating decompositions."--(_To be continued._)

* * * * *

INAUGURATION OF THE IMAGE OF SHAKSPERE.

AT THE SURREY THEATRE.

"Be still, my mighty soul! These ribs of mine Are all too fragile for thy narrow cage. By heaven! I will unlock my bosom's door. And blow thee forth upon the boundless tide Of thought's creation, where thy eagle wing May soar from this dull terrene mass away, To yonder empyrean vault--like rocket (sky)-- To mingle with thy cognate essences Of Love and Immortality, until Thou burstest with thine own intensity, And scatterest into millions of bright stars, Each _one_ a part of that refulgent whole Which once was ME."

Thus spoke, or thought--for, in a metaphysical point of view, it does not much matter whether the passage above quoted was uttered, or only conceived--by the sublime philosopher and author of the tragedy of "Martinuzzi," now being nightly played at the English Opera House, with unbounded success, to overflowing audiences[2]. These were the aspirations of his gigantic mind, as he sat, on last Monday morning, like a simple mortal, in a striped-cotton dressing-gown and drab slippers, over a cup of weak coffee. (We love to be minute on great subjects.) The door opened, and a female figure--not the Tragic muse--but Sally, the maid of-all-work, entered, holding in a corner of her dingy apron, between her delicate finger and thumb, a piece of not too snowy paper, folded into an exact parallelogram.

[2] Has this paragraph been paid for as an advertisement?--PRINTER'S DEVIL.--Undoubtedly.--ED.

"A letter for you, sir," said the maid of-all-work, dropping a reverential curtsey.

George Stephens, Esq. took the despatch in his inspired fingers, broke the seal, and read as follows:--

_Surrey Theatre._

SIR,--I have seen your tragedy of "Martinuzzi," and pronounce it magnificent! I have had, for some time, an idea in my head (how it came there I don't know), to produce, after the Boulogne affair, a grand Inauguration of the Statue of Shakspere, on the stage of the Surrey, but not having an image of him amongst our properties, I could not put my plan into execution. Now, sir, as it appears that you are the exact ditto of the bard, I shouldn't mind making an arrangement with you to undertake the character of _our friend Billy_ on the occasion. I shall do the liberal in the way of terms, and get up the gag properly, with laurels and other greens, of which I have a large stock on hand; so that with your popularity the thing will be sure to draw. If you consent to come, I'll post you in six-feet letters against every dead wall in town.

Yours, WILLIS JONES.

When the author of the "magnificent poem" had finished reading the letter he appeared deeply moved, and the maid of-all-work saw three plump tears roll down his manly cheek, and rest upon his shirt collar. "I expected nothing less," said he, stroking his chin with a mysterious air. "The manager of the Surrey, at least, understands me--_he_ appreciates the immensity of my genius. I _will_ accept his offer, and show the world--great Shakspere's rival in myself."

Having thus spoken, the immortal dramatist wiped his hands on the tail of his dressing-gown, and performed a _pas seul_ "as the act directs," after which he dressed himself, and emerged into the open air.

The sun was shining brilliantly, and Phoebus remarked, with evident pleasure, that his brother had bestowed considerable pains in adorning his person. His boots shone with unparalleled splendour, and his waistcoat--

* * * * *

[We omit the remainder of the inventory of the great poet's wardrobe, and proceed at once to the ceremony of the Inauguration at the Surrey Theatre.]

Never on any former occasion had public curiosity over the water been so strongly excited. Long before the doors of the theatre were opened, several passengers in the street were observed to pause before the building, and regard it with looks of profound awe. At half-past six, two young sweeps and a sand-boy were seen waiting anxiously at the gallery entrance, determined to secure front seats at any personal sacrifice. At seven precisely the doors were opened, and a tremendous rush of four persons was made to the pit; the boxes had been previously occupied by the "Dramatic Council" and the "Syncretic Society." The silence which pervaded the house, until the musicians began to tune their violins in the orchestra, was thrilling; and during the performance of the overture, expectation stood on tip-toe, awaiting the great event of the night.

At length the curtain slowly rose, and we discovered the author of "Martinuzzi" elevated on a pedestal formed of the cask used by the celebrated German tub-runner (a delicate compliment, by the way, to the genius of the poet). On this appropriate foundation stood the great man, with his august head enveloped in a capacious bread-bag. At a given signal, a vast quantity of crackers were let off, the envious bag was withdrawn, and the illustrious dramatist was revealed to the enraptured spectators, in the statuesque resemblance of his elder, but not more celebrated brother, WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. At this moment the plaudits were vigorously enthusiastic. Thrice did the flattered statue bow its head, and once it laid its hand upon its grateful bosom, in acknowledgment of the honour that was paid it. As soon as the applause had partially subsided, the manager, in the character of _Midas_, surrounded by the nine Muses, advanced to the foot of the pedestal, and, to use the language of the reporters of public dinners, "in a neat and appropriate speech," deposed a laurel crown upon the brows of Shakspere's effigy. Thereupon loud cheers rent the air, and the statue, deeply affected, extended its right hand gracefully towards the audience. In a moment the thunders of applause sank into hushed and listening awe, while the author of the "magnificent poem" addressed the house as follows:--

"My friends,--You at length behold me in the position to which my immense talents have raised me, in despite of 'those laws which press so fatally on dramatic genius,' and blight the budding hopes of aspiring authors."

This commencement softened the hearts of his auditors, who clapped their handkerchiefs to their noses.