‘NOBODY has yet arrived, nor has anything fresh come in my way except

several joints of beef and mutton, from which I conclude that a good

plain dinner has been provided for to-morrow. There is a singular smell

below, which gave me some uneasiness at first; but as the steward says it

is always there, and never goes away, I am quite comfortable again. I

learn from this man that the different sections will be distributed at

the Black Boy and Stomach-ache, and the Boot-jack and Countenance. If

this intelligence be true (and I have no reason to doubt it), your

readers will draw such conclusions as their different opinions may

suggest.

‘I write down these remarks as they occur to me, or as the facts come to

my knowledge, in order that my first impressions may lose nothing of

their original vividness. I shall despatch them in small packets as

opportunities arise.’

‘_Half past nine_.

‘SOME dark object has just appeared upon the wharf. I think it is a

travelling carriage.’

‘_A quarter to ten_.

‘NO, it isn’t.’

‘_Half-past ten_.

‘THE passengers are pouring in every instant. Four omnibuses full have

just arrived upon the wharf, and all is bustle and activity. The noise

and confusion are very great. Cloths are laid in the cabins, and the

steward is placing blue plates—full of knobs of cheese at equal distances

down the centre of the tables. He drops a great many knobs; but, being

used to it, picks them up again with great dexterity, and, after wiping

them on his sleeve, throws them back into the plates. He is a young man

of exceedingly prepossessing appearance—either dirty or a mulatto, but I

think the former.

‘An interesting old gentleman, who came to the wharf in an omnibus, has

just quarrelled violently with the porters, and is staggering towards the

vessel with a large trunk in his arms. I trust and hope that he may

reach it in safety; but the board he has to cross is narrow and slippery.

Was that a splash? Gracious powers!

‘I have just returned from the deck. The trunk is standing upon the

extreme brink of the wharf, but the old gentleman is nowhere to be seen.

The watchman is not sure whether he went down or not, but promises to

drag for him the first thing to-morrow morning. May his humane efforts

prove successful!

‘Professor Nogo has this moment arrived with his nightcap on under his

hat. He has ordered a glass of cold brandy and water, with a hard

biscuit and a basin, and has gone straight to bed. What can this mean?

‘The three other scientific gentlemen to whom I have already alluded have

come on board, and have all tried their beds, with the exception of

Professor Woodensconce, who sleeps in one of the top ones, and can’t get

into it. Mr. Slug, who sleeps in the other top one, is unable to get out

of his, and is to have his supper handed up by a boy. I have had the

honour to introduce myself to these gentlemen, and we have amicably

arranged the order in which we shall retire to rest; which it is

necessary to agree upon, because, although the cabin is very comfortable,

there is not room for more than one gentleman to be out of bed at a time,

and even he must take his boots off in the passage.

‘As I anticipated, the knobs of cheese were provided for the passengers’

supper, and are now in course of consumption. Your readers will be

surprised to hear that Professor Woodensconce has abstained from cheese

for eight years, although he takes butter in considerable quantities.

Professor Grime having lost several teeth, is unable, I observe, to eat

his crusts without previously soaking them in his bottled porter. How

interesting are these peculiarities!’

‘_Half-past eleven_.

‘PROFESSORS Woodensconce and Grime, with a degree of good humour that

delights us all, have just arranged to toss for a bottle of mulled port.

There has been some discussion whether the payment should be decided by

the first toss or the best out of three. Eventually the latter course

has been determined on. Deeply do I wish that both gentlemen could win;

but that being impossible, I own that my personal aspirations (I speak as

an individual, and do not compromise either you or your readers by this

expression of feeling) are with Professor Woodensconce. I have backed

that gentleman to the amount of eighteenpence.’

‘_Twenty minutes to twelve_.

‘PROFESSOR Grime has inadvertently tossed his half-crown out of one of

the cabin-windows, and it has been arranged that the steward shall toss

for him. Bets are offered on any side to any amount, but there are no

takers.

‘Professor Woodensconce has just called “woman;” but the coin having

lodged in a beam, is a long time coming down again. The interest and

suspense of this one moment are beyond anything that can be imagined.’

‘_Twelve o’clock_.

‘THE mulled port is smoking on the table before me, and Professor Grime

has won. Tossing is a game of chance; but on every ground, whether of

public or private character, intellectual endowments, or scientific

attainments, I cannot help expressing my opinion that Professor

Woodensconce _ought_ to have come off victorious. There is an exultation

about Professor Grime incompatible, I fear, with true greatness.’

‘_A quarter past twelve_.

‘PROFESSOR Grime continues to exult, and to boast of his victory in no

very measured terms, observing that he always does win, and that he knew

it would be a “head” beforehand, with many other remarks of a similar

nature. Surely this gentleman is not so lost to every feeling of decency

and propriety as not to feel and know the superiority of Professor

Woodensconce? Is Professor Grime insane? or does he wish to be reminded

in plain language of his true position in society, and the precise level

of his acquirements and abilities? Professor Grime will do well to look

to this.’

‘_One o’clock_.

‘I AM writing in bed. The small cabin is illuminated by the feeble light

of a flickering lamp suspended from the ceiling; Professor Grime is lying

on the opposite shelf on the broad of his back, with his mouth wide open.

The scene is indescribably solemn. The rippling of the tide, the noise

of the sailors’ feet overhead, the gruff voices on the river, the dogs on

the shore, the snoring of the passengers, and a constant creaking of

every plank in the vessel, are the only sounds that meet the ear. With

these exceptions, all is profound silence.

‘My curiosity has been within the last moment very much excited. Mr.

Slug, who lies above Professor Grime, has cautiously withdrawn the

curtains of his berth, and, after looking anxiously out, as if to satisfy

himself that his companions are asleep, has taken up the tin tube of

which I have before spoken, and is regarding it with great interest.

What rare mechanical combination can be contained in that mysterious

case? It is evidently a profound secret to all.’

‘_A quarter past one_.

‘THE behaviour of Mr. Slug grows more and more mysterious. He has

unscrewed the top of the tube, and now renews his observations upon his

companions, evidently to make sure that he is wholly unobserved. He is

clearly on the eve of some great experiment. Pray heaven that it be not

a dangerous one; but the interests of science must be promoted, and I am

prepared for the worst.’

‘_Five minutes later_.

‘HE has produced a large pair of scissors, and drawn a roll of some

substance, not unlike parchment in appearance, from the tin case. The

experiment is about to begin. I must strain my eyes to the utmost, in

the attempt to follow its minutest operation.’

‘_Twenty minutes before two_.

‘I HAVE at length been enabled to ascertain that the tin tube contains a

few yards of some celebrated plaster, recommended—as I discover on

regarding the label attentively through my eye-glass—as a preservative

against sea-sickness. Mr. Slug has cut it up into small portions, and is

now sticking it over himself in every direction.’

‘_Three o’clock_.

‘PRECISELY a quarter of an hour ago we weighed anchor, and the machinery

was suddenly put in motion with a noise so appalling, that Professor

Woodensconce (who had ascended to his berth by means of a platform of

carpet-bags arranged by himself on geometrical principals) darted from

his shelf head foremost, and, gaining his feet with all the rapidity of

extreme terror, ran wildly into the ladies’ cabin, under the impression

that we were sinking, and uttering loud cries for aid. I am assured that

the scene which ensued baffles all description. There were one hundred

and forty-seven ladies in their respective berths at the time.

‘Mr. Slug has remarked, as an additional instance of the extreme

ingenuity of the steam-engine as applied to purposes of navigation, that

in whatever part of the vessel a passenger’s berth may be situated, the

machinery always appears to be exactly under his pillow. He intends

stating this very beautiful, though simple discovery, to the

association.’

‘_Half-past ten_.

‘WE are still in smooth water; that is to say, in as smooth water as a

steam-vessel ever can be, for, as Professor Woodensconce (who has just

woke up) learnedly remarks, another great point of ingenuity about a

steamer is, that it always carries a little storm with it. You can

scarcely conceive how exciting the jerking pulsation of the ship becomes.

It is a matter of positive difficulty to get to sleep.’

‘_Friday afternoon_, _six o’clock_.

‘I REGRET to inform you that Mr. Slug’s plaster has proved of no avail.

He is in great agony, but has applied several large, additional pieces

notwithstanding. How affecting is this extreme devotion to science and

pursuit of knowledge under the most trying circumstances!

‘We were extremely happy this morning, and the breakfast was one of the

most animated description. Nothing unpleasant occurred until noon, with

the exception of Doctor Foxey’s brown silk umbrella and white hat

becoming entangled in the machinery while he was explaining to a knot of

ladies the construction of the steam-engine. I fear the gravy soup for

lunch was injudicious. We lost a great many passengers almost

immediately afterwards.’

‘_Half-past six_.

‘I AM again in bed. Anything so heart-rending as Mr. Slug’s sufferings

it has never yet been my lot to witness.’

‘_Seven o’clock_.

‘A MESSENGER has just come down for a clean pocket-handkerchief from

Professor Woodensconce’s bag, that unfortunate gentleman being quite

unable to leave the deck, and imploring constantly to be thrown

overboard. From this man I understand that Professor Nogo, though in a

state of utter exhaustion, clings feebly to the hard biscuit and cold

brandy and water, under the impression that they will yet restore him.

Such is the triumph of mind over matter.

‘Professor Grime is in bed, to all appearance quite well; but he _will_

eat, and it is disagreeable to see him. Has this gentleman no sympathy

with the sufferings of his fellow-creatures? If he has, on what

principle can he call for mutton-chops—and smile?’

‘_Black Boy and Stomach-ache_,

_Oldcastle_, _Saturday noon_.

‘YOU will be happy to learn that I have at length arrived here in safety.

The town is excessively crowded, and all the private lodgings and hotels

are filled with _savans_ of both sexes. The tremendous assemblage of

intellect that one encounters in every street is in the last degree

overwhelming.

‘Notwithstanding the throng of people here, I have been fortunate enough

to meet with very comfortable accommodation on very reasonable terms,

having secured a sofa in the first-floor passage at one guinea per night,

which includes permission to take my meals in the bar, on condition that

I walk about the streets at all other times, to make room for other

gentlemen similarly situated. I have been over the outhouses intended to

be devoted to the reception of the various sections, both here and at the

Boot-jack and Countenance, and am much delighted with the arrangements.

Nothing can exceed the fresh appearance of the saw-dust with which the

floors are sprinkled. The forms are of unplaned deal, and the general

effect, as you can well imagine, is extremely beautiful.’

‘_Half-past nine_.

‘THE number and rapidity of the arrivals are quite bewildering. Within

the last ten minutes a stage-coach has driven up to the door, filled

inside and out with distinguished characters, comprising Mr.

Muddlebranes, Mr. Drawley, Professor Muff, Mr. X. Misty, Mr. X. X. Misty,

Mr. Purblind, Professor Rummun, The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long

Eers, Professor John Ketch, Sir William Joltered, Doctor Buffer, Mr.

Smith (of London), Mr. Brown (of Edinburgh), Sir Hookham Snivey, and

Professor Pumpkinskull. The ten last-named gentlemen were wet through,

and looked extremely intelligent.’

‘_Sunday_, _two o’clock_, _p.m._

‘THE Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, accompanied by Sir William

Joltered, walked and drove this morning. They accomplished the former

feat in boots, and the latter in a hired fly. This has naturally given

rise to much discussion.

‘I have just learnt that an interview has taken place at the Boot-jack

and Countenance between Sowster, the active and intelligent beadle of

this place, and Professor Pumpkinskull, who, as your readers are

doubtless aware, is an influential member of the council. I forbear to

communicate any of the rumours to which this very extraordinary

proceeding has given rise until I have seen Sowster, and endeavoured to

ascertain the truth from him.’

‘_Half-past six_.

‘I ENGAGED a donkey-chaise shortly after writing the above, and proceeded

at a brisk trot in the direction of Sowster’s residence, passing through

a beautiful expanse of country, with red brick buildings on either side,

and stopping in the marketplace to observe the spot where Mr. Kwakley’s

hat was blown off yesterday. It is an uneven piece of paving, but has

certainly no appearance which would lead one to suppose that any such

event had recently occurred there. From this point I proceeded—passing

the gas-works and tallow-melter’s—to a lane which had been pointed out to

me as the beadle’s place of residence; and before I had driven a dozen

yards further, I had the good fortune to meet Sowster himself advancing

towards me.

‘Sowster is a fat man, with a more enlarged development of that peculiar

conformation of countenance which is vulgarly termed a double chin than I

remember to have ever seen before. He has also a very red nose, which he

attributes to a habit of early rising—so red, indeed, that but for this

explanation I should have supposed it to proceed from occasional

inebriety. He informed me that he did not feel himself at liberty to

relate what had passed between himself and Professor Pumpkinskull, but

had no objection to state that it was connected with a matter of police

regulation, and added with peculiar significance “Never wos sitch times!”

‘You will easily believe that this intelligence gave me considerable

surprise, not wholly unmixed with anxiety, and that I lost no time in

waiting on Professor Pumpkinskull, and stating the object of my visit.

After a few moments’ reflection, the Professor, who, I am bound to say,

behaved with the utmost politeness, openly avowed (I mark the passage in

italics) _that he had requested Sowster to attend on the Monday morning

at the Boot-jack and Countenance_, _to keep off the boys_; _and that he

had further desired that the under-beadle might be stationed_, _with the

same object_, _at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache_!

‘Now I leave this unconstitutional proceeding to your comments and the

consideration of your readers. I have yet to learn that a beadle,

without the precincts of a church, churchyard, or work-house, and acting

otherwise than under the express orders of churchwardens and overseers in

council assembled, to enforce the law against people who come upon the

parish, and other offenders, has any lawful authority whatever over the

rising youth of this country. I have yet to learn that a beadle can be

called out by any civilian to exercise a domination and despotism over

the boys of Britain. I have yet to learn that a beadle will be permitted

by the commissioners of poor law regulation to wear out the soles and

heels of his boots in illegal interference with the liberties of people

not proved poor or otherwise criminal. I have yet to learn that a beadle

has power to stop up the Queen’s highway at his will and pleasure, or

that the whole width of the street is not free and open to any man, boy,

or woman in existence, up to the very walls of the houses—ay, be they

Black Boys and Stomach-aches, or Boot-jacks and Countenances, I care

not.’

‘_Nine o’clock_.

‘I have procured a local artist to make a faithful sketch of the tyrant

Sowster, which, as he has acquired this infamous celebrity, you will no

doubt wish to have engraved for the purpose of presenting a copy with

every copy of your next number. I enclose it.

[Picture: The Tyrant Sowster]

The under-beadle has consented to write his life, but it is to be

strictly anonymous.

‘The accompanying likeness is of course from the life, and complete in

every respect. Even if I had been totally ignorant of the man’s real

character, and it had been placed before me without remark, I should have

shuddered involuntarily. There is an intense malignity of expression in

the features, and a baleful ferocity of purpose in the ruffian’s eye,

which appals and sickens. His whole air is rampant with cruelty, nor is

the stomach less characteristic of his demoniac propensities.’

‘_Monday_.

‘THE great day has at length arrived. I have neither eyes, nor ears, nor

pens, nor ink, nor paper, for anything but the wonderful proceedings that

have astounded my senses. Let me collect my energies and proceed to the

account.

‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY.

FRONT PARLOUR, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

_President_—Sir William Joltered. _Vice-Presidents_—Mr. Muddlebranes and

Mr. Drawley.

‘MR. X. X. MISTY communicated some remarks on the disappearance of

dancing-bears from the streets of London, with observations on the

exhibition of monkeys as connected with barrel-organs. The writer had

observed, with feelings of the utmost pain and regret, that some years

ago a sudden and unaccountable change in the public taste took place with

reference to itinerant bears, who, being discountenanced by the populace,

gradually fell off one by one from the streets of the metropolis, until

not one remained to create a taste for natural history in the breasts of

the poor and uninstructed. One bear, indeed,—a brown and ragged

animal,—had lingered about the haunts of his former triumphs, with a worn

and dejected visage and feeble limbs, and had essayed to wield his

quarter-staff for the amusement of the multitude; but hunger, and an

utter want of any due recompense for his abilities, had at length driven

him from the field, and it was only too probable that he had fallen a

sacrifice to the rising taste for grease. He regretted to add that a

similar, and no less lamentable, change had taken place with reference to

monkeys. These delightful animals had formerly been almost as plentiful

as the organs on the tops of which they were accustomed to sit; the

proportion in the year 1829 (it appeared by the parliamentary return)

being as one monkey to three organs. Owing, however, to an altered taste

in musical instruments, and the substitution, in a great measure, of

narrow boxes of music for organs, which left the monkeys nothing to sit

upon, this source of public amusement was wholly dried up. Considering

it a matter of the deepest importance, in connection with national

education, that the people should not lose such opportunities of making

themselves acquainted with the manners and customs of two most

interesting species of animals, the author submitted that some measures

should be immediately taken for the restoration of these pleasing and

truly intellectual amusements.

‘THE PRESIDENT inquired by what means the honourable member proposed to

attain this most desirable end?

‘THE AUTHOR submitted that it could be most fully and satisfactorily

accomplished, if Her Majesty’s Government would cause to be brought over

to England, and maintained at the public expense, and for the public

amusement, such a number of bears as would enable every quarter of the

town to be visited—say at least by three bears a week. No difficulty

whatever need be experienced in providing a fitting place for the

reception of these animals, as a commodious bear-garden could be erected

in the immediate neighbourhood of both Houses of Parliament; obviously

the most proper and eligible spot for such an establishment.

‘PROFESSOR MULL doubted very much whether any correct ideas of natural

history were propagated by the means to which the honourable member had

so ably adverted. On the contrary, he believed that they had been the

means of diffusing very incorrect and imperfect notions on the subject.

He spoke from personal observation and personal experience, when he said

that many children of great abilities had been induced to believe, from

what they had observed in the streets, at and before the period to which

the honourable gentleman had referred, that all monkeys were born in red

coats and spangles, and that their hats and feathers also came by nature.

He wished to know distinctly whether the honourable gentleman attributed

the want of encouragement the bears had met with to the decline of public

taste in that respect, or to a want of ability on the part of the bears

themselves?

‘MR. X. X. MISTY replied, that he could not bring himself to believe but

that there must be a great deal of floating talent among the bears and

monkeys generally; which, in the absence of any proper encouragement, was

dispersed in other directions.

‘PROFESSOR PUMPKINSKULL wished to take that opportunity of calling the

attention of the section to a most important and serious point. The

author of the treatise just read had alluded to the prevalent taste for

bears’-grease as a means of promoting the growth of hair, which

undoubtedly was diffused to a very great and (as it appeared to him) very

alarming extent. No gentleman attending that section could fail to be

aware of the fact that the youth of the present age evinced, by their

behaviour in the streets, and at all places of public resort, a

considerable lack of that gallantry and gentlemanly feeling which, in

more ignorant times, had been thought becoming. He wished to know

whether it were possible that a constant outward application of

bears’-grease by the young gentlemen about town had imperceptibly infused

into those unhappy persons something of the nature and quality of the

bear. He shuddered as he threw out the remark; but if this theory, on

inquiry, should prove to be well founded, it would at once explain a

great deal of unpleasant eccentricity of behaviour, which, without some

such discovery, was wholly unaccountable.

‘THE PRESIDENT highly complimented the learned gentleman on his most

valuable suggestion, which produced the greatest effect upon the

assembly; and remarked that only a week previous he had seen some young

gentlemen at a theatre eyeing a box of ladies with a fierce intensity,

which nothing but the influence of some brutish appetite could possibly

explain. It was dreadful to reflect that our youth were so rapidly

verging into a generation of bears.

‘After a scene of scientific enthusiasm it was resolved that this

important question should be immediately submitted to the consideration

of the council.

‘THE PRESIDENT wished to know whether any gentleman could inform the

section what had become of the dancing-dogs?

‘A MEMBER replied, after some hesitation, that on the day after three

glee-singers had been committed to prison as criminals by a late most

zealous police-magistrate of the metropolis, the dogs had abandoned their

professional duties, and dispersed themselves in different quarters of

the town to gain a livelihood by less dangerous means. He was given to

understand that since that period they had supported themselves by lying

in wait for and robbing blind men’s poodles.

‘MR. FLUMMERY exhibited a twig, claiming to be a veritable branch of that

noble tree known to naturalists as the SHAKSPEARE, which has taken root

in every land and climate, and gathered under the shade of its broad

green boughs the great family of mankind. The learned gentleman remarked

that the twig had been undoubtedly called by other names in its time; but

that it had been pointed out to him by an old lady in Warwickshire, where

the great tree had grown, as a shoot of the genuine SHAKSPEARE, by which

name he begged to introduce it to his countrymen.

‘THE PRESIDENT wished to know what botanical definition the honourable

gentleman could afford of the curiosity.

‘MR. FLUMMERY expressed his opinion that it was A DECIDED PLANT.

‘SECTION B.—DISPLAY OF MODELS AND MECHANICAL SCIENCE.

LARGE ROOM, BOOT-JACK AND COUNTENANCE.

_President_—Mr. Mallett. _Vice-Presidents_—Messrs. Leaver and Scroo.

‘MR. CRINKLES exhibited a most beautiful and delicate machine, of little

larger size than an ordinary snuff-box, manufactured entirely by himself,

and composed exclusively of steel, by the aid of which more pockets could

be picked in one hour than by the present slow and tedious process in

four-and-twenty. The inventor remarked that it had been put into active

operation in Fleet Street, the Strand, and other thoroughfares, and had

never been once known to fail.

‘After some slight delay, occasioned by the various members of the

section buttoning their pockets,

‘THE PRESIDENT narrowly inspected the invention, and declared that he had

never seen a machine of more beautiful or exquisite construction. Would

the inventor be good enough to inform the section whether he had taken

any and what means for bringing it into general operation?

‘MR. CRINKLES stated that, after encountering some preliminary

difficulties, he had succeeded in putting himself in communication with

Mr. Fogle Hunter, and other gentlemen connected with the swell mob, who

had awarded the invention the very highest and most unqualified

approbation. He regretted to say, however, that these distinguished

practitioners, in common with a gentleman of the name of Gimlet-eyed

Tommy, and other members of a secondary grade of the profession whom he

was understood to represent, entertained an insuperable objection to its

being brought into general use, on the ground that it would have the

inevitable effect of almost entirely superseding manual labour, and

throwing a great number of highly-deserving persons out of employment.

‘THE PRESIDENT hoped that no such fanciful objections would be allowed to

stand in the way of such a great public improvement.

‘MR. CRINKLES hoped so too; but he feared that if the gentlemen of the

swell mob persevered in their objection, nothing could be done.

‘PROFESSOR GRIME suggested, that surely, in that case, Her Majesty’s

Government might be prevailed upon to take it up.

‘MR. CRINKLES said, that if the objection were found to be insuperable he

should apply to Parliament, which he thought could not fail to recognise

the utility of the invention.

‘THE PRESIDENT observed that, up to this time Parliament had certainly

got on very well without it; but, as they did their business on a very

large scale, he had no doubt they would gladly adopt the improvement.

His only fear was that the machine might be worn out by constant working.

‘MR. COPPERNOSE called the attention of the section to a proposition of

great magnitude and interest, illustrated by a vast number of models, and

stated with much clearness and perspicuity in a treatise entitled

“Practical Suggestions on the necessity of providing some harmless and

wholesome relaxation for the young noblemen of England.” His proposition

was, that a space of ground of not less than ten miles in length and four

in breadth should be purchased by a new company, to be incorporated by

Act of Parliament, and inclosed by a brick wall of not less than twelve

feet in height. He proposed that it should be laid out with highway

roads, turnpikes, bridges, miniature villages, and every object that

could conduce to the comfort and glory of Four-in-hand Clubs, so that

they might be fairly presumed to require no drive beyond it. This

delightful retreat would be fitted up with most commodious and extensive

stables, for the convenience of such of the nobility and gentry as had a

taste for ostlering, and with houses of entertainment furnished in the

most expensive and handsome style. It would be further provided with

whole streets of door-knockers and bell-handles of extra size, so

constructed that they could be easily wrenched off at night, and

regularly screwed on again, by attendants provided for the purpose, every

day. There would also be gas lamps of real glass, which could be broken

at a comparatively small expense per dozen, and a broad and handsome foot

pavement for gentlemen to drive their cabriolets upon when they were

humorously disposed—for the full enjoyment of which feat live pedestrians

would be procured from the workhouse at a very small charge per head.

The place being inclosed, and carefully screened from the intrusion of

the public, there would be no objection to gentlemen laying aside any

article of their costume that was considered to interfere with a pleasant

frolic, or, indeed, to their walking about without any costume at all, if

they liked that better. In short, every facility of enjoyment would be

afforded that the most gentlemanly person could possibly desire. But as

even these advantages would be incomplete unless there were some means

provided of enabling the nobility and gentry to display their prowess

when they sallied forth after dinner, and as some inconvenience might be

experienced in the event of their being reduced to the necessity of

pummelling each other, the inventor had turned his attention to the

construction of an entirely new police force, composed exclusively of

automaton figures, which, with the assistance of the ingenious Signor

Gagliardi, of Windmill-street, in the Haymarket, he had succeeded in

making with such nicety, that a policeman, cab-driver, or old woman, made

upon the principle of the models exhibited, would walk about until

knocked down like any real man; nay, more, if set upon and beaten by six

or eight noblemen or gentlemen, after it was down, the figure would utter

divers groans, mingled with entreaties for mercy, thus rendering the

illusion complete, and the enjoyment perfect. But the invention did not

stop even here; for station-houses would be built, containing good beds

for noblemen and gentlemen during the night, and in the morning they

would repair to a commodious police office, where a pantomimic

investigation would take place before the automaton magistrates,—quite

equal to life,—who would fine them in so many counters, with which they

would be previously provided for the purpose. This office would be

furnished with an inclined plane, for the convenience of any nobleman or

gentleman who might wish to bring in his horse as a witness; and the

prisoners would be at perfect liberty, as they were now, to interrupt the

complainants as much as they pleased, and to make any remarks that they

thought proper. The charge for these amusements would amount to very

little more than they already cost, and the inventor submitted that the

public would be much benefited and comforted by the proposed arrangement.

[Picture: Automaton Police Office, and Real Offenders]

‘PROFESSOR NOGO wished to be informed what amount of automaton police

force it was proposed to raise in the first instance.

‘MR. COPPERNOSE replied, that it was proposed to begin with seven

divisions of police of a score each, lettered from A to G inclusive. It

was proposed that not more than half this number should be placed on

active duty, and that the remainder should be kept on shelves in the

police office ready to be called out at a moment’s notice.

‘THE PRESIDENT, awarding the utmost merit to the ingenious gentleman who

had originated the idea, doubted whether the automaton police would quite

answer the purpose. He feared that noblemen and gentlemen would perhaps

require the excitement of thrashing living subjects.

‘MR. COPPERNOSE submitted, that as the usual odds in such cases were ten

noblemen or gentlemen to one policeman or cab-driver, it could make very

little difference in point of excitement whether the policeman or

cab-driver were a man or a block. The great advantage would be, that a

policeman’s limbs might be all knocked off, and yet he would be in a

condition to do duty next day. He might even give his evidence next

morning with his head in his hand, and give it equally well.

‘PROFESSOR MUFF.—Will you allow me to ask you, sir, of what materials it

is intended that the magistrates’ heads shall be composed?

‘MR. COPPERNOSE.—The magistrates will have wooden heads of course, and

they will be made of the toughest and thickest materials that can

possibly be obtained.

‘PROFESSOR MUFF.—I am quite satisfied. This is a great invention.

‘PROFESSOR NOGO.—I see but one objection to it. It appears to me that

the magistrates ought to talk.

‘MR. COPPERNOSE no sooner heard this suggestion than he touched a small

spring in each of the two models of magistrates which were placed upon

the table; one of the figures immediately began to exclaim with great

volubility that he was sorry to see gentlemen in such a situation, and

the other to express a fear that the policeman was intoxicated.

‘The section, as with one accord, declared with a shout of applause that

the invention was complete; and the President, much excited, retired with

Mr. Coppernose to lay it before the council. On his return,

‘MR. TICKLE displayed his newly-invented spectacles, which enabled the

wearer to discern, in very bright colours, objects at a great distance,

and rendered him wholly blind to those immediately before him. It was,

he said, a most valuable and useful invention, based strictly upon the

principle of the human eye.

‘THE PRESIDENT required some information upon this point. He had yet to

learn that the human eye was remarkable for the peculiarities of which

the honourable gentleman had spoken.

‘MR. TICKLE was rather astonished to hear this, when the President could

not fail to be aware that a large number of most excellent persons and

great statesmen could see, with the naked eye, most marvellous horrors on

West India plantations, while they could discern nothing whatever in the

interior of Manchester cotton mills. He must know, too, with what

quickness of perception most people could discover their neighbour’s

faults, and how very blind they were to their own. If the President

differed from the great majority of men in this respect, his eye was a

defective one, and it was to assist his vision that these glasses were

made.

‘MR. BLANK exhibited a model of a fashionable annual, composed of

copper-plates, gold leaf, and silk boards, and worked entirely by milk

and water.

‘MR. PROSEE, after examining the machine, declared it to be so

ingeniously composed, that he was wholly unable to discover how it went

on at all.

‘MR. BLANK.—Nobody can, and that is the beauty of it.

‘SECTION C.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE.

BAR ROOM, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

_President_—Dr. Soemup. _Vice-Presidents_—Messrs. Pessell and Mortair.

‘DR. GRUMMIDGE stated to the section a most interesting case of

monomania, and described the course of treatment he had pursued with

perfect success. The patient was a married lady in the middle rank of

life, who, having seen another lady at an evening party in a full suit of

pearls, was suddenly seized with a desire to possess a similar equipment,

although her husband’s finances were by no means equal to the necessary

outlay. Finding her wish ungratified, she fell sick, and the symptoms

soon became so alarming, that he (Dr. Grummidge) was called in. At this

period the prominent tokens of the disorder were sullenness, a total

indisposition to perform domestic duties, great peevishness, and extreme

languor, except when pearls were mentioned, at which times the pulse

quickened, the eyes grew brighter, the pupils dilated, and the patient,

after various incoherent exclamations, burst into a passion of tears, and

exclaimed that nobody cared for her, and that she wished herself dead.

Finding that the patient’s appetite was affected in the presence of

company, he began by ordering a total abstinence from all stimulants, and

forbidding any sustenance but weak gruel; he then took twenty ounces of

blood, applied a blister under each ear, one upon the chest, and another

on the back; having done which, and administered five grains of calomel,

he left the patient to her repose. The next day she was somewhat low,

but decidedly better, and all appearances of irritation were removed.

The next day she improved still further, and on the next again. On the

fourth there was some appearance of a return of the old symptoms, which

no sooner developed themselves, than he administered another dose of

calomel, and left strict orders that, unless a decidedly favourable

change occurred within two hours, the patient’s head should be

immediately shaved to the very last curl. From that moment she began to

mend, and, in less than four-and-twenty hours was perfectly restored.

She did not now betray the least emotion at the sight or mention of

pearls or any other ornaments. She was cheerful and good-humoured, and a

most beneficial change had been effected in her whole temperament and

condition.

‘MR. PIPKIN (M.R.C.S.) read a short but most interesting communication in

which he sought to prove the complete belief of Sir William Courtenay,

otherwise Thorn, recently shot at Canterbury, in the Homoeopathic system.

The section would bear in mind that one of the Homoeopathic doctrines

was, that infinitesimal doses of any medicine which would occasion the

disease under which the patient laboured, supposing him to be in a

healthy state, would cure it. Now, it was a remarkable

circumstance—proved in the evidence—that the deceased Thorn employed a

woman to follow him about all day with a pail of water, assuring her that

one drop (a purely homoeopathic remedy, the section would observe),

placed upon his tongue, after death, would restore him. What was the

obvious inference? That Thorn, who was marching and countermarching in

osier beds, and other swampy places, was impressed with a presentiment

that he should be drowned; in which case, had his instructions been

complied with, he could not fail to have been brought to life again

instantly by his own prescription. As it was, if this woman, or any

other person, had administered an infinitesimal dose of lead and

gunpowder immediately after he fell, he would have recovered forthwith.

But unhappily the woman concerned did not possess the power of reasoning

by analogy, or carrying out a principle, and thus the unfortunate

gentleman had been sacrificed to the ignorance of the peasantry.

‘SECTION D.—STATISTICS.

OUT-HOUSE, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

_President_—Mr. Slug. _Vice-Presidents_—Messrs. Noakes and Styles.

‘MR. KWAKLEY stated the result of some most ingenious statistical

inquiries relative to the difference between the value of the

qualification of several members of Parliament as published to the world,

and its real nature and amount. After reminding the section that every

member of Parliament for a town or borough was supposed to possess a

clear freehold estate of three hundred pounds per annum, the honourable

gentleman excited great amusement and laughter by stating the exact

amount of freehold property possessed by a column of legislators, in

which he had included himself. It appeared from this table, that the

amount of such income possessed by each was 0 pounds, 0 shillings, and 0

pence, yielding an average of the same. (Great laughter.) It was pretty

well known that there were accommodating gentlemen in the habit of

furnishing new members with temporary qualifications, to the ownership of

which they swore solemnly—of course as a mere matter of form. He argued

from these _data_ that it was wholly unnecessary for members of

Parliament to possess any property at all, especially as when they had

none the public could get them so much cheaper.

‘SUPPLEMENTARY SECTION, E.—UMBUGOLOGY AND DITCHWATERISICS.

_President_—Mr. Grub. _Vice Presidents_—Messrs. Dull and Dummy.

‘A paper was read by the secretary descriptive of a bay pony with one

eye, which had been seen by the author standing in a butcher’s cart at

the corner of Newgate Market. The communication described the author of

the paper as having, in the prosecution of a mercantile pursuit, betaken

himself one Saturday morning last summer from Somers Town to Cheapside;

in the course of which expedition he had beheld the extraordinary

appearance above described. The pony had one distinct eye, and it had

been pointed out to him by his friend Captain Blunderbore, of the Horse

Marines, who assisted the author in his search, that whenever he winked

this eye he whisked his tail (possibly to drive the flies off), but that

he always winked and whisked at the same time. The animal was lean,

spavined, and tottering; and the author proposed to constitute it of the

family of _Fitfordogsmeataurious_. It certainly did occur to him that

there was no case on record of a pony with one clearly-defined and

distinct organ of vision, winking and whisking at the same moment.

‘MR. Q. J. SNUFFLETOFFLE had heard of a pony winking his eye, and

likewise of a pony whisking his tail, but whether they were two ponies or

the same pony he could not undertake positively to say. At all events,

he was acquainted with no authenticated instance of a simultaneous

winking and whisking, and he really could not but doubt the existence of

such a marvellous pony in opposition to all those natural laws by which

ponies were governed. Referring, however, to the mere question of his

one organ of vision, might he suggest the possibility of this pony having

been literally half asleep at the time he was seen, and having closed

only one eye.

‘THE PRESIDENT observed that, whether the pony was half asleep or fast

asleep, there could be no doubt that the association was wide awake, and

therefore that they had better get the business over, and go to dinner.

He had certainly never seen anything analogous to this pony, but he was

not prepared to doubt its existence; for he had seen many queerer ponies

in his time, though he did not pretend to have seen any more remarkable

donkeys than the other gentlemen around him.

‘PROFESSOR JOHN KETCH was then called upon to exhibit the skull of the

late Mr. Greenacre, which he produced from a blue bag, remarking, on

being invited to make any observations that occurred to him, “that he’d

pound it as that ’ere ’spectable section had never seed a more gamerer

cove nor he vos.”

‘A most animated discussion upon this interesting relic ensued; and, some

difference of opinion arising respecting the real character of the

deceased gentleman, Mr. Blubb delivered a lecture upon the cranium before

him, clearly showing that Mr. Greenacre possessed the organ of

destructiveness to a most unusual extent, with a most remarkable

development of the organ of carveativeness. Sir Hookham Snivey was

proceeding to combat this opinion, when Professor Ketch suddenly

interrupted the proceedings by exclaiming, with great excitement of

manner, “Walker!”

‘THE PRESIDENT begged to call the learned gentleman to order.

‘PROFESSOR KETCH.—“Order be blowed! you’ve got the wrong un, I tell you.

It ain’t no ’ed at all; it’s a coker-nut as my brother-in-law has been

a-carvin’, to hornament his new baked tatur-stall wots a-comin’ down ’ere

vile the ’sociation’s in the town. Hand over, vill you?”

‘With these words, Professor Ketch hastily repossessed himself of the

cocoa-nut, and drew forth the skull, in mistake for which he had

exhibited it. A most interesting conversation ensued; but as there

appeared some doubt ultimately whether the skull was Mr. Greenacre’s, or

a hospital patient’s, or a pauper’s, or a man’s, or a woman’s, or a

monkey’s, no particular result was obtained.’

* * * * *

‘I cannot,’ says our talented correspondent in conclusion, ‘I cannot

close my account of these gigantic researches and sublime and noble

triumphs without repeating a _bon mot_ of Professor Woodensconce’s, which

shows how the greatest minds may occasionally unbend when truth can be

presented to listening ears, clothed in an attractive and playful form.

I was standing by, when, after a week of feasting and feeding, that

learned gentleman, accompanied by the whole body of wonderful men,

entered the hall yesterday, where a sumptuous dinner was prepared; where

the richest wines sparkled on the board, and fat bucks—propitiatory

sacrifices to learning—sent forth their savoury odours. “Ah!” said

Professor Woodensconce, rubbing his hands, “this is what we meet for;

this is what inspires us; this is what keeps us together, and beckons us

onward; this is the _spread_ of science, and a glorious spread it is.”’

THE PANTOMIME OF LIFE

BEFORE we plunge headlong into this paper, let us at once confess to a

fondness for pantomimes—to a gentle sympathy with clowns and

pantaloons—to an unqualified admiration of harlequins and columbines—to a

chaste delight in every action of their brief existence, varied and

many-coloured as those actions are, and inconsistent though they

occasionally be with those rigid and formal rules of propriety which

regulate the proceedings of meaner and less comprehensive minds. We

revel in pantomimes—not because they dazzle one’s eyes with tinsel and

gold leaf; not because they present to us, once again, the well-beloved

chalked faces, and goggle eyes of our childhood; not even because, like

Christmas-day, and Twelfth-night, and Shrove-Tuesday, and one’s own

birthday, they come to us but once a year;—our attachment is founded on a

graver and a very different reason. A pantomime is to us, a mirror of

life; nay, more, we maintain that it is so to audiences generally,

although they are not aware of it, and that this very circumstance is the

secret cause of their amusement and delight.

Let us take a slight example. The scene is a street: an elderly

gentleman, with a large face and strongly marked features, appears. His

countenance beams with a sunny smile, and a perpetual dimple is on his

broad, red cheek. He is evidently an opulent elderly gentleman,

comfortable in circumstances, and well-to-do in the world. He is not

unmindful of the adornment of his person, for he is richly, not to say

gaudily, dressed; and that he indulges to a reasonable extent in the

pleasures of the table may be inferred from the joyous and oily manner in

which he rubs his stomach, by way of informing the audience that he is

going home to dinner. In the fulness of his heart, in the fancied

security of wealth, in the possession and enjoyment of all the good

things of life, the elderly gentleman suddenly loses his footing, and

stumbles. How the audience roar! He is set upon by a noisy and

officious crowd, who buffet and cuff him unmercifully. They scream with

delight! Every time the elderly gentleman struggles to get up, his

relentless persecutors knock him down again. The spectators are

convulsed with merriment! And when at last the elderly gentleman does

get up, and staggers away, despoiled of hat, wig, and clothing, himself

battered to pieces, and his watch and money gone, they are exhausted with

laughter, and express their merriment and admiration in rounds of

applause.

Is this like life? Change the scene to any real street;—to the Stock

Exchange, or the City banker’s; the merchant’s counting-house, or even

the tradesman’s shop. See any one of these men fall,—the more suddenly,

and the nearer the zenith of his pride and riches, the better. What a

wild hallo is raised over his prostrate carcase by the shouting mob; how

they whoop and yell as he lies humbled beneath them! Mark how eagerly

they set upon him when he is down; and how they mock and deride him as he

slinks away. Why, it is the pantomime to the very letter.

Of all the pantomimic _dramatis personæ_, we consider the pantaloon the

most worthless and debauched. Independent of the dislike one naturally

feels at seeing a gentleman of his years engaged in pursuits highly

unbecoming his gravity and time of life, we cannot conceal from ourselves

the fact that he is a treacherous, worldly-minded old villain, constantly

enticing his younger companion, the clown, into acts of fraud or petty

larceny, and generally standing aside to watch the result of the

enterprise. If it be successful, he never forgets to return for his

share of the spoil; but if it turn out a failure, he generally retires

with remarkable caution and expedition, and keeps carefully aloof until

the affair has blown over. His amorous propensities, too, are eminently

disagreeable; and his mode of addressing ladies in the open street at

noon-day is down-right improper, being usually neither more nor less than

a perceptible tickling of the aforesaid ladies in the waist, after

committing which, he starts back, manifestly ashamed (as well he may be)

of his own indecorum and temerity; continuing, nevertheless, to ogle and

beckon to them from a distance in a very unpleasant and immoral manner.

Is there any man who cannot count a dozen pantaloons in his own social

circle? Is there any man who has not seen them swarming at the west end

of the town on a sunshiny day or a summer’s evening, going through the

last-named pantomimic feats with as much liquorish energy, and as total

an absence of reserve, as if they were on the very stage itself? We can

tell upon our fingers a dozen pantaloons of our acquaintance at this

moment—capital pantaloons, who have been performing all kinds of strange

freaks, to the great amusement of their friends and acquaintance, for

years past; and who to this day are making such comical and ineffectual

attempts to be young and dissolute, that all beholders are like to die

with laughter.

Take that old gentleman who has just emerged from the _Café de l’Europe_

in the Haymarket, where he has been dining at the expense of the young

man upon town with whom he shakes hands as they part at the door of the

tavern. The affected warmth of that shake of the hand, the courteous

nod, the obvious recollection of the dinner, the savoury flavour of which

still hangs upon his lips, are all characteristics of his great

prototype. He hobbles away humming an opera tune, and twirling his cane

to and fro, with affected carelessness. Suddenly he stops—’tis at the

milliner’s window. He peeps through one of the large panes of glass;

and, his view of the ladies within being obstructed by the India shawls,

directs his attentions to the young girl with the band-box in her hand,

who is gazing in at the window also. See! he draws beside her. He

coughs; she turns away from him. He draws near her again; she disregards

him. He gleefully chucks her under the chin, and, retreating a few

steps, nods and beckons with fantastic grimaces, while the girl bestows a

contemptuous and supercilious look upon his wrinkled visage. She turns

away with a flounce, and the old gentleman trots after her with a

toothless chuckle. The pantaloon to the life!

But the close resemblance which the clowns of the stage bear to those of

every-day life is perfectly extraordinary. Some people talk with a sigh

of the decline of pantomime, and murmur in low and dismal tones the name

of Grimaldi. We mean no disparagement to the worthy and excellent old

man when we say that this is downright nonsense. Clowns that beat

Grimaldi all to nothing turn up every day, and nobody patronizes

them—more’s the pity!

‘I know who you mean,’ says some dirty-faced patron of Mr.

Osbaldistone’s, laying down the Miscellany when he has got thus far, and

bestowing upon vacancy a most knowing glance; ‘you mean C. J. Smith as

did Guy Fawkes, and George Barnwell at the Garden.’ The dirty-faced

gentleman has hardly uttered the words, when he is interrupted by a young

gentleman in no shirt-collar and a Petersham coat. ‘No, no,’ says the

young gentleman; ‘he means Brown, King, and Gibson, at the ’Delphi.’

Now, with great deference both to the first-named gentleman with the

dirty face, and the last-named gentleman in the non-existing

shirt-collar, we do _not_ mean either the performer who so grotesquely

burlesqued the Popish conspirator, or the three unchangeables who have

been dancing the same dance under different imposing titles, and doing

the same thing under various high-sounding names for some five or six

years last past. We have no sooner made this avowal, than the public,

who have hitherto been silent witnesses of the dispute, inquire what on

earth it is we _do_ mean; and, with becoming respect, we proceed to tell

them.

It is very well known to all playgoers and pantomime-seers, that the

scenes in which a theatrical clown is at the very height of his glory are

those which are described in the play-bills as ‘Cheesemonger’s shop and

Crockery warehouse,’ or ‘Tailor’s shop, and Mrs. Queertable’s

boarding-house,’ or places bearing some such title, where the great fun

of the thing consists in the hero’s taking lodgings which he has not the

slightest intention of paying for, or obtaining goods under false

pretences, or abstracting the stock-in-trade of the respectable

shopkeeper next door, or robbing warehouse porters as they pass under his

window, or, to shorten the catalogue, in his swindling everybody he

possibly can, it only remaining to be observed that, the more extensive

the swindling is, and the more barefaced the impudence of the swindler,

the greater the rapture and ecstasy of the audience. Now it is a most

remarkable fact that precisely this sort of thing occurs in real life day

after day, and nobody sees the humour of it. Let us illustrate our

position by detailing the plot of this portion of the pantomime—not of

the theatre, but of life.

The Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, attended by his livery

servant Do’em—a most respectable servant to look at, who has grown grey

in the service of the captain’s family—views, treats for, and ultimately

obtains possession of, the unfurnished house, such a number, such a

street. All the tradesmen in the neighbourhood are in agonies of

competition for the captain’s custom; the captain is a good-natured,

kind-hearted, easy man, and, to avoid being the cause of disappointment

to any, he most handsomely gives orders to all. Hampers of wine, baskets

of provisions, cart-loads of furniture, boxes of jewellery, supplies of

luxuries of the costliest description, flock to the house of the

Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, where they are received with the

utmost readiness by the highly respectable Do’em; while the captain

himself struts and swaggers about with that compound air of conscious

superiority and general blood-thirstiness which a military captain should

always, and does most times, wear, to the admiration and terror of

plebeian men. But the tradesmen’s backs are no sooner turned, than the

captain, with all the eccentricity of a mighty mind, and assisted by the

faithful Do’em, whose devoted fidelity is not the least touching part of

his character, disposes of everything to great advantage; for, although

the articles fetch small sums, still they are sold considerably above

cost price, the cost to the captain having been nothing at all. After

various manœuvres, the imposture is discovered, Fitz-Fiercy and Do’em are

recognized as confederates, and the police office to which they are both

taken is thronged with their dupes.

Who can fail to recognize in this, the exact counterpart of the best

portion of a theatrical pantomime—Fitz-Whisker Fiercy by the clown; Do’em

by the pantaloon; and supernumeraries by the tradesmen? The best of the

joke, too, is, that the very coal-merchant who is loudest in his

complaints against the person who defrauded him, is the identical man who

sat in the centre of the very front row of the pit last night and laughed

the most boisterously at this very same thing,—and not so well done

either. Talk of Grimaldi, we say again! Did Grimaldi, in his best days,

ever do anything in this way equal to Da Costa?

The mention of this latter justly celebrated clown reminds us of his last

piece of humour, the fraudulently obtaining certain stamped acceptances

from a young gentleman in the army. We had scarcely laid down our pen to

contemplate for a few moments this admirable actor’s performance of that

exquisite practical joke, than a new branch of our subject flashed

suddenly upon us. So we take it up again at once.

All people who have been behind the scenes, and most people who have been

before them, know, that in the representation of a pantomime, a good many

men are sent upon the stage for the express purpose of being cheated, or

knocked down, or both. Now, down to a moment ago, we had never been able

to understand for what possible purpose a great number of odd, lazy,

large-headed men, whom one is in the habit of meeting here, and there,

and everywhere, could ever have been created. We see it all, now. They

are the supernumeraries in the pantomime of life; the men who have been

thrust into it, with no other view than to be constantly tumbling over

each other, and running their heads against all sorts of strange things.

We sat opposite to one of these men at a supper-table, only last week.

Now we think of it, he was exactly like the gentlemen with the pasteboard

heads and faces, who do the corresponding business in the theatrical

pantomimes; there was the same broad stolid simper—the same dull leaden

eye—the same unmeaning, vacant stare; and whatever was said, or whatever

was done, he always came in at precisely the wrong place, or jostled

against something that he had not the slightest business with. We looked

at the man across the table again and again; and could not satisfy

ourselves what race of beings to class him with. How very odd that this

never occurred to us before!

We will frankly own that we have been much troubled with the harlequin.

We see harlequins of so many kinds in the real living pantomime, that we

hardly know which to select as the proper fellow of him of the theatres.

At one time we were disposed to think that the harlequin was neither more

nor less than a young man of family and independent property, who had run

away with an opera-dancer, and was fooling his life and his means away in

light and trivial amusements. On reflection, however, we remembered that

harlequins are occasionally guilty of witty, and even clever acts, and we

are rather disposed to acquit our young men of family and independent

property, generally speaking, of any such misdemeanours. On a more

mature consideration of the subject, we have arrived at the conclusion

that the harlequins of life are just ordinary men, to be found in no

particular walk or degree, on whom a certain station, or particular

conjunction of circumstances, confers the magic wand. And this brings us

to a few words on the pantomime of public and political life, which we

shall say at once, and then conclude—merely premising in this place that

we decline any reference whatever to the columbine, being in no wise

satisfied of the nature of her connection with her parti-coloured lover,

and not feeling by any means clear that we should be justified in

introducing her to the virtuous and respectable ladies who peruse our

lucubrations.

We take it that the commencement of a Session of Parliament is neither

more nor less than the drawing up of the curtain for a grand comic

pantomime, and that his Majesty’s most gracious speech on the opening

thereof may be not inaptly compared to the clown’s opening speech of

‘Here we are!’ ‘My lords and gentlemen, here we are!’ appears, to our

mind at least, to be a very good abstract of the point and meaning of the

propitiatory address of the ministry. When we remember how frequently

this speech is made, immediately after _the change_ too, the parallel is

quite perfect, and still more singular.

Perhaps the cast of our political pantomime never was richer than at this

day. We are particularly strong in clowns. At no former time, we should

say, have we had such astonishing tumblers, or performers so ready to go

through the whole of their feats for the amusement of an admiring throng.

Their extreme readiness to exhibit, indeed, has given rise to some

ill-natured reflections; it having been objected that by exhibiting

gratuitously through the country when the theatre is closed, they reduce

themselves to the level of mountebanks, and thereby tend to degrade the

respectability of the profession. Certainly Grimaldi never did this sort

of thing; and though Brown, King, and Gibson have gone to the Surrey in

vacation time, and Mr. C. J. Smith has ruralised at Sadler’s Wells, we

find no theatrical precedent for a general tumbling through the country,

except in the gentleman, name unknown, who threw summersets on behalf of

the late Mr. Richardson, and who is no authority either, because he had

never been on the regular boards.

But, laying aside this question, which after all is a mere matter of

taste, we may reflect with pride and gratification of heart on the

proficiency of our clowns as exhibited in the season. Night after night

will they twist and tumble about, till two, three, and four o’clock in

the morning; playing the strangest antics, and giving each other the

funniest slaps on the face that can possibly be imagined, without

evincing the smallest tokens of fatigue. The strange noises, the

confusion, the shouting and roaring, amid which all this is done, too,

would put to shame the most turbulent sixpenny gallery that ever yelled

through a boxing-night.

It is especially curious to behold one of these clowns compelled to go

through the most surprising contortions by the irresistible influence of

the wand of office, which his leader or harlequin holds above his head.

Acted upon by this wonderful charm he will become perfectly motionless,

moving neither hand, foot, nor finger, and will even lose the faculty of

speech at an instant’s notice; or on the other hand, he will become all

life and animation if required, pouring forth a torrent of words without

sense or meaning, throwing himself into the wildest and most fantastic

contortions, and even grovelling on the earth and licking up the dust.

These exhibitions are more curious than pleasing; indeed, they are rather

disgusting than otherwise, except to the admirers of such things, with

whom we confess we have no fellow-feeling.

Strange tricks—very strange tricks—are also performed by the harlequin

who holds for the time being the magic wand which we have just mentioned.

The mere waving it before a man’s eyes will dispossess his brains of all

the notions previously stored there, and fill it with an entirely new set

of ideas; one gentle tap on the back will alter the colour of a man’s

coat completely; and there are some expert performers, who, having this

wand held first on one side and then on the other, will change from side

to side, turning their coats at every evolution, with so much rapidity

and dexterity, that the quickest eye can scarcely detect their motions.

Occasionally, the genius who confers the wand, wrests it from the hand of

the temporary possessor, and consigns it to some new performer; on which

occasions all the characters change sides, and then the race and the hard

knocks begin anew.

We might have extended this chapter to a much greater length—we might

have carried the comparison into the liberal professions—we might have

shown, as was in fact our original purpose, that each is in itself a

little pantomime with scenes and characters of its own, complete; but, as

we fear we have been quite lengthy enough already, we shall leave this

chapter just where it is. A gentleman, not altogether unknown as a

dramatic poet, wrote thus a year or two ago—

‘All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:’

and we, tracking out his footsteps at the scarcely-worth-mentioning

little distance of a few millions of leagues behind, venture to add, by

way of new reading, that he meant a Pantomime, and that we are all actors

in The Pantomime of Life.

SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION

WE have a great respect for lions in the abstract. In common with most

other people, we have heard and read of many instances of their bravery

and generosity. We have duly admired that heroic self-denial and

charming philanthropy which prompts them never to eat people except when

they are hungry, and we have been deeply impressed with a becoming sense

of the politeness they are said to display towards unmarried ladies of a

certain state. All natural histories teem with anecdotes illustrative of

their excellent qualities; and one old spelling-book in particular

recounts a touching instance of an old lion, of high moral dignity and

stern principle, who felt it his imperative duty to devour a young man

who had contracted a habit of swearing, as a striking example to the

rising generation.

All this is extremely pleasant to reflect upon, and, indeed, says a very

great deal in favour of lions as a mass. We are bound to state, however,

that such individual lions as we have happened to fall in with have not

put forth any very striking characteristics, and have not acted up to the

chivalrous character assigned them by their chroniclers. We never saw a

lion in what is called his natural state, certainly; that is to say, we

have never met a lion out walking in a forest, or crouching in his lair

under a tropical sun, waiting till his dinner should happen to come by,

hot from the baker’s. But we have seen some under the influence of

captivity, and the pressure of misfortune; and we must say that they

appeared to us very apathetic, heavy-headed fellows.

The lion at the Zoological Gardens, for instance. He is all very well;

he has an undeniable mane, and looks very fierce; but, Lord bless us!

what of that? The lions of the fashionable world look just as ferocious,

and are the most harmless creatures breathing. A box-lobby lion or a

Regent-street animal will put on a most terrible aspect, and roar,

fearfully, if you affront him; but he will never bite, and, if you offer

to attack him manfully, will fairly turn tail and sneak off. Doubtless

these creatures roam about sometimes in herds, and, if they meet any

especially meek-looking and peaceably-disposed fellow, will endeavour to

frighten him; but the faintest show of a vigorous resistance is

sufficient to scare them even then. These are pleasant characteristics,

whereas we make it matter of distinct charge against the Zoological lion

and his brethren at the fairs, that they are sleepy, dreamy, sluggish

quadrupeds.

We do not remember to have ever seen one of them perfectly awake, except

at feeding-time. In every respect we uphold the biped lions against

their four-footed namesakes, and we boldly challenge controversy upon the

subject.

With these opinions it may be easily imagined that our curiosity and

interest were very much excited the other day, when a lady of our

acquaintance called on us and resolutely declined to accept our refusal

of her invitation to an evening party; ‘for,’ said she, ‘I have got a

lion coming.’ We at once retracted our plea of a prior engagement, and

became as anxious to go, as we had previously been to stay away.

We went early, and posted ourselves in an eligible part of the

drawing-room, from whence we could hope to obtain a full view of the

interesting animal. Two or three hours passed, the quadrilles began, the

room filled; but no lion appeared. The lady of the house became

inconsolable,—for it is one of the peculiar privileges of these lions to

make solemn appointments and never keep them,—when all of a sudden there

came a tremendous double rap at the street-door, and the master of the

house, after gliding out (unobserved as he flattered himself) to peep

over the banisters, came into the room, rubbing his hands together with

great glee, and cried out in a very important voice, ‘My dear, Mr. —

(naming the lion) has this moment arrived.’

Upon this, all eyes were turned towards the door, and we observed several

young ladies, who had been laughing and conversing previously with great

gaiety and good humour, grow extremely quiet and sentimental; while some

young gentlemen, who had been cutting great figures in the facetious and

small-talk way, suddenly sank very obviously in the estimation of the

company, and were looked upon with great coldness and indifference. Even

the young man who had been ordered from the music shop to play the

pianoforte was visibly affected, and struck several false notes in the

excess of his excitement.

All this time there was a great talking outside, more than once

accompanied by a loud laugh, and a cry of ‘Oh! capital! excellent!’ from

which we inferred that the lion was jocose, and that these exclamations

were occasioned by the transports of his keeper and our host. Nor were

we deceived; for when the lion at last appeared, we overheard his keeper,

who was a little prim man, whisper to several gentlemen of his

acquaintance, with uplifted hands, and every expression of

half-suppressed admiration, that—(naming the lion again) was in _such_

cue to-night!

The lion was a literary one. Of course, there were a vast number of

people present who had admired his roarings, and were anxious to be

introduced to him; and very pleasant it was to see them brought up for

the purpose, and to observe the patient dignity with which he received

all their patting and caressing. This brought forcibly to our mind what

we had so often witnessed at country fairs, where the other lions are

compelled to go through as many forms of courtesy as they chance to be

acquainted with, just as often as admiring parties happen to drop in upon

them.

While the lion was exhibiting in this way, his keeper was not idle, for

he mingled among the crowd, and spread his praises most industriously.

To one gentleman he whispered some very choice thing that the noble

animal had said in the very act of coming up-stairs, which, of course,

rendered the mental effort still more astonishing; to another he murmured

a hasty account of a grand dinner that had taken place the day before,

where twenty-seven gentlemen had got up all at once to demand an extra

cheer for the lion; and to the ladies he made sundry promises of

interceding to procure the majestic brute’s sign-manual for their albums.

Then, there were little private consultations in different corners,

relative to the personal appearance and stature of the lion; whether he

was shorter than they had expected to see him, or taller, or thinner, or

fatter, or younger, or older; whether he was like his portrait, or unlike

it; and whether the particular shade of his eyes was black, or blue, or

hazel, or green, or yellow, or mixture. At all these consultations the

keeper assisted; and, in short, the lion was the sole and single subject

of discussion till they sat him down to whist, and then the people

relapsed into their old topics of conversation—themselves and each other.

We must confess that we looked forward with no slight impatience to the

announcement of supper; for if you wish to see a tame lion under

particularly favourable circumstances, feeding-time is the period of all

others to pitch upon. We were therefore very much delighted to observe a

sensation among the guests, which we well knew how to interpret, and

immediately afterwards to behold the lion escorting the lady of the house

down-stairs. We offered our arm to an elderly female of our

acquaintance, who—dear old soul!—is the very best person that ever lived,

to lead down to any meal; for, be the room ever so small, or the party

ever so large, she is sure, by some intuitive perception of the eligible,

to push and pull herself and conductor close to the best dishes on the

table;—we say we offered our arm to this elderly female, and, descending

the stairs shortly after the lion, were fortunate enough to obtain a seat

nearly opposite him.

Of course the keeper was there already. He had planted himself at

precisely that distance from his charge which afforded him a decent

pretext for raising his voice, when he addressed him, to so loud a key,

as could not fail to attract the attention of the whole company, and

immediately began to apply himself seriously to the task of bringing the

lion out, and putting him through the whole of his manœuvres. Such

flashes of wit as he elicited from the lion! First of all, they began to

make puns upon a salt-cellar, and then upon the breast of a fowl, and

then upon the trifle; but the best jokes of all were decidedly on the

lobster salad, upon which latter subject the lion came out most

vigorously, and, in the opinion of the most competent authorities, quite

outshone himself. This is a very excellent mode of shining in society,

and is founded, we humbly conceive, upon the classic model of the

dialogues between Mr. Punch and his friend the proprietor, wherein the

latter takes all the up-hill work, and is content to pioneer to the jokes

and repartees of Mr. P. himself, who never fails to gain great credit and

excite much laughter thereby. Whatever it be founded on, however, we

recommend it to all lions, present and to come; for in this instance it

succeeded to admiration, and perfectly dazzled the whole body of hearers.

When the salt-cellar, and the fowl’s breast, and the trifle, and the

lobster salad were all exhausted, and could not afford standing-room for

another solitary witticism, the keeper performed that very dangerous feat

which is still done with some of the caravan lions, although in one

instance it terminated fatally, of putting his head in the animal’s

mouth, and placing himself entirely at its mercy. Boswell frequently

presents a melancholy instance of the lamentable results of this

achievement, and other keepers and jackals have been terribly lacerated

for their daring. It is due to our lion to state, that he condescended

to be trifled with, in the most gentle manner, and finally went home with

the showman in a hack cab: perfectly peaceable, but slightly fuddled.

Being in a contemplative mood, we were led to make some reflections upon

the character and conduct of this genus of lions as we walked homewards,

and we were not long in arriving at the conclusion that our former

impression in their favour was very much strengthened and confirmed by

what we had recently seen. While the other lions receive company and

compliments in a sullen, moody, not to say snarling manner, these appear

flattered by the attentions that are paid them; while those conceal

themselves to the utmost of their power from the vulgar gaze, these court

the popular eye, and, unlike their brethren, whom nothing short of

compulsion will move to exertion, are ever ready to display their

acquirements to the wondering throng. We have known bears of undoubted

ability who, when the expectations of a large audience have been wound up

to the utmost pitch, have peremptorily refused to dance; well-taught

monkeys, who have unaccountably objected to exhibit on the slack wire;

and elephants of unquestioned genius, who have suddenly declined to turn

the barrel-organ; but we never once knew or heard of a biped lion,

literary or otherwise,—and we state it as a fact which is highly

creditable to the whole species,—who, occasion offering, did not seize

with avidity on any opportunity which was afforded him, of performing to

his heart’s content on the first violin.

MR. ROBERT BOLTON

THE ‘GENTLEMAN CONNECTED WITH THE PRESS’

IN the parlour of the Green Dragon, a public-house in the immediate

neighbourhood of Westminster Bridge, everybody talks politics, every

evening, the great political authority being Mr. Robert Bolton, an

individual who defines himself as ‘a gentleman connected with the press,’

which is a definition of peculiar indefiniteness. Mr. Robert Bolton’s

regular circle of admirers and listeners are an undertaker, a

greengrocer, a hairdresser, a baker, a large stomach surmounted by a

man’s head, and placed on the top of two particularly short legs, and a

thin man in black, name, profession, and pursuit unknown, who always sits

in the same position, always displays the same long, vacant face, and

never opens his lips, surrounded as he is by most enthusiastic

conversation, except to puff forth a volume of tobacco smoke, or give

vent to a very snappy, loud, and shrill _hem_! The conversation

sometimes turns upon literature, Mr. Bolton being a literary character,

and always upon such news of the day as is exclusively possessed by that

talented individual. I found myself (of course, accidentally) in the

Green Dragon the other evening, and, being somewhat amused by the

following conversation, preserved it.

‘Can you lend me a ten-pound note till Christmas?’ inquired the

hairdresser of the stomach.

‘Where’s your security, Mr. Clip?’

‘My stock in trade,—there’s enough of it, I’m thinking, Mr. Thicknesse.

Some fifty wigs, two poles, half-a-dozen head blocks, and a dead Bruin.’

‘No, I won’t, then,’ growled out Thicknesse. ‘I lends nothing on the

security of the whigs or the Poles either. As for whigs, they’re cheats;

as for the Poles, they’ve got no cash. I never have nothing to do with

blockheads, unless I can’t awoid it (ironically), and a dead bear’s about

as much use to me as I could be to a dead bear.’

‘Well, then,’ urged the other, ‘there’s a book as belonged to Pope,

Byron’s Poems, valued at forty pounds, because it’s got Pope’s identical

scratch on the back; what do you think of that for security?’

‘Well, to be sure!’ cried the baker. ‘But how d’ye mean, Mr. Clip?’

‘Mean! why, that it’s got the _hottergruff_ of Pope.

“Steal not this book, for fear of hangman’s rope;

For it belongs to Alexander Pope.”

All that’s written on the inside of the binding of the book; so, as my

son says, we’re _bound_ to believe it.’

‘Well, sir,’ observed the undertaker, deferentially, and in a

half-whisper, leaning over the table, and knocking over the hairdresser’s

grog as he spoke, ‘that argument’s very easy upset.’

‘Perhaps, sir,’ said Clip, a little flurried, ‘you’ll pay for the first

upset afore you thinks of another.’

‘Now,’ said the undertaker, bowing amicably to the hairdresser, ‘I

_think_, I says I _think_—you’ll excuse me, Mr. Clip, I _think_, you see,

that won’t go down with the present company—unfortunately, my master had

the honour of making the coffin of that ere Lord’s housemaid, not no more

nor twenty year ago. Don’t think I’m proud on it, gentlemen; others

might be; but I hate rank of any sort. I’ve no more respect for a Lord’s

footman than I have for any respectable tradesman in this room. I may

say no more nor I have for Mr. Clip! (bowing). Therefore, that ere Lord

must have been born long after Pope died. And it’s a logical

interference to defer, that they neither of them lived at the same time.

So what I mean is this here, that Pope never had no book, never seed,

felt, never smelt no book (triumphantly) as belonged to that ere Lord.

And, gentlemen, when I consider how patiently you have ’eared the ideas

what I have expressed, I feel bound, as the best way to reward you for

the kindness you have exhibited, to sit down without saying anything

more—partickler as I perceive a worthier visitor nor myself is just

entered. I am not in the habit of paying compliments, gentlemen; when I

do, therefore, I hope I strikes with double force.’

‘Ah, Mr. Murgatroyd! what’s all this about striking with double force?’

said the object of the above remark, as he entered. ‘I never excuse a

man’s getting into a rage during winter, even when he’s seated so close

to the fire as you are. It is very injudicious to put yourself into such

a perspiration. What is the cause of this extreme physical and mental

excitement, sir?’

Such was the very philosophical address of Mr. Robert Bolton, a

shorthand-writer, as he termed himself—a bit of equivoque passing current

among his fraternity, which must give the uninitiated a vast idea of the

establishment of the ministerial organ, while to the initiated it

signifies that no one paper can lay claim to the enjoyment of their

services. Mr. Bolton was a young man, with a somewhat sickly and very

dissipated expression of countenance. His habiliments were composed of

an exquisite union of gentility, slovenliness, assumption, simplicity,

_newness_, and old age. Half of him was dressed for the winter, the

other half for the summer. His hat was of the newest cut, the D’Orsay;

his trousers had been white, but the inroads of mud and ink, etc., had

given them a pie-bald appearance; round his throat he wore a very high

black cravat, of the most tyrannical stiffness; while his _tout ensemble_

was hidden beneath the enormous folds of an old brown poodle-collared

great-coat, which was closely buttoned up to the aforesaid cravat. His

fingers peeped through the ends of his black kid gloves, and two of the

toes of each foot took a similar view of society through the extremities

of his high-lows. Sacred to the bare walls of his garret be the

mysteries of his interior dress! He was a short, spare man, of a

somewhat inferior deportment. Everybody seemed influenced by his entry

into the room, and his salutation of each member partook of the

patronizing. The hairdresser made way for him between himself and the

stomach. A minute afterwards he had taken possession of his pint and

pipe. A pause in the conversation took place. Everybody was waiting,

anxious for his first observation.

‘Horrid murder in Westminster this morning,’ observed Mr. Bolton.

Everybody changed their positions. All eyes were fixed upon the man of

paragraphs.

‘A baker murdered his son by boiling him in a copper,’ said Mr. Bolton.

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed everybody, in simultaneous horror.

‘Boiled him, gentlemen!’ added Mr. Bolton, with the most effective

emphasis; ‘_boiled_ him!’

‘And the particulars, Mr. B.,’ inquired the hairdresser, ‘the

particulars?’

Mr. Bolton took a very long draught of porter, and some two or three

dozen whiffs of tobacco, doubtless to instil into the commercial

capacities of the company the superiority of a gentlemen connected with

the press, and then said—

‘The man was a baker, gentlemen.’ (Every one looked at the baker

present, who stared at Bolton.) ‘His victim, being his son, also was

necessarily the son of a baker. The wretched murderer had a wife, whom

he was frequently in the habit, while in an intoxicated state, of

kicking, pummelling, flinging mugs at, knocking down, and half-killing

while in bed, by inserting in her mouth a considerable portion of a sheet

or blanket.’

The speaker took another draught, everybody looked at everybody else, and

exclaimed, ‘Horrid!’

‘It appears in evidence, gentlemen,’ continued Mr. Bolton, ‘that, on the

evening of yesterday, Sawyer the baker came home in a reprehensible state

of beer. Mrs. S., connubially considerate, carried him in that condition

up-stairs into his chamber, and consigned him to their mutual couch. In

a minute or two she lay sleeping beside the man whom the morrow’s dawn

beheld a murderer!’ (Entire silence informed the reporter that his

picture had attained the awful effect he desired.) ‘The son came home

about an hour afterwards, opened the door, and went up to bed. Scarcely

(gentlemen, conceive his feelings of alarm), scarcely had he taken off

his indescribables, when shrieks (to his experienced ear _maternal_

shrieks) scared the silence of surrounding night. He put his

indescribables on again, and ran down-stairs. He opened the door of the

parental bed-chamber. His father was dancing upon his mother. What must

have been his feelings! In the agony of the minute he rushed at his male

parent as he was about to plunge a knife into the side of his female.

The mother shrieked. The father caught the son (who had wrested the

knife from the paternal grasp) up in his arms, carried him down-stairs,

shoved him into a copper of boiling water among some linen, closed the

lid, and jumped upon the top of it, in which position he was found with a

ferocious countenance by the mother, who arrived in the melancholy

wash-house just as he had so settled himself.

‘“Where’s my boy?” shrieked the mother.

‘“In that copper, boiling,” coolly replied the benign father.

‘Struck by the awful intelligence, the mother rushed from the house, and

alarmed the neighbourhood. The police entered a minute afterwards. The

father, having bolted the wash-house door, had bolted himself. They

dragged the lifeless body of the boiled baker from the cauldron, and,

with a promptitude commendable in men of their station, they immediately

carried it to the station-house. Subsequently, the baker was apprehended

while seated on the top of a lamp-post in Parliament Street, lighting his

pipe.’

The whole horrible ideality of the Mysteries of Udolpho, condensed into

the pithy effect of a ten-line paragraph, could not possibly have so

affected the narrator’s auditory. Silence, the purest and most noble of

all kinds of applause, bore ample testimony to the barbarity of the

baker, as well as to Bolton’s knack of narration; and it was only broken

after some minutes had elapsed by interjectional expressions of the

intense indignation of every man present. The baker wondered how a

British baker could so disgrace himself and the highly honourable calling

to which he belonged; and the others indulged in a variety of wonderments

connected with the subject; among which not the least wonderment was that

which was awakened by the genius and information of Mr. Robert Bolton,

who, after a glowing eulogium on himself, and his unspeakable influence

with the daily press, was proceeding, with a most solemn countenance, to

hear the pros and cons of the Pope autograph question, when I took up my

hat, and left.

FAMILIAR EPISTLE FROM A PARENT TO A CHILD

AGED TWO YEARS AND TWO MONTHS

MY CHILD,

TO recount with what trouble I have brought you up—with what an anxious

eye I have regarded your progress,—how late and how often I have sat up

at night working for you,—and how many thousand letters I have received

from, and written to your various relations and friends, many of whom

have been of a querulous and irritable turn,—to dwell on the anxiety and

tenderness with which I have (as far as I possessed the power) inspected

and chosen your food; rejecting the indigestible and heavy matter which

some injudicious but well-meaning old ladies would have had you swallow,

and retaining only those light and pleasant articles which I deemed

calculated to keep you free from all gross humours, and to render you an

agreeable child, and one who might be popular with society in general,—to

dilate on the steadiness with which I have prevented your annoying any

company by talking politics—always assuring you that you would thank me

for it yourself some day when you grew older,—to expatiate, in short,

upon my own assiduity as a parent, is beside my present purpose, though I

cannot but contemplate your fair appearance—your robust health, and

unimpeded circulation (which I take to be the great secret of your good

looks) without the liveliest satisfaction and delight.

It is a trite observation, and one which, young as you are, I have no

doubt you have often heard repeated, that we have fallen upon strange

times, and live in days of constant shiftings and changes. I had a

melancholy instance of this only a week or two since. I was returning

from Manchester to London by the Mail Train, when I suddenly fell into

another train—a mixed train—of reflection, occasioned by the dejected and

disconsolate demeanour of the Post-Office Guard. We were stopping at

some station where they take in water, when he dismounted slowly from the

little box in which he sits in ghastly mockery of his old condition with

pistol and blunderbuss beside him, ready to shoot the first highwayman

(or railwayman) who shall attempt to stop the horses, which now travel

(when they travel at all) _inside_ and in a portable stable invented for

the purpose,—he dismounted, I say, slowly and sadly, from his post, and

looking mournfully about him as if in dismal recollection of the old

roadside public-house the blazing fire—the glass of foaming ale—the buxom

handmaid and admiring hangers-on of tap-room and stable, all honoured by

his notice; and, retiring a little apart, stood leaning against a

signal-post, surveying the engine with a look of combined affliction and

disgust which no words can describe. His scarlet coat and golden lace

were tarnished with ignoble smoke; flakes of soot had fallen on his

bright green shawl—his pride in days of yore—the steam condensed in the

tunnel from which we had just emerged, shone upon his hat like rain. His

eye betokened that he was thinking of the coachman; and as it wandered to

his own seat and his own fast-fading garb, it was plain to see that he

felt his office and himself had alike no business there, and were nothing

but an elaborate practical joke.

As we whirled away, I was led insensibly into an anticipation of those

days to come, when mail-coach guards shall no longer be judges of

horse-flesh—when a mail-coach guard shall never even have seen a

horse—when stations shall have superseded stables, and corn shall have

given place to coke. ‘In those dawning times,’ thought I,

‘exhibition-rooms shall teem with portraits of Her Majesty’s favourite

engine, with boilers after Nature by future Landseers. Some Amburgh, yet

unborn, shall break wild horses by his magic power; and in the dress of a

mail-coach guard exhibit his TRAINED ANIMALS in a mock mail-coach. Then,

shall wondering crowds observe how that, with the exception of his whip,

it is all his eye; and crowned heads shall see them fed on oats, and

stand alone unmoved and undismayed, while counters flee affrighted when

the coursers neigh!’

Such, my child, were the reflections from which I was only awakened then,

as I am now, by the necessity of attending to matters of present though

minor importance. I offer no apology to you for the digression, for it

brings me very naturally to the subject of change, which is the very

subject of which I desire to treat.

In fact, my child, you have changed hands. Henceforth I resign you to

the guardianship and protection of one of my most intimate and valued

friends, Mr. Ainsworth, with whom, and with you, my best wishes and

warmest feelings will ever remain. I reap no gain or profit by parting

from you, nor will any conveyance of your property be required, for, in

this respect, you have always been literally ‘Bentley’s’ Miscellany, and

never mine.

Unlike the driver of the old Manchester mail, I regard this altered state

of things with feelings of unmingled pleasure and satisfaction.

Unlike the guard of the new Manchester mail, _your_ guard is at home in

his new place, and has roystering highwaymen and gallant desperadoes ever

within call. And if I might compare you, my child, to an engine; (not a

Tory engine, nor a Whig engine, but a brisk and rapid locomotive;) your

friends and patrons to passengers; and he who now stands towards you _in

loco parentis_ as the skilful engineer and supervisor of the whole, I

would humbly crave leave to postpone the departure of the train on its

new and auspicious course for one brief instant, while, with hat in hand,

I approach side by side with the friend who travelled with me on the old

road, and presume to solicit favour and kindness in behalf of him and his

new charge, both for their sakes and that of the old coachman,

BOZ.