CHAPTER II. A pontificating man with his arms outstretched in the shape

of a Y. ou can have no idea, Jack, how deeply the loss of those

venerated family retainers affected me.”

My uncle paused. I perceived that his eyes were full, and his tumbler

empty; I therefore thought it advisable to divert his sorrow, by

reminding him of our national proverb, “Iss farr doch na skeal11. A

drink is better than a story..”

The old man’s eyes glistened with pleasure, as he grasped my hand,

saying, “I see, Jack, you are worthy of your name. I was afraid that

school-learning and college would have spoiled your taste for honest

drinking; but the right drop is in you still, my boy. I mentioned,”

continued he, resuming the thread of his story, “that my grandfather

died, leaving to his heirs the topped boots, spurs, buckskin-breeches,

and red waistcoat; but it is about the first-mentioned articles I mean

especially to speak, as it was mainly through their respectable

appearance that so many excellent matches and successful negotiations

have been concluded by our family. If one of our cousins was about to

wait on his landlord or his sweetheart, if he meditated taking a farm or

a wife, ‘the tops’ were instantly brushed up, and put into requisition.

Indeed, so fortunate had they been in all the matrimonial embassies to

which they had been attached, that they acquired the name of ‘the wife-

catchers,’ amongst the young fellows of our family. Something of the

favour they enjoyed in the eyes of the fair sex should, perhaps, be

attributed to the fact, that all the Duffys were fine strapping fellows,

with legs that seemed made for setting off topped boots to the best

advantage.

“Well, years rolled by; the sons of mothers whose hearts had been won by

the irresistible buckism of Shawn Duffy’s boots, grew to maturity, and,

in their turn, furbished up ‘the wife-catchers,’ when intent upon

invading the affections of other rustic fair ones. At length these

invaluable relics descended to me, as the representative of our family.

It was ten years on last Lady-day since they came into my possession,

and I am proud to say, that during that time the Duffys and ‘the wife-

catchers’ lost nothing of the reputation they had previously gained, for

no less than nineteen marriages and ninety-six christenings have

occurred in our family during the time. I had every hope, too, that

another chalk would have been added to the matrimonial tally, and that I

should have the pleasure of completing the score before Lent; for, one

evening, about four months ago, I received a note from your cousin

Peter, informing me that he intended riding over, on the following

Sunday, to Miss Peggy Haggarty’s, for the purpose of popping the

question, and requesting of me the loan of the lucky ‘wife-catchers’ for

the occasion.

“I need not tell you I was delighted to oblige poor Peter, who is the

best fellow and surest shot in the county, and accordingly took down the

boots from their peg in the hall. Through the negligence of the servant

they have been hung up in a damp state, and had become covered with blue

mould. In order to render them decent and comfortable for Peter, I

placed them to dry inside the fender, opposite the fire; then lighting

my pipe, I threw myself back in my chair, and as the fragrant fumes of

the Indian weed curled and wreathed around my head, with half-closed

eyes turned upon the renowned ‘wife-catchers,’ I indulged in delightful

visions of future weddings and christenings, and recalled, with a sigh,

the many pleasant ones I had witnessed in their company.”

Here my uncle applied the tumbler to his face to conceal his emotion. “I

brought to mind,” he continued (ordering; in a parenthesis, another jug

of boiling water), “I brought to mind the first time I had myself

sported the envied ‘wife-catchers’ at the pattron of Moycullen. I was

then as wild a blade as any in Connaught, and the ‘tops’ were in the

prime of their beauty. In fact, I am not guilty of flattery or egotism

in saying, that the girl who could then turn up her nose at the boots,

or their master, must have been devilish hard to please. But though the

hey-day of our youth had passed, I consoled myself with the reflection

that with the help of the saints, and a pair of new soles, we might yet

hold out to marry and bury three generations to come.

“As these anticipations passed through my mind, I was startled by a

sudden rustling near me. I raised my eyes to discover the cause, and

fancy my surprise when I beheld ‘the wife-catchers,’ by some marvellous

power, suddenly become animated, gradually elongating and altering

themselves, until they assumed the appearance of a couple of tall

gentlemen clad in black, with extremely sallow countenances; and what

was still more extraordinary, though they possessed separate bodies,

their actions seemed to be governed by a single mind. I stared, and

doubtless so would you, Jack, had you been in my place; but my

astonishment was at its height, when the partners, keeping side by side

as closely as the Siamese twins, stepped gracefully over the fender, and

taking a seat directly opposite me, addressed me in a voice broken by an

irrepressible chuckle—

“‘Here we are, old boy. Ugh, ugh, ugh, hoo!’

“So I perceive, gentlemen,” I replied, rather drily.

“‘You look a little alarmed—ugh, ugh, hoo, hoo, hoo!’ cried the pair.

‘Excuse our laughter—hoo! hoo! hoo! We mean no offence—none whatever.

Ugh, hoo, hoo, hoo! We know we are somewhat changed in appearance.’

“I assured the transformed ‘tops’ I was delighted in being honoured with

their company, under any shape; hoped they would make themselves quite

at home, and take a glass with me in the friendly way. The friends shook

their heads simultaneously, declining the offer; and he whom I had

hitherto known as the right foot, said in a grave voice:—

“‘We feel obliged, sir, but we never take anything but water; moreover,

our business now is to relate to you some of the singular adventures of

our life, convinced, that in your hand they will be given to the world

in three handsome volumes.’

“My curiosity was instantly awakened, and I drew my chair closer to my

communicative friends, who, stretching out their legs, prepared to

commence their recital.”

“‘Hem!’ cried the right foot, who appeared to be the spokesman, clearing

his throat and turning to his companion—‘hem! which of our adventures

shall I relate first, brother?’

“‘Why,’ replied the left foot, after a few moments’ reflection, ‘I don’t

think you can do better than tell our friend the story of Terence Duffy

and the heiress.’

“‘Egad! you’re right, brother; that was a droll affair:’ and then,

addressing himself to me, he continued, ‘You remember your Uncle

Terence? A funny dog he was, and in his young days the very devil for

lovemaking and fighting. Look here,’ said the speaker, pointing to a

small circular perforation in his side, which had been neatly patched.

‘This mark, which I shall carry with me to my grave, I received in an

affair between your uncle and Captain Donovan of the North Cork Militia.

The captain one day asserted in the public library at Ballybreesthawn,

that a certain Miss Biddy O’Brannigan had hair red as a carrot. This

calumny was not long in reaching the ears of your Uncle Terence, who

prided himself on being the champion of the sex in general, and of Miss

Biddy O’Brannigan in particular. Accordingly he took the earliest

opportunity of demanding from the captain an apology, and a confession

that the lady’s locks were a beautiful auburn. The militia hero, who was

too courageous to desert his colours, maintained they were red. The

result was a meeting on the daisies at four o’clock in the morning, when

the captain’s ball grazed your uncle’s leg, and in return he received a

compliment from Terence, in the hip, that spoiled his dancing for life.

“‘I will not insult your penetration by telling you what I perceive you

are already aware of, that Terence Duffy was the professed admirer of

Miss Biddy. The affair with Captain Donovan raised him materially in her

estimation, and it was whispered that the hand and fortune of the

heiress were destined for her successful champion. There’s an old

saying, though, that the best dog don’t always catch the hare, as

Terence found to his cost. He had a rival candidate for the affections

of Miss Biddy; but such a rival—however I will not anticipate.’”

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL, NO. 3. I am thine in my gladness,

I’m thine in thy tears;

My love it can change not

With absence or years.

Were a dungeon thy dwelling,

My home it should be,

For its gloom would be sunshine

If I were with thee.

But the light has no beauty

Of thee, love bereft:

I am thine, and thine only!

Thine!—over the left!

Over the left!

As the wild Arab hails,

On his desolate way,

The palm-tree which tells

Where the cool fountains play,

So thy presence is ever

The herald of bliss,

For there’s love in thy smile,

And there’s joy in thy kiss.

Thou hast won me—then wear me!

Of thee, love, bereft,

I should fade like a flower,

Yes!—over the left!

Over the left!

A gentleman in Mobile has a watch that goes so fast, he is obliged to

calculate a week back to know the time of day.

A new bass singer has lately appeared at New Orleans, who sings so

remarkably deep, it takes nine Kentucky lawyers to understand a single

bar!

A NATURAL DEDUCTION Why S—e is long-lived at once appears—

The ass was always famed for length of ears.

[pg 38] WIT WITHOUT MONEY; OR, HOW TO LIVE UPON NOTHING. BY VAMPYRE

HORSELEECH, ESQ. “Creation’s heir—the world, the world is

mine.”—GOLDSMITH.

Philosophers, moralists, poets, in all ages, have never better pleased

themselves or satisfied their readers than when they have descanted

upon, deplored, and denounced the pernicious influence of money upon the

heart and the understanding. “Filthy lucre”—“so much trash as may be

grasped thus”—“yellow mischief,” I know not, or choose not, to recount

how many justly injurious names have been applied to coin by those who

knew, because they had felt, its consequences. Wherefore, I say at once,

it is better to have none on’t—to live without it. And yet, now I think

better upon that point, it is well not altogether to discourage its

approach. On the contrary, lay hold upon it, seize it, rescue it from

hands which in all probability would work ruin with it, and resolutely

refuse, when it is once got, to let it go out of your grasp. Let no

absurd talk about quittance, discharge, remuneration, payment, induce

the holder to relax from his inflexible purpose of palm. Pay, like

party, is the madness of many for the gain of a few.

Unhappily, vile gold, or its representation or equivalent, has been,

during many centuries, the sole medium through which the majority of

mankind have supplied their wants, or ministered to their luxuries. It

is high time that a sage should arise to expound how the discerning

few—those who have the wit and the will (both must concur to the great

end) may live—LIVE—not like him who buys and balances himself by the

book of the groveller who wrote “How to Live upon Fifty Pounds a

Year”—(O shame to manhood!)—but live, I say—“be free and merry”—“laugh

and grow fat”—exchange the courtesies of life—be a pattern of the “minor

morals”—and yet: all this without a doit in bank, bureau, or breeches’

pocket.

I am that sage. Let none deride. Haply, I shall only remind some, but I

may teach many. Those that come to scoff, may perchance go home to prey.

Let no gentleman of the old school (for whom, indeed, my brief treatise

is not designed) be startled when I advance this proposition: That more

discreditable methods are daily practised by those who live to get

money, than are resorted to by those who without money are nevertheless

under the necessity of living. If this proposition be assented to—as, in

truth, I know not how it can be gainsaid,—nothing need be urged in

vindication of my art of free living. Proceed I then at once.

Here is a youth of promise—born, like Jaffier, with “elegant

desires”—one who does not agnize a prompt alacrity in carrying

burdens—one, rather, who recognizes a moral and physical unfitness for

such, and indeed all other dorsal and manual operations—one who has been

born a Briton, and would not, therefore, sell his birthright for a mess

of pottage; but, on the contrary, holds that his birthright entitles him

to as many messes of pottage as there may be days to his mortal span,

though time’s fingers stretched beyond the distance allotted to extreme

Parr or extremest Jenkins. “Elegant desires” are gratified to the extent

I purpose treating of them, by handsome clothes—comfortable

lodgings—good dinners.

1st. Of Handsome Clothes.—Here, I confess, I find myself in some

difficulty. The man who knows not how to have his name entered in the

day-book of a tailor, is not one who could derive any benefit from

instruction of mine. He must be a born natural. Why, it comes by

instinct.

2nd. Of Comfortable Lodgings.—Easily obtained and secured. The easiest

thing in life. But the wit without money must possess very little more

of the former than of the latter, if he do not, even when snugly

ensconced in one splendid suite of apartments, have his eye upon many

others; for landladies are sometimes vexatiously impertinent, and

novelty is desirable. Besides, his departure may be (nay, often is)

extremely sudden. When in quest of apartments, I have found tarnished

cards in the windows preferable. They imply a length of vacancy of the

floor, and a consequent relaxation of those narrow, worldly (some call

them prudent) scruples, which landladies are apt to nourish. Hints of a

regular income, payable four times a year, have their weight; nay, often

convert weekly into quarterly lodgings. Be sure there are no children in

your house. They are vociferous when you would enjoy domestic

retirement, and inquisitive when you take the air. Once (horresco

referens!) on returning from my peripatetics, I was accosted with

brutally open-mouthed clamour, by my landlady, who, dragging me in a

state of bewilderment into her room, pointed to numerous specimens of

granite, which her “young people” had, in their unhallowed thirst for

knowledge, discovered and drawn from my trunk, which, by some strange

mischance, had been left unlocked! In vain I mumbled something touching

my love of mineralogy, and that a lapidary had offered I knew not what

for my collection. I was compelled to “bundle,” as the idiomatic, but

ignorant woman expressed herself. To resume.

Let not the nervous or sensitive wit imagine that, in a vast metropolis

like London, his chance of securing an appropriate lodging and a

confiding landlady is at all doubtful. He might lodge safe from the

past, certain of the future, till the crash of doom. I shall be met by

Ferguson’s case. Ferguson I knew well, and I respected him. But he had a

most unfortunate countenance. It was a very solemn, but by no means a

solvent face; and yet he had a manner with him too, and his language was

choice, if not persuasive. That the matter of his speech was plausible,

none ever presumed to deny. “It is all very well, Mr. Ferguson,”—that

was always conceded. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead; but

Ferguson never entered a lodging without being compelled to pay a

fortnight in advance, and always

A cat waits for a mouse. EXPECTED TO BE OUT SHORTLY.

3rd. Of Good Dinners.—Wits, like other men, are distinguished by a

variety of tastes and inclinations. Some prefer dining at taverns and

eating-houses; others, more discreet or less daring, love the quiet

security of the private house, with its hospitable inmates, courteous

guests, and no possibility of “bill transactions.” I confess when I was

young and inexperienced, wanting that wisdom which I am now happy to

impart, I was a constant frequenter of taverns, eating-houses, oyster-

rooms, and similar places of entertainment. I am old now, and have been

persecuted by a brutal world, and am grown timid. But I was ever a

peaceable man—hated quarrels—never came to words if I could help it. I

do not recommend the tavern, eating-house, oyster-room system. These are

the words of wisdom. The waiters at these places are invariably sturdy,

fleet, abusive rascals, who cannot speak and will not listen to reason.

To eat one’s dinner, drink a pint of sherry, and then, calling for the

bill, take out one’s pocket-book, and post it in its rotation in a neat

hand, informing the waiter the while, that it is a simple debt, and so

forth; this really requires nerve. Great spirits only are equal to it.

It is an innovation upon old, established forms, however absurd—and

innovators bring down upon themselves much obloquy. To run from the

score you have run up—not to pay your shot, but to shoot from

payment—this is not always safe, and invariably spoils digestion. No; it

is not more honourable—far from it—but it is better; for you should

strive to become, what is commonly called—“A Diner Out”—that is to say,

one who continues to sit at the private tables of other men every day of

his life, and by his so potent art, succeeds in making them believe that

they are very much obliged to him.

How to be this thing—this “Diner Out”—I shall teach you, by a few short

rules next week. Till then—farewell!

Lord William Paget has applied to the Lord Chancellor, to inquire

whether the word “jackass” is not opprobrious and actionable. His

lordship says, “No, decidedly, in this case only synonymous.”

THE POLITICAL QUACK. Sir Robert Peel has convinced us of one thing by

his Tamworth speech, that whatever danger the constitution may be in, he

will not proscribe for the patient until he is regularly called in. A

beautiful specimen of the old Tory leaven. Sir Robert objects to give

Advice gratis.

TO FANCY BUILDERS AND CAPITALISTS. A large assortment of peculiarly fine

oyster-shells, warranted fire-proof and of first-rate quality;

exquisitely adapted for the construction of grottoes. May be seen by

cards only, to be procured of Mr. George Robins, or the clerks of

Billingsgate or Hungerfofd markets.

N.B.—Some splendid ground at the corners of popular and well-frequented

streets, to be let on short leases for edifices of the above

description. Apply as before.

[pg 39] LITERARY RECIPES. The following invaluable literary recipes have

been most kindly forwarded by the celebrated Ude. They are the produce

of many years’ intense study, and, we must say, the very best things of

the sort we have ever met with. There is much delicacy in M. Ude leaving

it to us, as to whether the communication should be anonymous. We think

not, as the peculiarity of the style would at once establish the

talented authorship, and, therefore, attempted concealment would be

considered as the result of a too morbidly modest feeling.

HOW TO COOK UP A FASHIONABLE NOVEL. Take a consummate puppy—M.P.s

preferable (as they are generally the softest, and don’t require much

pressing)—baste with self-conceit—stuff with slang—season with maudlin

sentiment—hash up with a popular publisher—simmer down with preparatory

advertisements. Add six reams of gilt-edged paper—grate in a thousand

quills—garnish with marble covers, and morocco backs and corners. Stir

up with magazine puffs—skim off sufficient for preface. Shred scraps of

French and small-talk, very fine. Add “superfine coats”—“satin

stocks”—“bouquets”—“opera-boxes”—“a duel”—an elopement—St. George’s

Church—silver bride favours—eight footmen—four postilions—the like

number of horses—a “dredger” of smiles—some filtered tears—half-mourning

for a dead uncle (the better if he has a twitch in his nose), and serve

with anything that will bear “frittering.”

A SENTIMENTAL DITTO. (By the same Author.) Take a young lady—dress her

in blue ribbons—sprinkle with innocence, spring flowers, and primroses.

Procure a Baronet (a Lord if in season); if not, a depraved “younger

son”—trim him with écarté, rouge et noir, Epsom, Derby, and a slice of

Crockford’s. Work up with rustic cottage, an aged father, blind mother,

and little brothers and sisters in brown holland pinafores. Introduce

mock abduction—strong dose of virtue and repentance. Serve up with

village church—happy parent—delighted daughter—reformed rake—blissful

brothers—syren sisters—and perfect dénouement.

N.B. Season with perspective christening and postponed epitaph.

A STARTLING ROMANCE. Take a small boy, charity, factory, carpenter’s

apprentice, or otherwise, as occasion may serve—stew him well down in

vice—garnish largely with oaths and flash songs—boil him in a cauldron

of crime and improbabilities. Season equally with good and bad

qualities—infuse petty larceny, affection, benevolence, and burglary,

honour and housebreaking, amiability and arson—boil all gently. Stew

down a mad mother—a gang of robbers—several pistols—a bloody knife.

Serve up with a couple of murders—and season with a hanging-match.

N.B. Alter the ingredients to a beadle and a workhouse—the scenes may be

the same, but the whole flavour of vice will be lost, and the boy will

turn out a perfect pattern.—Strongly recommended for weak stomachs.

AN HISTORICAL DITTO. Take a young man six feet high—mix up with a

horse—draw a squire from his father’s estate (the broad-shouldered and

loquacious are the best sort)—prepare both for potting (that is,

exporting). When abroad, introduce a well-pounded Saracen—a foreign

princess—stew down a couple of dwarfs and a conquered giant—fill two

sauce-tureens with a prodigious ransom. Garnish with garlands and dead

Turks. Serve up with a royal marriage and cloth of gold.

A NARRATIVE. Take a distant village—follow with high-road—introduce and

boil down pedlar, gut his pack, and cut his throat—hang him up by the

heels—when enough, let his brother cut him down—get both into a

stew—pepper the real murderer—grill the innocent for a short time—then

take them off, and put delinquents in their place (these can scarcely be

broiled too much, and a strong fire is particularly recommended). When

real perpetrators are done, all is complete.

If the parties have been poor, serve up with mint sauce, and the name of

the enriched sufferer.

BIOGRAPHY OF KINGS. Lay in a large stock of “gammon” and

pennyroyal—carefully strip and pare all the tainted parts away, when

this can be done without destroying the whole—wrap it up in printed

paper, containing all possible virtues—baste with flattery, stuff with

adulation, garnish with fictitious attributes, and a strong infusion of

sycophancy.

Serve up to prepared courtiers, who have been previously well seasoned

with long-received pensions or sinecures.

DRAMATIC RECIPES. FOR THE ADELPHI.—VERY FINE! Take a beautiful and

highly-accomplished young female, imbued with every virtue, but slightly

addicted to bigamy! Let her stew through the first act as the bride of a

condemned convict—then season with a benevolent but very ignorant

lover—add a marriage. Stir up with a gentleman in dusty boots and large

whiskers. Dredge in a meeting, and baste with the knowledge of the dusty

boot proprietor being her husband. Let this steam for some time; during

which, prepare, as a covering, a pair of pistols—carefully insert the

bullet in the head of him of the dusty boots. Dessert—general offering

of LADIES’ FINGERS! Serve up with red fire and tableaux.

FOR MESSRS. MACREADY AND CHARLES KEAN. Take an enormous hero—work him up

with improbabilities—dress him in spangles and a long train—disguise his

head as much as possible, as the great beauty of this dish is to avoid

any resemblance to the “tête de veau au naturel.”

Profile of a bearded young man's head, face to face with a cow's head on

a platter. A TETE A TETE.

Grill him for three acts. When well worked up, add a murder or large

dose of innocence (according to the palate of the guests)—Season, with a

strong infusion of claqueurs and box orders. Serve up with twelve-sheet

posters, and imaginary Shaksperian announcements.

N.B. Be careful, in cooking the heroes, not to turn their backs to the

front range—should you do so the dish will be spoiled.

FOR THE ROYAL VIC. (A Domestic Sketch.) Take a young woman—give her six

pounds a year—work up her father and mother into a viscous paste—bind

all with an abandoned poacher—throw in a “dust of virtue,” and a

“handful of vice.” When the poacher is about to boil over, put him into

another saucepan, let him simmer for some time, and then he will turn

out “lord of the manor,” and marry the young woman. Serve up with

bludgeons, handcuffs, a sentimental gaoler, and a large tureen of

innocence preserved.

FOR THE SURREY NAUTICAL. Take a big man with a loud voice, dress him

with a pair of ducks, and, if pork is comeatable, a pigtail—stuff his

jaws with an imitation quid, and his mouth with a large assortment of

dammes. Garnish with two broad-swords and a hornpipe. Boil down a press-

gang and six or seven smugglers, and (if in season) a bo’swain and large

cat-o’-nine-tails.—Sprinkle the dish with two lieutenants, four

midshipmen, and about seven or eight common sailors. Serve up with a

pair of epaulettes and an admiral in a white wig, silk stockings,

smalls, and the Mutiny Act.

OUR CITY ARTICLE. We have no arrivals to-day, but are looking out

anxiously for the overland mail from Battersea. It is expected that news

will be brought of the state of the mushroom market, and great

inconvenience in the mean time is felt by the dealers, who are holding

all they have got, in the anticipation of a fall; while commodities are,

of course, every moment getting heavier.

The London and Westminster steam-boat Tulip, with letters from Milbank,

was planted in the mud off Westminster for several hours, and those who

looked for the correspondence, had to look much longer than could have

been agreeable.

The egg market has been in a very unsettled state all the week; and we

have heard whispers of a large breakage in one of the wholesale houses.

This is caused by the dead weight of the packing-cases, to which every

house in the trade is liable. In the fruit market, there is positively

nothing doing; and the growers, who are every day becoming less,

complain bitterly. Raspberries were very slack, at 2½d. per pottle; but

dry goods still brought their prices. We have heard of several severe

smashes in currants, and the bakers, who, it is said, generally contrive

to get a finger in the pie, are among the sufferers.

The salmon trade is, for the most part, in a pickle; but we should

regret to say anything that might be misinterpreted. The periwinkle and

wilk interest has sustained a severe shock; but potatoes continue to be

done much as usual.

TO SIR F—S B—T. “A dinner is to be given to Captain Rous on the 20th

inst., at which Sir Francis Burdett has promised to preside.”—Morning

Paper. Egyptian revels often boast a guest

In sparkling robes and blooming chaplets drest;

But, oh! what loathsomeness is hid beneath—

A fleshless, mould’ring effigy of death;

A thing to check the smile and wake the sigh,

With thoughts that living excellence can die.

How many at the coming feast will see

THE SKELETON OF HONOURED WORTH IN THEE!

[pg 40] SUPREME: COURT OF THE LORD HIGH INQUISITOR PUNCH. “Laselato ogni

speranza, voi ch’ intrate!”

JOHN BULL v. THE PEEL PLACE-HUNTING COMPANY. MR. JOBTICKLER said he had

to move in this cause for an injunction to restrain the Peel Place-

hunting Company from entering into possession of the estates of

plaintiff. It appeared from the affidavits on which he moved, that the

defendants, though not in actual possession, laid an equitable claim to

the fee simple of the large estates rightfully belonging to the

plaintiff, over which they were about to exercise sovereign dominion.

They had entered into private treaty with the blind old man who held the

post of chief law-grubber of the Exchequer, offering him a bribe to

pretend illness, and take half his present pay, in order to fasten one

of the young and long-lived leeches—one Sir Frederick Smal-luck—to the

vacant bench. They were about to compel a decentish sort of man, who did

the business of Chancery as well as such business can be done under the

present system, to retire upon half allowance, in order to make room for

one Sir William Fullhat, who had no objection to £14,000 a year and a

peerage. They were about to fill two sub-chancellorships, which they

would not on any account allow the company in the present actual

possession of the estates to fill up with a couple of their own

shareholders; and were, in fine, proceeding to dispose of, by open sale,

and by private contract, the freehold, leasehold, and funded property of

plaintiff, to the incalculable danger of the estate, and to the

disregard of decency and justice. What rendered this assumption and

exercise of power the more intolerable, was, that the persons the most

unfit were selected; and as if, it would appear, from a “hateful love of

contraries,” the man learned in law being sent to preside over the

business of equity, of which he knew nothing, and the man learned in

equity being entrusted with the direction of law of which he knew worse

than nothing; being obliged to unlearn all he had previously learnt,

before he began to learn his new craft.

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—Don’t you know, sir, that poeta nascitur non fit?

Is not a judge a judge the moment he applies himself to the seat of

justice?

MR. JOBTICKLER.—Most undoubtedly it is so, my lord, as your lordship is

a glorious example, but—

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—But me no buts, sir. I’ll have no allusions made

to my person. What way are the cases on the point you would press on the

court?

MR. JOBTICKLER.—The cases, I am sorry to say, are all in favour of the

Peel Place-hunting Company’s proceedings; but the principle, my lord,

the principle!

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—Principle! What has principle to do with law, Sir?

Really the bar is losing all reverence for authority, all regard for

consistency. I must put a stop to such revolutionary tendencies on the

part of gentlemen who practise in my court. Sit down, sir.

MR. JOBTICKLER.—May my client have the injunction?

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—No-o-o-o! But he shall pay all the costs, and I

only wish I could double them for his impertinence. You, sir, you

deserve to be stripped of your gown for insulting the ears of the court

with such a motion.

CRIER.—Any more appeals, causes, or motions, in the Supreme Court of the

Lord High Inquisitor Punch, to-day? (A dead silence.)

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR (bowing gracefully to the bar).—Good morning,

gentlemen. You behold how carefully we fulfil the letter of Magna

Charta.

“Nulli vendemus, nulli negabimus, aut differemus rectum vel justitiam.”

[Exit.]

CRIER.—This Court will sit the next time it is the Lord High

Inquisitor’s pleasure that it should sit, and at no other period or

time.—God save the Queen!

AN AN-TEA ANACREONTIC.—No. 3. ??S ?????. Apollo! ere the adverse fates

Gave thy lyre to Mr. Yates22. This celebrated instrument now crowns the

chaste yet elaborate front of the Adelphi Theatre, where full-length

effigies of Mr. and Mrs. Yates may be seen silently inviting the public

to walk in.,

I have melted at thy strain

When Bunn reign’d o’er Drury-lane;

For the music of thy strings

Haunts the ear when Romer sings.

But to me that voice is mute!

Tuneless kettle-drum and flute

I but hear one liquid lyre—

Kettle bubbling on the fire,

Whizzing, fizzing, steaming out

Music from its curved spot,

Wak’ning visions by its song

Of thy nut-brown streams, Souchong;

Lumps of crystal saccharine—

Liquid pearl distill’d from kine;

Nymphs whose gentle voices mingle

With the silver tea-spoons’ jingle!

Symposiarch I o’er all preside,

The Pidding of the fragrant tide.

Such the dreams that fancy brings,

When my tuneful kettle sings!

AUTHENTIC. FROM EBENEZER BEWLEY, OF LONDON, TO HIS FRIEND REUBEN PIM, OF

LIVERPOOL. 7th mo. 29th, 1841.

Friend Reuben,—I am in rect. of thine of 27th inst., and note contents.

It affordeth me consolation that the brig Hazard hath arrived safely in

thy port—whereof I myself was an underwriter—also, that a man-child hath

been born unto thee and to thy faithful spouse Rebecca. Nevertheless,

the house of Crash and Crackitt hath stopped payment, which hath caused

sore lamentation amongst the faithful, who have discounted their paper.

It hath pleased Providence to raise the price of E.I. sugars; the

quotations of B.P. coffee are likewise improving, in both of which

articles I am a large holder. Yet am I not puffed up with foolish

vanity, but have girded myself round with the girdle of lowliness, even

as with the band which is all round my hat! In token whereof, I offered

to hand 20 puncheons of the former, as A glyph of a stylized P margin.

There are serious ferments and heartburnings amongst the great ones of

this land: and those that sit on the benches called “The Treasury” are

become sore afraid, for he whom men call Lord John Russell hath had

notice to quit. Thereat, the Tories rejoice mightily, and lick their

chops for the fat morsels and the sops in the pan that Robert the son of

Jenny hath promised unto his followers. Nevertheless, tidings have

reached me that a good spec. might be made in Y.C. tallow, whereon I

desire thy opinion; as also on the practice of stuffing roast turkey

with green walnuts, which hath been highly recommended by certain of the

brethren here, who have with long diligence and great anxiety meditated

upon the subject.

And now, I counsel thee, hold fast the change which thou hast, striving

earnestly for that which thou hast not, taking heed especially that no

man comes the “artful” over thee; whereby I caution thee against one Tom

Kitefly of Manchester, whose bills have returned back unto me, clothed

with that unseemly garment which the notary calleth “a protest.”

Assuredly he is a viper in the paths of the unwary, and will bewray thee

with his fair speeches; therefore, I say, take heed unto him.

I remain thy friend, EBEN. BEWLEY. Mincing Lane.

TO BAD JOKERS. Sir,—Seeing in the first number of your paper an

announcement from Mr. Thomas Hood, that he was in want of a laugher, I

beg to offer my services in that comic capacity, and to hand you my card

and certificates of my cachinnatory powers.

T.C.

CARD. Mr. Toady Chuckle begs to inform wits, punsters, and jokers in

general that he

GOES OUT LAUGHING. His truly invaluable zest for bad jokes has been

patronised by several popular farce-writers and parliamentary Pasquins.

Mr. T.C. always has at command smiles for satire, simpers for repartee,

sniggers for conundrums, titters for puns, and guffaws for jocular

anecdotes. By Mr. T.C.’s system, cues for laughter are rendered

unnecessary, as, from a long course of practical experience, the moment

of cachinnation is always judiciously selected.

N.B. The worst Jokes laughed at, and rendered successful. Old Joes made

to tell as well as new.

COMIC CREDENTIALS. T.R.C.G.

Sir,—I feel myself bound in justice to you and your invaluable laughter,

as well as to others who may be suffering, as I have been, with a weakly

farce, to inform you of its extraordinary results in my case. My

bantling was given up by all the faculty, when you were happily shown

into the boxes. One laugh removed all sibillatory indications; a second

application of your invaluable cachinnation elicited slight applause;

whilst a third, in the form of a guffaw, rendered it perfectly

successful.

From the prevalence of dulness among dramatic writers, I have no doubt

that your services will be in general requisition.

I am, yours, very respectfully, J.R. Planche. C—— C——.

Sir,—I beg to inform you, for the good of other bad jokers, that I deem

the introduction of your truly valuable cachinnation one of the most

important ever made; in proof of which, allow me to state, that after a

joke of mine had proved a failure for weeks, I was induced to try your

cachinnation, by the use of which it met with unequivocal success; and,

I declare, if the cost were five guineas a guffaw, I would not be

without it.

Yours truly, Charles Delaet Waldo Sibthorp (Colonel).

“MY NAME’S THE DOCTOR”—(vide Peel’s Speech at Tamworth.) The two

doctors, Peel and Russell, who have been so long engaged in renovating

John Bull’s “glorious constitution!” though they both adopt the lowering

system at present, differ as to the form of practice to be pursued.

Russell still strenuously advocates his purge, while Sir Robert insists

upon the efficacy of bleeding.

“Who shall decide when doctors disagree?”

[pg 41] PUNCH’S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE.—NO. 1. BEING A VERY FAMILIAR

TREATISE ON ASTRONOMY. Our opinion is, that science cannot be too

familiarly dealt with; and though too much familiarity certainly breeds

contempt, we are only following the fashion of the day, in rendering

science somewhat contemptible, by the strange liberties that publishers

of Penny Cyclopædias, three-halfpenny Informations, and twopenny Stores

of Knowledge, are prone to take with it.

In order to show that we intend going at high game, we shall begin with

the stars; and if we do not succeed in levelling the heavens to the very

meanest capacity—even to that of

A squalling child punches its mother. AN INFANT IN ARMS—

we shall at once give up all claims to the title of an enlightener of

the people.

Every body knows there are planets in the air, which are called the

planetary system. Every one knows our globe goes upon its axis, and has

two poles, but what is the axis, and what the poles are made of—whether

of wood, or any other material—are matters which, as far as the mass are

concerned, are involved in the greatest possible obscurity.

The north pole is chiefly remarkable for no one having ever succeeded in

reaching it, though there seems to have been a regular communication to

it by post in the time of Pope, whose lines—

“Speed the soft intercourse from zone to zone.

And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole,”

imply, without doubt, that packages reached the pole; not, however,

without regard to the size (SIGHS), which may have been limited.

The sun, every body knows, is very large, and indeed the size has been

ascertained to an inch, though we must say we should like to see the

gentleman who measured it. Astronomers declare there are spots upon it,

which may be the case, unless the savans have been misled by specks of

dirt on the bottom of their telescopes. As these spots are said to

disappear from time to time, we are strongly inclined to think our idea

is the correct one. Some insist that the sun is liquid like water, but

if it were, the probability is, that from its intense heat, the whole

must have boiled away long ago, or put itself out, which is rather more

feasible.

We do not think it necessary to go into the planets, for, if we did, it

is not unlikely we should be some time time before we got out again; but

we shall say a few words about our own Earth, in which our readers must,

of course, take a special interest.

It has been decided, that, viewed from the moon, our globe presents a

mottled appearance; but, as this assertion can possibly rest on no

better authority than that of the Man in the Moon, we must decline

putting the smallest faith in it.

It is calculated that a day in the moon lasts just a fortnight, and that

the night is of the same duration. If this be the case, the watchmen in

the moon must be horridly over-worked, and daily labourers must be

fatigued in proportion. When the moon is on the increase, it is seen in

the crescent; but whether Mornington-crescent or Burton-crescent, or any

other crescent in particular, has not been mentioned by either ancient

or modern astronomers. The only articles we get from the moon, are

moonlight and madness. Lunar caustic is not derived from the planet

alluded to.

Of the stars, one of the most brilliant is Sirius, or the Dog-star,

which it is calculated gives just one-twenty-millionth part of the light

of the sun, or about as much as that of a farthing rushlight. It would

seem that such a shabby degree of brilliancy was hardly worth having;

but when it is remembered that it takes three years to come, it really

seems hardly worth while to travel so far to so very little purpose.

The most magnificent of the starry phenomena, is the Milky Way or Whey;

and, indeed, the epithet seems superfluous, for all whey is to a certain

extent milky. The Band of Orion is familiar to all of us by name; but it

is not a musical band, as most people are inclined to think it is.

Perhaps the allusion to the music of the spheres may have led to this

popular error, as well as to that which regards Orion’s band as one of

wind instruments.

We shall not go into those ingenious calculations that some astronomers

have indulged in, as to the time it would take for a cannon-ball to come

from the sun to the earth, for we really hope the earth will never be

troubled by so unwelcome a visitor. Nor shall we throw out any

suggestions as to how long a bullet would be going from the globe to the

moon; for we do not think any one would be found goose enough to take up

his rifle with the intention of trying the experiment.

Comets are, at present, though very luminous bodies, involved in

considerable obscurity. Though there is plenty of light in comets, we

are almost entirely in the dark concerning them. All we know about them

is, that they are often coming, but never come, and that, after

frightening us every now and then, by threatening destruction to our

earth, they turn sharp off, all of a sudden, and we see no more of them.

Astronomers have spied at them, learned committees have sat upon them,

and old women have been frightened out of their wits by them; but,

notwithstanding all this, the comet is so utterly mysterious, that

“thereby hangs a tail” is all we are prepared to say respecting it.

We trust the above remarks will have thrown a light on the sun and moon,

illustrated the stars, and furnished a key to the skies in general; but

those who require further information are referred to Messrs. Adams and

Walker, whose plans of the universe, consisting of several yellow spots

on a few yards of black calico, are exactly the things to give the

students of astronomy a full development of those ideas which it has

been our aim to open out to him.

NEW STUFFING FOR THE SPEAKER’S CHAIR. “With too much blood and too

little brain, these two may run mad; but if with too much brain and too

little blood, they do, I’ll be a curer of madmen.”—Troilus and Cressida.

MR. PETER BORTHWICK and Colonel Sibthorpe are both named as candidates

for the Speaker’s chair. Peter has a certificate of being “a bould

speaker,” from old Richardson, in whose company he was engaged as

parade-clown and check-taker. The gallant Colonel, however, is decidedly

the favourite, notwithstanding his very ungracious summary of the Whigs

some time ago. We would give one of the buttons off our hump to see

A seated bearded man wearing a wig and robes. SIBTHORPE IN THE CHAIR.

MR. JOSEPH MUGGINS begs to inform his old crony, PUNCH, that the report

of Sir John Pullon, “as to the possibility of elevating an ass to the

head of the poll by bribery and corruption” is perfectly correct,

provided there is no abatement in the price. Let him canvass again, and

Mr. J.M. pledges himself, whatever his weight, if he will only stand

“one penny more, up goes the donkey!”

A circus performer balances a ladder with his mouth. A donkey is

balancing on top of the ladder. CANDIDATE AT THE HEAD OF THE POLE.

OLD BAILEY. Robbed—Melbourne’s butcher of his twelvemonth’s billings.

Verdict—Stealing under forty shillings.

LEGAL PUGILISM. The Chancery bar has been lately occupied with a

question relating to a patent for pins’ heads. The costs are estimated

at £5000. The lawyers are the best boxers, after all. Only let them get

a head in chancery, even a pin’s, and see how they make the proprietor

bleed.

INQUEST. Died, Eagle Rouse—Verdict, Felo de se.

Induced by being ta’en for—Ross, M.P.

RUMBALL THE COMEDIAN. When Mr. Rumball was at the Surrey Theatre, the

treasurer paid him the proceeds of a share of a benefit in half-crowns,

shillings, and sixpences, which Rumball boasted that he had carried home

on his head. His friends, from that day, accounted for his silvery hair!

[pg 42] FOREIGN AFFAIRS. We beg to invite attention to the aspect of our

Foreign Affairs. It is dark, lowering, gloomy—some would say, alarming.

When it smiles, its smiles deceive. To use the very mildest term, it is

exceedingly suspicious. Let John Bull look to his pockets.

It is, nevertheless, but a piece of justice to state, that, formidable

as the appearance of Foreign Affairs may be, no blame whatever can, in

our opinion, be attached to Lord Palmerston.

The truth is, that the Foreign Affairs of PUNCH are not the Foreign

Affairs of Politics. They are certain living beings; and we call them

Affairs, by way of compromise with some naturalists, to whom the

respective claims of man and the ape to their relationship may appear as

yet undecided.

In their anatomical construction they undoubtedly resemble mankind; they

are also endowed with the faculty of speech. Their clothes, moreover, do

not grow upon their backs, although they look very much as if they did.

They come over here in large numbers from other countries, chiefly from

France; and in London abound in Leicester-square, and are constantly to

be met with under the Quadrant in Regent-street, where they grin,

gabble, chatter, and sometimes dance, to the no small diversion of the

passengers.

As these Foreign Affairs have long been the leaders of fashion, and

continue still to give the tone to the manners and sentiments of the

politer circles, where also their language is, perhaps, more frequently

spoken than the vernacular tongue; and as there is something about

them—no matter what—which renders them great favourites with a portion

of the softer sex, we shall endeavour to point out, for the edification

of those who may be disposed to copy them, those peculiarities of

person, deportment, and dress, by which their tribe is distinguished.

We address ourselves more particularly to those whose animal part—every

man is said to resemble, in some respect, one of the lower animals—is

made up of the marmozet and the puppy.

Be it known, then, to all those whom it may concern, that there are, to

speak in a general way, two great classes of Foreign Affairs—the shining

and the dingy.

The characteristic appearance of the former might, perhaps, be obtained

by treating the apparel with a preparation of plumbago or black lead;

that of the latter by the use of some fuliginous substance, as a dye,

or, perhaps, by direct fumigation. The gloss upon the cheeks might be

produced by perseverance in the process of dry-rubbing; the more humid

style of visage, by the application of emollient cataplasms. General

sallowness would result, as a matter of course, from assiduous

dissipation. Young gentlemen thus glazed and varnished, French-polished,

in fact, from top to toe, might glitter in the sun like beetles; or

adopt, if they preferred it, as being better adapted for lady-catching,

the more sombre guise of the spider.

Foreign Affairs have two opposite modes of wearing the hair; we can

recommend both to those studious of elegance. The locks may be suffered

to flow about the shoulders in ringlets, resembling the tendrils of the

vine, by which means much will be done towards softening down the

asperities of sex; or they may be cropped close to the scalp in such a

manner as to impart a becoming prominence to the ears. When the

development of those appendages is more than usually ample, and when

nature has given the head a particularly stiff and erect covering,

descending in two lateral semicircles, and a central point on the

forehead, the last mentioned style is the more appropriate By its

adoption, the most will be made of certain personal, we might almost say

generic, advantages;—we shall call it, in the language of the Foreign

Affairs themselves, the coiffure à-la-singe.

Useful hints, with respect to the management of the whiskers, may be

derived from the study of Foreign Affairs. The broad, shorn, smooth

extent of jaw, darkened merely on its denuded surface, and the trimmed

regular fringe surrounding the face, are both, in perhaps equal degrees,

worthy of the attention of the tasteful. The shaggy beard and

mustachios, especially, if aided by the effect of a ferocious scowl,

will admirably suit those who would wish to have an imposing appearance;

the chin, with its pointed tuft à la capricorne, will, at all events,

ensure distinction from the human herd; and the decorated upper lip,

with its downy growth dyed black, and gummed (the cheek at the same time

having been faintly tinged with rouge, the locks parted, perfumed, and

curled, the waist duly compressed, a slight addition, if necessary, made

to the breadth of the hips, and the feet confined by the most taper and

diminutive chausserie imaginable), will just serve to give to the tout

ensemble that one touch of the masculine character which, perhaps, it

may be well to retain.

The remarkable tightness and plumpness of limbs and person exhibited by

Foreign Affairs cannot have escaped observation. This attractive quality

may be acquired by purchasing the material out of which the clothes are

to be made, and giving the tailor only just as much as may exactly

suffice for the purpose. Its general effect will be much aided by

wearing wristbands turned up over the cuff, and collars turned down upon

the stock. An agreeable contrast of black and white will thus also be

produced. Those who are fonder of harmony will do well to emulate the

closely-buttoned sables likewise worn by a large class of Foreign

Affairs, who, affecting a uniform tint, eschew the ostentation of linen.

The diminution of the width of their coat collars, and the increase of

the convexity of their coat tails, an object which, by artificial

assistance, might easily be gained, are measures which we would

earnestly press on all who are ambitious of displaying an especial

resemblance to Foreign Affairs. We also advise them to have lofty,

napless, steeple-crowned hats.

He who would pass for a shining specimen, in every sense of the word, of

a Foreign Affair, should wear varnished boots, which, if composed partly

of striped cloth, or what is much prettier, of silk, will display the

ancles to the better advantage.

With regard to colours in the matter of costume, the contemplation of

Foreign Affairs will probably induce a preference for black, as being

better suited to the complexion, though it will, at the same time, teach

that the hues of the rainbow are capable, under certain circumstances,

of furnishing useful suggestions.

It will have been perceived that the Foreign Affairs of which we have

been treating are the Affairs of one particular nation: beside these,

however, there are others; but since all of their characteristics may be

acquired by letting the clothes alone, never interfering with the hair,

abstaining from the practice of ablution, and smoking German pipes about

the streets, they are hardly worth dwelling upon. Those who have light

and somewhat shaggy locks will study such models with the best success.

Not only the appearance, but the manners also, of Foreign Affairs, may

be copied with signal benefit. Two of their accomplishments will be

found eminently serviceable—the art of looking black, and that of

leering. These physiognomical attainments, exhibited by turns, have a

marvellous power of attracting female eyes—those of them, at least, that

have a tendency to wander abroad. The best way of becoming master of

these acquisitions is, to peruse with attention the features of bravoes

and brigands on the one hand, and those of opera-dancers on the other.

The progress of Foreign Affairs should be attentively watched, as the

manner of it is distinguished by a peculiar grace. This, perhaps, we

cannot better teach anyone to catch, than by telling him to endeavour,

in walking, to communicate, at each step, a lateral motion to his coat

tail. The gait of a popular actress, dressed as a young officer,

affords, next to that actually in question, the best exemplification of

our meaning. Habitual dancing before a looking-glass, by begetting a

kind of second nature, which will render the movements almost

instinctive, will be of great assistance in this particular.

In order to secure that general style and bearing for which Foreign

Affairs are so remarkable, the mind must be carefully divested of divers

incompatible qualities—such as self-respect, the sense of shame, the

reverential instinct, and that of conscience, as certain feelings are

termed. It must also be relieved of any inconvenient weight of knowledge

under which it may labour; though these directions are perhaps needless,

as those who have any inclination to form themselves after the pattern

of Foreign Affairs, are not very likely to have any such moral or

intellectual disqualifications to get rid of. However, it would only be

necessary to become conversant with the Affairs themselves, in order, if

requisite, to remove all difficulties of the sort. “There is a thing,”

reader, “which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our

land by the name of pitch;” we need not finish the quotation.

To defend the preceding observations from misconstruction, we will make,

in conclusion, one additional remark; Foreign Affairs are one

thing—Foreign Gentlemen another.

[pg 43] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS—No. IV. Sketches of people on the top half

of the image, and a crowd of fashionable people on the bottom. Signed by

John Leach and E. Landells. FOREIGN AFFAIRS by An ink bottle

[pg 45] THE MINTO-HOUSE MANIFESTO Some of our big mothers of the broad-

sheet have expressed their surprise that Lord John Russell should have

penned so long an address to the citizens of London, only the day before

his wedding. For ourselves, we think, it would have augured a far worse

compliment to Lady John had he written it the day after. These gentlemen

very properly look upon marriage as a most awful ceremony, and would,

therefore, indirectly compliment the nerve of a statesman who pens a

political manifesto with the torch of Hymen in his eyes, and the whole

house odorous of wedding-cake. In the like manner have we known the last

signature of an unfortunate gentleman, about to undergo a great public

and private change, eulogized for the firmness and clearness of its

letters, with the perfect mastery of the supplementary flourish.

However, what is written is written; whether penned to the rustling of

bridesmaids’ satins, or the surplice of the consolatory ordinary—whether

to the anticipated music of a marriage peal, or to the more solemn

accompaniment of the bell of St. Sepulchre’s.

Ha! Lord John, had you only spoken out a little year ago—had you only

told her Majesty’s Commons what you told the Livery of London—then, at

this moment, you had been no moribund minister—then had Sir Robert Peel

been as far from St. James’s as he has ever been from Chatham. But so it

is: the Whig Ministry, like martyr Trappists, have died rather than open

their mouths. They would not hear the counsel of their friends, and they

refused to speak out to their enemies. They retire from office with, at

least, this distinction—they are henceforth honorary members of the

Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb!

Again, the Whigs are victims to their inherent sense of politeness—to

their instinctive observance of courtesy towards the Tories. There has

been no bold defiance—no challenge to mortal combat for the cause of

public good; but when Whig has called out Tory, it has been in picked

and holiday phrase—

“As if a brother should a brother dare,

To gentle exercise and proof of arms.”

For a long time the people have expected to see “cracked crowns and

bloody noses,” and at length, with true John Bull disgust, turned from

the ring, convinced that the Whigs, whatever play they might make, would

never go in and fight.

But have the Tories been correspondingly courteous? By no means; the

generosity of politeness has been wholly with the Whigs. They, like

frolicsome youths at a carnival, have pelted their antagonists with

nothing harder than sugar-plums—with egg-shells filled with rose-water;

while the Tories have acknowledged such holiday missiles with showers of

brickbats, and eggs not filled with aromatic dew. What was the result?

The Tories increased in confidence and strength with every new assault;

whilst the battered Whigs, from their sheer pusillanimity, became

noisome in the nostrils of the country.

At length, the loaves and fishes being about to be carried off, the

Whigs speak out: like sulky Master Johnny, who, pouting all dinner-time,

with his finger in his mouth, suddenly finds his tongue when the apple-

dumplings are to be taken from the table. Then does he advance his

plate, seize his ivory knife and fork, put on a look of determined

animation, and cry aloud for plenty of paste, plenty of fruit, and

plenty of sugar! And then Mrs. Tory (it must be confessed a wicked old

Mother Cole in her time), with a face not unlike the countenance of a

certain venerable paramour at a baptismal rite, declares upon her hopes

of immortality that the child shall have nothing of the sort, there

being nothing so dangerous to the constitution as plenty of flour,

plenty of fruit, and plenty of sugar. Therefore, there is a great uproar

with Master Johnny: the House, to use a familiar phrase, is turned out

of the windows; the neighbourhood is roused; Master Johnny rallies his

friends about him, that is, all the other boys of the court, and the

fight begins. Johnny and his mates make a very good fight, but certain

heavy Buckinghamshire countrymen—fellows of fifty stone—are brought to

the assistance of that screaming beldame Mother Tory, and poor Master

Johnny has no other election than to listen to the shouts of triumph

that declare there never shall be plenty of flour, plenty of sugar, or,

in a word, plenty of pudding.

However, Lord Russell is not discouraged. No; he says “there shall be

cakes and ale, and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth, too!” We only trust

that his Lordship’s manifesto is not tinged by those feelings of hope

(and in the case of his lordship we may add, resignation) that animate

most men about to enter wedlock. We trust he does not confound his own

anticipations of happiness with the prospects of the country; for in

allusion to the probable policy of the Tories, he says—“Returned to

office—they may adopt our measures, and submit to the influence of

reason.” Reason from the Stanleys—reason from the Goulburns—reason from

the Aberdeens! When the Marquis of Londonderry shall have discovered the

longitude, and Colonel Sibthorp have found out the philosopher’s stone,

we may then begin to expect the greater miracle.

The Whigs, according to Lord Russell’s letter, have really done so much

when out of power, and—as he insinuates, are again ready to do so much

the instant they are expelled the Treasury—that for the sake of the

country, it must be a matter of lamentation if ever they get in again.

PUNCH AND SIR JOHN POLLEN. Punch, we regret to state, was taken into

custody on Monday night at a late hour, on a warrant, for the purpose of

being bound over to keep the peace towards Sir John Pollen, Bart. The

circumstances giving rise to this affair will be better explained by a

perusal of the following correspondence, which took place between

ourselves and Sir John, on the occasion, a copy of which we subjoin:—

Wellington Street, July 30, 1841.

SIR,—I have this moment read in the Morning Chronicle, the

correspondence between you and Lord William Paget, wherein you are

reported to say, that your recent defeat at the Andover election was

effected by “tampering with some of the smaller voters, who would have

voted for Punch or any other puppet;” and that such expressions were not

intended to be personally offensive to Lord William Paget! The members

of her Majesty’s puppetry not permitting derogatory conclusions to be

drawn at their expense, I call upon you to state whether the above

assertions are correct; and if so, whether, in the former case, you

intended to allude personally to myself, or my friend Colonel Sibthorp;

or, in the latter, to infer that you considered Lord W. Paget in any way

our superior.

I have the honour to be, Sir, your obedient servant, PUNCH.

Sir John Pollen, Bart.

Redenham, July 30, 1841.

SIGNOR,—I have just received a note in which you complain of a speech

made by me at Andover. I have sent express for my Lord Wilkshire, and

will then endeavour to recollect what I did say.

I have the honour to be, your admirer, JOHN POLLEN.

To Signor Punch.

White Hart.

SIGNOR,—My friend Lord Wilkshire has just arrived. It is his opinion

that: I did use the terms “Punch, or any other puppet;” but I intended

them to have been highly complimentary, as applied to Lord William

Paget.

I have the honour to be, your increased admirer, JOHN POLLEN.

To Signor Punch.

Wellington Street.

SIR,—I and the Colonel are perfectly satisfied. Yours ever,

PUNCH

Wellington Street.

MY LORD,—It would have afforded me satisfaction to have consulted the

wishes of Sir John Pollen in regard to the publication of this

correspondence. The over-zeal of Sir John’s friends have left me no

choice in the matter, I shall print.

Your obedient servant, PUNCH.

Earl of Wilkshire.

Thus ended this—

A man looks into a dressing mirror, and his reflection shows a devil's

head. CURIOUS CORRESPONDENCE.

HUMFERY CHEAT-’EM.—(Vide Ainsworth’s “Guy Fawkes.”)

A city friend met us the other morning: “Hark ‘ee,” said he, “Alderman

Humfery has been selling shares of the Blackwall Railway, which were not

in his possession; and when the directors complained, and gave him

notice that they would bring his conduct before a full meeting, inviting

him at the same time to attend, and vindicate or explain his conduct as

he best might, he not only declined to do so, but hurried off to Dublin.

Now, I want to know this,” and he took me by the button, “why was

Alderman Humfery, when he ran away to Dublin, like the boy who ripped up

his goose which laid golden eggs?”—We were fain to give it

up.—“Because,” said he, with a cruel dig in the ribs, “because he cut

his lucky!”

[pg 46] THE BOY JONES’S LOG. PICKED UP AT SEA. The following interesting

narrative of the sufferings of the youth Jones, whose indefatigable

pursuit of knowledge, under the most discouraging circumstances, has

been the cause of his banishment to a distant shore, was lately picked

up at sea, in a sealed bottle, by a homeward-bound East Indiaman, and

since placed in our hands by the captain of the vessel; who complimented

us by saying, he felt such confidence in PUNCH’S honour and honesty!

(these were his very words), that he unhesitatingly confided to him the

precious document, in order that it might be given to the world without

alteration or curtailment.

We hasten to realise the captain’s flattering estimate of our character.

At see, on board the ship Apollo.

June 30.—So soon as the fust aggytation of my mind is woar off, I take

up my pen to put my scentiments on peaper, in hops that my friends as

nose the misfortin wich as oc-curd to me, may think off me wen I’m far a

whey. Halass! sir, the wicktim of that crewel blewbeard, Lord Melbun,

who got affeard of my rising poplarity in the Palass, and as sent me to

see for my peeping, though, heaven nose, I was acktyated by the pewrest

motiffs in what I did. The reel fax of the case is, I’m a young man of

an ighly cultiwated mind and a very ink-wisitive disposition, wich

naturally led me to the use of the pen. I ad also bean in the abit of

reading “Jak Sheppard,” and I may add, that I O all my eleygant tastes

to the perowsal of that faxinating book. O! wot a noble mind the author

of these wollums must have!—what a frootful inwention and fine feelings

he displays!—what a delicat weal he throws over the piccadillys of his

ero, making petty larceny lovely, and burglarly butiful.

However, I don’t mean now to enter into a reglar crickitism of this

egxtrornary work, but merely to observe, when I read it fust I felt a

thust for literrerry fame spring up in my buzzem; and I thort I should

to be an orthor. Unfortinnet delusion!—that thort has proved my rooin.

It was the bean of my life, and the destroyer of my pease. From that

moment I could think of nothink else; I neglekted my wittles and my

master, and wanderd about like a knight-errand-boy who had forgotten his

message. Sleap deserted my lowly pillar, and, like a wachful shepherd, I

lay all night awake amongst my flocks. I had got hold of a single

idear—it was the axle of my mind, and, like a wheelbarrow, my head was

always turning upon it. At last I resolved to rite, and I cast my i’s

about for a subject—they fell on the Palass! Ear, as my friend Litton

Bulwer ses, ear was a field for genus to sore into;—ear was an area for

fillophosy to dive into;—ear was a truly magnificient and comprehensive

desine for a great nash-ional picture! I had got a splendid title,

too—not for myself—I’ve a sole above such trumperry—but for my book.

Boox is like humane beings—a good title goes a grate way with the

crowd:—the one I ad chose for my shed-oove, was “Pencillings in the

Palass; or, a Small Voice from the Royal Larder,” with commick

illustriations by Fiz or Krokvill. Mr. Bentley wantid to be engaged as

monthly nuss for my expected projeny; and a nother gen’leman, whose

“name” shall be “never heard,” offered to go shears with me, if I’d

consent to cut-uup the Cort ladies. “No,” ses I, indignantly, “I leave

Cort scandle to my betters—I go on independent principals into the

Palass, and that’s more than Lord Melbun, or Sir Robert Peal, or any one

of the insiders or outsiders ever could or ever can say of theirselves.

That’s what I said then,—but now I think, what a cussed fool I was. All

my eye-flown bubbles were fated to be busted and melted, like the wigs,

“into thin hair.”

Nong port! We gets wiser as we gets

Genteel Reader,—I beg your parding. I’m better now. Bless me, how the

ship waggles! It’s reelly hawful; the sailors only laff at it, but I

suppose as they’re all tars they don’t mind being pitched a little.

The capting tells me we are now reglarly at see, having just passt the

North 4 land; so, ackording to custom, I begin my journal, or, as

naughtical men call it—to keep my log.

12 o’clock.—Wind.—All in my eye. Mate said we had our larburd tax

aboard—never herd of that tax on shore. Told me I should learn to box

the compass—tried, but couldn’t do it—so boxt the cabbing boy insted.

Capting several times calld to a man who was steering—“Port, port;” but

though he always anserd, “Eye, eye, sir,” he didn’t bring him a drop.

The black cook fell into the hold on the topp of his hed. Everybody sed

he was gone to Davy Jones’s locker; but he warn’t, for he soon came to

again, drank 1/2 a pint of rumm, and declared it was—

A black man applies Marrens Jet shoe polish to his face. THE REAL BLACK

REVIVER.

Saw a yung salor sitting on the top of one of the masts—thort of

Dibdings faymos see-song, and asked if he warn’t

“The sweet little cherub that sits up aloft?”

Man laff’d, and said it wor only Bill Junk clearing the pennant

halliards.

1 o’clock.—Thort formerly that every sailer wore his pigtale at the back

of his head, like Mr. Tippy Cook—find I labored under a groce

mistake—they all carry their pigtale in their backy-boxes. When I beheld

the sailors working and heaving, and found that I was also beginning to

heave-too, I cuddn’t help repeting the varse of the old song—which

fitted my case egsactly:—

“There’s the capt’n he is our kimmander,

There’s the bos’n and all the ship’s crew,

There’s the married men as well as the single,

Ken-ows what we poor sailors goes through.”

However, I made up my mind not to look inward on my own wose any longer,

so I put my head out of a hole in the side of the ship—and, my wiskers!

how she did whizz along. Saw the white cliffs of Halbion a long way off,

wich brought tiers in my i, thinking of those I had left behind,

particular Sally Martin the young gal I was paying my attentions to, who

gave me a lock of her air when I was a leaving of the key. Oh! Lord

Melbun, Lord Melbun! how can you rest in youre 4-post bed at nite,

nowing you have broke the tize of affexion and divided 2 fond arts for

hever! This mellancholly reflexion threw me into a poeticle fitte, and

though I was werry uneasy in my stommik, and had nothing to rite on but

my chest. I threw off as follows in a few 2nds, and arterards sung it to

the well-none hair of “Willy Reilly:”—

Oakum to me33. The nautical mode of writing—“Oh! come to me.”—PRINTER’S

DEVIL., ye sailors bold,

Wot plows upon the sea;

To you I mean for to unfold

My mournful histo-ree.

So pay attention to my song,

And quick-el-ly shall appear,

How innocently, all along,

I vos in-weigle-ed here.

One night, returnin home to bed,

I walk’d through Pim-li-co,

And, twigging of the Palass, sed,

“I’m Jones and In-i-go.”

But afore I could get out, my boys

Pollise-man 20 A,

He caught me by the corderoys,

And lugged me right a-way.

My cuss upon Lord Melbun, and

On Jonny Russ-all-so,

That forc’d me from my native land

Across the vaves to go-o-oh.

But all their spiteful arts is wain,

My spirit down to keep;

I hopes I’ll soon git back again,

To take another peep.

2 o’clock.—Bell rung for all hands to come down to dinner. Thought I

never saw dirtier hands in my life. They call their dinner “a mess” on

broad ship, and a preshious mess it did look—no bread but hard biskit

and plenty of ship’s rolls, besides biled pork and P-soop—both these

articles seemed rayther queer—felt my stommick growing quear too—got on

deck, and asked where we were—was told we were in the Straits of Dover.

I never was in such dreadful straits in my life—ship leaning very much

on one side, which made me feel like a man

A man falling backwards off of a steep roof. GOING OFF IN A RAPID

DECLINE.

3 o’clock.—Weather getting rather worse than better. Mind very uneasy.

Capting says we shall have plenty of squalls to-night; and I heard him

just now tell the mate to look to the main shrouds, so I spose it’s all

dickey with us, and that this log will be my sad epilog. The idear of

being made fish meat was so orrible to my sensitive mind, that I

couldn’t refrain from weaping, which made the capting send me down

stairs, to vent my sorros in the cable tiers.

5 o’clock.—I’m sure we shan’t srwive this night, therefore I av

determined to put my heavy log into an M T rum-bottle, and throw it

overbord, in bops it may be pickd up by some pirson who will bare my sad

tail to my dear Sally. And now I conclewd with this short advice:—Let

awl yung men take warning by my crewel fate. Let them avide bad kumpany

and keep out of the Palass; and above all, let them mind their

bissnesses on dri land, and never cast their fortunes on any main, like

their unfortinet

Servant, THE BOY JONES.

[pg 47] Two men in kilt costume: one is standing haughtily upright, the

other is hunched over. They are tied together with a sash that reads

'Hay Market'. THE TWO MACBETHS. OR THE HAY MARKET GEMINI. O, Gemini-

Crimini!

Nimini-

Pimini

Representatives of the Tartan hero,

Who wildly tear a passion into rags

More ragged than the hags

That round about the cauldron go!

Murderers! who murder Shakspeare so,

That ’stead of murdering sleep, ye do not do it;

But, vice versa, send the audience to it.

And, oh!—

But no—

Illustrious Mac-

Beth, or -ready,

And thou, small quack,

Of plaudits greedy!

Our pen, deserted by the tuneful Muses,

To write on such a barren theme refuses.

THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE, POLITICAL PROMENADE AND CONSERVATIVE

CONCERTS. The most splendid night of the season! Friday, the 20th of

August.

CAPTAIN ROUS’S NIGHT! British Champagne and the British

Constitution!—The Church, the State, and Real Turtle!

The performances will commence with

FISH OUT OF WATER, Sam Savory—Captain Rous, R.N. After which,

HIS FIRST CHAMPAGNE; Which will embrace the whole strength of THE

STEWARDS.

In the course of the Evening, the ENLIGHTENED

LICENSED VICTUALLERS, (Those zealous admirers of true British spirit)

will parade the room amid

A GRAND DISPLAY OF ELECTION ACCOUNTS. To be followed by a GRAND

PANTOMIME, called

HARLEQUIN HUMBUG; OR, BRAVO ROUS! OLD GLORY (afterwards Pantaloon) SIR

F. BURDETT,

who has kindly offered his services on this occasion.

HARRY HUMBUG (a true British Sailor, afterwards Harlequin), CAPT. ROUS.

DON WHISKERANDOS (afterwards Clown), COL. SIBTHORPE.

The whole to conclude with a grand mélange of

HATS, COATS, AND UMBRELLAS. TICKETS TO BE HAD AT ANY PRICE. Stretchers

to be at the doors at half-past 2, and policemen to take up with their

heads towards Bow-street.

VIVAT REGINA.

THE ADVANTAGES OF ANIMAL MAGNETISM. The experiments of M. Delafontaine

having again raised an outcry against this noble science, from the

apparent absence of any benefit likely to arise from it, beyond

converting human beings into pincushions and galvanic dummies. We, who

look deeper into things than the generality of the world, hail it as an

inestimable boon to mankind, and proceed at once to answer the numerous

enquirers as to the cui bono of this novel soporific.

By a judicious application of the mesmeric fluid, the greatest domestic

comfort can be insured at the least possible trouble. The happiest

Benedict is too well aware that ladies will occasionally exercise their

tongues in a way not altogether compatible with marital ideas of

quietude. A few passes of the hand (“in the way of kindness for he who

would,” &c. vide Tobin) will now silence the most powerful oral battery;

and Tacitus himself might, with the aid of mesmerism, pitch his study in

a milliner’s work-room. Hen-pecked husbands have now other means at

their command, to secure quiet, than their razors and their garters. We

have experimentalised upon our Judy, and find it answer to a miracle.

Mrs. Johnson may shut up her laboratory for American Soothing Syrup;

mesmerism is the only panacea for those morning and evening infantile

ebullitions which affectionate mammas always assign to the teeth, the

wind, or a pain in the stomach, and never to that possible cause, a pain

in the temper. Mesmerism is “the real blessing to mothers,” and

Elliotson the Mrs. Johnson of the day. We have tried it upon our

Punchininny, and find it superior to our old practice of throwing him

out of the window.

Lovers, to you it is a boon sent by Cupid. Mammas, who will keep in the

room when your bosoms are bursting with adoration—fathers, who will wake

on the morning of an elopement, when the last trunk and the parrot are

confided to you from the window—bailiffs, who will hunt you up and down

their bailiwick, even to the church-door, though an heiress is depending

upon your character for weekly payments—all are rendered powerless and

unobtrusive by this inexplicable palmistry. Candidates, save your money;

mesmerise your opponents instead of bribing them, and you may become a

patriot by a show of hands.

These are a few of its social advantages—its political uses are

unbounded. Why not mesmerise the Chinese? and, as for the Chartists,

call out Delafontaine instead of the magistrates—a few mesmeric passes

would be an easy and efficient substitute for the “Riot Act.” Then the

powers of clairvoyance—the faculty of seeing with their eyes shut—that

it gives to the patient. Mrs. Ratsey, your royal charge might be soothed

and instructed at the same time, by substituting a sheet of PUNCH for

the purple and fine linen of her little Royal Highness’s nautilus-shell.

Lord John Russell, the policy of your wily adversary would no longer be

concealed. Jealous husbands, do you not see a haven of security, for

brick walls may be seen through, and letters read in the pocket of your

rival, by this magnetic telescope? whilst studious young gentleman may

place Homer under their arms, and study Greek without looking at it.

A man reads in front of a bench full of sleeping people. MESMERISM.

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. The Marquis of Waterford and party visited

Vauxhall Gardens on Monday. The turnpike man on the bridge was much

struck by their easy manner of dealing with their inferiors.

Alderman Magnay laid the first shell of an oyster grotto one night this

week in the Minories. There was a large party of boys, who, with the

worthy Alderman, repaired to a neighbouring fruit-stall, where the

festivity of the occasion was kept up for several minutes.

The New Cut was, as usual, a scene of much animation on Saturday last,

and there was rather a more brilliant display than customary of new and

elegant baked-potato stands. The well-known turn-out, with five lanterns

and four apertures for the steam, was the general admiration of the host

of pedestrians who throng the Cut between the hours of eight and twelve

on Saturday.

A BITTER DRAUGHT. SIR R. PEEL, in the celebrated medicinal metaphor with

which he lately favoured his constituents at Tamworth, concludes by

stating, “that he really believes he does more than any political

physician ever did by referring to the prescriptions which he offered in

1835 and 1840, and by saying that he sees no reason to alter them.” This

is, to carry out the physical figure, only another version of “the

mixture as before.” We are afraid there are no hopes of the patient.

“Why are the Whigs like the toes of a dancing-master?”—“Because they

must be turned out.”

“Why are Colonel Sibthorp and Mr. Peter Borthwick like the covering of

the dancing-master’s toes?”—“Because they are a pair of pumps.”

“Why are the Whigs and Tories like the scarlet fever and the

measles?”—“Because there’s no telling which is the worst.”

[pg 48] A HINT TO THE UGLY. My uncle Septimus Snagglegrable is no more!

Excellent old man! no one knew his worthiness whilst he was of the

living, for every one called him a scoundrel.

It is reserved for me to do justice to his memory, and one short

sentence will be sufficient for the purpose—he has left me five thousand

pounds! I have determined that his benevolence shall not want an

imitator, and I have resolved, at a great personal sacrifice, to benefit

that portion of my fellow creatures who are denominated ugly. I am

particularly so. My complexion is a bright snuff-colour; my eyes are

grey, and unprotected by the usual verandahs of eye-lashes; my nose is

retroussé, and if it has a bridge, it must be of the suspension order,

for it is decidedly concave. I wish Rennie would turn his attention to

the state of numerous noses in the metropolis. I am sure a lucrative

company might he established for the purpose of erecting bridges to

noses that, like my own, have been unprovided by nature. I should be

happy to become a director. Revenons nous—my mouth is decidedly large,

and my teeth singularly irregular. My father was violently opposed to

Dr. Jenner’s “repeal of the small-pox,”44. Baylis. and would not have me

vaccinated; the consequence of which has been that my chin is full of

little dells, thickly studded with dark and stunted bristles. I have

bunions and legs that (as “the right line of beauty’s a curve”) are the

perfection of symmetry. My poor mother used to lament what she, in the

plenitude of her ignorance, was pleased to denominate my disadvantages.

She knew not the power of genius. To me these—well, I’ll call them

defects—have been the source of great profit. For years I have walked

about the great metropolis without any known or even conjectural means

of subsistence; my coat has always been without a patch—my linen without

spot!

Ugly brothers, I am about to impart to you the secret of my existence! I

have lived by the fine arts—yes, by sitting as

A model for door-knockers and cherubim for tomb-stones.

The latter may perhaps surprise you, but the contour of my countenance

is decidedly infantile—for when had a babby a bridge?—and the addition

of a penny trumpet completes the full-blown expression of the light-

headed things known to stone-masons as cherubim.

But it is to the art of knocker-designing that I flatter myself I have

been of most service. By the elevation of my chin, and the assistance of

a long wig, I can present an excellent resemblance of a lion, with this

great advantage over the real animal—I can vary the expression according

to circumstances—

“As mild as milk, or raging as the storm.”

So that nervous single ladies need not be terrified out of their senses

every time they knock at their door, by the grim personification of a

Nero at feeding time; or a tender-hearted poor-law guardian be pestered

during dinner by invitations afforded to the starving poor by the

benevolent expression of his knocker.

Ugly ones! I have now imparted to you my secret.

ON THE POPULARITY OF MR. CH—S K—N. Oh, Mr. Punch! what glorious times

Are these, for humbly gifted mimes;

When, spite of each detracter,

Paternal name and filial love,

Assisted by “the powers above,”

Have made C——s K——n an actor!

“’Tis true,” his generous patrons say,

“Of genius he ne’er had a ray;

Yet, all his faults to smother,

The youth inherits, from his sire,

A name which all the world admire,

And dearly loves his mother!”

Stripp’d of his adventitious aid,

He ne’er ten pounds a week had made;

Yet every Thespian brother

Is now kept down, or put to flight,

While he gets fifty pounds a night,

Because—he loves his mother!

Though I’m, in heart and soul, a friend

To genuine talent, Heaven forefend

That I should raise a pother,

Because the philanthropic folks

Wink and applaud a pious hoax,

For one who—loves his mother!

No! Heaven prolong his parent’s life

And grant that no untimely strife

May wean them from each other!

For soon he’d find the golden fleece

Slip from his grasp, should he e’er cease

To keep and—love his mother!

A CON. BY COLONEL SIBTHORP. Why is a chesnut horse, going at a rapid

pace up an inclined plane, like an individual in white trousers

presenting a young lady in book muslin with an infantine specimen of the

canine species?—Because he is giving a gallop up (a girl a pup).

THE DRAMA. ASTLEY’S COMPANY AT THE OLYMPIC. The distresses of actors

distress nobody but themselves. A tale of woe told off the stage by a

broad comedian, begets little sympathy; and if he is in the “heavy

line,” people say he is used to it, and is only acting—playing off upon

you a melancholy joke, that he may judge how it will tell at night.

Thus, when misfortune takes a benefit, charity seldom takes tickets; for

she is always sceptical about the so-called miseries of the most giddy,

volatile, jolly, careless, uncomplaining (where managers and bad parts

are not concerned) vainest, and apparently, happiest possible members of

the community, who are so completely associated with fiction, that they

are hardly believed when telling the truth. Par exemple—nothing can be

more true than that Astley’s Theatre was burnt down the other day; that

the whole of that large establishment were suddenly thrown out of

employ; that their wardrobes were burnt to rags, their properties

reduced to a cinder, and their means of subsistence roasted in a too

rapid fire. True also is it, that to keep the wolf from their own doors,

those of the Olympic have been opened, where the really dismounted

cavalry of Astley’s are continuing their campaign, having appealed to

the public to support them. Judging from the night we were present, that

support has been extended with a degree of lukewarmness which is exactly

proportionate to the effect produced by the appeals of actors when

misfortune overtakes them.

But, besides public sympathy, they put forth other claims for support.

The amusements they offer are of extraordinary merit. The acting of Mr.

H. Widdicomb, of Miss Daly, and Mr. Sidney Forster, was, in the piece we

saw—“The Old House at Home”—full of nature and quiet touches of feeling

scarcely to be met with on any other stage. Still these are

qualifications the “general” do not always appreciate; though they often

draw tears, they seldom draw money. Very well, to meet that deficiency,

other and more popular actors have come forward to offer their aid. Mr.

T.P. Cooke has already done his part, as he always does it, nobly. The

same may be said of Mr. Hammond. When we were present, Mrs. H.L. Grattan

and Mr. Balls appeared in the “Lady of Munster.” Mr. Sloan, a popular

Irish comedian from the provinces, has lent a helping hand, by coming

out in a new drama. Mr. Keeley is also announced.

The pieces we saw were well got up and carefully acted; so that the

patrons of the drama need not dread that, in this instance, the

Astleyan-Olympic actors believe that “charity covers a multitude of

sins.” They don’t care who sees their faults—the more the better.

“BEHIND THE SCENES.” When a certain class of persons, whose antipathy to

gratis sea-voyages is by no means remarkable, are overtaken by the

police and misfortune; when the last legal quibble has been raised upon

their case and failed; when, indeed, to use their own elegant

phraseology, they are “regularly stumped and done up;” then—and, to do

them justice, not till then—they resort to confession, and to turning

king’s evidence against their accomplices.

This seems to be exactly the case with the drama, which is evidently in

the last stage of decline; the consumption of new subjects having

exhausted the supply. The French has been “taken from” till it has

nothing more to give; the Newgate Calendar no longer affords materials;

for an entire dramatic edition of it might be collected (a valuable hint

this for the Syncretic Society, that desperate association for producing

un-actable dramas)—the very air is exhausted in a theatrical sense; for

“life in the clouds” has been long voted “law;” whilst the play-writing

craft have already robbed the regions below of every spark of poetic

fire; devils are decidedly out of date. In short, and not to mince the

matter, as hyenas are said to stave off starvation by eating their own

haunches, so the drama must be on its last legs, when actors turn king’s

evidence, and exhibit to the public how they flirt and quarrel, and eat

oysters and drink porter, and scandalise and make fun—how, in fact, they

disport themselves “Behind the Scenes.”

A visit to the English Opera will gratify those of the uninitiated, who

are anxious to get acquainted with the manners and customs of the ladies

and gentlemen of the corps dramatique “at the wing.” Otherwise than as a

sign of dramatic destitution, the piece called “Behind the Scenes” is

highly amusing. Mr. Wild’s acting displays that happy medium between

jocularity and earnest, which is the perfection of burlesque. Mrs. Selby

plays the “leading lady” without the smallest effort, and invites the

first tragedian to her treat of oysters and beer with considerable

empressement, though supposed to be labouring at the time under the

stroke of the headsman’s axe. Lastly, it would be an act of injustice to

Mr. Selby to pass his Spooney Negus over in silence. PUNCH has too

brotherly an affection for his fellow-actors, to hide their faults; in

the hope that, by shewing them veluti in speculum, they may be amended.

In all kindness, therefore, he entreats Mr. Selby, if he be not bent

upon hastening his own ruin, if he have any regard for the feelings of

unoffending audiences, who always witness the degradation of human

nature with pain—he implores him to provide a substitute for Negus.

Every actor knows the difference between portraying imbecility and being

silly himself—between puerility, as characteristic of a part in posse,

and as being a trait of the performer in esse. To this rule Mr. Selby,

in this part, is a melancholy exception; for he seems utterly ignorant

of such a distinction, broad as it is—he is silly himself, instead of

causing silliness in Spooney. This is the more to be regretted, as

whoever witnessed, with us, the first piece, saw in Mr. Selby a

respectable representative of an old dandy in “Barnaby Rudge.” Moreover,

the same gentleman is, we understand, the adapter of the drama from

Boz’s tale. That too proves him to be a clever contriver of situations,

and an ingenious adept with the pen and scissors.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. [pg 49] AUGUST 14, 1841. THE

WIFE CATCHERS. A LEGEND OF MY UNCLE’S BOOTS. In Four Chapters. CHAPTER

III. Two slender men are shaking hands. Their bodies form the letter H.

aberdashers, continued my friend the boot, are wonderful people; they

make the greatest show out of the smallest stock—whether of brains or

ribbons—of any men in the world. A stranger could not pass through the

village of Ballybreesthawn without being attracted by a shop which

occupied the corner of the Market-square and the main street, with a

window looking both ways for custom. In these windows were displayed

sundry articles of use and ornament—toys, stationery, perfumery,

ribbons, laces, hardware, spectacles, and Dutch dolls.

In a glass-case on the counter were exhibited patent medicines,

Birmingham jewellery, court-plaister, and side-combs. Behind the counter

might be seen Mr. Matthew Tibbins, quite a precedent for country shop-

keepers, with uncommonly fair hair and slender fingers, a profusion of

visible linen, and a most engaging lisp. In addition to his personal

attractions, Tibbins possessed a large stock of accomplishments, which,

like his goods, “might safely challenge competition.” He was an

acknowledged wit, and retailed compliments and cotton balls to the young

ladies who visited his emporium. As a poet, too, his merits were

universally known; for he had once contributed a poetic charade to the

Ladies’ Almanack. He, moreover, played delightfully on the Jews’-harp,

knew several mysterious tricks in cards, and was an adept in the science

of bread and butter-cutting, which made him a prodigious favourite with

maiden aunts and side-table cousins. This was the individual whom fate

had ordained to cross and thwart Terence in his designs upon the heart

of Miss Biddy O’Brannigan, and upon whom that young lady, in sport or

caprice, bestowed a large dividend of those smiles which Terence

imagined should be devoted solely to himself.

The man of small wares was, in truth, a dangerous rival, from his very

insignificance. Had he been a man of spirit or corporal consideration,

Terence would have pistolled or thrashed him out of his audacious

notions; but the creature was so smiling and submissive that he could

not, for the life of him, dirty his fingers with such a contemptible

wretch. Thus Tibbins continued flattering and wriggling himself into

Miss Biddy’s good graces, while Terence was fighting and kissing the way

to her heart, till the poor girl was fairly bothered between them.

Miss Biddy O’Brannigan, I should have told you, sir, was an heiress,

valued at one thousand pounds in hard cash, living with an old aunt at

Rookawn Lodge, about six miles from Ballybreesthawn; and to this retreat

of the loves and graces might the rival lovers be seen directing their

course, after mass, every Sunday;—the haberdasher in a green gig with

red wheels, and your uncle mounted on a bit of blood, taking the coal

off Tibbins’s pipe with the impudence of his air, and the elegant polish

of your humble servants.

Matters went on in this way for some time—Miss O’Brannigan not having

declared in favour of either of her suitors—when one bitter cold

evening, I remember it was in the middle of January, we were whipped off

our peg in the hall, and in company with our fellow-labourers, the

buckskin continuations, were carried up to your uncle, whom we found

busily preparing for a ball, which was to be given that night by the

heiress of Rookawn Lodge. I confess that my brother and myself felt a

strong presentiment that something unfortunate would occur, and our

forebodings were shared by the buckskins, who, like ourselves, felt

considerable reluctance to join in the expedition. Remonstrance,

however, would have been idle; we therefore submitted with the best

grace we could, and in a few minutes were bestriding Terence’s favourite

hunter, and crossing the country over ditch, dyke, and drain, as if we

were tallying at the tail of a fox. The night was dark, and a recent

fall of rain had so swollen a mountain stream which lay in our road,

that when we reached the ford, which was generally passable by foot

passengers, Terence was obliged to swim his horse across, and to

dismount on the opposite side, in order to assist the animal up a steep

clayey bank which had been formed by the torrent undermining and cutting

away the old banks.

Although we had received no material damage, you may suppose that our

appearance was not much improved by the water and yellow clay into which

we had been plunged; and had it been possible, we would have blushed

with vexation, on finding ourselves introduced by Terence in a very

unseemly state, amidst the titters of a number of young people, into the

ball-room at Rookawn Lodge. However, we became somewhat reassured, when

we heard the droll manner in which he related his swim, with such

ornamental flourishes and romantic embellishments as made him an object

of general interest during the night.

Matthew Tibbins had already taken the field in a blue satin waistcoat

and nankeen trousers. At the instant we entered the dancing-room, he had

commenced lisping to Miss Biddy, in a tender love-subdued tone, a

couplet which he had committed to memory for the occasion, when a glance

of terrible meaning from Terence’s eye met his—the unfinished stanza

died in his throat, and without waiting the nearer encounter of his

dreaded rival, he retreated to a distant corner of the apartment,

leaving to Terence the post of honour beside the heiress.

“Mr. Duffy,” said she, accompanying her words with the blandest smile

you can conceive, as he approached, “what a wonderful escape you have

had. Dear me! I declare you are dripping wet. Will you not change

your—clothes?” and Miss Biddy glanced furtively at the buckskins, which,

like ourselves, had got thoroughly soaked. “Oh! by no means, my dear

Miss Biddy,” replied Terence, gaily; “’tis only a thrifle of water—that

won’t hurt them”—and then added, in a confidential tone, “don’t you know

I’d go through fire as well as water for one kind look from those

deludin’ eyes.”

“Shame, Mr. Duffy! how can you!” responded Miss Biddy, putting her

handkerchief to her face to make believe she blushed.

“Isn’t it the blessed truth—and don’t you know it is, you darling?—Oh!

Miss Biddy, I’m wasting away like a farthing candle in the dog-days—I’m

going down to my snug grave through your cruelty. The daisies will be

growing over me afore next Easther—Ugh—ugh—ugh. I’ve a murderin’ cough

too, and nothing can give me ase but yourself, Miss Biddy,” cried

Terence eagerly.

“Hush! they’ll hear you,” said the heiress.

“I don’t care who hears me,” replied Terence desperately; “I can’t stand

dying by inches this way. I’ll destroy myself.”

“Oh, Terence!” murmured Miss O’Brannigan.

“Yes,” he continued: “I loaded my pistols this morning, and I told

Barney M’Guire, the dog-feeder, to come over and shoot me the first

thing he does in the morning.”

“Terence, dear, what do you want? What am I to say?” inquired the

trembling girl.

“Say,” cried Terence, who was resolved to clinch the business at a word;

“say that you love me.”

The handkerchief was again applied to Miss O’Brannigan’s face, and a

faint affirmative issued from the depths of the cambric. Terence’s heart

hopped like a racket-ball in his breast.

“Give me your hand upon it,” he whispered.

Miss Biddy placed the envied palm, not on his brows, but in his hand,

and was led by him to the top of a set which was forming for a country

dance, from whence they started off at the rate of one of our modern

steam-engines, to the spirit-stirring tune of “Haste to the Wedding.”

There was none of the pirouetting, and chassez-ing, and balancez-ing, of

your slip-shod quadrilles in vogue then—it was all life and action:

swing corners in a hand gallop, turn your partner in a whirlwind, and

down the middle like a flash of lightning.

Terence had never acquitted himself so well; he cut, capered, and set to

his partner with unusual agility; we naturally participated in the

admiration he excited, and in the fullness of our triumph, while

brushing past the flimsy nankeens worn by Tibbins, I could not refrain

from bestowing a smart kick upon his shins, that brought the tears to

his eyes with pain and vexation.

After the dance had concluded, Terence led his glowing partner to a cool

quiet corner, where leaving her, he flew to the side table, and in less

time than he would take to bring down a snipe, he was again beside her

with a large mugful of hot negus, into which he had put, by way of

stiffener, a copious dash of mountain dew.

“How do you like it, my darling?” asked Terence, after Miss Biddy had

read the maker’s name in the bottom of the mug.

“Too strong, I’m afraid,” replied the heiress.

“Strong! Wake as tay, upon my honour! Miss Biddy,” cried Mr. Duffy.

(The result of Terence Duffy’s courtship will be given in the next

chapter).

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL. No. IV. O Dinna paint her charms to me,

I ken that she is fair;

I ken her lips might tempt the bee—

Her een with stars compare,

Such transient gifts I ne’er did prize,

My heart they couldna win;

I dinna scorn my Jeannie’s eyes—

But has she ony tin?

The fairest cheek, alas! may fade

Beneath the touch of years;

The een where light and gladness play’d

May soon graw dim wi’ tears.

I would love’s fires should, to the last,

Still burn as they begin;

And beauty’s reign too soon is past,

So—has she ony tin?

LADY MORGAN’S LITTLE ONE. Her ladyship, at her last conversazione,

propounded to PUNCH the following classical poser:—“How would you

translate the Latin words, puella, defectus, puteus, dies, into four

English interjections?” Our wooden Roscius hammered his pate for full

five minutes, and then exclaimed—“A-lass! a-lack! a-well a-day!” Her

ladyship protested that the answer would have done honour to the

professor of languages at the London University.

[pg 50] A Lion and a Unicorn sit with a tankard by a table with legs

marked 'Queen,' 'Commons' and 'Lords.' THE ROYAL LION AND UNICORN. A

DIALOGUE. “GROUND ARMS!”—Birdcage Walk.

LION.—So! how do you feel now?

UNICORN.—Considerably relieved. Though you can’t imagine the stiffness

of my neck and legs. Let me see, how long is it since we relieved the

griffins?

LION.—An odd century or two, but never mind that. For the first time, we

have laid down our charge—have got out of our state attitudes, and may

sit over our pot and pipe at ease.

UNICORN.—What a fate is ours! Here have we, in our time, been compelled

to give the patronage of our countenance to all sorts of rascality—have

been forced to support robbery, swindling, extortion—but it won’t do to

think of—give me the pot. Oh! dear, it had suited better with my

conscience, had I been doomed to draw a sand-cart!

LION.—Come, come, no unseemly affectation. You, at the best, are only a

fiction—a quadruped lie.

UNICORN.—I know naturalists dispute my existence, but if, as you

unkindly say, I am only a fiction, why should I have been selected as a

supporter of the royal arms?

LION.—Why, you fool, for that very reason. Have you been where you are

for so many years, and yet don’t know that often, in state matters, the

greater the lie the greater the support?

UNICORN.—Right. When I reflect—I have greater doubts of my truth, seeing

where I am.

LION.—But here am I, in myself a positive majesty, degraded into a

petty-larceny scoundrel; yes, all my inherent attributes compromised by

my position. Oh, Hercules! when I remember my native Africa—when I

reflect on the sweet intoxication of my former liberty—the excitement of

the chase—the mad triumph of my spring, cracking the back of a bison

with one fillip of my paw—when I think of these things—of my tawny wife

with her smile sweetly ferocious, her breath balmy with new blood—of my

playful little ones, with eyes of topaz and claws of pearl—when I think

of all this, and feel that here I am, a damned rabbit-sucker—

UNICORN.—Don’t swear.

LION.—Why not? God knows, we’ve heard swearing enough of all sorts in

our time. It isn’t the fault of our position, if we’re not first-rate

perjurers.

UNICORN.—That’s true: still, though we are compelled to witness all

these things in the courts of law, let us be above the influence of bad

example.

LION.—Give me the pot. Courts of law? Oh, Lord! what places they put us

into! And there they expect me—me, the king of the animal world, to

stand quietly upon my two hind-legs, looking as mildly contemptible as

an apoplectic dancing-master,—whilst iniquities, and meannesses, and

tyranny, and—give me the pot.

UNICORN:—Brother, you’re getting warm. Really, you ought to have seen

enough of state and justice to take everything coolly. I certainly must

confess that—looking at much of the policy of the country, considering

much of the legal wickedness of law-scourged England—it does appear to

me a studied insult to both of us to make us supporters of the national

quarterings. Surely, considering the things that have been done under

our noses, animals more significant of the state and social policy might

have been promoted to our places. Instead of the majestic lion and the

graceful unicorn, might they not have had the—the—

LION.—The vulture and the magpie.

UNICORN.—Excellent! The vulture would have capitally typified many of

the wars of the state, their sole purpose being so many carcases—whilst,

for the courts of law, the magpie would have been the very bird of legal

justice and legal wisdom.

LION.—Yes, but then the very rascality of their faces would at once have

declared their purpose. The vulture is a filthy, unclean wretch—the bird

of Mars—preying upon the eyes, the hearts, the entrails of the victims

of that scoundrel-mountebank, Glory; whilst the magpie is a petty-

larceny vagabond, existing upon social theft. To use a vulgar phrase—and

considering the magistrates we are compelled to keep company with, ’tis

wonderful that we talk so purely as we do—’twould have let the cat too

much out of the bag to have put the birds where we stand. Whereas, there

is a fine hypocrisy about us. Consider—am not I the type of heroism, of

magnanimity? Well, compelling me, the heroic, the magnanimous, now to

stand here upon my hind-legs, and now to crouch quietly down, like a pet

kitten over-fed with new milk,—any state roguery is passed off as the

greatest piece of single-minded honesty upon the mere strength of my

character—if I may so say it, upon my legendary reputation. Now, as for

you, though you are a lie, you are nevertheless not a bad-looking lie.

You have a nice head, clean legs, and—though I think it a little

impertinent that you should wear that tuft at the end of your tail—are

altogether a very decent mixture of the quadrupeds. Besides, lie or not,

you have helped to support the national arms so long, that depend upon

it there are tens of thousands who believe you to be a true thing.

UNICORN.—I have often flattered myself with that consolation.

LION.—A poor comfort: for if you are a true beast, and really have the

attributes you are painted with, the greater the insult that you should

be placed here. If, on the contrary, you are a lie, still greater the

insult to leonine majesty, in forcing me for so many, many years to keep

such bad company.

UNICORN.—But I have a great belief in my reality: besides, if the head,

body, legs, tail, I bear, never really met in one animal, they all exist

in several: hence, if I am not true altogether, I am true in parts; and

what would you have of a thick-and-thin supporter of the crown?

LION.—Blush, brother, blush; such sophistry is only worthy of the Common

Pleas, where I know you picked it up. To be sure, if both of us were the

most abandoned of beasts, we surely should have some excuse for our

wickedness in the profligate company we are obliged to keep.

UNICORN.—Well, well, don’t weep. Take the pot.

LION.—Have we not been, ay, for hundreds of years, in both Houses of

Parliament?

UNICORN.—It can’t be denied.

LION—And there, what have we not seen—what have we not heard! What

brazen, unblushing faces! What cringing, and bowing, and fawning! What

scoundrel smiles, what ruffian frowns! what polished lying! What

hypocrisy of patriotism! What philippics, levelled in the very name of

liberty, against her sacred self! What orations on the benefit of

starvation—on the comeliness of rags! Have we not heard selfishness

speaking with a syren voice? Have we not seen the haggard face of state-

craft rouged up into a look of pleasantness and innocence? Have we not,

night after night, seen the national Jonathan Wilds meet to plan a

robbery, and—the purse taken—have they not rolled in their carriages

home, with their fingers smelling of the people’s pockets?

UNICORN.—It’s true—true as an Act of Parliament.