LION.—Then are we not obliged to be in the Courts of Law? In Chancery—to

see the golden wheat of the honest man locked in the granaries of

equity—granaries where deepest rats do most abound—whilst the slow fire

of famine shall eat the vitals of the despoiled; and it may be the man

of rightful thousands shall be carried to churchyard clay in parish

deals? Then in the Bench, in the Pleas—there we are too. And there, see

we not justice weighing cobwebs against truth, making too often truth

herself kick the beam?

UNICORN.—It has made me mad to see it.

[pg 51] LION.—Turn we to the Police-offices—there we are again. And

there—good God!—to see the arrogance of ignorance! To listen to the

vapid joke of his worship on the crime of beggary! To see the punishment

of the poor—to mark the sweet impunity of the rich! And then are we not

in the Old Bailey—in all the criminal courts! Have we not seen trials

after dinner—have we not heard sentences in which the bottle spoke more

than the judge?

UNICORN.—Come, come, no libel on the ermine.

LION.—The ermine! In such cases, the fox—the pole-cat. Have we not seen

how the state makes felons, and then punishes them for evil-doing?

UNICORN.—We certainly have seen a good deal that way.

LION.—And then the motto we are obliged to look grave over!

UNICORN.—What Dieu et mon droit! Yes, that does sometimes come awkwardly

in—“God and my right!” Seeing what is sometimes done under our noses,

now and then, I can hardly hold my countenance.

LION.—“God and my right!” What atrocity has that legend sanctified! and

yet with demure faces they try men for blasphemy. Give me the pot.

UNICORN.—Come, be cool—be philosophic. I tell you we shall have as much

need as ever of our stoicism?

LION.—What’s the matter now?

UNICORN.—The matter! Why, the Tories are to be in, and Peel’s to be

minister.

LION.—Then he may send for Mr. Cross for the oran-outan to take my

place, for never again do I support him. Peel minister, and Goulburn, I

suppose—

UNICORN.—Goulburn! Goulburn in the cabinet! If it be so, I shall

certainly vacate my place in favour of a jackass.

UNIVERSITY OF LONDON. BACHELOR OF MEDICINE—FIRST EXAMINATION, 1841. The

first examination for the degree of bachelor of medicine has taken place

at the London University, and has raised itself to the level of Oxford

and Cambridge.

Without doubt, it will soon acquire all the other attributes of the

colleges. Town and gown rows will cause perpetual confusion to the

steady-going inhabitants of Euston-square: steeple-chases will be run,

for the express delight of the members, on the waste grounds in the

vicinity of the tall chimneys on the Birmingham railroad; and in all

probability, the whole of Gower-street, from Bedford-square to the New-

road, will, at a period not far distant, be turfed and formed into a

T.Y.C.; the property securing its title-deeds under the arms of the

university for the benefit of its legs—the bar opposite the hospital

presenting a fine leap to finish the contest over, with the uncommon

advantage of immediate medical assistance at hand.

The public press of the last week has duly blazoned forth the names of

the successful candidates, and great must have been the rejoicings of

their friends in the country at the event. But we have to quarrel with

these journals for not more explicitly defining the questions proposed

for the examinations—the answers to which were to be considered the

tests of proficiency. By means of the ubiquity which Punch is allowed to

possess, we were stationed in the examination room, at the same time

that our double was delighting a crowded and highly respectable audience

upon Tower-hill; and we have the unbounded gratification of offering an

exact copy of the questions to our readers, that they may see with

delight how high a position medical knowledge has attained in our

country:—

SELECTIONS FROM THE EXAMINATION PAPERS. ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY. State

the principal variations found in the kidneys procured at Evans’s and

the Coal Hole; and likewise name the proportion of animal fibre in the

rump-steaks of the above resorts. Mention, likewise, the change produced

in the albumen, or white of an egg, by poaching it upon toast.

Describe the comparative circulation of blood in the body, and of the

Lancet, Medical Gazette, and Bell’s Life in London, in the hospitals;

and mention if Sir Charles Bell, the author of the “Bridgewater Treatise

on the Hand,” is the editor of the last-named paper.

MEDICINE. You are called to a fellow-student taken suddenly ill. You

find him lying on his back in the fender; his eyes open, his pulse full,

and his breathing stertorous. His mind appears hysterically wandering,

prompting various windmill-like motions of his arms, and an accompanying

lyrical intimation that he, and certain imaginary friends, have no

intention of going home until the appearance of day-break. State the

probable disease; and also what pathological change would be likely to

be effected by putting his head under the cock of the cistern.

Was the Mount Hecla at the Surrey Zoological Gardens classed by Bateman

in his work upon skin diseases—if so, what kind of eruption did it come

under? Where was the greatest irritation produced—in the scaffold-work

of the erection, or the bosom of the gentleman who lived next to the

gardens, and had a private exhibition of rockets every night, as they

fell through his skylight, and burst upon the stairs?

Which is the most powerful narcotic—opium, henbane, or a lecture upon

practice of physic; and will a moderate dose of antimonial wine sweat a

man as much as an examination at Apothecaries’ Hall?

CHEMISTRY AND NATURAL PHILOSOPHY. Does any chemical combination take

place between the porter and ale in a pot of half-and-half upon mixture?

Is there a galvanic current set up between the pewter and the beer

capable of destroying the equilibrium of living bodies.

Explain the philosophical meaning of the sentence—“He cut away from the

crushers as quick as a flash of lightning through a gooseberry-bush.”

There are two kinds of electricity, positive and negative; and these

have a pugnacious tendency. A, a student, goes up to the College

positive he shall pass; B, an examiner, thinks his abilities negative,

and flummuxes him accordingly. A afterwards meets B alone, in a retired

spot, where there is no policeman, and, to use his own expression,

“takes out the change” upon B. In this case, which receives the greatest

shock—A’s “grinder,” at hearing his pupil was plucked, or B for doing

it?

The more crowded an assembly is, the greater quantity of carbonic acid

is evolved by its component members. State, upon actual experience, the

per centage of this gas in the atmosphere of the following places:—The

Concerts d’Eté, the Swan in Hungerford Market, the pit of the Adelphi,

Hunt’s Billiard Rooms, and the Colosseum during the period of its balls.

A silhouette of a group of people riding in an open carriage. ANIMAL

ECONOMY. Mention the most liberal pawnbrokers in the neighbourhood of

Guy’s and Bartholomew’s; and state under what head of diseases you class

the spring outbreak of dissecting cases and tooth-drawing instruments in

their windows.

Mention the cheapest tailors in the metropolis, and especially name

those who charge you three pounds for dress coats (“best Saxony, any

other colour than blue or black”), and write down five in the bills to

send to your governor. Describe the anatomical difference between a

peacoat, a spencer, and a Taglioni, and also state who gave the best

“prish” for old ones.

HARVEST PROSPECTS. Public attention being at this particular season

anxiously directed to the prospects of the approaching harvest, we are

enabled to lay before our readers some authentic information on the

subject. Notwithstanding the fears which the late unfavourable weather

induced, we have ascertained that reaping is proceeding vigorously at

all the barbers’ establishments in the kingdom. Several extensive chins

were cut on Saturday last, and the returns proved most abundant.

Sugar-barley is a comparative failure; but that description of oats,

called wild oats, promises well in the neighbourhood of Oxford. Turn-ups

have had a favourable season at the écarté tables of several dowagers in

the West-end district. Beans are looking poorly—particularly the have-

beens—whom we meet with seedy frocks and napless hats, gliding about

late in the evenings. Clover, we are informed by some luxurious old

codgers, who are living in the midst of it, was never in better

condition. The best description of hops, it is thought, will fetch high

prices in the Haymarket. The vegetation of wheat has been considerably

retarded by the cold weather. Sportsmen, however, began to shoot

vigorously on the 12th of this month.

All things considered, though we cannot anticipate a rich harvest, we

think that the speculators have exaggerated the

Two farmers looking very surprised--eyes wide and hair standing on end.

ALARMING STATE OF THE CROPS.

[pg 52] PUNCH’S RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS OF THE HOUSE OF LORDS. (IN HUMBLE

IMITATION OF THE AUTHOR OF “THE GREAT METROPOLIS.”) No. I.—THE DUKE OF

WELLINGTON. Before entering on this series of papers, I have only one

request to make of the reader, which is this: that, however absurd or

incredible my statements may appear, he will take them all for Grant-ed.

It will hardly be necessary to apologise for making the hero of Waterloo

the subject of this article; for, having had always free access to the

parlour of the Duke of Wellington, I flatter myself that I am peculiarly

fitted for the task I have undertaken.

My acquaintance with the duke commenced in a very singular manner.

During the discussions on the Reform Bill, his grace was often the

object of popular pelting; and I was, on one occasion, among a crowd of

free-born Englishmen who, disliking his political opinions, were

exercising the constitutional privilege of hooting him. Fired by the

true spirit of British patriotism, and roused to a pitch of enthusiasm

by observing that the crowd were all of one opinion, decidedly against

the duke, worked up, too, with momentary boldness by perceiving that

there was not a policeman in sight, I seized a cabbage-leaf, with which

I caught his nose, when, turning round suddenly to look whence the blow

proceeded, I caught his eye. It was a single glance; but there was

something in it which said more than, perhaps, if I had attempted to

lead him into conversation, he would at that moment have been inclined

to say to me. The recognition was brief, lasting scarcely an instant;

for a policeman coming round the corner, the great constitutional party

with whom I had been acting retired in haste, rather than bring on a

collision with a force which was at that time particularly obnoxious to

all the true friends of excessive liberty.

It will, perhaps, surprise my readers, when I inform them that this is

the only personal interview I ever enjoyed with the illustrious duke;

but accustomed as I am to take in character at a glance, and to form my

conclusions at a wink, I gained, perhaps, as much, or more, information

with regard to the illustrious hero, as I have been enabled to do with

regard to many of those members of the House of Lords whom, in the

course of my “Random Recollections,” it is my intention to treat of.

I never, positively, dined with the Duke of Wellington; but on one

occasion I was very near doing so. Whether the duke himself is aware of

the circumstances that prevented our meeting at the same table I never

knew, and have no wish to inquire; but when his grace peruses these

pages, he will perceive that our political views are not so opposite as

the dastardly enemies of both would have made the world suppose them to

have been. The story of the dinner is simply this:—there was to be a

meeting for the purpose of some charity at the Freemasons’-hall, and the

Duke of Wellington was to take the chair. I was offered a ticket by a

friend connected with the press. My friend broke his word. I did not

attend the dinner. But those virulent liars much malign me who say I

stopped away because the duke was in the chair; and much more do they

libel me who would hint that my absence was caused by a difference with

the duke on the subject of politics. Whether Wellington observed that I

did not attend I never knew, nor shall I stop to inquire; but when I say

that his grace spoke several times, and never once mentioned my name, it

will be seen that whatever may have been his thoughts on the occasion,

he had the delicacy and good taste to make no allusion whatever to the

subject, which, but for its intrinsic importance, I should not so long

have dwelt upon,

Looking over some papers the other day in my drawer, with the intention

of selecting any correspondence that might have passed between myself

and the duke, I found that his grace had never written to me more than

once; but the single communication I had received from him was so truly

characteristic of the man, that I cannot refrain from giving the whole

of it. Having heard it reported that the duke answered with his own hand

every letter that he received, I, who generally prefer judging in all

things for myself, determined to put his grace’s epistolary punctuality

to the test of experience. With this view I took up my pen, and dashed

off a few lines, in which I made no allusion, either to my first

interview, or the affair of the dinner; but simply putting forward a few

general observations on the state of the country, signed with my own

name, and dated from Whetstone-park, which was, at that time, my

residence. The following was the reply I received from the duke, which I

print verbatim, as an index—short, but comprehensive, as an index ought

to be—to the noble duke’s character.

“Apsley-house.

“The Duke of Wellington begs to return the enclosed letter, as he

neither knows the person who wrote it, nor the reason of sending it.”

This, as I said before, is perhaps one of the most graphic traits on

record of the peculiar disposition of the hero of Waterloo. It bespeaks

at once the soldier and the politician. He answers the letter with

military precision, but with political astuteness—he pretends to be

ignorant of the object I had in sending it. His ready reply was the

first impulse of the man; his crafty and guarded mode of expression was

the cautious act of the minister. Had I been disposed to have written a

second time to my illustrious correspondent, I now had a fine

opportunity of doing so; but I preferred letting the matter drop, and

from that day to this, all communication between myself and the duke has

ceased. I shall not be the first to take any step for the purpose of

resuming it. The duke must, by this time, know me too well to suppose

that I have any desire to keep up a correspondence which could lead to

no practical result, and might only tear open afresh wounds that the

healing hand of time has long ago restored to their former salubrity.

It may be expected I should say a few words of the duke’s person. He

generally wears a frock coat, and rides frequently on horseback. His

nose is slightly curved; but there is nothing peculiar in his hat or

boots, the latter of which are, of course, Wellington’s. His habits are

still those of a soldier, for he gets up and goes to bed again much as

he was accustomed to do in the days of the Peninsula. His speeches in

Parliament I have never heard; but I have read some of them in the

newspapers. He is now getting old; but I cannot tell his exact age: and

he has a son who, if he should survive his father, will undoubtedly

attain to the title of Duke of Wellington.

EXTRAORDINARY OPERATION. Royal Dispensary for Diseases of the Ear. Our

esteemed friend and staunch supporter Colonel Sibthorp has lately, in

the most heroic manner, submitted to an unprecedented and wonderfully

successful operation. Our gallant friend was suffering from a severe

elongation of the auricular organs; amputation was proposed, and

submitted to with most heroic patience. We are happy to state the only

inconvenience resulting from the operation is the establishment of a new

hat block, and a slight difficulty of recognition on the part of some of

his oldest friends.

EXTRAORDINARY ASSIZE INTELLIGENCE. One of the morning papers gave its

readers last week a piece of extraordinary assize intelligence,

headed—“Cutting a wife’s throat—before Mr. Serjeant Taddy” We advise the

learned Serjeant to look to this: ’tis a too serious joke to be set down

as an accessary to the cutting of a wife’s throat.

A SPOKE IN S—Y’S WHEEL! “For Ireland’s weal!” hear turncoat S—y rave,

Who’d trust the wheel that own’d so sad a knave?

ALARMING DESTITUTION. In the parish of Llanelly, Breconshire, the males

exceed the females by more than one thousand. At Worcester, says the

Examiner, the same majority is in favour of the ladies. We should

propose a conference and a general swap of the sexes next market-day, as

we understand there is not a window in Worcester without a notice of

“Lodgings to let for single men,” whilst at Llanelly the gentlemen

declare sweethearts can’t be had for “love nor money.”

A NATURAL INFERENCE. “There’ll soon be rare work (cry the journals in

fear),

When Peel is call’d in in his regular way;”

True—for when we’ve to pay all the Tories, ’tis clear,

It is much the same thing as the devil to pay.

THE TORY TABLE D’HOTE—BILLY HOLMES (loquitur) “Walk up, walk up, ladies

and gentlemen, feeding is going to commence Wellington and Peel are now

giving their opening dinners to their friends and admirers. All who want

places must come early. Walk up! walk up!—This is the real

constitutional tavern. Here we are! gratis feeding for the greedy! Make

way there for those hungry-looking gentlemen—walk up, sir—leave your

vote at the bar, and take a ticket for your hat.”

BLACK AND WHITE. The Tories vow the Whigs are black as night,

And boast that they are only blessed with light.

Peel’s politics to both sides so incline,

His may be called the equinoctial line.

THE LEGAL ECCALOBEION. Baron Campbell, who has sat altogether about 20

hours in the Irish Court of Chancery, will receive 4,000l. a-year, on

the death of either Lord Manners or Lord Plunkett, (both octogenarians;)

which, says the Dublin Monitor, “taking the average of human life, he

will enjoy thirty years;” and adds, “20 hours contain 1,200 minutes; and

4,000l. a-year for thirty years gives 120,000l. So that he will receive

for the term of his natural life just one hundred pounds for every

minute that he sat as Lord Chancellor.” Pleasant incubation this!

Sitting 20 hours, and hatching a fortune. If there be any truth in

metempsychosis, Jocky Campbell must be the goose that laid golden eggs.

IRISH PARTICULAR. SHEIL’S oratory’s like bottled Dublin stout;

For, draw the cork, and only froth comes out.

CALUMNY REFUTED. We can state on the most positive authority that the

recent fire at the Army and Navy Club did not originate from a spark of

Colonel Sibthorp’s wit falling amongst some loose jokes which Captain

Marryatt had been scribbling on the backs of some unedited purser’s

bills.

HITTING THE RIGHT NAIL ON THE HEAD. The Whigs resemble nails—How so, my

master?

Because, like nails, when beat they hold the faster.

A MATTER OF TASTE. “Do you admire Campbell’s ‘Pleasures of Hope’?” said

Croker to Hook. “Which do you mean, the Scotch poet’s or the Irish

Chancellor’s? the real or the ideal—Tommy’s four thousand lines or

Jocky’s four thousand pounds a-year?” inquired Theodore. Croker has been

in a brown study ever since.

[pg 53] CHARLES KEAN’S “CHEEK.” MR. PUNCH,—Myself and a few other old

Etonians have read with inexpressible scorn, disgust, and indignation,

the heartless and malignant attempts, in your scoundrel journal, to

blast the full-blown fame of that most transcendant actor, and most

unexceptionable son, Mr. Charles Kean. Now, PUNCH, fair play is beyond

any of the crown jewels. I will advance only one proof, amongst a

thousand others that cart-horses sha’n’t draw from me, to show that

Charles Kean makes more—mind, I say, makes more—of Shakspere, than every

other actor living or dead. Last night I went to the Haymarket—Lady

Georgiana L—— and other fine girls were of the party. The play was

“Romeo and Juliet,” and there are in that tragedy two slap-up lines;

they are, to the best of my recollection, as follow:—

“Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand,

That I might touch that cheek.”

Now, ninety-nine actors out of a hundred make nothing of this—not so

Charles Kean. Here’s my proof. Feeling devilish hungry, I thought I’d

step out for a snack, and left the box, just as Charles Kean, my old

schoolfellow, was beginning—

“Oh!—”

Well, I crossed the way, stepped into Dubourg’s, swallowed two dozen

oysters, took a bottom of brandy, and booked a small bet with Jack

Spavin for the St. Leger, returned to the theatre, and was comfortably

seated in my box, as Charles Kean, my old school-fellow, had arrived at

“———cheek!”

Now, PUNCH, if this isn’t making much of Shakspere, what is?

Yours (you scoundrel), ETONIAN.

AN AN-TEA ANACREONTIC—No. 4. The following ode is somewhat freely

translated from the original of a Chinese emigrant named CA-TA-NA-CH, or

the “illustrious minstrel.”

We have given a short specimen of the original, merely substituting the

Roman for the Chinese characters.

ORIGINAL. As-ye-Te-i-anp-o-et-sli-re

Y-oun-g-li-ae-us-di-din-spi-re

Wen-ye-ba-r-da-wo-Ke-i-sla-is

Lo-ve-et-wi-nea-li-ket-op-ra-is

So-i-lus-tri-ou-spi-din-th-o-u

In-s-pi-re-thi-Te-ur-nv-ot-a-rin-ow

&c. &c.

TRANSLATION. As the Teian poet’s lyre

Young Lyæus did inspire;

When the bard awoke his lays,

Love and wine alike to praise.

So, illustrious Pidding, thou

Inspire thy tea-urn votary now,

Whilst the tea-pot circles round—

Whilst the toast is being brown’d—

Let me, ere I quaff my tea,

Sing a paean unto thee,

IO PIDDING! who foretold,

Chinamen would keep their gold;

Who foresaw our ships would be

Homeward bound, yet wanting tea;

Who, to cheer the mourning land,

Said, “I’ve Howqua still on hand!”

Who, my Pidding, who but thee?

Io Pidding! Evoe!

THE STATE DOCTOR. A BIT OF A FARCE. Dramatis Personæ. RHUBARB PILL (a

travelling doctor), by SIR ROBERT PEEL. BALAAM (his Man), by COLONEL

SIBTHORP. COUNTRYMAN, by MR. BULL. SCENE. Tamworth.

The Doctor and his Man are discovered in a large waggon, surrounded by a

crowd of people.

RHUBARB PILL.—Balaam, blow the trumpet.

BALAAM (blows).—Too-too-tooit! Silence for the doctor!

RHUBARB PILL.—Now, friends and neighbours, now’s your time for getting

rid of all your complaints, whether of the pocket or the person, for I,

Rhubarb Pill, professor of sophistry and doctorer of laws, have now come

amongst you with my old and infallible remedies and restoratives, which,

although they have not already worked wonders, I promise shall do so,

and render the constitution sound and vigorous, however it may have been

injured by poor-law-bill-ious pills, cheap bread, and black sugar,

prescribed by wooden-headed quacks. (Aside.) Balaam, blow the trumpet.

BALAAM (blows).—Too-too-tooit! Hurrah for the doctor!

RHUBARB PILL.—These infallible remedies have been in my possession since

the years 1835 and 1837, but owing to the opposition of the Cabinet of

Physicians, I have not been able to use them for the benefit of the

public—and myself. (Bows.) These invaluable remedies—

COUNTRYMAN.—What be they?

RHUBARB PILL.—That’s not a fair question—wait till I’m regularly called

in11. Sir Robert Peel at Tamworth.. It’s not that I care about the

fee—mine is a liberal profession, and though I have a large family, and

as many relations as most people, I really think I should refuse a

guinea if it was offered to me.

COUNTRYMAN.—Then why doant’ee tell us?

RHUBARB PILL.—It’s not professional. Besides, it’s quite requisite that

I should “feel the patient’s pulse,” or I might make the dose too

powerful, and so—

COUNTRYMAN.—Get the sack, Mr. Doctor.

RHUBARB PILL (aside).—Blow the trumpet, Balaam.

BALAAM.—Too-too-tooit—tooit-too-too!

RHUBARB PILL.—And so do more harm than good. Besides, I should require

to have the “necessary consultations” over the dinner-table. Diet does a

great deal—not that I care about the “loaves and fishes”—but patients

are always more tractable after a good dinner. Now there’s an old lady

in these parts—

COUNTRYMAN.—What, my old missus?

RHUBARB PILL.—The same. She’s in a desperate way.

COUNTRYMAN.—Ees. Dr. Russell says it’s all owing to your nasty nosdrums.

RHUBARB PILL.—Doctor Russell’s a—never mind. I say she is very bad, and

I AM the only man that can cure her.

COUNTRYMAN—Then out wi’it, doctor—what will?

RHUBARB PILL.—Wait till I’m regularly called in.

COUNTRYMAN.—But suppose she dies in the meantime?

RHUBARB PILL.—That’s her fault. I won’t do anything by proxy. I must

direct my own administration, appoint my own nurses for the bed-chamber,

have my own herbalists and assistants, and see Doctor Russell’s “purge”

thrown out of the window. In short, I must be regularly called in.

Balaam, blow the trumpet.

[Balaam blows the trumpet, the crowd shout, and the Doctor bows

gracefully, with one hand on his heart and the other in his breeches

pocket. At the end of the applause he commences singing].

I am called Doctor Pill, the political quack,

And a quack of considerable standing and note;

I’ve clapp’d many a blister on many a back,

And cramm’d many a bolus down many a throat,

I have always stuck close, like the rest of my tribe,

And physick’d my patient as long as he’d pay;

And I say, when I’m ask’d to advise or prescribe,

“You must wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.”

Old England has grown rather sickly of late,

For Russell’s reduced her almost to a shade;

And I’ve honestly told him, for nights in debate,

He’s a quack that should never have follow’d the trade.

And, Lord! how he fumes, and exultingly cries,

“Were you in my place, Pill, pray what would you say?”

But I only reply, “If I am to advise,

I shall wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.”

It’s rather “too bad,” if an ignorant elf,

Who has caught a rich patient ’twere madness to kill,

Should have all the credit, and pocket the pelf,

Whilst you are requested to furnish the skill.

No! no! amor patriæ’s a phrase I admire,

But I own to an amor that stands in its way;

And if England should e’er my assistance require,

She must—

A man thumbs his nose at another man who is pointing towards a building

on fire. “WAIT TILL I’M CALL’D IN A REGULAR WAY.”

ON DITS OF THE CLUBS. Peter Borthwich has expressed his

determination—not to accept of the speakership of the House of Commons.

C.M. Westmacott has announced his intention of not joining the new

administration; in consequence of which serious defection, he asserts

that Sir Robert Peel will be unable to form a cabinet.

“You have heard,” said his Grace of Buckingham, to Lord Abinger, a few

evenings ago, “how scandalously Peel and his crew have treated me—they

have actually thrown me overboard. A man of my weight, too!” “That was

the very objection, my Lord,” replied the rubicund functionary. “Their

rotten craft could not carry a statesman of your ponderous abilities.

Your dead weight would have brought them to the bottom in five minutes.”

[pg 54] THE REJECTED ADDRESS OF THE MELANCHOLY WHIGS. Alas! that poor

old Whiggery should have been so silly as to go a-wooing. Infirm and

tottering as he is, it was the height of insanity. Down he dropped on

his bended knees before the object of his love; out he poured his

touching addresses, lisped in the blandest, most persuasive tones; and

what was his answer? Scoffs, laughs, kicks, rejection! Even Johnny

Russell’s muse availed not, though it deserved a better fate. It gained

him a wife, but could not win the electors. Our readers will discover

the genius of the witty author of “Don Carlos” in the address, which,

though rejected, we in pity immortalise in PUNCH.

Loved friends—kind electors, once more we are here

To beg your sweet voices—to tell you our deeds.

Though our Budget is empty, we’ve got—never fear—

A long full privy purse, to stand bribing and feeds.

For, oh! we are out-and-out Whigs—thorough Whigs!

Then, shout till your throttles, good people, ye crack;

Hurrah! for the troop of sublime “Thimble-rigs!”

Hurrah! for the jolly old Downing-street pack.

What we’ve done, and will do for you, haply you’ll ask:

All, all, gentle folks, you shall presently see.

Off your sugar we’ll take just one penny a cask!

Only adding a shilling a pound on your tea.

That’s the style for your Whigs—your reforming old Whigs!

Then, shout, &c.

Off your broad—think of this!—we will take—(if we can)—

A whole farthing a loaf; then, when wages decline,

By one-half—as they must—and you’re starving, each man

In our New Poor Law Bastiles may go lodge, and go dine.

That’s the plan of your Whigs—your kind-hearted, true Whigs!

Then, shout, &c.

Off the fine Memel timber, we’d take—if we could—

All tax, ’cause ’tis used in the palace and hall;

On the cottager’s, tradesman’s coarse Canada wood,

We will clap such a tax as shall pay us for all.

That’s the “dodge” for your Whigs—your poor-loving, true Whigs!

Then, shout, &c.

To free our dear brothers, the niggers, you know

Twenty millions and more we have fix’d on your backs.

’Twas gammon—’twas humbug—’twas swindle! for, lo!

We undo all we’ve done—we go trade in the blacks.

Your humanity Whigs!—anti-slavery Whigs!

Then, shout, &c.

When to Office we came, full two millions in store

We found safe and snug. Now, that surplus instead,

Besides having spent it, and six millions more,

Lo! we’re short, on the year, only two millions dead.

That’s the “go” for your Whigs—your retrenching old Whigs

Then, shout, &c.

In a word, round the throne we’ve stuck sisters and wives,

Our brothers and cousins fill bench, church, and steeple;

Assist us to stick in, at least for our lives,

And nicely “we’ll sarve out” Queen, Lords, ay, and People.

That’s the fun for your Whigs—your bed-chamber old Whigs!

Shout, shout, &c.

What was the reply to this pathetic, this generous appeal? Name it not

at Woburn-abbey—whisper it not at Panshanger—breathe it not in the

epicurean retreat of Brocket-hall! Tears, big tears, roll down our

sympathetic checks as we write it. It was simply—“Cock-a-doodle-do!”

LORD JOHNNY “LICKING THE BIRSE.” Lord John Russell, on his arrival with

his bride at Selkirk the other day, was invested with the burghship of

that ancient town. In this ceremony, “licking the birse,” that is,

dipping a bunch of shoemaker’s bristles in a glass of wine and drawing

them across the mouth, was performed with all due solemnity by his

lordship. The circumstance has given rise to the following jeu d’esprit,

which the author, Young Ben D’Israeli, has kindly dropped into PUNCH’S

mouth:—

Lord Johnny, that comical dog,

At trifles in politics whistles;

In London he went the whole hog,

At Selkirk he’s going the bristles.

“Why are Sir Robert Peel and Sir James Graham like two persons with only

one intellect?”—“Because there is an understanding between them.”

“Why is Sir Robert Peel like a confounded and detected

malefactor?”—“Because he has nothing at all to say for himself.”

A QUERY. The Salisbury Herald says, that Sir John Pollen stated, in

reference to his defeat at the Andover election, “that from the bribery

and corruption resorted to for that purpose, they (the electors) would

have returned a jackass to parliament.” Indeed! How is it that he tried

and failed?

LORD HOWICK, it is said, has gone abroad for the benefit of his health;

he feels that he has not been properly treated at home.

NURSERY EDUCATION REPORT. As much anxiety necessarily exists for the

future well-being of our beloved infant Princess, we have determined to

take upon ourselves the onerous duties of her education. In accordance

with the taste of her Royal mother for that soft language which

“—sounds as if it should be writ on satin,”

we have commenced by translating the old nursery song of “Ride a cock-

horse” into most choice Italian, and have had it set to music by

Rossini; who, we are happy to state, has performed his task entirely to

the satisfaction of Mrs. Ratsey, the nurse of her Royal Highness; a lady

equally anxious with ourselves to instil into the infant mind an utter

contempt for everything English, except those effigies of her

illustrious mother which emanate from the Mint. The original of this

exquisite and simple ballad is too well known to need a transcript; the

Italian version, we doubt not, will become equally popular with

aristocratic mamas and fashionable nurses.

SU GALLO-CABALLO, AN ITALIAN CAVATINA, SUNG WITH UNBOUNDED APPLAUSE BY

MRS. RATSEY, AT THE PRIVATE CONCERTS OF THE INFANT PRINCESS. TO WHOM IT

IS DEDICATED BY HER ROYAL HIGHNESS’S ESPECIAL PERMISSION. Several lines

of music, with many trills and fancy notes. The text reads:Su gàl - lo

ca - vàl - - - lo A / Ban - bu - ri crò - ce, An - dia - mo a / mi-rar

La - - vec chia - a trot - tar. / Ai dìta ha gli anelli Ai piè i

campanelli, E musica avra Do- / vùnque sen va - - - - - - - -INJURED

INNOCENCE. We have seen, with deep regret, a paragraph going the round

of the papers headed, “THE LADY THIEF AT LINCOLN,” as if a lady could

commit larceny! “Her disorder,” says the newspapers, “is ascribed to a

morbid or irrrepressible propensity, or monomania;” in proof of which we

beg to subjoin the following prescriptions of her family physician,

which have been politely forwarded to us.

FOR A JEWELLERY AFFECTION. R.— Spoons—silv. vi Rings—pearls ii

Ditto—diamond j Brooches—emer. et turq. ii Combs—tortois. et dia. ii

Fiat sumendum bis hodie cum magno reticulo aut muffo, J.K.

FOR A DETERMINATION OF HABERDASHERY TO THE HANDS. R.— Balls—worsted xxiv

veils { Chantilly } j Mec. et Bruss. Hose—Chi. rib. et cot. tops cum toe

vj prs. Ribbons—sat. gau. et sarse. (pieces) iv Fiat sumendum cum cloko

capace pocteque maneque. J.K.

[pg 55] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. V. A gentleman taking snuff from a box

marked 'Treasury', surrounded by pamphlets and books, one of which says

'Natural History of the Sponge by Lord Melb' THE LAST PINCH.

[pg 57] PUBLIC AFFAIRS ON PHRENOLOGICAL PRINCIPLES. Mr. Combe, the great

phrenologist, or, as some call him, Mr. Comb—perhaps on account of his

being so busy about the head—has given it as his opinion, that in less

than a hundred years public affairs will be (in America at least)

carried on by the rules of phrenology. By postponing the proof of his

assertion for a century, he seems determined that no one shall ever give

him the lie while living, and when dead it will, of course, be of no

consequence. We are inclined to think there may be some truth in the

anticipation, and we therefore throw out a few hints as to how the

science ought to be applied, if posterity should ever agree on making

practical use of it. Ministers of state must undoubtedly be chosen

according to their bumps, and of course, therefore, no chancellor or any

other legal functionary will be selected who has the smallest symptom of

the bump of benevolence. The judges must possess causality in a very

high degree; and time, which gives rise to the perception of duration

(which they could apply to Chancery suits), would be a great

qualification for a Master of the Rolls or a Vice-chancellor. The

framers of royal speeches should be picked out from the number of those

who have the largest bumps of secretiveness; and those possessing

inhabitiveness, producing the desire of permanence in place, should be

shunned as much as possible. No bishop should be appointed whose bump of

veneration would not require him to wear a hat constructed like that of

PUNCH, to allow his organ full play; and the development of number, if

large, might ensure a Chancellor of the Exchequer whose calculations

could at least be relied upon.

Our great objection to the plan is this—that it might be abused by

parties bumping their own heads, and raising tumours for the sake of

obtaining credit for different qualities. Thus a terrific crack at the

back of the ear might produce so great an elevation of the organ of

combativeness as might obtain for the greatest coward a reputation for

the greatest courage; and a thundering rap on the centre of the head

might raise on the skull of the veriest brute a bump of, and name for,

benevolence.

“IT WAS BEFORE I MARRIED.” A BENEDICTINE LYRIC. Well, come my dear, I

will confess—

(Though really you too hard are)

So dry these tears and smooth each tress—

Let Betty search the larder;

Then o’er a chop and genial glass,

Though I so late have tarried,

I will recount what came to pass

I’ the days before I married.

Then, every place where fashion hies,

Wealth, health, and youth to squander,

I sought—shot folly as it flies,

’Till I could shoot no longer.

Still at the opera, playhouse, clubs,

’Till midnight’s hour I tarried;

Mixed in each scene that fashion dubs

“The Cheese”—before I married.

Soon grown familiar with the town,

Through Pleasure’s haze I hurried;

(Don’t feel alarmed—suppress that frown—

Another glass—you’re flurried)

Subscribed to Crockford’s, betted high—

Such specs too oft miscarried;

My purse was full (nay, check that sigh)—

It was before I married.

At Ascot I was quite the thing,

Where all admired my tandem;

I sparkled in the stand and ring,

Talked, betted (though at random);

At Epsom, and at Goodwood too,

I flying colours carried.

Flatterers and followers not a few

Were mine—before I married.

My cash I lent to every one,

And gay crowds thronged around me;

My credit, when my cash was gone,

’Till bills and bailiffs bound me.

With honeyed promises so sweet,

Each friend his object carried,

Till I was marshalled to the Fleet;

But—’twas before I married.

Then sober thoughts of wedlock came,

Suggested by the papers;

The Sunday Times soon raised a flame,

The Post cured all my vapours;

And spite of what Romance may say

’Gainst courtship so on carried,

Thanks to the fates and fair “Z.A.”

I now am blest and—married.

JOCKY JASON. Jockey Campbell, who has secured 4,000l. a-year by crossing

the water and occupying for 20 hours the Irish Woolsack, strongly

reminds us of Jason’s Argonautic expedition, after the golden fleece.

NEW CODE OF SIGNALS. The immense importance of the signals now used in

the royal navy, by facilitating the communication between ships at sea;

has suggested to an ingenious member of the Scientific Association, the

introduction of a telegraphic code of signals to be employed in society

generally, where the viva voce mode of communication might be either

inconvenient or embarrassing. The inventor has specially devoted his

attention to the topics peculiarly interesting to both sexes, and

proposes by his system to remove all those impediments to a free and

unreserved interchange of sentiment between a lady and gentleman, which

feminine timidity on the one side—natural gaucherie on the other—dread

of committing one’s self, or fear of transgressing the rules of good

breeding, now throw in the way of many well-disposed young persons. He

explains his system, by supposing that an unmarried lady and gentleman

meet for the first time at a public ball: he is enchanted with the

sylph-like grace of the lady in a waltz—she, fascinated with the superb

black moustaches of the gentleman. Mutual interest is created in their

bosoms, and the gentleman signalizes:—

“Do you perceive how much I am struck by your beauty?”—by twisting the

tip of his right moustache with the finger and thumb of the

corresponding hand. If the gentleman be unprovided with these foreign

appendages, the right ear must be substituted.

The lady replies by an affirmative signal, or the contrary:—e.g. “Yes,”

the lady arranges her bouquet with the left hand. “No,” a similar

operation with the right hand. Assuming the answer to have been

favourable, the gentleman, by slowly throwing back his head, and gently

drawing up his stock with the left hand, signals—

“How do you like this style of person?”

The lady must instantly lower her eyelids, and appear to count the

sticks of her fan, which will express—“Immensely.”

The gentleman then thrusts the thumb of his left-hand into the arm-hole

of his waistcoat, taps three times carelessly with his fingers upon his

chest. By this signal he means to say—

“How is your little heart?”

The lady plucks a leaf out of her bouquet, and flings it playfully over

her left shoulder, meaning thereby to intimate that her vital organ is

“as free as that.”

The gentleman, encouraged by the last signal, clasps his hands, and by

placing both his thumbs together, protests that “Heaven has formed them

for each other.”

Whereupon the lady must, unhesitatingly, touch the fourth finger of her

left hand with the index finger of the right; by which emphatic signal

she means to say—“No nonsense, though?”

The gentleman instantly repels the idea, by expanding the palms of both

hands, and elevating his eyebrows. This is the point at which he should

make the most important signal in the code. It is done by inserting the

finger and thumb of the right hand into the waistcoat pocket, and

expresses, “What metal do you carry?” or, more popularly, “What is the

amount of your banker’s account?”

The lady replies by tapping her fan on the back of her left hand; one

distinct tap for every thousand pounds she possesses. If the number of

taps be satisfactory to the gentleman, he must, by a deep inspiration,

inflate his lungs so as to cause a visible heaving of his chest, and

then, fixing his eyes upon the chandelier, slap his forehead with an

expression of suicidal determination. This is a very difficult signal,

which will require some practice to execute properly. It means—

“Pity my sad state! If you refuse to love me, I’ll blow my miserable

brains out.” The lady may, by shaking her head incredulously, express a

reasonable doubt that the gentleman possesses any brains.

After a few more preliminary signals, the lover comes to the point by

dropping his gloves on the floor, thereby beseeching the lady to allow

him to offer her his hand and fortune.

To which she, by letting fall her handkerchief, replies—

“Ask papa and mamma.”

This is only an imperfect outline of the code which the inventor asserts

may be introduced with wonderful advantage in the streets, the theatres,

at churches, and dissenting chapels; and, in short, everywhere that the

language of the lips cannot be used.

LABOURS OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF SCIENCE. A day

on the water, by way of excursion,

A night at the play-house, by way of diversion,

A morning assemblage of elegant ladies,

A chemical lecture on lemon and kalis,

A magnificent dinner—the venison so tender—

Lots of wine, broken glasses—that’s all I remember.

FITZROY FIPPS, F.R.G.S., MEM. ASS. ADVT. SCIENCE, F.A.S. Plymouth,

August 5.

A GOOD REASON. We have much pleasure in announcing to the liverymen and

our fellow-citizens, the important fact, that for the future, the lord

mayor’s day will be the fifth instead of the ninth of November. The

reason for this change is extremely obvious, as that is the principal

day of the “Guy season.”

The members of the Carlton Club have been taking lessons in bell-

ringing. They can already perform some pleasing changes. Colonel

Sibthorpe is quite au fait at a Bob major, and Horace Twiss hopes, by

ringing a Peal, to be appointed collector of tolls—at Waterloo Bridge.

We recommend Lord Cardigan to follow the example of the officers of

Ghent, who have introduced umbrellas into the army, even on parade. Some

men should gladly avail themselves of any opportunity of hiding their

heads.

[pg 58] PUNCH holds a copy of PUNCH PUNCH’S INFORMATION FOR THE

PEOPLE.—No. 2. THE THERMOMETER. General Description.—The thermometer is

an instrument for showing the temperature; for by it we can either see

how fast a man’s blood boils when he is in a passion, or, according as

the seasons have occurred this year, how cold it is in summer, and how

hot in winter. It is mostly cased in tin, all the brass being used up by

certain lecturers, who are faced with the latter metal. It has also a

glass tube, with a bulb at the end, exactly like a tobacco-pipe, with

the bowl closed up; except that, instead of tobacco, they put mercury

into it. As the heat increases, the mercury expands, precisely as the

smoke would in a pipe, if it were confined to the tube. A register is

placed behind the tube, crossed by a series of horizontal lines, the

whole resembling a wooden milk-score when the customer is several weeks

in arrear.

Derivation of Name.—The thermometer derives its name from two Greek

words, signifying “measure of heat;” a designation which has caused much

warm discussion, for the instrument is also employed to tell when it

freezes, by those persons who are too scientific to find out by the tips

of their fingers and the blueness of their noses.

History and Literature of the Thermometer.—The origin of the instrument

is involved in a depth of obscurity considerably below zero; Pliny

mentions its use by a celebrated brewer of Bœotia; we have succeeded,

after several years’ painful research, in tracing the invention of the

instrument to Mercury, who, being the god of thieves, very likely stole

it from somebody else. Of ancient writers, there are few except Hannibal

(who used it on crossing the Alps) and Julius Cæsar, that notice it.

Bacon treats of the instrument in his “Novum Organum;” from which Newton

cabbaged his ideas in his “Principia,” in the most unprincipled manner.

The thermometer remained stationary till the time of Robinson Crusoe,

who clearly suggested, if he did not invent the register, now

universally adopted, which so nearly resembles his mode of measuring

time by means of notched sticks. Fahrenheit next took it in hand, and

because his calculations were founded on a mistake, his scale is always

adopted in England. Raumur altered the system, and instead of giving the

thermometer mercury, administered to it ‘cold without,’ or spirits of

wine diluted with water. Celsius followed, and advised a medium fluid,

so that his thermometer is known as the centigrade. De Lisle made such

important improvements, that they have never been attended to; and Mr.

Sex’s differential thermometer has given rise to considerably more than

a half-dozen different opinions. All these persons have written

learnedly on the subject, blowing respectively hot or cold, as their

tastes vary. The most recent work is that by Professor Thompson—a

splendid octavo, hot-pressed, and just warm from the printer’s. Though

this writer disagrees with Raumur’s temperance principles, and uses the

strongest spirit he can get, instead of mercury, we are assured that he

is no relation whatever to Messrs. Thompson and Fearon of Holborn-hill.

Concluding Remarks and Description of Punch’s Thermometer.—It must be

candidly acknowledged by every unprejudiced mind, that the thermometer

question has been most shamefully handled by the scientific world. It is

made an exclusive matter; they keep it all to themselves; they talk

about Fahrenheit with the utmost coolness; of Raumur in un-

understandable jargon, and fire whole volleys of words concerning the

centigrade scale, till one’s head spins round with their inexplicable

dissertations. What is the use of these interminable technicalities to

the world at large? Do they enlighten the rheumatic as to how many coats

they may put on, for the Midsummer days of this variable climate? Do

their barometers tell us when to take an umbrella, or when to leave it

at home? No. Who, we further ask, knows how hot it is when the mercury

stands at 120°, or how cold it is when opposite 32° of Fahrenheit? Only

the initiated, a class of persons that can generally stand fire like

salamanders, or make themselves comfortable in an ice-house.

Deeply impressed with the importance of the subject, PUNCH has invented

a new thermometer, which may be understood by the “people” whom he

addresses—the unlearned in caloric—the ignorant of the principles of

expansion and dilatation. Everybody can tell, without a thermometer, if

it be a coat colder or a cotton waistcoat warmer than usual when he is

out. But at home! Ah, there’s the rub! There it has been impossible to

ascertain how to face the storm, or to turn one’s back upon the

sunshine, till to-day. PUNCH’S thermometer decides the question, and

here we give a diagram of it. Owing a stern and solemn duty to the

public, PUNCH has indignantly spurned the offers of the British

Association to join in their mummeries at Plymouth—to appear at their

dinners for the debasement of science. No; here in his own pages, and in

them only, doth he propound his invention. But he is not exclusive;

having published his wonderful invention, he invites the makers to copy

his plan. Mr. Murphy is already busily arranging his Almanac for 1842,

by means of a PUNCH thermometer, made by Carey and Co.

PUNCH’S THERMOMETER. THE SCALE ARRANGED ACCORDING TO FAHRENHEIT. Iced

bath 110 Cold bath 98 Blood heat. Coat Off 90 Stock loosened 88 Cuffs

turned up 85 One waistcoat 80 Morning coat all day 75 One Coat 65 Summer

heat. Spencer 55 Temperate. Ditto, and “Comfortable” 52 GREAT COAT 50

Ditto, and Macintosh 45 Ditto, ditto, and worsted stockings 43 Ditto,

ditto, ditto, and double boxcoat and Guernseys 35 Ditto, ditto, ditto,

ditto, ditto, and bear-skin coat 32 Freezing. Ditto, ditto, ditto,

ditto, ditto, ditto and between two feather beds all day 0 Zero. THE

SPEAKERSHIP. The Parliamentary lucus a non lucendo—the Speaker who never

speaks—the gentleman who always holds his own tongue, except when he

wants others to hold theirs—the man who fills the chair, which is about

three times too big for him—is not, after all, to be changed. But the

incoming tenants of office have resolved to take him as a fixture,

though not at a fair valuation; for they do nothing but find fault all

the time they are agreeing to let him remain on the premises. For our

own part, we see no objection to the arrangement; for Mr. Lefevre, we

believe, shakes his head as slowly and majestically as his predecessors,

and rattles his teeth over the r in oR-der, with as much dignity as

Sutton, who was the very perfection of Manners, was accustomed to throw

into it. The fatigues of the office are enough to kill a horse, but

asses are not easily exterminated. It is thought that Lefevre has not

been sufficiently worked, and before giving him a pension, “the receiver

must,” as the chemist say, “be quite exhausted.” Tiring him out will not

be enough; but he must be tired again, to entitled him to a re-tiring

allowance.

AN INQUIRY FROM DEAF BURKE, ESQ. DEER SIR,—As I taks in your PUNCH

(bein’ in the line meself, mind yes), will you tell me wot is the

meeinigs of beein’ “konvelessent.” A chap kalled me that name the other

days, and I sined him as I does this.

Yours truly, DEAF BURKE—

A man with a very bad black eye. HIS MARK.

THE MANSION-HOUSE PARROT. There is something very amusing in witnessing

the manner in which the little Jacks in office imitate the great ones.

Sir Peter Laurie has been doing the ludicrous by imitating his political

idol, Sir Robert. “I shan’t prescribe till I am state-doctor,” says the

baronet. “I shan’t decide; wait for the Lord Mayor,” echoes the knight.

[pg 59] MATRIMONIAL AGENCY. Lord John Russell begs respectfully to

inform the connubially-disposed portion of the community, that being

about to retire from the establishment in Downing-street, of which he

has so long been a member, he has resolved (at the suggestion of several

single ladies about thirty, and of numerous juvenile gentlemen who have

just attained their majority a second time) to open a

MATRIMONIAL AGENCY OFFICE, where (from his long and successful

experience) he trusts to be honoured by the confidence of the single,

and the generous acknowledgments of the married.

Lord J.R. intends to transact business upon the most liberal scale, and

instead of charging a per centage on the amount of property concerned in

each union, he will take every lady and gentleman’s valuation of

themselves, and consider one thousandth part thereof as an adequate

compensation for his services.

Ladies who have lost the registries of their birth can be supplied with

new ones, for any year they please, and the greatest care will be taken

to make them accord with the early recollections of the lady’s

schoolfellows and cousins of the same age.

Gentlemen who wear wigs, false calves, or artificial teeth, or use hair-

dye, &c., will be required to state the same, as no deception can be

countenanced by Lord J.R.

Ladies are only required to certify as to the originality of their

teeth; and as Lady Russell will attend exclusively to this department,

no disclosure will take place until all other preliminaries are

satisfactorily arranged.

Young gentlemen with large mustachios and small incomes will find the

MATRIMONIAL AGENCY OFFICE well worthy their attention; and young ladies

who play the piano, speak French, and measure only eighteen inches round

the waist, cannot better consult their own interests than by making an

early application.

N.B. None with red hair need apply, unless with a mother’s certificate

that it was always considered to be auburn.

Wanted several buxom widows for the commencement. If in weeds, will be

preferred.

“MATTERS IN FACT,” AND “MATTERS IN LAW.” “Law is the perfection of

reason!” said, some sixty years ago, an old powder-wigged priest of

Themis, in his “enthusymusy” for the venerable lady; and what one of her

learned adorers, from handsome Jock Campbell down to plain Counsellor

Dunn, would dare question the maxim? A generous soul, who, like the

fabled lady of the Arabian tale, drops gold at every word she utters,

varying in value from one guinea to five thousand, according to the

quality of the hand that is stretched forth to receive it, cannot

possibly be other than reason herself. But to appreciate this dear

creature justly, it is absolutely necessary to be in her service. No

ordinary lay person can judge her according to her deserts. You must be

initiated into her mysteries before you can detect her beauties; but

once admitted to her august presence—once enrolled as her sworn

slave—your eyes become opened and clear, and you see her as she is, the

marvel of the world. Yet, though so difficult of comprehension, no man,

nor woman, nor child, must plead ignorance of her excellencies. To be

ignorant of any one of them is an impossibility as palpable as that “the

Queen can do no wrong,” or any other admirable fiction which the genius

of our ancestors has bequeathed us. We all must know the law, or be

continually whipped! A hard rule, though an inflexible one. But the

schoolmaster is abroad—PUNCH, that teaches all, must teach the law; and,

as a preliminary indispensable, he now proceeds to give a few

definitions of the principal matters contained in that science, which

bear a different meaning from what they would in ordinary language. The

admiring neophyte will perceive with delight the vast superiority

apparent in all cases of “matters of law,” or “matters of fact.”

To illustrate:—When a lovely girl, all warmth and confidence, steals on

tiptoe from her lonely chamber, and, lighted by the moon, when “pa’s”

asleep, drops from the balcony into the arms of some soft youth, as warm

as she, who has been waiting to whisk her off to Hymen’s altar—that is

generally understood as

A young woman kisses her beau from a window so hard it knocks his hat

off. AN ATTACHMENT IN FACT.

When an ugly “bum,” well up to trap, creeps like a rascal from the

sheriff’s-office, and with his capias armed, ere you are half-dressed,

gives you the chase, and, as you “leg” away for the bare life, his

knuckles dig into the seat of your unmentionables, gripping you like a

tiger—that indeed is une autre chose, that is

An official-looking man grabs a running-away man by the pants. AN

ATTACHMENT IN LAW.

When you remark a round, rosy, jolly fellow, shining from top to toe,

“philandering” down Regent-street, with a self-satisfied grin, that

seems to say, “Match me that, demme!” and casting looks of pity—mellowed

through his eye-glass—on all passers, you may fairly conclude that that

happy dog has just slipped into

A dapper, fashionable fellow. A BOND-STREET SUIT.

But when you perceive a gaunt, yellow spectre of a man, reduced to his

last chemise, and that a sad spectacle of ancient purity, starting from

Lincoln’s-Inn, and making all haste for Waterloo-bridge, the inference

is rather natural, that he is blessed with

A bedraggled, nearly unclothed, man running. A SUIT IN CHANCERY.

It being dangerous to take too great a meal at a time, and PUNCH knowing

well the difficulty of digesting properly over-large quantities of

mental food, he concludes his first lecture on L—A—W. Whether he will

continue here his definitions of legal terms, or not, time and his

humour shall determine.

A DRESS REHEARSAL. Lord Melbourne, imitating the example of the ancient

philosophers, is employing the last days of his political existence in

composing a learned discourse “On the Shortness of Ministerial Life.” To

try the effect of it, his lordship gives a full dress dinner-party,

immediately after the meeting of Parliament, to several of his friends.

On the removal of the cloth, he will read the essay, and then the

Queen’s intended speech, in which she civilly gives his lordship leave

to provide himself with another place. Where, in the whole range of

history, could we meet with a similar instance of magnanimity? Where,

with such a noble picture—of a great soul rising superior to adversity?

Seneca in the bath, uttering moral apophthegms with his dying

breath—Socrates jesting over his bowl of hemlock juice—were great

creatures—immense minds; but Lord Melbourne reading his own dismissal to

his friends—after dinner, too!—over his first glass of wine—leaves them

at an immeasurable distance. Oh! that we had the power of poor Wilkie!

what a picture we could make of such a subject.

[pg 60] THE DRAMA. VAUXHALL GARDENS. Some of the melancholy duties of

this life afford a more subdued, and, therefore, a more satisfactory

pleasure than scores with which duty has nothing to do, or those of mere

enjoyment. If, for instance, the friend, whose feeds we have helped to

eat, whose cellars we have done our part to empty for the last quarter

of a century, should happen to fall ill; if the doctors shake their

heads, and warn us to make haste to his bedside, there is always a large

proportion of honey to be extracted, in obeying the summons, out of the

sting of parting, recounting old reminiscences, and gossipping about old

times, never, alas! to return. But should we neglect the summons, where

would the stings of conscience end?

Impelled by such a sense of duty, we wended our way to the “royal

property,” to take a last look at the long-expiring gardens. It was a

wet night—the lamps burnt dimly—the military band played in the minor

key—the waiters stalked about with so silent, melancholy a tread, that

we took their towels for pocket-handkerchiefs; the concert in the open

rain went off tamely—dirge-like, in spite of the “Siege of Acre,” which

was described in a set of quadrilles, embellished with blue fire and

maroons, and adorned with a dozen double drums, thumped at intervals,

like death notes, in various parts of the doomed gardens. The

divertissement was anything but diverting, when we reflect upon the

impending fate of the “Rotunda,” in which it was performed.

No such damp was, however, thrown over the evolutions of “Ducrow’s

beautiful horses and equestrian artistes,” including “the new grand

entrée, and cavalcade of Amazons.” They had no sympathy with the decline

and fall of the Simpsonian empire. They were strangers, interlopers,

called in like mutes and feathers, to grace the “funeral show,” to give

a more graceful flourish to the final exit. The horses pawed the

sawdust, evidently unconscious that the earth it covered would soon “be

let on lease for building ground;” the riders seemed in the hey-day of

their equestrian triumph. Let them, however, derive from the fate of

Vauxhall, a deep, a fearful lesson!—though we shudder as we write, it

shall not be said that destruction came upon them unawares—that no

warning voice had been raised—that even the squeak of PUNCH was silent!

Let them not sneer, and call us superstitious—we do not give credence to

supernatural agency as a fixed and general principle; but we did believe

in Simpson, and stake our professional reputation upon Widdicomb.

That Vauxhall gardens were under the especial protection of, that they

drew the very breath of their attractiveness from, the ceremonial

Simpson, who can deny? When he flitted from walk to walk, from box to

box, and welcomed everybody to the “royal property,” right royally did

things go on! Who would then have dreamt that the illustrious George—he

of the Piazza—would ever be “honoured with instructions to sell;” that

his eulogistic pen would be employed in giving the puff superlative to

the Elysian haunts of quondam fashion—in other words, in painting the

lily, gilding refined gold? But, alas! Simpson, the tutelar deity, has

departed (“died,” some say, but we don’t believe it), and at the moment

he made his last bow, Vauxhall ought to have closed; it was madness—the

madness which will call us, peradventure, superstitious—which kept the

gates open when Simpson’s career closed—it was an anomaly, for like Love

and Heaven, Simpson was Vauxhall, and Vauxhall was Simpson!

Let Ducrow reflect upon these things—we dare not speak out—but a tutelar

being watches over, and giveth vitality to his arena—his ring is, he may

rely upon it, a fairy one—while that mysterious being dances and prances

in it, all will go well; his horses will not stumble, never will his

clowns forget a syllable of their antiquated jokes. O! let him then,

while seriously reflecting upon Simpson and the fate of Vauxhall, give

good heed unto the Methuselah, who hath already passed his second

centenary in the circle!

These were our awful reflections while viewing the scenes in the circle,

very properly constructed in the Rotunda. They overpowered us—we dared

not stay to see the fireworks, “in the midst of which Signora Rossini

was to make her terrific ascent and descent on a rope three hundred feet

high.” She might have been the sprite of Madame Saqui; in fact, the

“Vauxhall Papers” published in the gardens, put forth a legend, which

favours such a dreadful supposition! We refer our readers to them—they

are only sixpence a-piece.

Of course the gardens were full in spite of the weather; for what must

be the callousness of that man who could let the gardens pass under the

hammer of George Robins, without bidding them an affecting farewell?

Good gracious! We can hardly believe such insensibility does exist.

Hasten then, dear readers, as you would fly to catch the expiring sigh

of a fine old boon companion—hasten to take your parting slice of ham,

your last bowl of arrack, even now while the great auctioneer says

“Going.”

For your sake, and yours only, Alfred Bunn (whose disinterestedness has

passed into a theatrical proverb), arrests the arm of his friend of the

Auction Mart in its descent. Attend to his bidding. Do not—oh! do not

wait till the vulcan of the Bartholomew-lane smithy lets fall his hammer

upon the anvil of pleasure, to announce that the Royal Property

is—“Gone!”

A man tips his hat to a skeleton, who tips his crown in return. WELCOME

TO THE ROYAL PROPERTY.

A LADY AND GENTLEMAN IN A PECULIARLY PERPLEXING PREDICAMENT. Mrs.

Waylett and Mr. Keeley were the lady and gentleman who were placed in

the peculiarly perplexing predicament of making a second-hand French

interlude supportable to an English Opera audience. In this they more

than succeeded—for they caused it to be amusing; they made the most of

what they had to do, which was not much, and of what they had to say,

which was a great deal too much; for the piece would be far more

tolerable if considerably shorn of its unfair proportions. The

translator seems to have followed the verbose text of his original with

minute fidelity, except where the idioms bothered him; and although the

bills declare it is adapted by Mr. Charles Selby to the English stage,

the thing is as essentially French as it is when performed at the Palais

Royal, except where the French language is introduced, when, in every

instance, the labours of correct transcription were evidently above the

powers of the translator. The best part of the adaptation is the exact

fitness of the performers to their parts; we mean as far as concerns

their personnel.

Of course, all the readers of PUNCH know Mr. Keeley. Let them, then,

conceive him an uncle at five-and-thirty, but docking himself of six

years’ age when asked impertinent questions. He has a head of fine

auburn hair, and dresses in a style that a badaud would call “quiet;”

that is to say, he wears brass buttons to his coat, which is green, and

adorned with a velvet collar. In short, it is not nearly so fine as Lord

Palmerston’s, for it has no velvet at the cuffs; and is not embroidered.

Add white unhintables, and you have an imaginative portrait of the hero.

But the heroine! Ah! she, dear reader, if you have a taste for full-

blown beauty and widows, she will coax the coin out of your pockets, and

yourselves into the English Opera House, when we have told you what she

acts, and how she acts. Imagine her, the syren, with the quiet,

confiding smile, the tender melting voice, the pleasing highly-bred

manner; just picture her in the character of a Parisian widow—the free,

unshackled, fascinating Parisian widow—the child of liberty—the mother

of—no, not a mother; for the instant a husband dies, the orphans are

transferred to convent schools to become nephews and nieces. Well, we

say for the third time, conceive Mrs. Waylett, dressed with modest

elegance, a single rose in her hair—sympathise with her as she rushes

upon the stage (which is “set” for the chambre meublée of a country

inn), escaping from the persecutions of a persevering traveller who will

follow her charms, her modest elegance, her single rose, wherever they

make their appearance. She locks the door, and orders supper, declaring

she will leave the house immediately after it is eaten and paid for.

Alas! the danger increases, and with it her fears; she will pay without

eating; and as the diligence is going off, she will resume her journey,

but—a new misfortune—there is no place in it! She will, then, hire a

postchaise; and the landlady goes to strike the bargain, having been

duly paid for a bed which has not been lain in, and a supper that has

not been eaten. As the lady hastens away, with every prospect of not

returning, the piece would inevitably end here, if a gentleman did not

arrive by the very diligence which has just driven off full, and taken

the same chamber the lady has just vacated; but more particularly if the

only chaise in the place had not been hired by the lady’s wicked

persecutor on purpose to detain her. She, of course, returns to the

twice-let chamber, and finds it occupied by a sentimental traveller.

Here we have the “peculiarly perplexing predicament”—a lady and

gentleman, and only one chamber between them! This is the plot; all that

happens afterwards is merely supplementary. To avoid the continued

persecutions of the unseen Adolphe, the lady agrees, after some becoming

hesitation, to pass to the hostess as the wife of the sentimental

traveller. The landlady is satisfied, for what so natural as that they

should have but one bed-room between them? so she carefully locks them

in, and the audience have the pleasure of seeing them pass the night

together—how we will not say—let our readers go and see. Yet we must in

justice add that the “lady and gentleman” make at the end of the piece

the amende good morals demand—they get married.

To the performers, and to them alone, are we indebted for any of the

amusement this trifle affords. Mr. Keeley and Mrs. Waylett were, so far

as acting goes, perfection; for never were parts better fitted to them.

There are only three characters in the piece; the third, the hostess of

the “Cochon bleu,” is very well done by Mrs. Selby. The persecuting

Adolphe (who turns out to be the gentleman’s nephew) never appears upon

the stage, for all his rude efforts to get into the lady’s chamber are

fruitless.

Such is the prying disposition of the British public, that the house was

crammed to the ceiling to see a lady and a gentleman placed in a

peculiarly perplexing predicament.

As Romeo, Kean, with awkward grace,

On velvet rests, ’tis said:

Ah! did he seek a softer place,

He’d rest upon his head.

LATEST FOREIGN. Several Dutch males arrived from Rotterdam during the

last week. They are all totally devoid of intelligence or interest.

AN USEFUL ALLY. “Crack’d China mended!”—Zounds, man! off this minute—

There’s work for you, or else the deuce is in it!

“Draw it mild!” as the boy with the decayed tooth said to the dentist.

Webster’s Manganese Ink is so intensely black, that it is used as a

marking-fluid for coal-sacks.

There is a man up country so fat, they grease the cart-wheels with his

shadow.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. [pg 61] AUGUST 21, 1841. THE

WIFE-CATCHERS. A LEGEND OF MY UNCLE’S BOOTS. In Four Chapters. CHAPTER

IV. A man in stocks forms the letter T he conversation now subsided into

“private and confidential” whispers, from which I could learn that Miss

O’Brannigan had consented to quit her father’s halls with Terence that

very night, and, before the priest, to become his true and lawful wife.

It had been previously understood that those of the guests who lived at

a distance from the lodge should sleep there that night. Nothing could

have been more favourable for the designs of the lovers; and it was

arranged between them, that Miss Biddy was to steal from her chamber

into the yard, at daybreak, and apprise her lover of her presence by

flinging a handful of gravel against his window. Terence’s horse was

warranted to carry double, and the lady had taken the precaution to

secure the key of the stable where he was placed.

It was long after midnight before the company began to separate;—cloaks,

shawls, and tippets were called for; a jug of punch of extra strength

was compounded, and a doch an dhurris11. A drink at the door;—a farewell

cup. of the steaming beverage administered to every individual before

they were permitted to depart. At length the house was cleared of its

guests, with the exception of those who were to remain and take beds

there. Amongst the number were the haberdasher and your uncle. The

latter was shown into a chamber in which a pleasant turf fire was

burning on the hearth.

Although Terence’s mind was full of sweet anticipations and visions of

future grandeur, he could not avoid feeling a disagreeable sensation

arising from the soaked state of his boots; and calculating that it

still wanted three or four hours of daybreak, he resolved to have us dry

and comfortable for his morning’s adventure. With this intention he drew

us off, and placed us on the hearth before the fire, and threw himself

on the bed—not to sleep—he would sooner have committed suicide—but to

meditate upon the charms of Miss Biddy and her thousand pounds.

But our strongest resolutions are overthrown by circumstances—the

ducking, the dancing, and the potteen, had so exhausted Terence, that he

unconsciously shut, first, one eye, then the other, and, finally, he

fell fast asleep, and dreamed of running away with the heiress on his

back, through a shaking bog, in which he sank up to the middle at every

step. His vision was, however, suddenly dispelled by a smart rattle

against his window. A moment was sufficient to recall him to his

senses—he knew it was Miss Biddy’s signal, and, jumping from the bed,

drew back the cotton window-curtains and peered earnestly out: but

though the day had begun to break, it was still too dark to enable him

to distinguish any person on the lawn. In a violent hurry he seized on

your humble servant, and endeavoured to draw me on; but, alas! the heat

of the fire had so shrank me from my natural dimensions, that he might

as well have attempted to introduce his leg and foot into an eel-skin.

Flinging me in a rage to the further corner of the room, he essayed to

thrust his foot into my companion, which had been reduced to the same

shrunken state as myself. In vain he tugged, swore, and strained; first

with one, and then with another, until the stitches in our sides grinned

with perfect torture; the perspiration rolled down his forehead—his eyes

were staring, his teeth set, and every nerve in his body was quivering

with his exertions—but still he could not force us on.

“What’s to be done!” he ejaculated in despairing accents. A bright

thought struck him suddenly, that he might find a pair of boots

belonging to some of the other visitors, with which he might make free

on so pressing an emergency. It was but sending them back, with an

apology for the mistake, on the following day. With this idea he sallied

from his room, and groped his way down stairs to find the scullery,

where he knew the boots were deposited by the servant at night. This

scullery was detached from the main building, and to reach it it was

necessary to cross an angle of the yard. Terence cautiously undid the

bolts and fastenings of the back door, and was stealthily picking his

steps over the rough stones of the yard, when he was startled by a

fierce roar behind him, and at the same moment the teeth of Towser, the

great watch-dog, were fastened in his nether garments. Though very much

alarmed, he concealed his feelings, and presuming on a slight previous

intimacy with his assailant, he addressed him in a most familiar manner,

calling him “poor fellow” and “old Towser,” explained to him the

ungentlemanly liberty he was taking with his buckskins, and requested

him to let go his hold, as he had quite enough of that sport. Towser

was, however, not to be talked out of his private notions; he foully

suspected your uncle of being on no good design, and replied to every

remonstrance he made with a growl and a shake, that left no doubt he

would resort to more vigorous measures in case of opposition. Afraid or

ashamed to call for help, Terence was kept in this disagreeable state,

nearly frozen to death with cold and trembling with terror, until the

morning was considerably advanced, when he was discovered by some of the

servants, who released him from the guardianship of his surly captor.

Without waiting to account for the extraordinary circumstances in which

he had been found, he bolted into the house, rushed up to his bed-

chamber, and, locking the door, threw himself into a chair, overwhelmed

with shame and vexation.

But poor Terence’s troubles were not half over. The beautiful heiress,

after having discharged several volleys of sand and small pebbles

against his window without effect, was returning to her chamber,

swelling with indignation, when she was encountered on the stairs by

Tibbins, who, no doubt prompted by the demon of jealousy, had been

watching her movements. He could not have chosen a more favourable

moment to plead his suit; her mortified vanity, and her anger at what

she deemed the culpable indifference of her lover, made her eager to be

revenged on him. It required, therefore, little persuasion to obtain her

consent to elope with the haberdasher. The key of the stable was in her

pocket, and in less than ten minutes she was sitting beside him in his

gig, taking the shortest road to the priest’s.

I cannot attempt to describe the rage that Terence flew into, as soon as

he learned the trick he had been served; he vowed to be the death of

Tibbins, and it is probable he would have carried his threat into

effect, if the haberdasher had not prudently kept out of his way until

his anger had grown cool.

“So,” said I, addressing the narrator, “you lost the opportunity of

figuring at Miss Biddy’s wedding?”

“Yes,” replied the ‘wife-catcher;’ “but Terence soon retrieved his

credit, for in less than three months after his disappointment with the

heiress, we were legging it as his wedding with Miss Debby Doolan, a

greater fortune and a prettier girl than the one he had lost: and, by-

the-bye, that reminds me of a funny scene which took place when the

bride came to throw the stocking—hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo!”

Here my friends, the boots, burst into a long and loud fit of laughter;

while I, ignorant of the cause of their mirth, looked gravely on,

wondering when it would subside. Instead, however, of their laughter

lessening, the cachinnations became so violent that I began to feel

seriously alarmed.

“My dear friends!” said I.

“Hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo!” shouted the pair.

“This excessive mirth may be dangerous”—

A peal of laughter shook their leathern sides, and they rolled from side

to side on their chair. Fearful of their falling, I put out my hand to

support them, when a sense of acute pain made me suddenly withdraw it. I

started, opened my eyes, and discovered that I had laid hold of the

burning remains of the renowned “wife-catchers,” which I had in my sleep

placed upon the fire.

As I gazed mournfully upon the smoking relics of the ancient allies of

our house, I resolved to record this strange adventure; but you know I

never had much taste for writing, Jack, so I now confide the task to

you. As he concluded, my uncle raised his tumbler to his lips, and I

could perceive a tear sparkling in his eye—a genuine tribute of regard

to the memory of the venerated “Wife Catchers.”

CORRESPONDENCE EXTRAORDINARY. Wrote Paget to Pollen,

With face bright as brass,

“T’other day in the Town Hall

You mention’d an ass:

“Now, for family reasons,

I’d like much to know,

If on me you intended

That name to bestow?”

“My lord,” says Jack Pollen,

“Believe me, (’tis true,)

I’d be sorry to slander

A donkey or you.”

“Being grateful,” says Paget,

“I’d ask you to lunch;

But just, Sir John, tell me.

Did you call me PUNCH?”

“In wit, PUNCH is equalled,”

Says Pollen, “by few;

In naming him, therefore,

I couldn’t mean you,”

“Thanks! thanks! To bear malice,”

Save Paget, “I’m loath;

Two answers I’ve got, and I’m

Charm’d with them both.”

EPIGRAMS. 1.—THE CAUSE. Lisette has lost her wanton wiles—

What secret care consumes her youth,

And circumscribes her smiles?—

A spec on a front tooth!

2.—PRIDE. Fitzsmall, who drinks with knights and lords,

To steal a share of notoriety,

Will tell you, in important words,

He mixes in the best society.

ENGLISH AND AMERICAN PRODUCE. We find, by the Times of Saturday, the

British teasel crops in the parish of Melksham have fallen entirely to

the ground, and from their appearance denote a complete failure. Another

paragraph in the same paper speaks quite as discouragingly of the

appearance of the American Teazle at the Haymarket.

[pg 62] NURSERY EDUCATION REPORT.—No. 2. THE ROYAL RHYTHMICAL ALPHABET,

To be said or sung by the Infant Princess. A gentleman attacks another

man. A stands for Aristocracy, a thing I should admire; A bishop eats a

suckling pig. B stands for a Bishop, who is clothed in soft attire; A

group of people seated around a table that is in a cabinet. C beginneth

Cabinet, where Mamma keeps her tools; A man in a clown hat hands

something to another man in a clown hat. D doth stand for Downing-

street, the “Paradise of Fools;” A guard pulls a lion in a toy wagon. E

beginneth England, that granteth the supplies; An orchestra. F doth

stand for Foreigners, whom I should patronize; Two politicians offer

PUNCH a bag of money for his vote. G doth stand for Gold—good gold!—for

which man freedom barters; A fat snooty fellow walks from a fancy

carriage into a door marked 'Lords.' H beginneth Honors—that is,

ribbons, stars, and garters; A parasol with money bags hanging from it.

I stands for my Income (several thousand pounds per ann.); A man plays

with a baby while his pockets are being picked. J stands for Johnny

Bull, a soft and easy kind of man; A king-puppet is being worked by a

right hand. K beginneth King, who rules the land by “right divine;” A

woman courtier tries to feed a screaming princess while in a curtsey.

L’s for Mrs. Lilly, who was once a nurse of mine. A man bastes a spit of

meat. M beginneth Melbourne, who rules the roast and State; Two smoking

men wearing tophats try to pull a door knocker off of a door. N stands

for a Nobleman, who’s always good and great. A woman dances on a stage.

O is for the Opera, that I should only grace; A man throws money to a

group of men in robes. P stands for the Pension List, for “servants out

of place.” A man carrying a box marked 'RENT' faces away while a

uniformed man takes something from it. Q’s the Quarter’s Salary, for

which true patriots long; A woman leads a group of girls in a flag-

waving musical. R’s for Mrs. Ratsey, who taught me this pretty song; A

pipe blows a big bubble. S stands for the Speech, which Mummy learns to

say; A man holds another man upside down by the ankles and makes all of

his pocket money fall out. T doth stand for Taxes, which the people

ought to pay; A three-headed dog guards a door marked 'UNION'. U’s for

the Union Work-house, which horrid paupers shun; A coin with Victoria's

profile. V is for Victoria, “the Bess of forty-one;” A skelton in

military uniform lights a cannon and wields a sword. W stands for War,

the “noble game” which Monarchs play; A man pours liquid from a watering

can marked XXX into the waiting mouth of a flower. X is for the Treble

X—Lilly drank three times a day; A woman on a dias is surrounded by

applauding courtiers. And Y Z’s for the Wise Heads, who admire all I

say. [pg 63] THE GENTLEMAN’S OWN BOOK. A COMPLETE ENCYCLOPÆDIA OF ALL

THE REQUISITES, DECORATIVE, EDUCATIONAL, AND RECREATIVE, FOR GENTILITY.

INTRODUCTION. A popular encyclopædia of the requisites for gentility—a

companion to the toilet, the salons, the Queen’s Bench, the streets, and

the police-stations, has long been felt to be a desideratum by every one

aspiring to good-breeding. The few works which treat on the subject have

all become as obselete as “hot cockles” and “crambo.” “The geste of King

Horne,” the “??S??????” of King Jamie, “Peacham’s Complete Gentleman,”

“The Poesye of princelye Practice,” “Dame Juliana Berners’ Book of St.

Alban’s,” and “The Jewel for Gentrie,” are now confined to bibliopoles

and bookstalls. Even more modern productions have shared the same fate.

“The Whole Duty of Man” has long been consigned to the trunk-maker,

“Chesterfield’s Letters” are now dead letters, and the “Young Man”

lights his cigar with his “Best Companion.” It is true, that in lieu of

these, several works have emanated from the press, adapted to the change

of manners, and consequently admirably calculated to supply their

places. We need only instance “The Flash Dictionary,” “The Book of

Etiquette,” “A Guide to the Kens and Cribs of London,” “The whole Art of

Tying the Cravat,” and “The Hand-book of Boxing;” but it remains for us

to remove the disadvantages which attend the acquirement of each of

these noble arts and sciences in a detached form.

The possessor of an inquiring and genteel mind has now to wander for his

politeness to Paternoster-row22. “Book of Etiquette.” Longman and Co.;

to Pierce Egan, for his knowledge of men and manners; and to Owen Swift,

for his knightly accomplishments, and exercises of chivalry.

We undertake to collect and condense these scattered radii into one

brilliant focus, so that a gentleman, by reading his “own book,” may be

made acquainted with the best means of ornamenting his own, or

disfiguring a policeman’s, person—how to conduct himself at the dinner-

table, or at the bar of Bow-street—how to turn a compliment to a lady,

or carry on a chaff with a cabman.

These are high and noble objects! A wider field for social elevation

cannot well be imagined. Our plan embraces the enlightenment and

refinement of every scion of a noble house, and all the junior clerks in

the government offices—from the happy recipient of an allowance of 50£

per month from “the Governor,” to the dashing acceptor of a salary of

thirty shillings a week from a highly-respectable house in the City—from

the gentleman who occupies a suite of apartments in the Clarendon, to

the lodger in the three-pair back, in an excessively back street at

Somers Town.

With these incentives, we will proceed at once to our great and glorious

task, confident that our exertions will be appreciated, and obtain for

us an introduction into the best circles.

PRELUDE. We trust that our polite readers will commence the perusal of

our pages with a pleasure equal to that which we feel in sitting down to

write them; for they call up welcome recollections of those days (we are

literary and seedy now!) when our coats emanated from the laboratory of

Stultz, our pantaloons from Buckmaster, and our boots from Hoby, whilst

our glossy beaver—now, alas! supplanted by a rusty goss—was fabricated

by no less a thatcher than the illustrious Moore. They will remind us of

our Coryphean conquests at the Opera—our triumphs in Rotten row—our

dinners at Long’s and the Clarendon—our nights at Offley’s and the

watch-house—our glorious runs with the Beaufort hounds, and our

exhilarating runs from the sheriffs’ officers—our month’s sporting on

the heathery moors, and our day rule when rusticating in the Bench!

We are in “the sear and yellow leaf”—there is nothing green about us

now! We have put down our seasoned hunter, and have mounted the winged

Pegasus. The brilliant Burgundy and sparkling Hock no longer mantle in

our glass; but Barclay’s beer—nectar of gods and coalheavers—mixed with

hippocrene—the Muses’ “cold without”—is at present our only beverage.

The grouse are by us undisturbed in their bloomy mountain covert. We are

now content to climb Parnassus and our garret stairs. The Albany, that

sanctuary of erring bachelors, with its guardian beadle, are to us but

memories, for we have become the denizens of a roomy attic (ring the top

bell twice), and are only saluted by an Hebe of all-work and our

printer’s devil!

ON DRESS IN GENERAL.—L’habit fait le moine.—It has been laid down by

Brummel, Bulwer, and other great authorities, that “the tailor makes the

man;” and he would be the most daring of sceptics who would endeavour to

controvert this axiom. Your first duty, therefore, is to place yourself

in the hands of some distinguished schneider, and from him take out your

patent of gentility—for a man with an “elegant coat” to his back is like

a bill at sight endorsed with a good name; whilst a seedy or ill-cut

garment resembles a protested note of hand labelled “No effects.” It

will also be necessary for you to consult “The Monthly Book of

Fashions,” and to imitate, as closely as possible, those elegant and

artistical productions of the gifted burin, which show to perfection

“What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in

faculties!” &c.—You must not consult your own ease and taste (if you

have any), for nothing is so vulgar as to suit your convenience in these

matters, as you should remember that you dress to please others, and not

yourself. We have heard of some eccentric individuals connected with

noble families, who have departed from this rule; but they invariably

paid the penalty of their rashness, being frequently mistaken for men of

intellect; and it should not be forgotten, that any exercise of the mind

is a species of labour utterly incompatible with the perfect man of

fashion.

The confiding characters of tailors being generally acknowledged, it is

almost needless to state, that the faintest indication of seediness will

be fatal to your reputation; and as a presentation at the Insolvent

Court is equally fashionable with that of St. James, any squeamishness

respecting your inability to pay could only be looked upon as a want of

moral courage upon your part, and

A nicely dressed man passes by a scarecrow. UTTERLY UNWORTHY OF A

GENTLEMAN.

[The subject of dress in particular will form the subject of our next

chapter.]

IF I HAD A THOUSAND A-YEAR. A BACHELOR’S LYRIC. If I had a thousand a-

year,

(How my heart at the bright vision glows!)

I should never be crusty or queer,

But all would be couleur de rose.

I’d pay all my debts, though outré,

And of duns and embarrassments clear,

Life would pass like a bright summer day,

If I had a thousand a-year.

I’d have such a spicy turn-out,

And a horse of such mettle and breed—

Whose points not a jockey should doubt,

When I put him at top of his speed.

On the foot-board, behind me to swing,

A tiger so small should appear,

All the nobs should protest “’twas the thing!”

If I had a thousand a-year.

A villa I’d have near the Park,

From Town just an appetite-ride;

With fairy-like grounds, and a bark

O’er its miniature waters to glide.

There oft, ’neath the pale twilight star,

Or the moonlight unruffled and clear,

My meerschaum I’d smoke, or cigar,

If I had a thousand a-year.

I’d have pictures and statues, with taste—

Such as ladies unblushing might view—

In my drawing and dining-rooms placed,

With many a gem of virtù.

My study should be an affair

The heart of a book-worm to cheer—

All compact, with its easy spring chair,

If I had a thousand a-year.

A cellar I’d have quite complete

With wines, so recherché, well stored;

And jovial guests often should meet

Round my social and well-garnish’d board.

But I would have a favourite few,

To my heart and my friendship more dear;

And I’d marry—I mustn’t tell who—

If I had a thousand a-year.

With comforts so many, what more

Could I ask of kind Fortune to grant?

Humph! a few olive branches—say four—

As pets for my old maiden aunt.

Then, with health, there’d be nought to append.

To perfect my happiness here;

For the utile et duloc would blend.

If I had a thousand a-year.

[pg 64] MY UNCLE BUCKET. The Buckets are a large family! I am one of

them—my uncle Job Bucket is another. We, the Buckets, are atoms of

creation; yet we, the Buckets, are living types of the immensity of the

world’s inhabitants. We illustrate their ups and downs—their fulness and

their emptiness—their risings and their falling—and all the several

goods and ills, the world’s denizens in general, and Buckets in

particular, are undoubted heirs to.

It hath ever been the fate of the fulness of one Bucket to guarantee the

emptiness of another; and (mark the moral!) the rising Bucket is the

richly-stored one; its sinking brother’s attributes, like Gratiano’s

wit, being “an infinite deal of nothing.” Hence the adoption of our name

for the wooden utensils that have so aptly fished up this fact from the

deep well of truth.

There be certain rods that attract the lightning. We are inclined to

think there be certain Buckets that invite kicking, and our uncle Job

was one of them. He was birched at school for everybody but himself, for

he never deserved it! He was plucked at college—because some practical

joker placed a utensil, bearing his name, outside the door of the

examining master, and our uncle Job Bucket being unfortunately present,

laughed at the consequent abrasion of his, the examining master’s,

shins. He was called to the bar. His first case was, “Jane Smith versus

James Smith” (no relations). His client was the female. She had been

violently assaulted. He mistook the initial—pleaded warmly for the

opposing Smith, and glowingly described the disgraceful conduct of the

veriest virago a legal adviser ever had the pain of speaking of. The

verdict was, as he thought, on his side. The lady favoured him with a

living evidence of all the attributes he was pleased to invent for her

benefit, and left him with a proof impression of her nails upon his

face, carrying with her, by way of souvenir, an ample portion of the

skin thereof. Had the condensed heels of all the horses whose

subscription hairs were wrought into his wig, with one united effort

presented him with a kick in his abdominals, he could not have been more

completely “knocked out of time” than he was by the mistake of those

cursed initials. “What about Smith?” sent him out of court! At length he

“Cursed the bar, and declined.”

He next turned his attention to building. Things went on swimmingly

during the erection—so did the houses when built. The proprietorship of

the ground was disputed—our uncle Job had paid the wrong person. The

buildings were knocked down (by Mr. Robins), and the individual who had

benefited by the suppositionary ownership of the acres let on the

building lease “bought the lot,” and sent uncle Job a peculiarly well-

worded legal notice, intimating, “his respectable presence would, for

the future, approximate to a nuisance and trespass, and he (Job) would

be proceeded against as the statutes directed, if guilty of the same.”

It is impossible to follow him through all his various strivings to do

well: he commenced a small-beer brewery, and the thunder turned it all

into vinegar; he tried vinegar, and nothing on earth could make it sour;

he opened a milk-walk, and the parish pump failed; he invented a

waterproof composition—there was fourteen weeks of drought; he sold his

patent for two-and-sixpence, and had the satisfaction of walking home

for the next three months wet through, from his gossamer to his ci-

devant Wellingtons, now literally, from their hydraulic powers, “pumps.”

He lost everything but his heart! And uncle Bucket was all heart! a red

cabbage couldn’t exceed it in size, and, like that, it seemed naturally

predestined to be everlastingly in a pickle! Still it was a heart! You

were welcomed to his venison when he had it—his present saveloy was

equally at your service. He must have been remarkably attached to

facetious elderly poultry of the masculine gender, as his invariable

salute to the tenants of his “heart’s core” was, “How are you, my jolly

old cock?” Coats became threadbare, and defunct trousers vanished;

waistcoats were never replaced; gossamers floated down the tide of Time;

boots, deprived of all hope of future renovation by the loss of their

soles, mouldered in obscurity; but the clear voice and chuckling salute

were changeless as the statutes of the Medes and Persians, the price and

size of penny tarts, or the accumulating six-and-eightpences gracing a

lawyer’s bill.

Poor uncle Job Bucket’s fortune had driven “him down the rough tide of

power,” when first and last we met; all was blighted save the royal

heart; and yet, with shame we own the truth, we blushed to meet him.

Why? ay, why? We own the weakness!—the heart, the goodly heart, was

almost cased in rags!

“Puppy!”

Right, reader, right; we were a puppy. Lash on, we richly deserve it!

but, consider the fearful influence of worn-out cloth! Can a long series

of unchanging kindness balance patched elbows? are not cracked boots

receipts in full for hours of anxious love and care? does not the

kindness of a life fade “like the baseless fabric of a vision” before

the withering touch of poverty’s stern stamp? Have you ever felt—

“Eh? what? No—stuff! Yes, yes—go on, go on.”

We will!—we blushed for our uncle’s coat! His heart, God bless it, never

caused a blush on the cheek of man, woman, child, or even angel, to rise

for that. We will confess. Let’s see, we are sixty now (we don’t look so

much, but we are sixty). Well, be it so. We were handsome once—is this

vanity at sixty? if so, our grey hairs are a hatchment for the past. We

were “swells once!—hurrah!—we were!” Stop, this is indecent—let us be

calm—our action was like the proceeding of the denuder of well-sustained

and thriving pigs, he who deprives them of their extreme obesive

selvage—vulgo, “we cut it fat.” Bond-street was cherished by our smile,

and Ranelagh was rendered happy by the exhibition of our symmetry.

Behold us hessianed in our haunts, touching the tips of well-gloved

fingers to our passing friends; then fancy the opening and shutting of

our back, just as Lord Adolphus Nutmeg claimed the affinity of “kid to

kid,” to find our other hand close prisoner made by our uncle Bucket.

“How are you, old cock?”

“Who’s that, eh?”

“A lunatic, my lord (what lies men tell!), and dangerous!”

“Good day! [Exit my lord]. This way.” We followed our uncle—the end of a

blind alley gave us a resting-place.

“Bravo!” exclaimed our uncle Bucket, “this is rare! I live here—dine

with me!”

A mob surrounded us—we acquiesced, in hopes to reach a place of shelter.

“All right!” exclaimed he of the maternal side, “stand three-halfpence

for your feed.”

We shelled the necessary out—he dived into a baker’s shop—the mob

increased—he hailed us from the door.

“Thank God, this is your house, then.”

“Only my kitchen. Lend a hand!”

A dish of steaming baked potatoes, surmounted by a fractional rib of

consumptive beef, was deposited between the lemon-coloured receptacles

of our thumbs and fingers—an outcry was raised at the court’s end—we

were almost mad.

“Turn to the right—three-pair back—cut away while it’s warm, and make

yourself at home! I’ll come with the beer!”

We wished our I had been in that bier! We rushed out—the gravy basted

our pants, and greased our hessians! Lord Adolphus Nutmeg appeared at

the entrance of the court. As we proceeded to our announced

destination,—“Great God!” exclaimed his lordship, “the Bedlamite has

bitten him!” A peal of laughter rang in our ears—we rushed into the

wrong room, and our uncle Job Bucket picked us, the shattered dish, the

reeking potatoes, and dislodged beef, from the inmost recesses of a

wicker-cradle, where, spite the thumps and entreaties of a distracted

parent, we were all engaged in overlaying a couple of remarkably

promising twins! We can say no more on this frightful subject. But—

“Once again we met!”

Our pride wanted cutting, and fate appeared determined to perform the

operation with a jagged saw!

Tom Racket died! His disease was infectious, and we had been the last

person to call upon him, consequently we were mournful. Thick-coming

fancies brooded in our brain—all things conspired against us; the day

was damp and wretched—the church-bells emulated each other in announcing

the mortalities of earth’s bipeds—each toll’d its tale of death. We

thought upon our “absent friend.” A funeral approached. We were still

more gloomy. Could it be his? if so, what were his thoughts? Could

ghosts but speak, what would he say? The coffin was coeval with

us—sheets were rubicund compared to our cheeks. A low deep voice sounded

from its very bowels—the words were addressed to us—they were, “Take no

notice; it’s the first time; it will soon be over!”

“Will it?” we groaned.

“Yes. I’m glad you know me. I’ll tell you more when I come back.”

“Gracious powers! do you expect to return?”

“Certainly! We’ll have a screw together yet! There’s room for us both in

my place. I’ll make you comfortable.”

The cold perspiration streamed from us. Was there ever anything so

awful! Here was an unhappy subject threatening to call and see us at

night, and then screw us down and make us comfortable.

“Will you come?” exclaimed the dead again.

“Never!” we vociferated with fearful energy.

“Then let it alone; I didn’t think you’d have cut me now; but wait till

I show you my face.”

Horror of horrors!—the pall moved—a long white face peered from it. We

gasped for breath, and only felt new life when we recognised our uncle

Job Bucket, as the author of the conversation, and one of the bearers of

the coffin! He had turned mute!—but that was a failure—no one ever died

in his parish after his adopting that profession!

He has been seen once since in the backwoods of America. His fate seemed

still to follow him, and his good temper appeared immortal—his situation

was more peculiar than pleasant. He was seated on a log, three hundred

miles from any civilised habitation, smiling blandly at a broken axe

(his only one), the half of which was tightly grasped in his right hand,

pointing to the truant iron in the trunk of a huge tree, the first of a

thriving forest of fifty acres he purposed felling; and, thus occupied,

a solitary traveller passed our uncle Job Bucket, serene as the melting

sunshine, and thoughtless as the wild insect that sported round the

owner “of the lightest of light hearts.”—PEACE BE WITH HIM.

FUSBOS.