IMPORTANT DISCOVERY. A gentleman of the name of Stuckey has discovered a

new filtering process, by which “a stream from a most impure source may

be rendered perfectly translucent and fit for all purposes.” In the name

of our rights and liberties! in the name of Judy and our country! we

call upon the proper authorities to have this invaluable apparatus

erected in the lobby of the House of Commons, and so, by compelling

every member to submit to the operation of filtration, cleanse the house

from its present accumulation of corruption, though we defy Stuckey

himself to give it brightness.

A THING UNFIT TO A(P)PEAR. New honours heaped on roué Segrave’s name!

A cuckold’s horn is then the trump of fame.

[pg 65] FINE ARTS. EXTERNAL EXHIBITIONS. Under this head it is our

intention, from time to time, to revert to numberless free exhibitions,

which, in this advancement-of-education age, have been magnanimously

founded with a desire to inculcate a knowledge of, and disseminate, by

these liberal means, an increased taste for the arts in this vast

metropolis. We commence not with any feelings of favouritism, nor in any

order of ability, our pleasures being too numerously divided to be able

to settle as to which ought to be No. 1, but because it is necessary to

commence—consequently we would wish to settle down in company with the

amiable reader in front of a tobacconist’s shop in the Regent Circus,

Piccadilly; and as the principal attractions glare upon the astonishment

of the spectators from the south window, it is there in imagination that

we are irresistibly fixed. Before we dilate upon the delicious

peculiarities of the exhibition, we deem it absolutely a matter of

justice to the noble-hearted patriot who, imitative of the Greeks and

Athenians of old, who gave the porticoes of their public buildings, and

other convenient spots, for the display of their artists’ productions,

has most generously appropriated the chief space of his shop front to

the use and advantage of the painter, and has thus set a bright example

to the high-minded havannah merchants and contractors for cubas and

c’naster, which we trust will not be suffered to pass unobserved by

them.

The principal feature, or, rather mass of features, which enchain the

beholder, is a whole-length portrait of a gentleman (par excellence)

seated in a luxuriating, Whitechapel style of ease, the envy, we venture

to affirm, of every omnibus cad and coachman, whose loiterings near this

spot afford them occasional peeps at him. He is most decidedly the

greatest cigar in the shop—not only the mildest, if his countenance

deceive us not, but evidently the most full-flavoured. The artist has,

moreover, by some extraordinary adaptation or strange coincidence, made

him typical of the locality—we allude to the Bull-and-Mouth—seated at a

table evidently made and garnished for the article. The said gentleman

herein depicted is in the act of drinking his own health, or that of

“all absent friends,” probably coupling with it some little compliment

to a favourite dog, one of the true Regent-street-and-pink-ribbon breed,

who appears to be paying suitable attention. A huge pine-apple on the

table, and a champagne cork or two upon the ground, contribute a gallant

air of reckless expenditure to this spirited work. In reference to the

artistic qualities, it gives us immoderate satisfaction to state that

the whole is conceived and executed with that characteristic attention

so observable in the works of this master333. We have forgotten the

artist’s name—perhaps never knew it; but we believe it is the same

gentleman who painted the great author of “Jack Sheppard.”, and that the

fruit-knife, fork, cork-screw, decanter, and chiaro-scuro (as the critic

of the Art Union would have it), are truly excellent. The only drawback

upon the originality of the subject is the handkerchief on the knee,

which (although painted as vigorously as any other portion of the

picture) we do not strictly approve of, inasmuch as it may, with the

utmost impartiality, be assumed as an imitation of Sir Thomas Lawrence’s

portrait of George the Fourth; nevertheless, we in part excuse this,

from the known difficulty attendant upon the representation of a

gentleman seated in enjoyment, and parading his bandana, without

associating it with a veritable footman, who, upon the occasion of his

“Sunday out,” may, perchance, be seen in one of the front lower

tenements in Belgrave-square, or some such locale, paying violent

attentions to the housemaid, and the hot toast, decorated with the order

of the handkerchief, to preserve his crimson plush in all its glowing

purity. We cannot take leave of this interesting work without declaring

our opinion that the composition (of the frame) is highly creditable.

Placed on the right of the last-mentioned work of art, is a

representation of a young lady, as seen when presenting a full-blown

flower to a favourite parrot. There is a delicate simplicity in the

attitude and expression of the damsel, which, though you fail to

discover the like in the tortuous figures of Taglioni or Cerito, we have

often observed in the conduct of ladies many years in the seniority of

the one under notice, who, ever mindful of the idol of their thoughts

and affections—a feline companion—may be seen carrying a precious

morsel, safely skewered, in advance of them; this gentleness the artist

has been careful to retain to eminent success. We are, nevertheless,

woefully at a loss to divine what the allegory can possibly be (for as

such we view it), what the analogy between a pretty poll and a pol-

yanthus. We are unlearned in the language of flowers, or, perhaps, might

probe the mystery by a little floral discussion. We are, however,

compelled to leave it to the noble order of freemasons, and shall

therefore wait patiently an opportunity of communicating with his Royal

Highness the Duke of Sussex. In the meantime we shall not he silent upon

the remaining qualities of the work as a general whole—the young

lady—the parrot—the polyanthus, and the chiaro-scuro, are as excellent

as usual in this our most amusing painter’s productions.

As a pendant to this, we are favoured with the portrait of a young

gentleman upon a half-holiday—and, equipped with cricket means, his

dexter-hand grasps his favourite bat, whilst the left arm gracefully

encircles a hat, in which is seductively shown a genuine “Duke.” The

sentiment of this picture is unparalleled, and to the young hero of any

parish eleven is given a stern expression of Lord’s Marylebone ground.

We can already (aided by perspective and imagination) see him before a

future generation of cricketers, “shoulder his bat, and show how games

were won.” The bat is well drawn and coloured with much truth, and with

that strict observance of harmony which is so characteristic of the

excellences of art. The artist has felicitously blended the tone and

character of the bat with that of the young gentleman’s head. As to the

ball, we do not recollect ever to have seen one in the works of any of

the old masters so true to nature. In conclusion, the buttons on the

jacket, and the button-holes, companions thereto, would baffle the

criticism of the most hyper-fastidious stab-rag; and the shirt collar,

with every other detail—never forgetting the chiaro-scuro—are equal to

any of the preceding.

CURIOUS COINCIDENCE. We had prepared an announcement of certain

theatricals extraordinary, with which we had intended to favour the

public, when the following bill reached us. We feel that its contents

partake so strongly of what we had heretofore conceived the exclusive

character of PUNCH, that to avoid the charge of plagiarism, as well as

to prevent any confusion of interests, we have resolved to give

insertion to both.

As PUNCH is above all petty rivalry, we accord our collaborateurs the

preference.

Red Lion Court, Fleet Street.

SIR,—Allow me to solicit your kindness so far, as to give publicity to

this bill, by placing it in some conspicuous part of your Establishment.

The success of the undertaking will prove so advantageous to the public

at large, that I fear not your compliance in so good a cause.

I am, Sir, your’s very obediently, C. MITCHELL

VIVANT REGINA ET PRINCEPS. THEATRE ROYAL ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE,

WELLINGTON-STREET NORTH, STRAND. Conducted by the Council of the

Dramatic Authors’ Theatre, established for the full encouragement of

English Living Dramatists.

ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC. The generous National feelings of the British

Public are proverbially interested in every endeavour to obtain “a Free

Stage and Fair Play.” The Council of the Dramatic Authors’ Theatre seek

to achieve both, for every English Living Dramatist. Compelled, by the

state of the Law, to present on the Stage a high Tragic Composition IN

AN IRREGULAR FORM (in effecting which, nevertheless, regard has been had

to those elements of human nature, which must constitute the essential

principles of every genuine Dramatic Production), they hope for such

kind consideration as may be due to a work brought forward in obedient

accordance with the regulations of Acts of Parliament, though labouring

thereby under some consequent difficulties; the Law for the Small

Theatres Royal, and the Law for the Large Theatres Royal, not being one

and the same Law. If, by these efforts, a beneficial alteration in such

Law, which presses so fatally on Dramatic Genius, and which militates

against the revival of the highest class of Drama, should be effected,

they feel assured that the Public will Participate in their Triumph.

On THURSDAY, the 26th of AUGUST, will be presented, for the First Time,

(Interspersed with Songs and Music).

MARTINUZZI. BY GEORGE STEPHENS, ESQ. Taken by him from his “magnificent”

Dramatic Poem, entitled, The Hungarian Daughter.

The Solos, Duets, Chorusses, and every other Musical arrangement the Law

may require, by Mr. DAVID LEE.

The following Opinions of the Press on the Actable qualities of the

Dramatic Poem, are selected from a vast mass of similar notices.

“Worthy of the Stage in its best days.”—The Courier.

“Effective situations; if well acted, it could not fail of success.”—New

Bell’s Messenger.

“The mantle of the Elizabethan Poets seems to have fallen on Mr.

Stephens, for we have scarcely ever met with, in the works of modern

dramatists, the truthful delineations of human passion, the chaste and

splendid imagery, and continuous strain of fine poetry to be found in

The Hungarian Daughter.”—Cambridge Journal.

“Equal to Goethe. All is impassioned and effective. The Poet has availed

himself of every tragic point, and brought together every element; nor,

with the exception, of Mr. Knowles’s Love, has there been a single

Drama, within the last four years, presented on the Stage at all

comparable.—Monthly Magazine.

After which will be performed, also for the First Time, An Original

Entertainment in One Act, Entitled

THE CLOAK AND THE BONNET! By the Author of Jacob Faithful, Peter Simple,

&c. &c.

No Orders admitted.—No Free List, the Public Press excepted.

Now for our penny trumpet.

THEATRICALS EXTRAORDINARY. READER,—Allow us to solicit your kindness so

far as to give publicity to the following announcement, by buying up and

distributing among your friends the whole of the unsold copies of this

number. The success of this undertaking will prove so advantageous to

the public at large, and of so little benefit to ourselves, that we fear

not your compliance in so good a cause.

Yours obediently, PUNCH.

VIVANT KANT ET TOMFOOLERIE. THEATRE ROYAL PERIPATETIC, WELLINGTON-STREET

SOUTH, STRAND. Conducted by the Council of the Fanatic Association

established for the full encouragement of Timber Actors and Wooden-

headed Dramatists.

ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC; OR, PUNCH BLOWING HIS OWN TRUMPET, The general

National feelings of the British Public are proverbially interested in

every endeavour to obtain “a blind alley, and no Fantoccini.” Compelled

by the New Police Act to move on, and so present our high tragic

composition by small instalments (in effecting which, nevertheless,

regard has been had—This parenthesis to be continued in our next), we

hope for such kind consideration as may be due, when it is remembered

that the law for the out-door PUNCH and the law for the in-door PUNCH is

not one and the same law. Oh, law!

On SATURDAY, the 28th of AUGUST, will be presented,

(Interspersed with Drum and Mouth Organ),

PUNCHINUZZI, BY EGO SCRIBLERUS, ESQ. Taken from his “magnificent”

Dramatic Poem, entitled, “PUNCH NUTS UPON HIMSELF.”

The following Opinions on the Actable qualities of Punchinuzzi, are

selected from a vast mass of similar notices.

“This ere play ‘ud draw at ony fare.”—The late Mr. Richardson.

“This happy poetic drama would be certain to command crowded and elegant

courts.”—La Belle Assemblée.

“We have read Punchinuzzi, and we fearlessly declare that the mantle of

that metropolitan bard, the late Mr. William Waters, has descended upon

the gifted author.”—Observer.

“Worthy of the streets in their best days.”—Fudge.

No Orders! No Free List! No Money!!.

[pg 66] THE WHIGS’ LAST DYING SPEECH, AS DELIVERED BY THE QUEEN It is

with no common pride that PUNCH avails himself of the opportunity

presented to him, from sources exclusively his own, of laying before his

readers a copy of the original draft of the Speech decided upon at a

late Cabinet Council. There is a novelty about it which pre-eminently

distinguishes it from all preceding orations from the throne or the

woolsack, for it has a purpose, and evinces much kind consideration on

the part of the Sovereign, in rendering this monody on departed Whiggism

as grateful as possible to its surviving friends and admirers.

There is much of the eulogistic fervour of George Robins, combined with

the rich poetic feeling of Mechi, running throughout the oration.

Indeed, it remained for the Whigs to add this crowning triumph to their

policy; for who but Melbourne and Co. would have conceived the happy

idea of converting the mouth of the monarch into an organ for puffing,

and transforming Majesty itself into a National Advertiser?

THE QUEEN’S SPEECH. MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN,

I have the satisfaction to inform you, that, through the invaluable

policy of my present talented and highly disinterested advisers, I

continue to receive from foreign powers assurances of their amicable

disposition towards, and unbounded respect for, my elegant and

enlightened Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and of their earnest

desire to remain on terms of friendship with the rest of my gifted,

liberal, and amiable Cabinet.

The posture of affairs in China is certainly not of the most pacific

character, but I have the assurance of my infallible Privy Council, and

of that profound statesman my Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, in

particular, that the present disagreement arises entirely from the

barbarous character of the Chinese, and their determined opposition to

the progress of temperance in this happy country.

I have also the satisfaction to inform you, that, by the acute

diplomatic skill of my never-to-be-sufficiently-eulogised Secretary of

State for Foreign Affairs, that, after innumerable and complicated

negotiations, he has at length succeeded in seducing his Majesty the

King of the French to render to England the tardy justice of

commemorating, by a fête and inauguration at Boulogne, the

disinclination of the French, at a former period, to invade the British

dominions.

GENTLEMEN OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS,

I have directed the estimates for the next fortnight to be laid before

you, which, I am happy to inform you, will be amply sufficient for the

exigencies of my present disinterested advisers.

The unequalled fiscal and arithmetical talents of my Chancellor of the

Exchequer have, by the most rigid economy, succeeded in reducing the

revenue very considerably below the actual expenditure of the state.

MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN,

Measures will be speedily submitted to you for carrying out the

admirable plans of my Secretary of State for the Colonial Department,

and the brilliant author of “Don Carlos,” for the prevention of apoplexy

among paupers, and the reduction of the present extravagant dietary of

the Unions.

I have the gratification to announce that a commission is in progress,

by which it is proposed by my non-patronage Ministers to call into

requisition the talents of several literary gentlemen—all intimate

friends or relations of my deeply erudite and profoundly philosophic

Secretary of State for the Home Department, and author of “Yes and No,”

(three vols. Colburn) for the purpose of extending the knowledge of

reading and writing, and the encouragement of circulating libraries all

over the kingdom.

My consistent and uncompromising Secretary of State for the Colonies,

having, since the publication of his spirited “Essays by a gentleman who

has lately left his lodgings,” totally changed his opinions on the

subject of the Corn Laws, a measure is in the course of preparation with

a view to the repeal of those laws, and the continuance in office of my

invaluable, tenacious, and incomparable ministry.

CAUTION.—We have just heard from a friend in Somerset House, that it is

the intention of the Commissioners of Stamps, from the glaring puffs

embodied in the above speech, to proceed for the advertisement duty

against all newspapers in which it is inserted. For ourselves, we will

cheerfully pay.

A German, resident in New York, has such a remarkably hard name, that he

spoils a gross of steel pens indorsing a bill.

A NEW VERSION OF BELSHAZZAR’S FEAST. A slender man tries to get out of a

chair while his boots run away. OLD GLORY’S WHIG TOP-BOOTS REFUSING TO

CARRY HIM TO THE DINNER TO CAPTAIN ROUS.

Such, we are credibly assured, was the determination of these liberal

and enlightened leathers. They had heard frequent whispers of a general

indisposition on the part of all lovers of consistency to stand in their

master’s shoes, and taking the insult to themselves, they lately came to

the resolution of cutting the connexion. They felt that his liberality

and his boots were all that constituted the idea of Burdett; and now

that he had forsaken his old party and joined Peel’s, the “tops”

magnanimously decided to forsake him, and force him to take

to—Wellingtons. We have been favoured with a report of the conversation

that took place upon the occasion, and may perhaps indulge our readers

with a copy of it next week.

In the mean time, we beg to subjoin a few lines, suggested by the

circumstance of Burdett taking the chair at Rous’s feast, which strongly

remind us of Byron’s Vision of Belshazzar.

Burdett was in the chair—

The Tories throng’d the hall—

A thousand lamps were there,

O’er that mad festival.

His crystal cup contain’d

The grape-blood of the Rhine;

Draught after draught he drain’d,

To drown his thoughts in wine.

In that same hour and hall

A shade like “Glory” came,

And wrote upon the wall

The records of his shame.

And at its fingers traced

The words, as with a wand,

The traitorous and debased

Upraised his palsied hand.

And in his chair he shook,

And could no more rejoice;

All bloodless wax’d his look,

And tremulous his voice.

“What words are those appear,

To mar my fancied mirth!

What bringeth ‘Glory’ here

To tell of faded worth?”

“False renegade! thy name

Was once the star which led

The free; but, oh! what shame

Encircles now thine head!

Thou’rt in the balance weigh’d,

And worthless found at last.

All! all! thou hast betray’d!”—

And so the spirit pass’d.

[pg 67] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. VI. A man in a tophat mesmerises a lion

seated in a throne while a ghost and a crowd of people watch. ANIMAL

MAGNETISM: SIR RHUBARB PILL MESMERISING THE BRITISH LION.

[pg 69] SUPREME COURT OF THE LORD HIGH INQUISITOR PUNCH. PAT V. THE WHIG

JUSTICE COMPANY. This is a cause of thorough orthodox equity standing,

having commenced before the time of legal memory, with every prospect of

obtaining a final decree on its merits somewhere about the next Greek

Kalends. In the present term,

COUNSELLOR BAYWIG moved, on the part of the plaintiff, who sues in formâ

pauperis, for an injunction to restrain the Whig Justice Company from

setting a hungry Scotchman—one of their own creatures, without local or

professional knowledge—over the lands of which the plaintiff is the

legal, though unfortunately not the beneficial owner, as keeper and head

manager thereof, to the gross wrong of the tenants, the depreciation of

the lands themselves, the further reduction of the funds standing in the

name of the cause, the insult to the feelings and the disregard of the

rights of gentlemen living on the estate, and perfectly acquainted with

its management; and finally, to an unblushing and barefaced denial of

justice to all parties. The learned counsel proceeded to state, that the

company, in order to make an excuse for thus saddling the impoverished

estates with an additional incubus, had committed a double wrong, by

forcing from the office a man eminently qualified to discharge its

functions—who had lived and grown white with honourable years in the

actual discharge of these functions—and by thrusting into his place

their own needy retainer, who, instead of being the propounder of the

laws which govern the estates, would be merely the apprentice to learn

them; and this too at a time when the company was on the eve of

bankruptcy, and when the possession which they had usurped so long was

about to pass into the hands of their official assignees.

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—What authorities can you cite for this

application?

COUNSELLOR BAYWIG.—My lord, I fear the cases are, on the whole, rather

adverse to us. Men have, undoubtedly, been chosen to administer the laws

of this fine estate, and to guard it from waste, who have studied its

customs, been thoroughly learned in its statistics, and interested, by

blood and connexion, in its prosperity; but this number is very small.

However, when injustice of the most grievous kind is manifest, it should

not be continued merely because it is the custom, or because it is an

“old institution of the country.”

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—I am quite astonished at your broaching such

abominable doctrines here, sir. You a lawyer, and yet talk of justice in

a Court of Equity! By Bacon, Blackstone, and Eldon, ‘tis marvellous! Mr.

Baywig, if you proceed, I shall feel it my duty to commit you for a

contempt of court.

COUNSELLOR BAYWIG.—My lord, in that case I decline the honour of

addressing your lordship further; but certainly my poor client is

wronged in his land, in himself, and in his kindred. It is shocking

personal insult added to terrible pecuniary punishment.

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—Serve him right! We dismiss the application with

costs.

THE ADVANTAGES OF STYLE. Some of the uninitiated in the art and mystery

of book-making conceive the chief tax must be upon the compiler’s brain.

We give the following as a direct proof to the contrary—one that has the

authority of Lord Hamlet, who summed the matter up in three

“Words! Words! Words!”

In one column we give a common-place household and familiar term—in the

other we render it into the true Bulwerian phraseology:

Does your mother know you are out? Is your maternal parent’s natural

solicitude allayed by the information, that you have for the present

vacated your domestic roof? You don’t lodge here, Mr. Ferguson. You are

geographically and statistically misinformed; this is by no means the

accustomed place of your occupancy, Mr. Ferguson. See! there he goes

with his eye out. Behold! he proceeds totally deprived of one moiety of

his visual organs! Don’t you wish you may get it? Pray confess, are you

not really particularly anxious to obtain the desired object? More

t’other. Infinitely, peculiarly, and most intensely the entire extreme

and the absolute reverse. Quite different. Dissimilar as the far-

extended poles, or the deep-tinctured ebon skins of the dark denizens of

Sol’s sultry plains and the fair rivals of descending flakes of virgin

snow, melting with envy on the peerless breast of fair Circassia’s ten-

fold white-washed daughters. Over the left. Decidedly in the ascendant

of the sinister. From the nobleman who is selected to move the address

in the House of Lords, it would seem that the Whigs, tired of any

further experiments in turning their coats, are about to try what effect

they can produce with an old Spencer.

As the weather is to decide the question of the corn-laws, the rains

that have lately fallen may be called, with truth, the reins of

government.

SPORTING IN DOWNING STREET. “COME OUT—WILL YOU!” The extraordinary

attachment which the Whigs have displayed for office has been almost

without parallel in the history of ministerial fidelity. Zoologists talk

of the local affection of cats, but in what animal shall we discover

such a strong love of place as in the present government? Lord John is a

very badger in the courageous manner in which he has resisted the

repeated attacks of the Tory terriers. The odds, however, are too great

for even his powers of defence; he has given some of the most forward of

the curs who have tried to drag him from his burrow some shrewd bites

and scratches that they will not forget in a hurry; but, overpowered by

numbers, he must “come out” at last, and yield the victory to his

numerous persecutors, who will, no doubt, plume themselves upon their

dexterity at drawing a badger.

PUNCH’S EXTRA DRAMATIC INTELLIGENCE (BY THE CORRESPONDENT OF THE

OBSERVER.) The dramatic world has been in a state of bustle all the

week, and parties are going about declaring—not that we put any faith in

what they say—that Macready has already given a large sum for a

manuscript. If he has done this, we think he is much to blame, unless he

has very good reasons, as he most likely has, for doing so; and if such

is the case, though we doubt the policy of the step, there can be no

question of his having acted very properly in taking it. His lease

begins in October, when, it is said, he will certainly open, if he can;

but, as he positively cannot, the reports of his opening are rather

premature, to say the least of them. For our parts, we never think of

putting any credit in what we hear, but we give everything just as it

reaches us.

THE MONEY MARKET Tin is twopence a hundredweight dearer at Hamburgh than

at Paris, which gives an exchange of 247 mille in favour of the latter

capital.

A good deal of conversation has been excited by a report of its being

intended by some parties in the City to establish a Bank of Issue upon

equitable principles. The plan is a novel one, for there is to be no

capital actually subscribed, it being expected that sufficient assets

will be derived from the depositors. Shares are to be issued, to which a

nominal price will be attached, and a dividend is to be declared

immediately.

The association for supplying London with periwinkles does not progress

very rapidly. A wharf has been taken; but nothing more has been done,

which is, we believe, caused by the difficulty found in dealing with

existing interests.

SIGNS OF THE TIMES. The Tories are coming into office, and the

Parliament House is surrounded with scaffolds!

TO BAKERS AND FISHMONGERS. Want places, in either of the above lines,

three highly practical and experienced hands, fully capable and highly

accomplished in the arduous duties of “looking after any quantity of

loaves and fishes.” A ten years’ character can be produced from their

last places, which they leave because the concern is for the present

disposed of to persons equally capable. No objection to look after the

till. Wages not so much an object as an extensive trade, the applicants

being desirous of keeping their hands in. Apply to Messrs. Russell,

Melbourne, and Palmerston, Downing-street Without.

“It is very odd,” said Sergeant Channell to Thessiger, “that Tindal

should have decided against me on that point of law which, to me, seemed

as plain as A B C.” “Yes,” replied Thessiger, “but of what use is it

that it should have been A B C to you, if the judge was determined to be

D E F to it?”

CLEVER ROGUES. The Belfast Vindicator has a story of a sailor who

pledged a sixpence for threepence, having it described on the duplicate

ticket as “a piece of silver plate of beautiful workmanship,” by which

means he disposed of the ticket for two-and-sixpence. The Tories are so

struck with this display of congenial roguery, that they intend pawning

their “BOB,” and having him described as “a rare piece of vertu(e)

première qualité” in the expectation of securing a crown by it.

MUNTZ ON THE STATE OF THE CROPS. Mr. Muntz requests us to state, in

answer to numerous inquiries as to the motives which induce him to

cultivate his beard, that he is actuated purely by a spirit of economy,

having, for the last few years, grown his own mattresses, a practice

which he earnestly recommends to the attention of all prudent and

hirsute individuals. He finds, by experience, that nine square inches of

chin will produce, on an average, about a sofa per annum. The whiskers,

if properly attended to, may be made to yield about an easy chair in the

same space of time; whilst luxuriant moustachios will give a pair of

anti-rheumatic attrition gloves every six months. Mr. M. recommends, as

the best mode of cultivation for barren soils, to plough with a cat’s-

paw, and manure with Macassar.

The Earl of Stair has been created Lord Oxenford. Theodore Hook thinks

that the more appropriate title for a Stair, in raising him a step

higher, would have been Lord Landing-place, or Viscount Bannister.

[pg 70] LORD MELBOURNE’S LETTER-BAG. The Augean task of cleansing the

Treasury has commenced, and brooms and scrubbing-brushes are at a

premium—a little anticipative, it is true, of the approaching turn-out;

but the dilatory idleness and muddle-headed confusion of those who will

soon be termed its late occupiers, rendered this a work of absolute time

and labour. That the change in office had long been expected, is evident

from the number of hoards discovered, which the unfortunate employés had

saved up against the rainy day arrived. The routing-out of this

conglomeration was only equalled in trouble by the removal of the

birdlime with which the various benches were covered, and which adhered

with most pertinacious obstinacy, in spite of every effort to get rid of

it. From one of the wicker baskets used for the purpose of receiving the

torn-up letters and documents, the following papers were extracted. We

contrived to match the pieces together, and have succeeded tolerably

well in forming some connected epistles from the disjointed fragments.

We offer no comment, but allow them to speak for themselves. They are

selected at random from dozens of others, with which the poor man must

have been overwhelmed during the past two months:—

1. MY LORD,—In the present critical state of your lordship’s situation,

it behoves every lover of his country and her friends, to endeavour to

assuage, as much as possible, the awkward predicament in which your

lordship and colleagues will soon be thrown. My dining-rooms in Broad-

street, St. Giles’s, have long been held in high estimation by my

customers, for

The rear end of a bull, with a braided tail and striped stockings. BEEF

A-LA-MODE;

and I can offer you an excellent basin of leg-of-beef soup, with bread

and potatoes, for threepence. Imitated by all, equalled by none.

N.B. Please observe the address—Broad-street, St. Giles’s.

2. A widow lady, superintendent of a boarding-house, in an airy and

cheerful part of Kentish Town, will be happy to receive Lord Melbourne

as an inmate, when an ungrateful nation shall have induced his

retirement from office. Her establishment is chiefly composed of single

ladies, addicted to backgammon, birds, and bible meetings, who would,

nevertheless, feel delighted in the society of a man of Lord Melbourne’s

acknowledged gallantry. The dinner-table is particularly well furnished,

and a rubber is generally got up every evening, at which Lord M. could

play long penny points if he wished it.

Address S.M., Post-office, Kentish Town.

3. Grosjean, Restaurateur, Castle-street, Leicester-square, a l’honneur

de prévenir Milord Melbourne qu’il se trouvera bien servi à son

établissement. Il peut commander un bon potage an choux, trois plats,

avec pain à discretion, et une pinte de demi-et-demi; enfin, il pourra

parfaitement avoir ses sacs soufflés44. French idiom—“He will be well

able to blow his bags out!”—PUNCH, with the assistance of his friend in

the show—the foreign gentleman. pour un schilling. La société est très

comme-il-faut, et on ne donne rien au garçon.

4. (Rose-coloured paper, scented. At first supposed to be from a lady of

the bedchamber, but contradicted by the sequel.)

Flattering deceiver, and man of many loves,

My fond heart still clings to your cherished memory. Why have I listened

to the honied silver of your seducing accents? Your adored image haunts

me night and day. How is the treasury?—can you still spare me ten

shillings?

YOURS, AMANDA.

5. JOHN MARVAT respectfully begs to offer to the notice of Lord

Melbourne his Bachelor’s Dispatch, or portable kitchen. It will roast,

bake, boil, stew, steam, melt butter, toast bread, and diffuse a genial

warmth at one and the same time, for the outlay of one halfpenny. It is

peculiarly suited for lamb, in any form, which requires delicate

dressing, and is admirably adapted for concocting mint-sauce, which

delightful adjunct Lord Melbourne may, ere long, find some little

difficulty in procuring.

High Holborn.

6. May it plese my Lord,—i have gest time to Rite and let you kno’ wot a

sad plite we are inn, On account off your lordship’s inwitayshun to

queen Wictory and Prince Allbut to come and Pick a bit with you, becos

There is nothink for them wen they comes, and the Kitchin-range is

chok’d up with the sut as has falln down the last fore yeers, and no

poletry but too old cox, which is two tuff to be agreerble; But, praps,

we Can git sum cold meet from the in, wot as bin left at the farmers’

markut-dinner; and may I ask you my lord without fear of your

An official-looking man nabs another. TAKING A FENCE

on the reseat of this To send down sum ham and beef to me—two pound will

be Enuff—or a quarter kitt off pickuld sammun, if you can git it, and I

wish you may; and sum german silver spoons, to complement prince Allbut

with; and, praps, as he and his missus knos they’ve come to Take pot-

luck like, they won’t be patickler, and I think we had better order the

beer from the Jerry-shop, for owr own Is rayther hard, and the brooer

says, that a fore and a harf gallon, at sixpence A gallon, won’t keep no

Time, unless it’s drunk; and so we guv some to the man as brort the

bushel of coles, and he sed It only wanted another Hop, and then it woud

have hopped into water; and John is a-going to set some trimmers in The

ditches to kitch some fish; and, praps, if yure lordship comes, you may

kitch sum too, from

Yure obedient Humbl servent and housekeeper,

MISSES RUMMIN.

7. MY LORD,—Probably your cellars will be full of choke-damp when the

door is opened, from long disuse and confined air. I have men,

accustomed to descend dangerous wells and shafts, who will undertake the

job at a moderate price. Should you labour under any temporary pecuniary

embarrassment in paying me, I shall be happy to take it out in your

wine, which I should think had been some years in bottle. Your

Lordship’s most humble servant,

RICHARD ROSE, Dealer in Marine Stores. Gray’s-inn-lane.

LAYS OF THE LAZY. I’ve wander’d on the distant shore,

I’ve braved the dangers of the deep,

I’ve very often pass’d the Nore—

At Greenwich climb’d the well-known steep;

I’ve sometimes dined at Conduit House,

I’ve taken at Chalk Farm my tea,

I’ve at the Eagle talk’d with Rouse—

But I have NOT forgotten thee!

“I’ve stood amid the glittering throng”

Of mountebanks at Greenwich fair,

Where I have heard the Chinese gong

Filling, with brazen voice, the air.

I’ve join’d wild revellers at night—

I’ve crouch’d beneath the old oak tree,

Wet through, and in a pretty plight,

But, oh! I’ve NOT forgotten thee!

I’ve earn’d, at times, a pound a week—

Alas! I’m earning nothing now;

Chalk scarcely shames my whiten’d cheek,

Grief has plough’d furrows in my brow.

I only get one meal a day,

And that one meal—oh, God!—my tea;

I’m wasting silently away,

But I have NOT forgotten thee!

My days are drawing to their end—

I’ve now, alas! no end in view;

I never had a real friend—

I wear a worn-out black surtout,

My heart is darken’d o’er with woe,

My trousers whiten’d at the knee,

My boot forgets to hide my toe—

But I have NOT forgotten thee!

MATERNAL SOLICITUDE. The business habits of her gracious Majesty have

long been the theme of admiration with her loving subjects. A further

proof of her attention to general affairs, and consideration for the

accidents of the future, has occurred lately. The lodge at Frogmore,

which was, during the lifetime of Queen Charlotte, an out-of-town

nursery for little highnesses, has been constructed (by command of the

Queen) into a Royal Eccalleobion for a similar purpose.

A man takes a chicken into a cellar. FAMILIES SUPPLIED.

[pg 71] WIT WITHOUT MONEY: OR, HOW TO LIVE UPON NOTHING. BY VAMPYRE

HORSELEECH, ESQ CHAPTER II. “A clever fellow, that Horseleech!” “When

Vampyre is once drawn out, what a great creature it is!” These, and

similar ecstatic eulogiums, have I frequently heard murmured forth from

muzzy mouths into tinged and tingling ears, as I have been leaving a

company of choice spirits. There never was a greater mistake.

Horseleech, to be candid, far from being a clever fellow, is one of the

most barren rascals on record. Vampyre, whether drawn out or held in, is

a poor creature, not a great creature—opaque, not luminous—in a word, by

nature, a very dull dog indeed.

But you see the necessity of appearing otherwise.—Hunger may be said to

be a moral Mechi, which invents a strop upon which the bluntest wits are

sharpened to admiration. Believe me, by industry and perseverance—which

necessity will inevitably superinduce—the most dreary dullard that ever

carried timber between his shoulders in the shape of a head, may

speedily convert himself into a seeming Sheridan—a substitutional Sydney

Smith—a second Sam Rogers, without the drawback of having written

Jacqueline.

Take it for granted that no professed diner-out ever possessed a

particle of native wit. His stock-in-trade, like that of Field-lane

chapmen, is all plunder. Not a joke issues from his mouth, but has

shaken sides long since quiescent. Whoso would be a diner-out must do

likewise.

The real diner-out is he whose card-rack or mantelpiece (I was going to

say groans, but) laughingly rejoices in respectful well-worded

invitations to luxuriously-appointed tables. I count not him, hapless

wretch! as one who, singling out “a friend,” drops in just at pudding-

time, and ravens horrible remnants of last Tuesday’s joint, cognizant of

curses in the throat of his host, and of intensest sable on the brows of

his hostess. No struggle there, on the part of the children, “to share

the good man’s knee;” but protruded eyes, round as spectacles, and

almost as large, fixed alternately upon his flushed face and that

absorbing epigastrium which is making their miserable flesh-pot to wane

most wretchedly.

To be jocose is not the sole requisite of him who would fain be a

universal diner-out. Lively with the light—airy with the

sparkling—brilliant with the blithe, he must also be grave with the

serious—heavy with the profound—solemn with the stupid. He must be able

to snivel with the sentimental—to condole with the afflicted—to prove

with the practical—to be a theorist with the speculative.

To be jocose is his most valuable acquisition. As there is a tradition

that birds may be caught by sprinkling salt upon their tails, so the

best and the most numerous dinners are secured by a judicious management

of Attic salt.

I fear me that the works of Josephus, and of his imitators—of that

Joseph and his brethren, I mean, whom a friend of mine calls “The Miller

and his men”—I fear me, I say, that these are well-nigh exhausted. Yet I

have known very ancient jokes turned with advantage, so as to look

almost equal to new. But this requires long practice, ere the final

skill be attained.

Etherege, Sedley, Wycherley, and Vanbrugh are very little read, and were

pretty fellows in their day; I think they may be safely consulted, and

rendered available. But, have a care. Be sure you mingle some of your

own dulness with their brighter matter, or you will overshoot the mark.

You will be too witty—a fatal error. True wits eat no dinners, save of

their own providing; and, depend upon it, it is not their wit that will

now-a-days get them their dinner. True wits are feared, not fed.

When you tell an anecdote, never ascribe it to a man well known. The

time is gone by for dwelling upon—“Dean Swift said”—“Quin, the actor,

remarked”—“The facetious Foote was once”—“That reminds me of what

Sheridan”—“Ha! ha! Sydney Smith was dining the other day with”—and the

like. Your ha! ha!—especially should it precede the name of Sam

Rogers—would inevitably cost you a hecatomb of dinners. It would be

changed into oh! oh! too surely, and too soon. Verbum sat.

I would have you be careful to sort your pleasantries. Your soup jokes

(never hazard that one about Marshal Turenne, it is really too ancient,)

your fish, your flesh, your fowl jests—your side-shakers for the side

dishes—your puns for the pastry—your after-dinner excruciators.

Sometimes, from negligence (but be not negligent) or ill-luck, which is

unavoidable, and attends the best directed efforts, you sit down to

table with your stock ill arranged or incomplete, or of an inferior

quality. Your object is to make men laugh. It must be done. I have known

a pathetic passage, quoted timely and with a happy emphasis from a

popular novel—say, “Alice, or the Mysteries”—I have known it, I say, do

more execution upon the congregated amount of midriff, than the best

joke of the evening. (There is one passage in that “thrilling”

performance, where Alice, overjoyed that her lover is restored to her,

is represented as frisking about him like a dog around his long-absent

proprietor, which, whenever I have taken it in hand, has been rewarded

with the most vociferous and gleesome laughter.)

And this reminds me that I should say a word about laughers. I know not

whether it be prudent to come to terms with any man, however stentorian

his lungs, or flexible his facial organs, with a view to engage him as a

cachinnatory machine. A confederate may become a traitor—a rival he is

pretty certain of becoming. Besides, strive as you may, you can never

secure an altogether unexceptionable individual—one who will “go the

whole hyaena,” and be at the same time the entire jackal. If he once

start “lion” on his own account, furnished with your original roar, with

which you yourself have supplied him, good-bye to your supremacy.

“Farewell, my trim-built wherry”—he is in the same boat only to capsise

you.

“And the first lion thinks the last a bore,”

and rightly so thinks. No; the best and safest plan is to work out your

own ends, independent of aid which at best is foreign, and is likely to

be formidable.

I may perhaps resume this subject more at large at a future time. My

space at present is limited, but I feel I have hardly as yet entered

upon the subject.

LAM(B)ENTATIONS. Ye banks and braes o’ Buckingham,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair,

When I am on my latest legs,

And may not bask amang ye mair!

And you, sweet maids of honour,—come,

Come, darlings, let us jointly mourn,

For your old flame must now depart,

Depart, oh! never to return!

Oft have I roam’d o’er Buckingham,

From room to room, from height to height;

It was such pleasant exercise,

And gave me such an appetite!

Yes! when the dinner-hour arrived,

For me they never had to wait,

I was the first to take my chair,

And spread my ample napkin straight.

And if they did not quickly come,

After the dinner-bell had knoll’d,

I just ran up my private stairs,

To say the things were getting cold!

But now, farewell, ye pantry steams,

(The sweets of premiership to me),

Ye gravies, relishes, and creams,

Malmsey and Port, and Burgundy!

Full well I mind the days gone by,—

‘Twas nought but sleep, and wake, and dine;

Then John and Pal sang o’ their luck,

And fondly sae sang I o’ mine!

But now, how sad the scene, and changed!

Johnny and Pal are glad nae mair!

Oh! banks and braes o’ Buckingham!

How can you bloom sae fresh and fair!

CHELSEA. (From our own Correspondent.) This delightful watering-place is

filling rapidly. The steam-boats bring down hundreds every day, and in

the evening take them all back again. Mr. Jones has engaged a lodging

for the week, and other families are spoken of. A ball is also talked

about; but it is not yet settled who is to give it, nor where it is to

be given. The promenading along the wooden pier is very general at the

leaving of the packets, and on their arrival a great number of persons

pass over it. There are whispers of a band being engaged for the season;

but, as there will not be room on the pier for more than one musician,

it has been suggested to negotiate with the talented artist who plays

the drum with his knee, the cymbals with his elbow, the triangle with

his shoulder, the bells with this head, and the Pan’s pipes with his

mouth—thus uniting the powers of a full orchestra with the compactness

of an individual. An immense number of Margate slippers and donkeys have

been imported within the last few days, and there is every probability

of this pretty little peninsula becoming a formidable rival to the old-

established watering-places.

[pg 72] THE DRAMA. FOREIGN AFFAIRS, OR, THE COURT OF QUEEN ANNE. Perhaps

it was the fashion at the court of Queen Anne, for young gentlemen who

had attained the age of sixteen to marry and be given in marriage. At

all events, some conjecture of the sort is necessary to make the plot of

the piece we are noticing somewhat probable—that being the precise

circumstance upon which it hinges. The Count St. Louis, a youthful

attaché of the French embassy, becomes attached, by a marriage contract,

to Lady Bell, a maid of honour to Queen Anne. The husband at sixteen, of

a wife quite nineteen, would, according to the natural course of things,

be very considerably hen-pecked; and St. Louis, foreseeing this,

determines to begin. Well, he insists upon having “article five” of the

marriage contract cancelled; for, by this stipulation, he is to be

separated from his wife, on the evening of the ceremony (which fast

approaches), for five years. He storms, swears, and is laughed at;

somebody sends him a wedding present of sugar-plums—everybody calls him

a boy, and makes merry at his expense—the wife treats him with contempt,

and plays the scornful. The hobble-de-hoy husband, fired with

indignation, determines to prove himself a man.

At the court of Queen Anne this seems to have been an easy matter. St.

Louis writes love-letters to several maids of honour and to a citizen’s

wife, finishing the first act by invading the private apartments of the

maiden ladies belonging to the court of the chaste Queen Anne.

The second act discovers him confined to his apartments by order of the

Queen, having amused himself, while the intrigues begun by the love-

letters are hatching, by running into debt, and being surrounded by

duns. The intrigues are not long in coming to a head, for two ladies

visit him separately in secret, and allow themselves to be hid in those

never-failing adjuncts to a piece of dramatic intrigue—a couple of

closets, which are used exactly in the same manner in “Foreign Affairs,”

as in all the farces within the memory of man—ex. gr.:—The hero is

alone; one lady enters cautiously. A tender interchange of sentiment

ensues—a noise is heard, and the lady screams. “Ah! that closet!” Into

which exit lady. Then enter lady No. 2. A second interchange of tender

things—another noise behind. “No escape?” “None! and yet, happy thought,

that closet.” Exit lady No. 2, into closet No. 2.

This is exactly as it happens in “Foreign Affairs.” The second noise is

made by the husband of one of the concealed ladies, and the lover of the

other. Here, out of the old “closet” materials, the dramatist has worked

up one of the best situations—to use an actor’s word—we ever remember to

have witnessed. It cannot be described; but it is really worth all the

money to go and see it. Let our readers do so. The “Affairs” end by the

boy fighting a couple of duels with the injured men; and thus, crowning

the proof of his manhood, gets his wife to tolerate—to love him.

The piece was, as it deserved to be, highly successful; it was admirably

acted by Mr. Webster as one of the injured lovers—Mr. Strickland and

Mrs. Stirling, as a vulgar citizen and citizeness—by Miss P. Horton as

Lady Bell—and even by a Mr. Clarke, who played a very small part—that of

a barber—with great skill. Lastly, Madlle. Celeste, as the hero,

acquitted herself to admiration. We suppose the farce is called “Foreign

Affairs” out of compliment to this lady, who is the only “Foreign

Affair” we could discover in the whole piece, if we except that it is

translated from the French, which is, strictly, an affair of the

author’s.

MARY CLIFFORD. If, dear readers, you have a taste for refined morality

and delicate sentiment, for chaste acting and spirited dialogue, for

scenery painted on the spot, but like nothing in nature except canvas

and colour—go to the Victoria and see “Mary Clifford.” It may, perhaps,

startle you to learn that the incidents are faithfully copied from the

“Newgate Calendar,” and that the subject is Mother Brownrigg of

apprentice-killing notoriety; but be not alarmed, there is nothing

horrible or revolting in the drama—it is merely laughable.

“Mary Clifford, or the foundling apprentice girl,” is very appropriately

introduced to the auditor, first outside the gates of that “noble

charity-school,” taking leave of some of her accidental companions. Here

sympathy is first awakened. Mary is just going out to “place,” and

instead of saying “good bye,” which we have been led to believe is the

usual form of farewell amongst charity-girls, she sings a song with such

heart-rending expression, that everybody cries except the musicians and

the audience. To assist in this lachrymose operation, the girls on the

stage are supplied with clean white aprons—time out mind a charity-

girl’s pocket-handkerchief. In the next scene we are introduced to Mr.

and Mrs. Brownrigg’s domestic arrangements, and are made acquainted with

their private characters—a fine stroke of policy on the part of the

author; for one naturally pities a poor girl who can sing so nicely, and

can get the corners of so many white aprons wetted on leaving her last

place, when one sees into whose hands she is going to fall. The fact is,

the whole family are people of taste—peculiar, to be sure, and not

refined. Mrs. B. has a taste for starving apprentices—her son, Mr. Jolin

B., for seducing them—and Mr. B. longs only for a quiet life, a pot of

porter, and a pipe. Into the bosom of this amiable family Mary Clifford

enters; and we tremble for her virtue and her meals! not, alas, in vain,

for Mr. John is not slow in commencing his gallantries, which are

exceedingly offensive to Mary, seeing that she has already formed a

liaison with a school-fellow, one William Clipson, who happily resides

at the very next door with a baker. During the struggles that ensue she

calls upon her “heart’s master,” the journeyman baker. But there is

another and more terrible invocation. In classic plays they invoke “the

gods”—in Catholic I ones, “the saints”—the stage Arab appeals to

“Allah”—the light comedian swears “by the lord Harry”—but Mary Clifford

adds a new and impressive invocative to the list. When young Brownrigg

attempts to kiss, or his mother to flog her, she casts her eyes upward,

kneels, and placing her hands together in an attitude of prayer,

solemnly calls upon—“the governors of the Foundling Hospital!!” Nothing

can exceed the terrific effect this seems to produce upon her

persecutors! They release her instantly—they slink back abashed and

trembling—they hide their diminished heads, and leave their victim a

clear stage for a soliloquy or a song.

We really must stop here, to point out to dramatic authors the

importance of this novel form of conjuration. When the history of

Fauntleroy comes to be dramatised, the lover will, of course, be a

banker’s clerk: in the depths of distress and despair into which he will

have to be plunged, a prayer-like appeal to “the Governor and Company of

the Bank of England,” will, most assuredly, draw tears from the most

insensible audience. The old exclamations of “Gracious powers!”—“Great

heavens!”—“By heaven, I swear!” &c. &c., may now be abandoned; and,

after “Mary Clifford,” Bob Acres’ tasteful system of swearing may not

only be safely introduced into the tragic drama, but considerably

augmented.

But to return. Dreading lest Miss Mary should really “go and tell” the

illustrious governors, she is kept a close prisoner, and finishes the

first act by a conspiracy with a fellow-apprentice, and an attempt to

escape.

Mr. Brownrigg, we are informed, carried on business at No. 12, Fetter-

lane, in the oil, paint, pickles, vinegar, plumbing, glazing, and

pepper-line; and, in the next act, a correct view is exhibited of the

exterior of his shop, painted, we are told, from the most indisputable

authorities of the time. Here, in Fetter, lane, the romance of the tale

begins:—A lady enters, who, being of a communicative disposition,

begins, unasked, unquestioned, to tell the audience a story—how that she

married in early life—that her husband was pressed to sea a day or two

after the wedding—that she in due time became a mother, and

(affectionate creature!) left the dear little pledge at the door of the

Foundling Hospital. That was sixteen years ago. Since then fortune has

smiled, and she wants her baby back again; but on going to the hospital,

says, that they informed her that her daughter has been just “put

apprentice” in the very house before which she tells the story—part of

it as great a fib as ever was told; for children once inside the walls

of that “noble charity,” never know who left them there; and any attempt

to find each other out, by parent or child, is punished with the instant

withdrawal of the omnipotent protection of the awful “governors.” This

lady, who bears all the romance of the piece upon her own shoulders,

expects to meet her long-lost husband at the Ship, in Wapping, and

instead of seeking her daughter, repairs thither, having done all the

author required, by emptying her budget of fibs.

The next scene is harrowing in the extreme. The bills describe it as

Mrs. Brownrigg’s “wash-house, kitchen, and skylight”—the sky-light

forming a most impressive object. Poor Mary Clifford is chained to the

floor, her face begrimed, her dress in rags, and herself exceedingly

hungry. Here the heroine describes the weakness of her body with energy

and stentorian eloquence, but is interrupted by Mr. Clipson, whose face

appears framed and glazed in the broken sky-light. A pathetic dialogue

ensues, and the lover swears he will rescue his mistress, or “perish in

the attempt,” “calling upon Mr. Owen, the parish overseer,” to make

known her sufferings. The Ship, in Wapping, is next shown; and Toby

Bensling, alias Richard Clifford, enters to inform his hearers that he

is the missing father of the injured foundling, and has that moment

stepped ashore, after a short voyage, lasting sixteen years! He is on

his way to the “Admiralty,” to receive some pay—the more particularly,

we imagine, as they always pay sailors at Somerset House—and then to

look after his wife. But she saves him the trouble by entering with Mr.

William Clipson. The usual “Whom do I see?”—“Can it be?”—“After so long

an absence!” &c. &c., having been duly uttered and begged to, they all

go to see after Mary, find her in a cupboard in Mrs. B.’s back-parlour,

and—the act-drop falls.

We must confess we approach a description of the third act with

diffidence. Such intense pathos, we feel, demands words of more sombre

sound—ink of a darker hue, than we can command. The third scene is, in

particular, too extravagantly touching for ordinary nerves to witness.

Mary Clifford is in bed—French bedstead (especially selected, perhaps,

because such things were not thought of in the days of Mother Brownrigg)

stands exactly in the middle of the stage—a chest of drawers is placed

behind, and a table on each side, to balance the picture. The lover

leans over the head, the mother sits at the foot, the father stands at

the side: Mary Clifford is insane, with lucid intervals, and is,

moreover, dying. The consequence is, she has all the talk to herself,

which consists of a discourse concerning the great “governors,” her

cruel mistress, and her naughty young master, interlarded with insane

ejaculations, always considered stage property, such as, “Ah, she

comes!” “Nay, strike me not—I am guiltless!” Again, “Villain! what do

you take me for?—unhand me!” and all that. Then the dying part comes,

and she sees an angel in the flies, and informs it that she is coming

soon (here it is usual for a lady to be removed from the gallery in

strong hysterics), and keeps her word by letting her arm fall upon the

bed-clothes and shutting her eyes, whereupon somebody says that she is

dead, and the prompter whistles for the scene to be changed.

In the last scene, criminal justice takes its course. Mrs. Brownrigg,

having been sentenced to the gallows, is seen in the condemned cell; her

son by her side, and the fatal cart in the back-ground. Having been

brought up genteelly, she declines the mode of conveyance provided for

her journey to Tyburn with the utmost volubility. Being about to be

hanged merely does not seem to affect her so poignantly as the

disgraceful “drag” she is doomed to take her last journey in. She swoons

at the idea; and the curtain falls to end her wicked career, and the

sufferings of an innocent audience.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. [pg 73] AUGUST 28, 1841. THE

HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCES THE READER TO THE APPLEBITE

FAMILY AND TO AGAMEMNON COLLUMPSION APPLEBITE IN PARTICULAR. A man

balances another on his head and forms the letter T he following is

extracted from the Parliamentary Guide for 18—:—“APPLEBITE, ISAAC

(Puddingbury). Born March 25, 1780; descended from his grandfather, and

has issue.” And upon reference to a monument in Puddingbury church,

representing the first Mrs. Applebite (who was a housemaid)

industriously scrubbing a large tea-urn, whilst another figure (supposed

to be the second Mrs. Applebite) is pointing reproachfully to a little

fat cherub who is blowing himself into a fit of apoplexy from some

unassignable cause or another—I say upon reference to this monument,

upon which is blazoned forth all the stock virtues of those who employ

stonemasons, I find, that in July, 18—, the said Isaac was gathered unto

Abraham’s bosom, leaving behind him—a seat in the House of Commons—a

relict—the issue aforesaid, and £50,000 in the three per cents.

The widow Applebite had so arranged matters with her husband, that two-

thirds of the above sum were left wholly and solely to her, as some sort

of consolation under her bereavement of the “best of husbands and the

kindest of fathers.” (Vide monument.) Old Isaac must have been a

treasure, for his wife either missed him so much, or felt so desirous to

learn if there was another man in the world like him, that, as soon as

the monument was completed and placed in Puddingbury chancel, she

married a young officer in a dashing dragoon regiment, and started to

the Continent to spend the honeymoon, leaving her son—

AGAMEMNON COLLUMPSION APPLEBITE (the apoplectic “cherub” and the “issue”

alluded to in the Parliamentary Guide), to the care of himself.

A.C.A. was the pattern of what a young man ought to be. He had 16,000

and odd pounds in the three per cents., hair that curled naturally,

stood five feet nine inches without his shoes, always gave a shilling to

a waiter, lived in a terrace, never stopped out all night (but once),

and paid regularly every Monday morning. Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite

was a happy bachelor! The women were delighted to see him, and the men

to dine with him: to the one he gave bouquets; to the other, cigars: in

short, everybody considered A.C.A. as A1; and A.C.A. considered that A1

was his proper mark.

It is somewhat singular, but no man knows when he is really happy: he

may fancy that he wants for nothing, and may even persuade himself that

addition or subtraction would be certain to interfere with the

perfectitude of his enjoyment. He deceives himself. If he wishes to

assure himself of the exact state of his feelings, let him ask his

friends; they are disinterested parties, and will find out some

annoyance that has escaped his notice. It was thus with Agamemnon

Collumpsion Applebite. He had made up his mind that he wanted for

nothing, when it was suddenly found out by his friends that he was in a

state of felicitous destitution. It was discovered simultaneously, by

five mamas and eighteen daughters, that Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite

must want a wife; and that his sixteen thousand and odd pounds must be a

source of undivided anxiety to him. Stimulated by the most praiseworthy

considerations, a solemn compact was entered into by the aforesaid five

mamas, on behalf of the aforesaid eighteen daughters, by which they were

pledged to use every means to convince Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite

of his deplorable condition; but no unfair advantage was to be taken to

ensure a preference for any particular one of the said eighteen

daughters, but that the said Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite should be

left free to exercise his own discretion, so far as the said eighteen

daughters were concerned, but should any other daughter, of whatever

mama soever, indicate a wish to become a competitor, she was to be

considered a common enemy, and scandalized accordingly.

Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite, about ten o’clock on the following

evening, was seated on a sofa, between Mrs. Greatgirdle and Mrs.

Waddledot (the two mamas deputed to open the campaign), each with a cup

of very prime Mocha coffee, and a massive fiddle-pattern tea-spoon. On

the opposite side of the room, in a corner, was a very large cage, in

the sole occupancy of a solitary Java sparrow.

“My poor bird looks very miserable,” sighed Mrs. Greatgirdle, (the

hostess upon this occasion.)

“Very miserable!” echoed Mrs. Waddledot; and the truth of the remark was

apparent to every one.

The Java sparrow was moulting and suffering from a cutaneous disorder at

the same time; so what with the falling off, and scratching off of his

feathers, he looked in a most deplorable condition; which was rendered

more apparent by the magnitude of his cage. He seemed like the last

debtor confined in the Queen’s Bench.

“He has never been himself since the death of his mate.” (Here the bird

scarified himself with great violence.) “He is so restless; and though

he eats very well, and hops about, he seems to have lost all care of his

person, as though he would put on mourning if he had it.”

“Is there no possibility of dyeing his feathers?” remarked Agamemnon

Collumpsion, feeling the necessity of saying something.

“It is not the inky cloak, Mr. Applebite,” replied Mrs. Greatgirdle,

“that truly indicates regret; but it’s here,” (laying her hand upon her

left side): “no—there, under his liver wing, that he feels it, poor

bird! It’s a shocking thing to live alone.”

“And especially in such a large cage,” said Mrs. Waddledot. “Your house

is rather large, Mr. Applebite?” inquired Mrs. Greatgirdle.

“Rather, ma’am,” replied Collumpsion.

“Ain’t you very lonely?” said Mrs. Waddledot and Mrs. Greatgirdle both

in a breath.

“Why, not—”

“Very lively, you were going to say,” interrupted Mrs. G.

Now Mrs. G. was wrong in her conjecture of Collumpsion’s reply. He was

about to say, “Why, not at all;” but she, of course, knew best what he

ought to have answered.

“I often feel for you, Mr. Applebite,” remarked Mrs. Waddledot; “and

think how strange it is that you, who really are a nice young man—and I

don’t say so to flatter you—that you should have been so unsuccessful

with the ladies.”

Collumpsion’s vanity was awfully mortified at this idea.

“It is strange!” exclaimed Mrs. G “I wonder it don’t make you miserable.

There is no home, I mean the ‘Sweet, sweet home,’ without a wife. Try,

try again, Mr. Applebite,” (tapping his arm as she rose;) “faint heart

never won fair lady.”

“I refused Mr. Waddledot three times, but I yielded at last; take

courage from that, and 24, Pleasant Terrace, may shortly become that

Elysium—a woman’s home,” whispered Mrs. W., as she rolled gracefully to

a card-table; and accidentally, of course, cut the ace of spades, which

she exhibited to Collumpsion with a very mysterious shake of the head.

Agamemnon returned to 24, Pleasant Terrace, a discontented man. He felt

that there was no one sitting up for him—nothing but a rush-light—the

dog might bark as he entered, but no voice was there to welcome him, and

with a heavy heart he ascended the two stone steps of his dwelling.

He took out his latch-key, and was about to unlock the door, when a loud

knocking was heard in the next street. Collumpsion paused, and then gave

utterance to his feelings. “That’s music—positively music. This is my

house—there’s my name on the brass-plate—that’s my knocker, as I can

prove by the bill and receipt; and, yet, here I am about to sneak in

like a burglar. Old John sha’n’t go to bed another night; I’ll not

indulge the lazy scoundrel any longer, Yet the poor old fellow nursed me

when a child. I’ll compromise the matter—I’ll knock, and let myself in.”

So saying, Collumpsion thumped away at the door, looked around to see

that he was unobserved, applied his latch-key, and slipped into his

house just as old John, in a state of great alarm and undress, was

descending the stairs with a candle and a boot-jack.

AN ACUTE ANGLE. We read in the Glasgow Courier of an enormous salmon

hooked at Govan, which measured three feet, three inches in length. The

Morning Herald mentions several gudgeons of twice the size, caught, we

understand, by Alderman Humphery, and conveyed to Town per Blackwall

Railway.

[pg 74] A man thumbs his nose while carrying a Chinaman on his back

IMPORTANT NEWS FROM CHINA. ARRIVAL OF THE OVERLAND MAIL! August 28,

1841.

We have received expresses from the Celestial Empire by our own private

electro-galvanic communication. As this rapid means of transmission

carries dispatches so fast that we generally get them even before they

are written, we are enabled to be considerably in advance of the common

daily journals; more especially as we have obtained news up to the end

of next week.

The most important paper which has come to hand is the Macao Sunday

Times. It appears that the fortifications for surrounding Pekin are

progressing rapidly, but that the government have determined upon

building the ramparts of japanned canvas and bamboo rods, instead of

pounded rice, which was thought almost too fragile to resist the attacks

of the English barbarians. Some handsome guns, of blue and white

porcelain, have been placed on the walls, with a proportionate number of

carved ivory balls, elaborately cut one inside the other. These, it is

presumed, will split upon firing, and produce incalculable mischief and

confusion. Within the gates a frightful magazine of gilt crackers, and

other fireworks, has been erected; which, in the event of the savages

penetrating the fortifications, will be exploded one after another, to

terrify them into fits, when they will be easily captured. This

precaution has been scarcely thought necessary by some of the mandarins,

as our great artist, Wang, has covered the external joss-house with

frantic figures that, must strike terror to every barbarian. Gold paper

has also been kept constantly burning, on altars of holy clay, at every

practicable point of the defences, which it is hardly thought they will

have the hardihood to approach, and the sacred ducks of Fanqui have been

turned loose in the river to retard the progress of the infidel fleet.

During the storm of last week the portcullis, which hail been placed in

the northern gate, and was composed of solid rice paper, with cross-bars

of chop-sticks, was much damaged. It is now under repair, and will be

coated entirely with tea-chest lead, to render it perfectly impregnable.

The whole of the household troops and body-guard of the emperor have

also received new accoutrements of tin-foil and painted isinglass. They

have likewise been armed with varnished bladders, containing peas and

date stones, which produce a terrific sound upon the least motion.

An Englishman has been gallantly captured this morning, in a small boat,

by one of our armed junks. He will eat his eyes in the Palace-court this

afternoon; and then, being enclosed in soft porcelain, will be baked to

form a statue for the new pagoda at Bo-Lung, the first stone of which

was laid by the late emperor, to celebrate his victory over the rude

northern islanders.

Canton.

The last order of the government, prohibiting the exportation of tea and

rhubarb, has been issued by the advice of Lin, who translates the

English newspapers to the council. It is affirmed in these journals,

that millions of these desert tribes have no other beverage than tea for

their support. As their oath prohibits any other liquor, they will be

driven to water for subsistence, and, unable to correct its unhealthy

influence by doses of rhubarb, will die miserably. In anticipation of

this event, large catacombs are being erected near their great city, on

the authority of Slo-Lefe-Tee, who visited it last year, and intends

shortly to go there again. The rhubarb prohibition will, it is said,

have a great effect upon the English market for plums, pickled salmon,

and greengages; and the physicians, or disciples of the great Hum,

appear uncertain as to the course to be pursued.

The emperor has issued a chop to the Hong merchants, forbidding them to

assist or correspond with the invaders, under pain of having their

finger-nails drawn out and rings put in their noses. Howqua resists the

order, and it is the intention of Lin, should he remain obstinate, to

recommend his being pounded up with broken crockery and packed in

Chinese catty packages, to be forwarded, as an example, to the Mandarin

Pidding, of the wild island.

An English flag, stolen by a deserter from Chusan, will be formally

insulted to-morrow in the market-place, by the emperor and his court.

Dust will be thrown at it, accompanied by derisive grimaces, and it will

be subsequently hoisted, in scorn, to blow, at the mercy of the winds,

upon the summit of the palace, within sight of the barbarians.

LEVANT MAIL. CONSTANTINOPLE, ALEXANDRIA, AND SMYRNA. August 30.

The Sultan got very fuddled last night, with forbidden juice, in the

harem, and tumbled down the ivory steps leading from the apartment of

the favourite, by which accident he seriously cut his nose. Every guard

is to be bastinadoed in consequence, and the wine-merchant will be

privately sewn up in a canvas-bag and thrown into the Bosphorus this

evening.

A relation of Selim Pacha, despatched by the Sultan to collect taxes in

Beyrout, was despatched by the Syrians a few hours after his arrival.

The periodical conflagration of the houses, mosques, and synagogues, in

Smyrna, took place with great splendour on the 30th ult., and the next

will be arranged for the ensuing month, when everybody suspected of the

plague will receive orders from the government to remain in their

dwellings until they are entirely consumed. By this salutary

arrangement, it is expected that much improvement will take place in the

public health.

The inundation of the Nile has also been very favourable this year, The

water has risen higher than usual, and carried off several hundred poor

people. The Board of Guardians of the Alexandria Union are consequently

much rejoiced.

TO MR GREEN, THE INSPECTOR OF HIGHWAYS. ON HIS RECENT SKYLARK. “The air

hath bubbles as the water hath.”

Huzza! huzza! there goes the balloon—

’Tis up like a rocket, and off to the moon!

Now fading from our view,

Or dimly seen;

Now lost in the deep blue

Is Mr. Green!

Pray have a care,

In your path through the air,

And mind well what you do;

For if you chance to slip

Out of your airy ship,

Then down you come, and all is up with you.

FASHIONABLE ARRIVALS. Two thousand and thirty-five remarkably fine

calves, from their various rural pasturages at Smithfield. Some of the

heads of the party have since been seen in the very highest society.

ADVICE GRATIS. “What will you take?” said Peel to Russell, on adjourning

from the School of Design. “Anything you recommend.” “Then let it be

your departure,” was the significant rejoinder.

PLEASANT CROPS ABROAD.—A GOOD LOOK OUT FOR THE SYRIANS. “French agents

are said to be sowing discontent in Syria.”—Sunday Times.

[pg 75] THE GENTLEMAN’S OWN BOOK. Having advised you in our last paper

of “Dress in general,” we now proceed to the important consideration of

DRESS IN PARTICULAR, a subject of such paramount interest and magnitude,

that we feel an Encyclopædia would be barely sufficient for its full

developement; and it is our honest conviction that, until professorships

of this truly noble art are instituted at the different universities,

the same barbarisms of style will be displayed even by those of gentle

blood, as now too frequently detract from the Augustan character of the

age.

To take as comprehensive a view of this subject as our space will admit,

we have divided it into the quality, the cut, the ornaments, and the

pathology.

THE QUALITY comprises the texture, colour, and age of the materials.

Of the texture there are only two kinds compatible with the reputation

of a gentleman—the very fine and the very coarse; or, to speak

figuratively—the Cachmere and the Witney blanket.

The latter is an emanation from the refinement of the nineteenth

century, for a prejudice in favour of “extra-superfine” formerly

existed, as the coarser textures, now prevalent, were confined

exclusively to common sailors, hackney-coachmen, and bum-bailiffs. These

frivolous distinctions are happily exploded, and the true gentleman may

now show in Saxony, or figure in Flushing—the one being suggestive of

his property, and the other indicative of his taste. These remarks apply

exclusively to woollens, whether for coats or trousers.

It is incumbent on every gentleman to have a perfect library of

waistcoats, the selection of which must be regulated by the cost of the

material, as it would be derogatory, in the highest degree, to a man

aspiring to the character of a distingué, to decorate his bosom with a

garment that would by any possibility come under the denomination of

“these choice patterns, only 7s. 6d.” There are certain designs for this

important decorative adjunct, which entirely preclude them from the

wardrobes of the élite—the imaginative bouquets upon red-plush grounds,

patronised by the ingenious constructors of canals and rail-roads—the

broad and brilliant Spanish striped Valencias, which distinguish the

savans or knowing ones of the stable—the cotton (must we profane the

word!) velvet impositions covered with botanical diagrams done in

distemper, and monopolized by lawyers’ clerks and small

professionals—the positive or genuine Genoa velvet, with violent and

showy embellishments of roses, dahlias, and peonies, which find favour

in the eyes of aldermen, attorneys, and the proprietors of four-wheel

chaises, are all to be avoided as the fifth daughter of a clergyman’s

widow.

It is almost superfluous to add, that breeches can only be made of white

leather or white kerseymere, for any other colour or material would

awaken associations of the dancing-master, the waiter, the butler, or

the bumpkin, or, what is equally to be dreaded, “the highly

respectables” of the last century.

The dressing-gown is a portion of the costume which commands particular

attention; for though no man “can appear as a hero to his valet,” he

must keep up the gentleman. This can only be done by the dressing-gown.

To gentlemen who occupy apartments, the robe de chambre, if properly

selected, is of infinite advantage; for an Indian shawl or rich brocaded

silk (of which this garment should only be constructed), will be found

to possess extraordinary pacific properties with the landlady, when the

irregularity of your remittances may have ruffled the equanimity of her

temper, whilst you are

A man lays under a running spigot. INCLINED TO TAKE IT COOLLY;

whereas a gray Duffield, or a cotton chintz, would be certain to induce

deductions highly prejudicial to the respectability of your character,

or, what is of equal importance, to the duration of your credit.

The colour of your materials should be selected with due regard to the

species of garment and the tone of the complexion. If the face be of

that faint drab which your friends would designate pallid, and your

enemies sallow, a coat of pea-green or snuff-brown must be scrupulously

eschewed, whilst black or invisible green would, by contrast, make that

appear delicate and interesting, which, by the use of the former

colours, must necessarily seem bilious and brassy.

The rosy complexionist must as earnestly avoid all sombre tints, as the

inelegance of a healthful appearance should never be obtrusively

displayed by being placed in juxta-position with colours diametrically

opposite, though it is almost unnecessary to state that any one ignorant

enough to appear of an evening in a coat of any other colour than blue

or black (regimentals, of course, excepted), would certainly be

condemned to a quarantine in the servant’s hall. There are colours

which, if worn for trousers by the first peer of the realm, would be as

condemnatory of his character as a gentleman, as levanting on the

settling-day for the Derby.

The dark drab, which harmonises with the mud—the peculiar pepper-and-

salt which is warranted not to grow gray with age—the indescribable

mixtures, which have evidently been compounded for the sake of economy,

must ever be exiled from the wardrobe and legs of a gentleman.

The hunting-coat must be invariably of scarlet, due care being taken

before wearing to dip the tips of the tails in claret or port wine,

which, for new coats, or for those of gentlemen who do not hunt, has

been found to give them an equally veteran appearance with the sweat of

the horse.

Of the age it is only necessary to state, that a truly fashionable suit

should never appear under a week, or be worn longer than a month from

the time that it left the hands of its parent schneider. Shooting-coats

are exceptions to the latter part of this rule, as a garment devoted to

the field should always bear evidence of long service, and a new jacket

should be consigned to your valet, who, if he understands his

profession, will carefully rub the shoulders with a hearth-stone and

bole-ammonia, to convey the appearance of friction and the deposite of

the rust of the gun1.1. Gentlemen who are theoretical, rather than

practical sportsmen, would find it beneficial to have a partridge

carefully plucked, and the feathers sparingly deposited in the pockets

of the shooting-jacket usually applied to the purposes of carrying game.

Newgate Market possesses all the advantages of a preserved manor.

Of the cut, ornaments, and pathology of dress, we shall speak next week,

for these are equally essential to ensure

A man crashes thru a window. AN INTRODUCTION TO FASHIONABLE SOCIETY.

BEGINNING EARLY. We are informed by the Times of Saturday, that at the

late Conservative enactment at D.L., not only his Royal Highness Prince

Albert, but the infant Princess Royal, was “drunk, with the usual

honours.”—[Proh pudor!—PUNCH.]

SIBTHORP’S VERY BEST. Sibthorp, meeting Peel in the House of Commons,

after congratulating him on his present enviable position, finished the

confab with the following unrivalled conundrum:—“By the bye, which of

your vegetables does your Tamworth speech resemble!”—“Spinach,” replied

Peel, who, no doubt, associated it with gammon.—“Pshaw,” said the

gallant Colonel, “your rope inions (your opinions), to be sure!” Peel

opened his mouth, and never closed it till he took his seat at the

table.

BEAUTIFUL COINCIDENCE!—A PAIR OF TOOLS. Sir Francis Burdett, the

superannuated Tory tool, proposed the Conservative healths; and Toole

the second, as toast-master, announced them to the assemblage.

[pg 76] THE CURRAH CUT; OR, HOW WE ALL GOT A FI’PENNY BIT A-PIECE. “Are

the two ponies ready?”

“Yes!”

“And the ass?”

“All right!”

“And you’ve, all five of you, got your fi’pennies for Tony Dolan, the

barber, at Kells?”

“Every one of us.”

“Then be off; there’s good boys! Ride and tie like Christians, and don’t

be going double on the brute beasts; for a bit of a walk now and then

will just stretch your legs. Be back at five to dinner; and let us see

what bucks you’ll look with your new-trimmed curls. Stay, there’s

another fi’penny; spend that among you, and take care of yourselves, my

little jewels!”

Such were the parting queries and instructions of my kind old uncle to

five as roaring, mischievous urchins as ever stole whisky to soak the

shamrock on St. Patrick’s day. The chief director, schemer, and

perpetrator of all our fun and devilry, was, strange to say, “my cousin

Bob:” the smallest, and, with one exception, the youngest of the party.

But Bob was his grandmother’s “ashey pet”—his mother’s “jewel”—his

father’s “mannikin”—his nurse’s “honey”—and the whole world’s “darlin’

little devil of a rogue!” The expression of a face naturally arch,

beaming with good humour, and radiant with happy laughter, was

singularly heightened by a strange peculiarity of vision, which I am at

a loss to describe. It was, if the reader can idealise the thing, an

absolute “beauty,” which, unfortunately, can only be written about by

the appliances of some term conveying the notion of a blemish. The

glances from his bright eyes seemed to steal out from under their long

fringe, the most reckless truants of exulting mirth. No matter what he

said, he looked a joke. Now for his orders:—

“Aisy with you, lads. Cousin Harry, take first ride on St. Patrick (the

name of the ass)—here’s a leg up. The two Dicks can have Scrub and

Rasper. Jack and Billy, boys, catch a hold of the bridles, or devil a

ha’p’worth of ride and tie there’ll be in at all, if them Dicks get the

start—Shanks’ mare will take you to Kells. Don’t be galloping off in

that manner, but shoot aisy! Remember, the ass has got to keep up with

you, and I’ve got to keep up with the ass. That’s the thing—steady she

goes! It’s an elegant day, and no hurry in life. Spider! come here,

boy—that’s right. Down, sir! down, you devil, or wipe your paws. Bad

manners to you—look at them breeches! Never mind, there’s a power of

rats at Tony Carroll’s barn—it’s mighty little out o’ the way, and may

be we’ll get a hunt. What say you?”

“A hunt, a hunt, by all manes! there’s the fun of it! Come on,

lads—here’s the place!—turn off, and go to work! Wait, wait! get a stick

a-piece, and break the necks of ’em! Hurrah!—in Spider!—find ’em boy!

Good lad! Tare an ouns, you may well squeak! Good dog! good dog! that’s

a grandfather!—we’ll have more yet; the family always come to the ould

one’s berrin’. I’ve seen ’em often, and mighty dacent they behave. Damn

Kells and the barber, up with the boords and go to work!—this is

something like sport! Houly Paul, there’s one up my breeches—here’s the

tail of him—he caught a hould of my leather-garter. Come out of that,

Spider! Spider, here he is—that’s it—give him another shake for his

impudence—serve him out! Hurrah!”

“Fast and furious” grew our incessant urging on of the willing Spider,

for his continued efforts at extermination. At the end of two hours, the

metamorphosed barn was nearly stripped of its flooring—nine huge rats

lay dead, as trophies of our own achievements—the panting Spider, “by

turns caressing, and by turns caressed,” licking alternately the hands

and faces of all, as we sat on the low ledge of the doorway, wagging his

close-cut stump of tail, as if he were resolved, by his unceasing

exertions, to get entirely rid of that excited dorsal ornament.

“This is the rael thing,” said Bob.

“So it is,” said Dick; “but”—

“But what?”

“Why, devil a ha’p’orth of Kells or hair-cutting there’s in it.”

“Not a taste,” chimed in Jack.

“Nothing like it,” echoed Will.

“What will we do?” said all at once. There was a short pause—after which

the matter was resumed by Dick, who was intended for a parson, and

therefore rather given to moralising.

“Life,” quoth Dick—“life’s uncertain.”

“You may say that,” rejoined Bob; “look at them rats.”

“Tony Dowlan’s a hard-drinking man, and his mother had fits.”

“Of the same sort,” said Bob.

“Well, then,” continued Dick, “there’s no knowing—he may be dead—if so,

how could he cut our hair?”

Here Dick, like Brutus, paused for a reply. Bob produced one.

“It’s a good scheme, but it won’t do; the likes of him never does

anything he’s wanted to. He’s the contrariest ould thief in Ireland! I

wish mama hadn’t got a party; we’d do well enough but for that. Never

mind, boys, I’ve got it. There’s Mikey Brian, he’s the boy!

“What for?”

“To cut the hair of the whole of us.”

“He can’t do it.”

“Can’t! wait, a-cushla, till I tell you, or, what’s better, show you.

Come now, you devils. Look at the heels (Rasper’s and Scrub’s) of them

ponies! Did ever you see anything like them!—look at the cutting

there—Tony Dowlan never had the knack o’ that tasty work in his dirty

finger and thumb—and who done that? Why Mikey Brian—didn’t I see him

myself; and isn’t he the boy that can ‘bang Bannaker’ at anything! Oh!

he’ll cut us elegant!—he’ll do the squad for a fi’penny—and then, lads,

there’s them five others will be just one a-piece to buy gut and flies!

Come on, you Hessians!”

No sooner proposed than acceded to—off we set, for the eulogised

“Bannaker banging Mikey Brian.”

A stout, handsome boy he was—rising four-and-twenty—a fighting, kissing,

rollicking, ball-playing, dancing vagabone, as you’d see in a day’s

march—such a fellow as you only meet in Ireland—a bit of a gardener, a

bit of a groom, a bit of a futboy, and a bit of a horse-docthor.

We reached the stables by the back way, and there, in his own peculiar

loft, was Mikey Brian, brushing a somewhat faded livery, in which to

wait upon the coming quality.

Bob stated the case, as far as the want of our locks’ curtailment went,

but made no mention of the delay which occasioned our coming to Mikey;

on the contrary, he attributed the preference solely to our conviction

of his superior abilities, and the wish to give him a chance, as he felt

convinced, if he had fair play, he’d be engaged miles round, instead of

the hopping old shaver at Kells.

“I’m your man, Masther Robert.”

“Who’s first?”

“I am—there’s the fi’penny—that’s for the lot!”

“Good luck to you, sit down—will you have the Currah thoro’bred-cut?”

“That’s the thing,” said Bob.

“Then, young gentlement, as there ain’t much room—and if you do be all

looking on, I’ll be bothered—just come in one by one.”

Out we went, and, in an inconceivably short space, Bob emerged.

Mikey advising: “Master Robert, dear, keep your hat on for the life of

you, for fear of cowld.” A few minutes finished us all.

“This is elegant,” said Bob. “Mikey, it will be the making of you; but

don’t say a word till you hear how they’ll praise you at dinner.”

“Mum!” said Mikey, and off we rushed.

I felt rather astonished at the ease with which my hat sat; while those

of the rest appeared ready to fall over their noses. Being in a hurry,

this was passed over. The second dinner-bell rang—we bolted up for a

brief ablution—our hats were thrown into a corner, and, as if by one

consent, all eyes were fixed upon each other’s heads!

Bob gave tongue: “The Devil’s skewer to Mikey Brian! and bad luck to the

Currah thoro’bred cut! Not the eighth part of an inch of ‘air there is

amongst the set of us. What will the master say? Never mind; we’ve got

the fi’pennies! Come to dinner!—by the Puck we are beauties!”

We reached the dining-room unperceived; but who can describe the agony

of my aunt Kate, when she clapped her eyes upon five such close-clipped

scarecrows. She vowed vengence of all sorts and descriptions against the

impudent, unnatural, shameful monster! Terms which Mikey Brian, in the

back-ground, appropriated to himself, and with the utmost difficulty

restrained his rising wrath from breaking out.

“What,” continued aunt Kate, “what does he call this?”

“It’s the thoro’bred Currah-cut, ma’am,” said Bob, with one of his

peculiar glances at Mikey and the rest.

“And mighty cool wearing, I’ll be bail,” muttered Mikey.

“Does he call that hair-cutting?” screamed my aunt.

“That, and nothing but it,” quietly retorted Bob, passing his hand over

his head; “you can’t deny the cutting, ma’am.”

“The young gentlemen look elegant,” said Mikey.

“I’m told it’s all the go, ma’am,” said Bob.

“Wait!” said my aunt, with suppressed rage; “wait till I go to Kells.”

This did not happen for six weeks; our aunt’s anger was mollified as our

locks were once more human. Upon upbraiding “Tony Knowlan” the murder

came out. A hearty laugh ensured our pardon, and Mikey Brian’s; and the

story of the “thoro’bred Currah-cut” was often told, as the means by

which “we all got a fi’penny bit a-piece.”—FUSBOS.

There is a portrait of a person so like him, that, the other day, a

friend who called took no notice whatever of the man, further than

saying he was a good likeness, but asked the portrait to dinner, and

only found out his mistake when he went up to shake hands with it at

parting.

An American hearing that there was a fire in his neighbourhood, and that

it might possibly consume his house, took the precaution to bolt his own

door; that he might be, so far at least, beforehand with the devouring

element.

BAD EITHER WAY. The peace, happiness, and prosperity of England, are

threatened by Peel; in Ireland, the picture is reversed: the safety of

that country is endangered by Re-peal. It would be hard to say which is

worst.

A CONSTANT PAIR. Jane is a constant wench (so Sibthorp says);

For in how many shops you see Jean stays!

A COUNT AND HIS SCHNEIDER. The Count’s fashioner sent in, the other day,

his bill, which was a pretty considerable time overdue, accompanied by

the following polite note:—

“Sir,—Your bill having been for a very long time standing, I beg that it

may be settled forthwith.

“Yours, “B——.”

To which Snip received the following reply:—

“Sir,—I am very sorry that your bill should have been kept standing so

long. Pray request it to sit down.

“Yours, “**”

[pg 77] NARRATIVE OF AN AWFUL CASE OF EXTREME DISTRESS. It was in the

year 1808, that myself and seven others resolved upon taking chambers in

Staples’ Inn. Our avowed object was to study, but we had in reality

assembled together for the purposes of convivial enjoyment, and what

were then designated “sprees.” Our stock consisted of four hundred and

twelve pounds, which we had drawn from our parents and guardians under

the various pretences of paying fees and procuring books for the

advancement of our knowledge in the sublime mysteries of that black art

called Law. In addition to our pecuniary resources, we had also a fair

assortment of wearing-apparel, and it was well for us that parental

anxiety had provided most of us with a change of garments suitable to

the various seasons. For a long time everything went on riotously and

prosperously. We visited the Theatres, the Coal-hole, the Cider-cellars,

and the Saloon, and became such ardent admirers of the “Waterford system

of passing a night and morning,” that scarcely a day came without a

draft upon the treasury for that legal imposition upon the liberty of

the subject—the five-shilling fine; besides the discharge of promissory

notes as compensation for trifling damages done to the heads and

property of various individuals.

About a month after the formation of our association we were all

suffering severely from thirsty head-aches, produced, I am convinced, by

the rapid consumption of thirteen bowls of whiskey-punch on the

preceding night. The rain was falling in perpendicular torrents, and the

whole aspect of out-of-door nature was gloomy and sloppy, when we were

alarmed by the exclamation of Joseph Jones (a relation of the Welsh

Joneses), who officiated as our treasurer, and upon inquiring the cause,

were horror-stricken to find that we had arrived at our last ten-pound

note, and that the landlord had sent an imperative message, requiring

the immediate settlement of our back-rent. It is impossible to paint the

consternation depicted on every countenance, already sufficiently

disordered by previous suffering and biliary disarrangement.

I was the first to speak; for being the son of a shabby-genteel father,

I had witnessed in my infancy many of those schemes to raise the

needful, to which ambitious men with limited incomes are so frequently

driven. I therefore bid them be of good heart, for that any pawnbroker

in the neighbourhood would readily advance money upon the superfluous

wardrobe which we possessed. This remark was received with loud cheers,

which, I have no doubt, would have been much more vehement but from the

fatal effects of the whiskey-punch.

The landlord’s claim was instantly discharged, and after several pots of

strong green tea, rendered innocuous by brandy, we sallied forth in

pursuit of what we then ignorantly conceived to be pleasure.

I will not pause to particularise the gradual diminution of our

property, but come at once to that period when, having consumed all our

superfluities, it become a serious subject of consideration, what should

next be sacrificed.

I will now proceed to make extracts from our general diary, merely

premising that our only attendant was an asthmatic individual named

Peter.

Dec. 2, 1808.—Peter reported stock—eight coats, eight waistcoats, eight

pairs of trousers, two ounces of coffee, half a quartern loaf, and a

ha’p’orth of milk. The eight waistcoats required for dinner. Peter

ordered to pop accordingly—proceeds 7s. 6d. Invested in a small leg of

mutton and half-and-half.

Dec. 3.—Peter reported stock—coats idem, trousers idem—a mutton

bone—rent due—a coat and a pair of trousers ordered for immediate

necessities—lots drawn—Jones the victim. Moved the court to grant him

his trousers, as his coat was lined with silk, which would furnish the

trimmings—rejected. Peter popped the suit, and Jones went to bed. All

signed an undertaking to redeem Jones with the first remittance from the

country. Proceeds 40s. Paid rent, and dined on à-la-mode beef and

potatoes—beer limited to one quart. Peter hinted at wages, and was

remonstrated with on the folly and cruelty of his conduct.

Dec. 4.—Peter reported stock—seven coats, seven pairs of trousers, and a

gentleman in bed. Washerwoman called—gave notice of detaining linen

unless settled with—two coats and one pair of trousers ordered for

consumption. Lots drawn—Smith the victim for coat and trousers—Brown for

the continuations only. Smith retired to bed—Brown obtained permission

to sit in a blanket. Proceeds of the above, 38s.—both pairs of trousers

having been reseated. Jones very violent, declaring it an imposition,

and that every gentleman who had been repaired, should enter himself so

on the books. The linen redeemed, leaving—nothing for dinner.

Dec. 5.—Peter reported stock—four coats, and five pairs of trousers.

Account not agreeing, Peter was called in—found that Williams had

bolted—Jones offered to call him out, if we would dress him for the

day—Smith undertook to negotiate preliminaries on the same

conditions—Williams voted not worth powder and shot in the present state

of our finances. A coat and two pair of continuations ordered for

supplies—lots drawn—Black and Edwards the victims. Black retired to bed,

and Edwards to a blanket—proceeds, 20s. Jones, Smith, and Black,

petitioned for an increased supply of coals—agreed to. Dinner, a large

leg of mutton and baked potatoes. Peter lodged a detainer against the

change, as he wanted his hair cut and a box of vegetable pills—so he

said.

Dec. 6.—Peter reported stock—three coats, three pairs of trousers,

quarter of a pound of mutton, and one potato. Landlord sent a note

remonstrating against using the beds all day, and applying the blankets

to the purposes of dressing-gowns. Proposed, in consequence of this

impertinent communication, that the payment of the next week’s rent be

disputed—carried nem. con. A coat and a pair of trousers ordered for the

day’s necessities—Peter popped as usual—proceeds, 10s. 6d.—coals

bought—ditto a quire of paper, and the et cets. for home correspondence.

Blue devils very prevalent.

Dec. 7.—Peter reported stock—two coats, two pairs of trousers, and five

gentlemen in bed. Smith hinted at the “beauties of Burke“—Peter brought

a note for Jones—everybody in ecstacy—Jones’s jolly old uncle from

Glamorganshire had arrived in town. Huzza! safe for a 20l. Busker

(that’s myself) volunteered his suit—Jones dressed and off in a brace of

shakes—caught Peter laughing—found it was a hoax of Jones’s to give us

the slip—would have stripped Peter, only his clothes were worth

nothing—calculated the produce of the remaining suit at—

Buttons a breakfast. Two sleeves one pint of porter. Body four plates of

à-la-mode. Trousers (at per leg) half a quartern loaf. Caught an

idea.—wrote an anonymous letter to the landlord, and told him that an

association had been formed to burke Colonel Sibthorp—his lodgers the

conspirators—that the scheme was called the “Lie-a-bed plot”—poverty

with his lodgers all fudge—men of immense wealth—get rid of them for his

own sake—old boy very nervous, having been in quod for smuggling—gave us

warning—couldn’t go if we would. Landlord redeemed our clothes. Ha!

ha!—did him brown.

The above is a statement of what I suffered during my minority. I have

now the honour to be a magistrate and a member of Parliament.

THE RICH OLD BUFFER. A MAIDEN LYRIC. Urge it no more! I must not wed

One who is poor, so hold your prattle;

My lips on love have ne’er been fed,

With poverty I cannot battle.

My choice is made—I know I’m right—

Who wed for love starvation suffer;

So I will study day and night

To please and win a rich OLD BUFFER.

Romance is very fine, I own;

Reality is vastly better;

I’m twenty—past—romance is flown—

To Cupid I’m no longer debtor.

Wealth, power, and rank—I ask no more—

Let the world frown, with these I’ll rough her—

Give me an equipage and four,

Blood bays, a page, and—rich OLD BUFFER.

An opera-box shall be my court,

Myself the sovereign of the women;

There moustached loungers shall resort,

Whilst Elssler o’er the stage is skimming.

If any rival dare dispute

The palm of ton, my set shall huff her;

I’ll reign supreme, make envy mute,

When once I wed a rich OLD BUFFFER!

“The heart”—“the feelings”—pshaw! for nought

They go, I grant, though quite enchanting

In valentines by school-girls wrought:

Nonsense! by me they are not wanting.

A note! and, as I live, a ring!

“Pity the sad suspense I suffer!”

All’s right. I knew to book I’d bring

Old Brown. I’ve caught—

A RICH OLD BUFFER.

PHILANTHROPY, FINE WRITING, AND FIREWORKS. A writer in a morning paper,

eulogising the Licensed Victuallers’ fête at Vauxhall Gardens, on

Tuesday evening, bursts into the following magnificent flight:—“Wit has

been profanely said, like the Pagan, to deify the brute” (the writer

will never increase the mythology); “but here,” (that is, in the royal

property,) “while intellect and skill” (together with Roman candles)

“exhibit their various manifestations, Charity” (arrack punch and blue

fire) “throw their benign halo over the festive scene” (in the circle

and Widdicomb), “and not only sanctify the enjoyment” (of ham and

Green’s ascent), “but improve” (the appetite) “and elevate” (the

victuallers) “the feelings” (and the sky-rockets) “of all who

participate in it” (and the sticks coming down). “This is, truly an

occasion when every licensed victualler should be at his post” (with a

stretcher in waiting).

[pg 78] IMPERIAL PARLIAMENT. As the coming session of Parliament is

likely to be a busy one—for PUNCH—we have engaged some highly talented

gentlemen expressly to report the fun in the House. The public will

therefore have the benefit of all the senatorial brilliancy, combined

with our own peculiar powers of description. Sibthorp—(scintillations

fly from our pen as we trace the magic word)—shall, for one session at

least, have justice done to his Sheridanic mind. Muntz shall be cut with

a friendly hand, and Peter Borthwick feel that the days of his

histrionic glories are returned, when his name, and that of “Avon’s

swan,” figured daily in the “Stokum-cum-Pogis Gazette.” Let any member

prove himself worthy of being associated with the brilliant names which

ornament our pages, and be certain we will insure his immortality. We

will now proceed to our report of

THE QUEEN’S SPEECH. MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN,

This morn at crow-cock,

Great Doctor Locock

Decided that her Majesty had better

Remain at home, for (as I read the letter)

He thought the opening speech

Would be “more honoured in the breach

Than the observance.” So here I am,

To read a royal speech without a flam.

Her Majesty continues to receive

From Foreign Powers good reasons to believe

That, for the universe, they would not tease her,

But do whate’er they could on earth to please her.

A striking fact,

That proves each act

Of us, the Cabinet, has been judicious,

Though of our conduct some folks are suspicious.

Her Majesty has also satisfaction

To state the July treaty did succeed

(Aided, no doubt, by Napier’s gallant action),

And that in peace the Sultan smokes his weed.

That France, because she was left out,

Did for a little while—now bounce—now pout,

Is in the best of humours, and will still

Lend us her Jullien, monarch of quadrille!

And as her Majesty’s a peaceful woman,

She hopes we shall get into rows with no man.

Her Majesty is also glad to say,

That as the Persian troops have march’d away,

Her Minister has orders to resume

His powers at Teheran, where he’s ta’en a room.

Her Majesty regrets that the Chinese

Are running up the prices of our teas:

But should the Emperor continue crusty,

Elliot’s to find out if his jacket’s dusty.

Her Majesty has also had the pleasure

(By using a conciliatory measure)

To settle Spain and Portugal’s division

About the Douro treaty’s true provision.

Her Majesty (she grieves to say) ’s contrived to get,

Like all her predecessors, into debt—