In Upper Canada, which, we suppose,

By this time is a fact the Council knows,

And what they think, or say, or write about it,

You’ll he advised of, and the Queen don’t doubt it,

But you’ll contrive to make the thing all square,

So leaves the matter to your loyal care.

GENTLEMEN OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS,

Her Majesty, I’m proud to say, relies

On you with confidence for the supplies;

And, as there’s much to pay, she begs to hint

She hopes sincerely you’ll not spare the Mint.

MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN,

The public till,

I much regret to say, is looking ill;

For Canada and China, and the Whigs—no, no—

Some other prigs—have left the cash so-so:

But as our soldiers and our tars, brave lads,

Won’t shell out shells till we shell out the brads,

Her Majesty desires you’ll be so kind

As to devise some means to raise the wind,

Either by taxing more or taxing less,

Relieving or increasing our distress;

Or by increasing twopennies to quarterns,

Or keeping up the price which “Commons shortens;”

By making weavers’ wages high or low,

Or other means, but what we do not know.

But the one thing our royal mistress axes,

Is, that you’ll make the people pay their taxes.

The last request, I fear, will cause surprise—

Her Majesty requests you to be wise.

If you comply at once, the world will own

It is the greatest miracle e’er known.

THE DINNEROLOGY OF ENGLAND. Man is the only animal that cooks his dinner

before he eats it. All other species of the same genus are content to

take the provisions of nature as they find them; but man’s reason has

designed pots and roasting-jacks, stewpans and bakers’ ovens; thus

opening a wide field for the exercise of that culinary ingenuity which

has rendered the names of Glasse and Kitchiner immortal. Of such

importance is the gastronomic art to the well-being of England, that we

question much if the “wooden walls,” which have been the theme of many a

song, afford her the same protection as her dinners. The ancients

sought, by the distribution of crowns and flowers, to stimulate the

enterprising and reward the successful; but England, despising such

empty honours and distinctions, tempts the diffident with a haunch of

venison, and rewards the daring with real turtle.

If charity seeks the aid of the benevolent, she no longer trusts to the

magic of oratory to “melt the tender soul to pity,” and untie the purse-

strings; but, grown wise by experience, she sends in her card in the

shape of “a guinea ticket, bottle of wine included;” and thus appeals,

if not to the heart, at least to its next-door neighbour—the stomach.

The hero is no longer conducted to the temple of Victory amid the shouts

of his grateful and admiring countrymen, but to the Freemason’s, the

Crown and Anchor, or the Town Hall, there to have his plate heaped with

the choicest viands, his glass tilled from the best bins, and “his

health drank with three times three, and a little one in.”

The bard has now to experience “the happiest moment of his life” amid

the jingling of glasses, the rattle of dessert plates, and the

stentorian vociferations of the toast-master to “charge your glasses,

gentlemen—Mr. Dionysius Dactyl, the ornament of the age, with nine times

nine,” and to pour out the flood of his poetic gratitude, with half a

glass of port in one hand and a table-napkin in the other.

The Cicero who has persuaded an enlightened body of electors to receive

£10,000 decimated amongst them, and has in return the honour of sleeping

in “St. Stephen’s,” and smoking in “Bellamy’s,” or, to be less

figurative, who has been returned as their representative in Parliament,

receives the foretaste of his importance in a “public dinner,” which

commemorates his election; or should he desire to express “the deep

sense of his gratitude,” like Lord Mahon at Hertford, he cannot better

prove his sincerity than by the liberal distribution of invitations for

the unrestrained consumption of mutton, and the unlimited imbibition of

“foreign wines and spirituous liquors.”

If a renegade, like Sir Francis Burdett, is desirous of making his

apostacy the theme of general remark—of surprising the world with an

exhibition of prostrated worth—let him not seek the market-cross to

publish his dishonour, whilst there remains the elevated chair at a

dinner-table. Let him prove himself entitled to be ranked as a man, by

the elaborate manner in which he seasons his soup or anatomises a joint.

Let him have the glass and the towel—the one to cool the tongue, which

must burn with the fulsome praises of those whom he has hitherto

decried, and the other as a ready appliance to conceal the blush which

must rush to the cheek from the consciousness of the thousand

recollections of former professions awakened in the minds of every

applauder of his apostacy. Let him have a Toole to give bold utterance

to the toasts which, in former years, would have called forth his

contumely and indignation, and which, even now, he dare only whisper,

lest the echo of his own voice should be changed into a curse. Let him

have wine, that his blood may riot through his veins and drive memory

onward. Let him have wine, that when the hollow cheers of his new allies

ring in his ears he may be incapable of understanding their real

meaning; or, when he rises to respond to the lip-service of his fellow

bacchanals, the fumes may supply the place of mercy, and save him from

the abjectness of self-degradation. Burdett! the 20th of August will

never be forgotten! You have earned an epitaph that will scorch men’s

eyes—

“To the last a renegade.”22. “Siege of Corinth.”

Who that possesses the least reflection ever visited a police-office

without feeling how intimately it was connected with the cook-shop! The

victims to the intoxicating qualities of pickled salmon, oyster-sauce,

and lobster salad, are innumerable; for where one gentleman or lady

pleads guilty to too much wine, a thousand extenuate on the score of

indigestion. We are aware that the disorganisation of the digestive

powers is very prevalent—about one or two in the morning—and we have no

doubt the Conservative friends of Captain Rous, who patriotically

contributed five shillings each to the Queen, and one gentleman (a chum

of our own at Cheam, if we mistake not) a sovereign to the poor-box,

were all doubtlessly suffering from this cause, combined with their

enthusiasm for the gallant Rous, and—proh pudor!—Burdett.

How much, then, are we indebted to our cooks! those perspiring

professors of gastronomy and their valuable assistants—the industrious

scullery-maids. Let not the Melbourne opposition to this meritorious

class, be supported by the nation at large; for England would soon cease

to occupy her present proud pre-eminence, did her rulers, her patriots,

and her heroes, sit down to cold mutton, or the villanously dressed

“joints ready from 12 to 5.” Justice is said to be the foundation of all

national prosperity—we contend that it is repletion—that Mr. Toole, the

toast-master, is the only embodiment of fame, and that true glory

consists of a gratuitous participation in “Three courses and a dessert!”

INQUEST—NOT EXTRAORDINARY. Great Bulwer’s works fell on Miss Basbleu’s

head.

And, in a moment, lo! the maid was dead!

A jury sat, and found the verdict plain—

“She died of milk and water on the brain.”

[pg 79] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—NO. VII. A man gives a smaller man a

haircut. TRIMMING A W(H)IG.

[pg 81] NAPOLEON’S STATUE AT BOULOGNE. [The bronze statue of Napoleon

which was last placed on the summit of the grand column at Boulogne with

extraordinary ceremony, has been turned, by design or accident, with its

back to England.]

Upon its lofty column’s stand,

Napoleon takes his place;

His back still turned upon that land

That never saw his face.

THE HIEROGLYPHIC DECIPHERED. The letters V.P.W. scratched by some person

on the brow of the statue of Napoleon while it lay on the ground beside

the column, which were supposed to stand for the insulting words Vaincu

par Wellington, have given great offence to the French. We have

authority for contradicting this unjust explanation. The letters are the

work of an ambitious Common Councilman of Portsoken Ward, who, wishing

to associate himself with the great Napoleon, scratched on the bronze

the initials of his name—V.P.W.—VILLIAM PAUL WENABLES.

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—NO. 5. “O fly with me, lady, my gallant

destrere

Is as true as the brand by my side;

Through flood and o’er moorland his master he’ll bear,

With the maiden he seeks for a bride.”

This, this was the theme of the troubadour’s lay,

And thus did the lady reply:—

“Sir knight, ere I trust thee, look hither and say,

Do you see any green in my eye?”

“O, doubt me not, lady, my lance shall maintain

That thou’rt peerless in beauty and fame;

And the bravest should eat of the dust of the plain,

Who would quaff not a cup to thy name.”

“I doubt not thy prowess in list or in fray,

For none dare thy courage belie;

And I’ll trust thee, though kindred and priest say me nay—

When you see any green in my eye!”

TO POLITICAL WRITERS, AND TO THE EDITOR OF THE “TIMES” IN PARTICULAR.

Mr. Solomons begs to announce to reporters of newspapers, that he has

constructed, at a very great expense, several sets of new glasses, which

will enable the wearer to see as small or as great a number of auditors,

at public conferences and political meetings, as may suit his purpose.

Mr. Solomons has also invented a new kind of ear-trumpet, which will

enable a reporter to hear only such portions of an harangue as may be in

accordance with his political bias; or should there be nothing uttered

by any speaker that may suit his purpose, these ear-trumpets will change

the sounds of words and the construction of sentences in such a way as

to be incontrovertible, although every syllable should be diverted from

its original meaning and intention. They have also the power of larding

a speech with “loud cheers,” or “strong disapprobation.”

These valuable inventions have been in use for some years by Mr.

Solomons’ respected friend, the editor of the Times; but no publicity

has been given to them, until Mr. S. had completely tested their

efficacy. He has now much pleasure in subjoining, for the information of

the public, the following letter, of the authenticity of which Mr. S.

presumes no one can entertain a doubt.

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR OF THE “TIMES.” It is with much pleasure that I

am enabled, my dear Solomons, to give my humble testimony in favour of

your new political glasses and ear-trumpet. By their invaluable aid I

have been enabled, for some years, to see and hear just what suited my

purpose. I have recommended them to my protégé, Sir Robert Peel, who has

already tried the glasses, and, I am happy to state, does not see quite

so many objections to a fixed duty as he did before using these

wonderful illuminators. The gallant Sibthorp (at my recommendation)

carried one of your ear-trumpets to the House on Friday last, and states

that he heard his honoured leader declare, “that the Colonel was the

only man who ought to be Premier—after himself.”

If these testimonies are of any value to you, publish them by all means,

and believe me.

Yours faithfully, JOHN WALTER. Printing House Square.

Mr. S. begs to state, that though magnifying and diminishing glasses are

no novelty, yet his invention is the only one to suit the interest of

parties without principle.

CON. BY THEODORE HOOK. “What sentimental character does the re-elected

Speaker remind you of?”—Ans. by Croker: “P(shaw!) Lefevre, to be sure.”

A CRUEL DISAPPOINTMENT. We regret to state that the second ball at the

Boulogne fête was simply remarkable from “its having gone off without

any disturbance.” Where were the national guards?

UNSATISFACTORY CONDITION OF FOREIGN BEEF—(CAUTION TO GOURMANDS). A

corresponedent of the Times forwards the alarming intelligence that at

the Boulogne Races the stakes never fill! Sibthorp, the gifted Sib, ever

happy at expedients, ingeniously recommends a trial of the chops.

A TRIFLE FROM LITTLE TOMMY. TO AN ELDERLY BEAUTY. “Ah! Julia, time all

tilings destroys,

The heart, the blood, the pen;

But come, I’ll re-enact young joy

And be myself again.

“Yet stay, sweet Julia, how is this

Thine are not lips at all;

Your face is plastered, and you kiss,

Like Thisbe—through a wall.”

PROSPECTUS FOR A PROVIDENT ANNUITY COMPANY. The capital of this Company

is to consist of £0,000,001; one-half of it to be vested in Aldgate

Pump, and the other moiety in the Dogger Bank.

Shares, at £50 each, will be issued to any amount; and interest paid

thereon when convenient.

A board, consisting of twelve directors, will be formed; but, to save

trouble, the management of the Company’s affairs will be placed in the

hands of the secretary.

The duties of trustees, auditor, and treasurer, will also be discharged

by the secretary.

Each shareholder will he presented with a gratuitous copy of the

Company’s regulations, printed on fine foolscap.

Individuals purchasing annuities of this company, will be allowed a

large-rate of interest on paper for their money, calculated on an

entirely novel sliding-scale. Annuitants will be entitled to receive

their annuities whenever they can get them.

The Company’s office will be open at all hours for the receipt of money;

but it is not yet determined at what time the paying branch of the

department will come into operation.

The secretary will be allowed the small salary of £10,000 a-year.

In order to simplify the accounts, there will be no books kept. By this

arrangement, a large saving will be effected in the article of clerks,

&c.

The annual profits of the company will be fixed at 20 per cent., but it

is expected that there will be no inquiry made after dividends.

All monies received for and by the company, to be deposited in the

breeches-pocket of the secretary, and not to be withdrawn from thence

without his special sanction.

The establishment to consist of a secretary and porter.

The porter is empowered to act as secretary in the absence of that

officer; and the secretary is permitted to assist the porter in the

arduous duties of his situation.

*** Applications for shares or annuities to be made to the secretary of

the Provident Annuity Company, No. 1, Thieves Inn.

AWFUL ACCIDENT. Our reporter has just forwarded an authentic statement,

in which he vouches, with every appearance of truth, that “Lord

Melbourne dined at home on Wednesday last.” The neighbourhood is in an

agonising state of excitement.

FURTHER PARTICULARS. (Particularly exclusive.) Our readers will be

horrified to learn the above is not the whole extent of this alarming

event. From a private source of the highest possible credit, we are

informed that his “Lordship also took tea.”

FURTHEST PARTICULARS. Great Heavens! when will our painful duties end?

We tremble as we write,—may we be deceived!—but we are compelled to

announce the agonising fact—“he also supped!”

BY EXPRESS. (From our own reporter on the spot!) DEAR SIR,—“The dinner

is fatally true! but, I am happy to state, there are doubts about the

tea, and you may almost wholly contradict the supper.”

SECOND EXPRESS. “I have only time to say, things are not so bad! The tea

is disproved, and the supper was a gross exaggeration.

“N.B. My horse is dead!”

THIRD EXPRESS. Hurrah! Glorious news! There is no truth in the above

fearful rumour; it is false from beginning to end, and, doubtless, had

its vile origin from some of the “adverse faction,” as it is clearly of

such a nature as to convulse the country. To what meanness will not

these Tories stoop, for the furtherance of their barefaced schemes of

oppression and pillage! The facts they have so grossly distorted with

their tortuous ingenuity and demoniac intentions, are simply these:—A

saveloy was ordered by one of the upper servants (who is on board wages,

and finds his own kitchen fire), the boy entrusted with its delivery

mistook the footman for his lordship. This is very unlikely, as the man

is willing to make an affidavit he had “just cleaned himself,” and

therefore, it is clear the boy must have been a paid emissary. But the

public will be delighted to learn, to prevent the possibility of future

mistakes—“John” has been denuded of his whiskers—the only features

which, on a careful examination, presented the slightest resemblance to

his noble master. In fact, otherwise the fellow is remarkably good-

looking.

[pg 82] HINTS TO NEW MEMBERS. BY AN OLD TRIMMER. It being now an

established axiom that every member goes into Parliament for the sole

purpose of advancing his own private interest, and not, as has been

ignorantly believed, for the benefit of his country or the constituency

he represents, it becomes a matter of vast importance to those

individuals who have not had the advantage of long experience in the

house, to be informed of the mode usually adopted by honourable members

in the discharge of their legislative duties. With this view the writer,

who has, for the last thirty years, done business on both sides of the

house, and always with the strictest regard to the main chance, has

collected a number of hints for the guidance of juvenile members, of

which the following are offered as a sample:—

HINT 1.—It is a vulgar error to imagine that a man, to be a member of

Parliament, requires either education, talents, or honesty: all that it

is necessary for him to possess is—impudence and humbug!

HINT 2.—When a candidate addresses a constituency, he should promise

everything. Some men will only pledge themselves to what their

conscience considers right. Fools of this sort can never hope to be

A man gets kicked out of a door by many feet. RETURNED BY A LARGE

MAJORITY.

HINT 3.—Oratory is a showy, but by no means necessary, accomplishment in

the house. If a member knows when to say “Ay” or “No,” it is quite

sufficient for all useful purposes.

HINT 4.—If, however, a young member should be seized with, the desire of

speaking in Parliament, he may do so without the slighest regard to

sense, as the reporters in the gallery are paid for the purpose of

making speeches for honourable members; and on the following morning he

may calculate on seeing, in the columns of the daily papers, a full

report of his splendid

A young woman tells her swain 'I'll ask my Ma!' MAIDEN SPEECH.

HINT 5.—A knowledge of the exact time to cry “Hear, hear!” is absolutely

necessary. A severe cough, when a member of the opposite side of the

house is speaking, is greatly to be commended; cock-crowing is also a

desirable qualification for a young legislator, and, if judiciously

practised, cannot fail to bring the possessor into the notice of his

party.

HINT 6.—The back seats in the gallery are considered, by several

members, as the most comfortable for taking a nap on.

HINT 7.—If one honourable member wishes to tell another honourable

member that he is anything but a gentleman, he should be particular to

do so within the walls of the house—as, in that case, the Speaker will

put him under arrest, to prevent any unpleasant consequences arising

from his hasty expressions.

HINT 8.—If a member promise to give his vote to the minister, he must in

honour do so—unless he happen to fall asleep in the smoking-room, and so

gets shut out from the division of the house.

HINT 9.—No independent member need trouble himself to understand the

merits of any question before the house. He may, therefore, amuse

himself at Bellamy’s until five minutes before the Speaker’s bell rings

for a division.

RATHER SUICIDAL. “The health of the Earl of Winchilsea and the

Conservative members of the House of Peers,” was followed, amid intense

cheering, with the glee of

“Swearing death to traitor slaves!”—Times.

NOVEL EXPERIMENT.—GREAT SCREW. Several scientific engineers have formed

themselves into a company, and are about applying for an Act of

Parliament to enable them to take a lease of Joe Hume, for the purpose

of opposing the Archimedean Screw. Public feeling is already in favour

of the “Humedean,” and the “Joe” shares are rising rapidly.

PUNCH’S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE.—NO. 3. One of the expedients adopted

by the cheap-knowledge-mongers to convey so-called “information” to the

vulgar, has been, we flatter ourselves, successfully imitated in our

articles on the Stars and the Thermometer. They are by writers engaged

expressly for the respective subjects, because they will work cheaply

and know but little of what they are writing about, and therefore make

themselves the better understood by the equally ignorant. We do hope

that they have not proved themselves behindhand in popular humbug and

positive error, and that the blunders in “the Thermometer”33. One of

these blunders the author must not be commended for; it is attributable

to a facetious mistake of the printer. In giving the etymology of the

Thermometer, it should have been “measure of heat,” and not “measure of

feet.” We scorn to deprive our devil of a joke so worthy of him. are

equally as amusing as those of the then big-wig who wrote the treatise

on “Animal Mechanics,” published by our rival Society for Diffusing

Useful Knowledge.

Another of their methods for obtaining cheap knowledge it is now our

intention to adopt. Having got the poorest and least learned authors we

could find (of course for cheapness) for our former pieces of

information, we have this time engaged a gentleman to mystify a few

common-place subjects, in the style of certain articles in the “Penny

Cyclopædia.” As his erudition is too profound for ordinary

comprehensions—as he scorns gain—as the books he has hitherto published

(no, privated) have been printed at his own expense, for the greater

convenience of reading them himself, for nobody else does so—as, in

short, he is in reality a cheap-knowledge man, seeing that he scorns

pay, and we scorn to pay him—we have concluded an engagement with him

for fourteen years.

The subject on which we have directed him to employ his vast scientific

acquirements, is one which must come home to the firesides of the

married and the bosoms of the single, namely, the art of raising a

flame; in humble imitation of some of Young’s Knights’ Thoughts, which

are directed to the object of lightening the darkness of servants,

labourers, artisans, and chimney-sweeps, and in providing guides to the

trades or services of which they are already masters or mistresses. We

beg to present our readers with

PUNCH’S GUIDE TO SERVICE; OR, A maid kisses a man through a fence. THE

HOUSEMAID’S BEST FRIEND. CHAPTER 1. ON THE PROCESS AND RATIONALE OF

LIGHTING FIRES. Take a small cylindrical aggregation of parallelopedal

sections of the ligneous fibre (vulgarly denominated a bundle of fire-

wood), and arrange a fractional part of the integral quantity

rectilineally along the interior of the igneous receptacle known as a

grate, so as to form an acute angle (of, say 25°) with its base; and one

(of, say 65°) with the posterior plane that is perpendicular to it;

taking care at the same time to leave between each parallelopedal

section an insterstice isometrical with the smaller sides of any one of

their six quadrilateral superficies, so as to admit of the free

circulation of the atmospheric fluid. Superimposed upon this, arrange

several moderate-sized concretions of the hydro-carburetted substance

(vulgo coal), approximating in figure as nearly as possible to the

rhombic dodecahedron, so that the solid angles of each concretion may

constitute the different points of contact with those immediately

adjacent. Insert into the cavity formed by the imposition of the

ligneous fibre upon the inferior transverse ferruginous bar, a sheet of

laminated lignin, or paper, compressed by the action of the digits into

an irregular spheroid.

These preliminary operations having been skilfully performed, the

process of combustion may be commenced. For this purpose, a smaller

woody paralleloped—the extremities of which have been previously dipped

in sulphur in a state of liquefaction—must be ignited and applied to the

laminated lignin, or waste paper, and so elevate its temperature to a

degree required for its combustion, which will be communicated to the

ligneous superstructure; this again raises the temperature of the hydro-

carburet concretion, and liberates its carburetted hydrogen in the form

of gas; which gas, combining with the oxygen of the atmosphere, enters

into combustion, and a general ignition ensues. This, in point of fact,

constitutes what is popularly termed—“lighting a fire.”

AN IMMINENT BREACH. In an action lately tried at the Cork Assizes, a

lady obtained fifteen hundred pounds damages, for a breach of promise of

marriage, against a faithless lover. Lady Morgan sends us the following

trifle on the subject:—

What! fifteen hundred!—’tis a sum severe;

The fine by far the injury o’erreaches.

For one poor breach of promise ’tis too dear—

’Twould be sufficient for a pair of breaches!

[pg 83] SCHOOL OF DESIGN. Several designing individuals, whose talents

for drawing on paper are much greater than those of Charles Kean for

drawing upon the stage, met together at Somerset House, on Monday last,

to distribute prizes among their scholars. Prince Albert presided, gave

away the prizes with great suavity, and made a speech which occupied

exactly two seconds and a-half.

The first prize was awarded to Master Palmerston, for a successful

design for completely frustrating certain commercial views upon China,

and for his new invention of auto-painting. Prize: an order upon Truefit

for a new wig.

Master John Russell was next called up.—This talented young gentleman

had designed a gigantic “penny loaf;” which, although too immense for

practical use, yet, his efforts having been exclusively directed to

fanciful design, and not to practical possibility, was highly applauded.

Master Russell also evinced a highly precocious talent for drawing—his

salary. Prize: a splendidly-bound copy of the New Marriage Act.

The fortunate candidate next upon the list, was Master Normanby. This

young gentleman brought forward a beautiful design for a new prison, so

contrived for criminals to be excluded from light and society, in any

degree proportionate with their crimes. This young gentleman was brought

up in Ireland, but there evinced considerable talent in drawing

prisoners out of durance vile. He was much complimented on the salutary

effect upon his studies, which his pupilage at the school of design had

wrought. Prize: an order from Colburn for a new novel.

Master Melbourne, who was next called up, seemed a remarkably fine boy

of his age, though a little too old for his short jacket. He had

signalised himself by an exceedingly elaborate design for the Treasury

benches. This elicited the utmost applause; for, by this plan, the seats

were so ingeniously contrived, that, once occupied, it would be a matter

of extreme difficulty for the sitter to be absquatulated, even by main

force. Prize: a free ticket to the licensed victuallers’ dinner.

The Prince then withdrew, amidst the acclamations of the assembled

multitude.

A HINT TO THE NEW LORD CHAMBERLAIN. There is always much difference of

opinion existing as to the number of theatres which ought to be licensed

in the metropolis. Our friend Peter Borthwick, whose mathematical

acquirements are only equalled by his “heavy fathers,” has suggested the

following formula whereby to arrive at a just conclusion:—Take the

number of theatres, multiply by the public-houses, and divide by the

dissenting chapels, and the quotient will be the answer. This is what

Peter calls

A man stands at a crossroads marked 'Fixed Duty' and 'Sliding Scale'

COMING TO A DIVISION.

VOCAL EVASION. LADY B—— (who, it is rumoured, has an eye to the

bedchamber) was interrogating Sir Robert Peel a little closer than the

wily minister in futuro approved of. After several very evasive answers,

which had no effect on the lady’s pertinacity, Sir Robert made her a

graceful bow, and retired, humming the favourite air of—

An artist is unhappy with a portrait. “OH! I CANNOT GIVE EXPRESSION.”

A PUN FROM THE ROW. It is asserted that a certain eminent medical man

lately offered to a publisher in Paternoster-row a “Treatise on the

Hand,” which the worthy bibliopole declined with a shake of the head,

saying, “My dear sir, we have got too many treatises on our hands

already.”

PLEASURES OF HOPE (RATHER EXPENSIVE). The Commerce states “the cost of

the mansion now building for Mr. Hope, in the Rue St. Dominique,

including furniture and objects of art, is estimated at six hundred

thousand pounds!”—[If this is an attribute of Hope, what is reality?—ED.

PUNCH.]

FASHIONS FOR THE MONTH. We perceive that the severity of the summer has

prevented the entire banishment of furs in the fashionable quartiers of

the metropolis. We noticed three fur caps, on Sunday last, in Seven

Dials. Beavers are, however, superseded by gossamers; the crowns of

which are, among the élite of St. Giles’s, jauntily opened to admit of

ventilation, in anticipation of the warm weather. Frieze coats are fast

giving way to pea-jackets; waistcoats, it is anticipated, will soon be

discarded, and brass buttons are completely out of vogue.

We have not noticed so many highlows as Bluchers upon the understandings

of the promenaders of Broad-street. Ancle-jacks are, we perceive,

universally adopted at the elegant soirées dansantes, nightly held at

the “Frog and Fiddle,” in Pye-street, Westminster.

ARTISTIC EXECUTION. We understand that Sir M.A. Shee is engaged in

painting the portraits of Sir Willoughhy Woolston Dixie and Mr. John

Bell, the lately-elected member for Thirsk, which are intended for the

exhibition at the Royal Academy. If Folliot Duff’s account of their

dastardly conduct in the Waldegrave affair be correct, we cannot imagine

two gentlemen more worthy the labours of the

Three judges at the bench. HANGING COMMITTEE.

NEW PARLIAMENTARY RETURNS. We have been informed, on authority upon

which we have reason to place much reliance, that several distinguished

members of the upper and lower houses of Parliament intend moving for

the following important returns early in the present session:—

IN THE LORDS. Lord Palmerston will move for a return of all the

papillote papers contained in the red box at the Foreign Office.

The Duke of Wellington will move for a return of the Tory taxes.

The Marquis of Downshire will move for a return of his political

honesty.

Lord Melbourne will move for a return of place and power.

The Marquis of Westmeath will move for a return of the days when he was

young.

The Marquis Wellesley will move for a return of the pap-spoons

manufactured in England for the last three years.

IN THE COMMONS. Sir Francis Burdett will move for a return of his

popularity in Westminster.

Lord John Russell will move that the return of the Tories to office is

extremely inconvenient.

Captain Rous will move for a return of the number of high-spirited

Tories who were conveyed on stretchers to the different station-houses,

on the night of the ever-to-be-remembered Drury-lane dinner.

Sir E.L. Bulwer will move for a return of all the half-penny ballads

published by Catnach and Co. during the last year.

Morgan O’Connell will move for a return of all the brogues worn by the

bare-footed peasantry of Ireland.

Colonel Sibthorp will move for a return of his wits.

Peter Borthwick will move for a return of all the kettles convicted of

singing on the Sabbath-day.

Sir Robert Peel will move for a return of all the ladies of the

palace—to the places from whence they came.

Ben D’Israeli will move for a return of all the hard words in Johnson’s

Dictionary.

RATHER OMINOUS! The Sunday Times states, that “several of the heads of

the Conservative party held a conference at Whitehall Gardens!” Heads

and conferences have been cut short enough at the same place ere now!

HEAVY LIGHTNESS. A joke Col. Sibthorp to the journal sent—

Appropriate heading—”Serious Accident.”

A MATTER OF COURSE. The match at cricket, between the Chelsea and

Greenwich Pensioners, was decided in favour of the latter. Captain Rous

says, no great wonder, considering the winners bad the majority of legs

on their side. The Hyllus affair has made him an authority.

[pg 84] THE DRAMA. THE ITALIAN OPERA. RETIREMENT OF RUBINI. (Exclusive.)

N.B.—PUNCH is delighted to perceive, from the style of this critique,

that, though anonymously sent, it is manifestly from the pen of the

elegant critic of the Morning Post.

A couple at the opera, in an O-shaped frame. n a review of the events of

the past season, the souvenirs it presents are not calculated to elevate

the character of the arts di poeta and di musica, of which the Italian

Opera is composed. The only decided nouveautés which made their

appearance, were “Fausta,” and “Roberto Devereux,” both of them jejune

as far as regards their libretto and the composita musicale. The latter

opera, however, serving as it did to introduce a pleasing rifacciamento

of the lamented Malibran, in her talented sister Pauline (Madame

Viardot), may, on that account, be remembered as a pleasing reminiscence

of the past season.

The evening of Saturday, Aug. 21st, will long be remembered by the

habitués of the Opera. From exclusive sources (which have been opened to

us at a very considerable expense) we are enabled to

communicate—malheureusement—that with the close of the saison de 1841,

the corps opératique loses one of its most brilliant ornaments. That

memorable epocha was chosen by Rubini for making a graceful congé to a

fashionable audience, amidst an abundance of tears—shed in the choicest

Italian—and showers of bouquets. The subjects chosen for representation

were apropos in the extreme; all being of a triste character, namely,

the atta terzo of “Marino Faliero,” the finale of “Lucia di Lammermoor,”

and the last parte of “La Sonnambula:” these were the chosen vehicles

for Rubini’s soirée d’adieu.

As this tenor primissimo has, in a professional regarde, disappeared

from amongst us—as the last echoes of his voix magnifique have died

away—as he has made a final exit from the public plafond to the

coulisses of private life—we deem it due to future historians of the

Italian Opera de Londres, to record our admiration, our opinions, and

our regrets for this great artiste.

Signor Rubini is in stature what might be denominated juste milieu; his

taille is graceful, his figure pleasing, his eyes full of expression,

his hair bushy: his comport upon the stage, when not excited by passion,

is full of verve and brusquerie, but in passages which the Maestro has

marked “con passione” nothing can exceed the elegance of his attitudes,

and the pleasing dignity of his gestures. After, par exemple, the

recitativi, what a pretty empressement he gave (alas! that we must now

speak in the past tense!) to the tonic or key-note, by locking his arms

in each other over his poitrine—by that after expansion of them—that

clever alto movement of the toes—that apparent embracing of the fumes

des lampes—how touching! Then, while the sinfonia of the andante was in

progress, how gracefully he turned son dos to the delighted auditors,

and made an interesting promenade au fond, always contriving to get his

finely-arched nose over the lumières at the precise point of time (we

speak in a musical sense) where the word “voce” is marked in the score.

His pantomime to the allegri was no less captivating; but it was in the

stretta that his beauty of action was most exquisitely apparent; there,

worked up by an elaborate crescendo (the motivo of which is always, in

the Italian school, a simple progression of the diatonic scale), the

furor with which this cantratice hurried his hands into the thick clumps

of his picturesque perruque, and seemed to tear its cheveux out by the

roots (without, however, disturbing the celebrated side-parting a single

hair)—the vigour with which he beat his breast—his final expansion of

arms, elevation of toes, and the impressive frappe of his right foot

upon the stage immediately before disappearing behind the coulisses—must

be fresh in the souvenir of our dilettanti readers.

But how shall we parle concerning his voix? That exquisite organ, whose

falsetto emulated the sweetness of flutes, and reached to A flat in

altissimo—the voce media of which possessed an unequalled aplomb, whose

deep double G must still find a well-in-tune echo in the tympanum of

every amateur of taste. That, we must confess, as critics and

theoretical musicians, causes us considerable embarras for words to

describe. Who that heard it on Saturday last, has yet recovered the

ravishing sensation produced by the thrilling tremour with which Rubini

gave the Notte d’Orrore, in Rossini’s “Marino Faliero?” Who can forget

the recitativo con andante et allegro, in the last scene of “La

Sonnambula;” or the burst of anguish con expressivissimo, when accused

of treason, while personating his favourite rôle in “Lucia di

Lammermoor?” Ah! those who suffered themselves to be detained from the

opera on Saturday last by mere illness, or other light causes, will, to

translate a forcible expression in the “Inferno” of Dante, “go down with

sorrow to the grave.” To them we say, Rubini est parti—gone!—he has sent

forth his last ut—concluded his last re—his ultimate note has

sounded—his last billet de banque is pocketed—he has, to use an emphatic

and heart-stirring mot, “coupé son bâton!”

It is due to the sentimens of the audience of Saturday, to notice the

evident regret with which they received Rubini’s adieux; for, towards

the close of the evening, the secret became known. Animated

conversazioni resounded from almost every box during many of his most

charming piano passages (and never will his sotto-voce be equalled)—the

beaux esprits of the pit discussed his merits with audible goût; while

the gallery and upper stalls remained in mute grief at the consciousness

of that being the dernière fois they would ever be able to hear the

sublime voce-di-testa of Italy’s prince of tenori.

Although this retirement will make the present clôture of the opera one

of the most memorable événemens in les annales de l’opéra, yet some

remarks are demanded of us upon the other artistes. In “Marino Faliero,”

Lablache came the Dodge with remarkable success. Madlle. Loewe, far from

deserving her bas nom, was the height of perfection, and gave her

celebrated scena in the last-named opera avec une force superbe.

Persiani looked remarkably well, and wore a most becoming robe in the

rôle of Amina.

Of the danseuses we have hardly space to speak. Cerito exhibited the

“poetry of motion” with her usual skill, particularly in a difficult pas

with Albert. The ballet was “Le Diable Amoureux,” and the stage was

watered between each act.

THE GREAT UNACTABLES. It seems that the English Opera-house has been

taken for twelve nights, to give “a free stage and fair play” to “EVERY

ENGLISH LIVING DRAMATIST.” Considering that the Council of the Dramatic

Authors’ Theatre comprises at least half-a-dozen Shakspeares in their

own conceit, to say nothing of one or two Rowes (soft ones of course), a

sprinkling of Otways, with here and there a Massinger, we may calculate

pretty correctly how far the stage they have taken possession of is

likely to be free, or the play to be fair towards Every English living

Dramatist.

It appears that a small knot of very great geniuses have been, for some

time past, regularly sending certain bundles of paper, called Dramas,

round to the different metropolitan theatres, and as regularly receiving

them back again. Some of these geniuses, goaded to madness by this

unceremonious treatment, have been guilty of the insanity of printing

their plays; and, though the “Rejected Addresses” were a very good

squib, the rejected Dramas are much too ponderous a joke for the public

to take; so that, while in their manuscript form, they always produced

speedy returns from the managers, they, in their printed shape, caused

no returns to the publishers. It is true, that a personal acquaintance

of some of the authors with Nokes of the North Eastern Independent, or

some other equally-influential country print, may have gained for them,

now and then, an egregious puff, wherein the writers are said to be

equal to Goëthe, a cut above Sheridan Knowles, and the only successors

of Shakspeare; but we suspect that “the mantle of the Elizabethan

poets,” which is said to have descended on one of these gentry, would,

if inspected, turn out to be something more like Fitzball’s Tagiioni or

Dibdin Pitt’s Macintosh.

No one can suspect PUNCH of any prestige in favour of the restrictions

laid upon the drama—for our own free-and-easy habit of erecting our

theatre in the first convenient street we come to, and going through our

performance without caring a rush for the Lord Chamberlain or the

Middlesex magistrates, must convince all who know us, that we are for a

thoroughly free trade in theatricals; but, nevertheless, we think the

Great Unactables talk egregious nonsense when they prate about the

possibility of their efforts working “a beneficial alteration in a law

which presses so fatally on dramatic genius.” We think their tom-foolery

more likely to induce restrictions that may prevent others from exposing

their mental imbecility, than to encourage the authorities to relax the

laws that might hinder them from doing so. The boasted compliance with

legal requisites in the mode of preparing “Martinuzzi” for the stage is

not a new idea, and we only hope it may be carried out one-half as well

as in the instances of “Romeo and Juliet as the Law directs,” and

“Othello according to Act of Parliament.” There is a vaster amount of

humbug in the play-bill of this new concern, than in all the open puffs

that have been issued for many years past from all the regular

establishments. The tirade against the law—the announcement of

alterations in conformity with the law—the hint that the musical

introductions are such as “the law may require”—mean nothing more than

this—“if the piece is damned, it’s the law; if it succeeds, it’s the

author’s genius!” Now, every one who has written for the illegitimate

stage, and therefore PUNCH in particular, knows very well that the

necessity for the introduction of music into a piece played at one of

the smaller theatres is only nominal—that four pieces of verse are

interspersed in the copy sent to the licenser, but these are such

matters of utter course, that their invention or selection is generally

left to the prompter’s genius. The piece is, unless essentially musical,

licensed with the songs and acted without—or, at least, there is no

necessity whatever for retaining them. Why, therefore, should Mr.

Stephens drag “solos, duets, choruses, and other musical arrangements,”

into his drama, unless it is that he thinks they will give it a better

chance of success? while, in the event of failure, he reserves the right

of turning round upon the law and the music, which he will declare were

the means of damning it.

A set of briefless barristers—all would-be Erskines, Thurlows, or

Eldons, at the least—might as well complain of the system that excludes

them from the Woolsack, and take a building to turn it into a Court of

Chancery on their own account, as that these luckless scribblers, all

fancying the Elizabethan mantle has fallen flop upon their backs, should

set themselves up for Shakspeares on their own account, and seize on a

metropolitan theatre as a temple for the enshrinement of their genius.

If PUNCH has dealt hardly with these gentlemen, it is because he will

bear “no brother near the throne” of humbug and quackery. Like a steward

who tricks his master, but keeps the rest of the servants honest, PUNCH

will gammon the public to the utmost of his skill, but he will take care

that no one else shall exercise a trade of which he claims by

prescription the entire monopoly.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. [pg 85] SEPTEMBER 5, 1841. THE

GENTLEMAN’S OWN BOOK. A man on a horse charges through a laurel wreath

in the shape of an O ur consideration must now be given to those

essentials in the construction of a true gentleman—the cut, ornaments,

and pathology of his dress.

THE CUT is to the garment what the royal head and arms are to the

coin—the insignia that give it currency. No matter what the material,

gold or copper, Saxony or sackcloth, the die imparts a value to the one,

and the shears to the other.

Ancient Greece still lives in its marble demi-gods; the vivifying chisel

of Phidias was thought worthy to typify the sublimity of Jupiter; the

master-hand of Canova wrought the Parian block into the semblance of the

sea-born goddess, giving to insensate stone the warmth and etheriality

of the Paphian paragon; and Stultz, with his grace-bestowing shears, has

fashioned West of England broad-cloths, and fancy goods, into all the

nobility and gentility of the “Blue Book,” the “Court Guide,” the “Army,

Navy, and Law Lists, for 1841.”

Wondrous and kindred arts! The sculptor wrests the rugged block from the

rocky ribs of his mother earth;—the tailor clips the implicated “long

hogs”11. The first growth of wool. from the prolific backs of the living

mutton;—the toothless saw, plied by an unweayring hand, prepares the

stubborn mass for the chisel’s tracery;—the loom, animated by steam

(that gigantic child of Wallsend and water), twists and twines the

unctuous and pliant fleece into the silky Saxony.

The sculptor, seated in his studio, throws loose the reins of his

imagination, and, conjuring up some perfect ideality, seeks to impress

the beautiful illusion on the rude and undigested mass before him. The

tailor spreads out, upon his ample board, the happy broadcloth; his eyes

scan the “measured proportions of his client,” and, with mystic power,

guides the obedient pipe-clay into the graceful diagram of a perfect

gentleman. The sculptor, with all the patient perseverance of genius,

conscious of the greatness of its object, chips, and chips, and chips,

from day to day; and as the stone quickens at each touch, he glows with

all the pride of the creative Prometheus, mingled with the gentler

ecstacies of paternal love. The tailor, with fresh-ground shears, and

perfect faith in the gentility and solvency of his “client,” snips, and

snips, and snips, until the “superfine” grows, with each abscission,

into the first style of elegance and fashion, and the excited schneider

feels himself “every inch a king,” his shop a herald’s college, and

every brown paper pattern garnishing its walls, an escutcheon of

gentility.

But to dismount from our Pegasus, or, in other words, to cut the poetry,

and come to the practice of our subject, it is necessary that a perfect

gentleman should be cut up very high, or cut down very low—i.e., up to

the marquis or down to the jarvey. Any intermediate style is perfectly

inadmissible; for who above the grade of an attorney would wear a coat

with pockets inserted in the tails, like salt-boxes; or any but an

incipient Esculapius indulge in trousers that evinced a morbid ambition

to become knee-breeches, and were only restrained in their aspirations

by a pair of most strenuous straps. We will now proceed to details.

The dressing-gown should be cut only—for the arm holes; but be careful

that the quantity of material be very ample—say four times as much as is

positively necessary, for nothing is so characteristic of a perfect

gentleman as his improvidence. This garment must be constructed without

buttons or button-holes, and confined at the waist with cable-like bell-

ropes and tassels. This elegant déshabille had its origin (like the

Corinthian capital from the Acanthus) in accident. A set of massive

window-curtains having been carelessly thrown over a lay figure, or

tailor’s torso, in Nugee’s studio, in St. James’s-street, suggested to

the luxuriant mind of the Adonisian D’Orsay, this beautiful combination

of costume and upholstery. The eighteen-shilling chintz great-coats, so

ostentatiously put forward by nefarious tradesmen as dressing-gowns, and

which resemble pattern-cards of the vegetable kingdom, are unworthy the

notice of all gentlemen—of course excepting those who are so by act of

Parliament. Although it is generally imagined that the coat is the

principal article of dress, we attach far greater importance to the

trousers, the cut of which should, in the first place, be regulated by

nature’s cut of the leg. A gentleman who labours under either a convex

or a concave leg, cannot be too particular in the arrangement of the

strap-draught. By this we mean that a concave leg must have the pull on

the convex side, and vice versa, the garment being made full, the

effects of bad nursing are, by these means, effectually “repealed.”22.

Baylis. This will be better understood if the reader will describe a

parallelogram, and draw therein the arc of a circle equal to that

described by his leg, whether knock-kneed or bandy.

If the leg be perfectly straight, then the principal peculiarity of cut

to be attended to, is the external assurance that the trousers cannot be

removed from the body without the assistance of a valet.

The other considerations should be their applicability to the promenade

or the equestriade. We are indebted to our friend Beau Reynolds for this

original idea and it is upon the plan formerly adopted by him that we

now proceed to advise as to the maintenance of the distinctions.

Let your schneider baste the trousers together, and when you have put

them on, let them be braced to their natural tension; the schneider

should then, with a small pair of scissors, cut out all the wrinkles

which offend the eye. The garment, being removed from your person, is

again taken to the tailor’s laboratory, and the embrasures carefully and

artistically fine-drawn. The process for walking or riding trousers only

varies in these particulars—for the one you should stand upright, for

the other you should straddle the back of a chair. Trousers cut on these

principles entail only two inconveniences, to which every one with the

true feelings of a gentleman would willingly submit. You must never

attempt to sit down in your walking trousers, or venture to assume an

upright position in your equestrians, for compound fractures in the

region of the os sacrum, or dislocations about the genu patellæ are

certain to be the results of such rashness, and then

A valet shakes a brush at a gentlemen cuddling a housemaid. “THE PEACE

OF THE VALET IS FLED.”

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL. — NO. 6. Thou hast humbled the proud,

For my spirit hath bow’d

More humbly to thee than it e’er bow’d before;

But thy pow’r is past,

Thou hast triumph’d thy last,

And the heart you enslaved beats in freedom once more!

I have treasured the flow’r

You wore but an hour,

And knelt by the mound where together we’ve sat;

But thy-folly and pride

I now only deride—

So, fair Isabel, take your change out of that!

That I loved, and how well,

It were madness to tell

To one who hath mock’d at my madd’ning despair.

Like the white wreath of snow

On the Alps’ rugged brow,

Isabel, I have proved thee as cold as thou’rt fair!

’Twas thy boast that I sued,

That you scorn’d as I woo’d—

Though thou of my hopes were the Mount Ararat;

But to-morrow I wed

Araminta instead—

So, fair Isabel, take your change out of that!

THE LAST HAUL. The ponds in St. James’s Park were on last Monday drawn

with nets, and a large quantity of the fish preserved there carried away

by direction of the Chief Commissioner of Woods and Forests. Our

talented correspondent, Ben D’Israeli, sends us the following squib on

the circumstance:—

“Oh! never more,” Duncannon cried,

“The spoils of place shall fill our dishes!

But though we’ve lost the loaves we’ll take

Our last sad haul amongst the fishes.”

GENERAL SATISFACTION. Lord Coventry declared emphatically that the sons,

the fathers, and the grandfathers were all satisfied with the present

corn laws. Had his lordship thought of the Herald, he might have added,

“and the grandmothers also.”

ADVERTISEMENT. If the enthusiastic individual who distinguished himself

on the O.P. side of third row in the pit of “the late Theatre Royal

English Opera House,” but now the refuge for the self-baptised “Council

of Dramatic Literature,” can be warranted sober, and guaranteed an

umbrella, in the use of which he is decidedly unrivalled, he is

requested to apply to the Committee of management, where he will hear of

something to his “advantage.”

[pg 86] A man looks in a pond and sees Shakspere “PUNCH’S” LITERATURE.

“The Hungarian Daughter,” a Dramatic Poem, by George Stephens, 8vo., pp.

294. London: 1841. “Introductory(!) Preface to the above,” pp. 25.

“Supplement to the above;” consisting of “Opinions of the Press,” on

various Works by George Stephens, 8vo., pp. 8. “Opinions of the Press

upon the ‘Dramatic Merits’ and ‘Actable Qualities’ of the Hungarian

Daughter,” 8vo., closely printed, pp. 16. The blind and vulgar prejudice

in favour of Shakspeare, Massinger, and the elder dramatic poets—the

sickening adulation bestowed upon Sheridan Knowles and Talfourd, among

the moderns—and the base, malignant, and selfish partiality of

theatrical managers, who insist upon performing those plays only which

are adapted to the stage—whose grovelling souls have no sympathy with

genius—whose ideas are fixed upon gain, have hitherto smothered those

blazing illuminati, George Stephens and his syn—Syncretcis; have

hindered their literary effulgence from breaking through the mists hung

before the eyes of the public, by a weak, infatuated adherence to paltry

Nature, and a silly infatuation in favour of those who copy her.

At length, however, the public blushes (through its representative, the

provincial press, and the above-named critical puffs,) with shame—the

managers are fast going mad with bitter vexation, for having, to use the

words of that elegant pleonasm, the introductory preface, “by a sort of

ex officio hallucination,” rejected this and some twenty other

exquisite, though unactable dramas! It is a fact, that since the opening

of the English Opera House, Mr. Webster has been confined to his room;

Macready has suspended every engagement for Drury-lane; and the managers

of Covent Garden have gone the atrocious length of engaging sibilants

and ammunition from the neighbouring market, to pelt the Syncretics off

the stage! Them we leave to their dirty work and their repentance, while

we proceed to our “delightful task.”

To prove that the “mantle of the Elizabethan poets seems to have fallen

upon Mr. Stephens” (Opinions, p. 11), that the “Hungarian Daughter” is

quite as good as Knowles’s best plays (Id. p. 4, in two places), that

“it is equal to Goethe” (Id. p. 11), that “in after years the name of

Mr. S. will be amongst those which have given light and glory to their

country” (Id. p. 10); to prove, in short, the truth of a hundred other

laudations collected and printed by this modest author, we shall quote a

few passages from his play, and illustrate his genius by pointing out

their beauties—an office much needed, particularly by certain dullards,

the magazine of whose souls are not combustible enough to take fire at

the electric sparks shot forth up out of the depths of George Stephens’s

unfathomable genius!

The first gem that sparkles in the play, is where Isabella, the Queen

Dowager of Hungary, with a degree of delicacy highly becoming a matron,

makes desperate love to Castaldo, an Austrian ambassador. In the midst

of her ravings she breaks off, to give such a description of a steeple-

chase as Nimrod has never equalled.

ISABELLA (hotly). “Love rides upon a thought,

And stays not dully to inquire the way,

But right o’erleaps the fence unto the goal.”

To appreciate the splendour of this image, the reader must conceive Love

booted and spurred, mounted upon a thought, saddled and bridled. He

starts. Yo-hoiks! what a pace! He stops not to “inquire the way”—whether

he is to take the first turning to the right, or the second to the

left—but on, on he rushes, clears the fence cleverly, and wins by a

dozen lengths!

What soul, what mastery, what poetical skill is here! We triumphantly

put forth this passage as an instance of the sublime art of sinking in

poetry not to be matched by Dibdin Pitt or Jacob Jones. Love is sublimed

to a jockey, Thought promoted to a race-horse!—“Magnificent!”

But splendid as this is, Mr. Stephens can make the force of bathos go a

little further. The passage continues (“a pause” intervening, to allow

breathing ime, after the splitting pace with which Love has been riding

upon Thought) thus:—

“Are your lips free? A smile will make no noise.

What ignorance! So! Well! I’ll to breakfast straight!”

Again:—

ISABELLA. “Ha! ha! These forms are air—mere counterfeits

Of my imaginous heart, as are the whirling

Wainscot and trembling floor!”

The idea of transferring the seat of imagination from the head to the

heart, and causing it to exhibit the wainscot in a pirouette, and the

floor in an ague, is highly Shakesperesque, and, as the Courier is made

to say at page 3 of the Opinions, “is worthy of the best days of that

noble school of dramatic literature in which Mr. Stephens has so

successfully studied.”

This well-deserved praise—the success with which the author has studied,

in a school, the models of which were human feelings and nature,—we have

yet to illustrate from other passages. Mr. Stephens evinces his full

acquaintance with Nature by a familiarity with her convulsions:

whirlwinds, thunder, lightning, earthquakes, and volcanoes—are this

gentleman’s playthings. When, for instance, Rupert is going to be

gallant to Queen Isabella, she exclaims:—

“Dire lightnings! Scoundrel! Help!”

Martinuzzi conveys a wish for his nobles to laugh—an order for a sort of

court cachinnation—in these pretty terms:—

“Blow it about, ye opposite winds of heaven,

Till the loud chorus of derision shake

The world with laughter!”

When he feels uncomfortable at something he is told in the first act,

the Cardinal complains thus:—

“Ha! earthquakes quiver in my flesh!”

which the Britannia is so good as to tell us is superior to Byron; while

the Morning Herald kindly remarks, that “a more vigorous and expressive

line was never penned. In five words it illustrates the fiercest

passions of humanity by the direst convulsion of nature:” (Opinions, p.

7) a criticism which illustrates the fiercest throes of nonsense, by the

direst convulsions of ignorance.

Castaldo, being anxious to murder the Cardinal with, we suppose, all

“means and appliances to boot,” asks of heaven a trifling favour:—

“Heaven, that look’st on,

Rain thy broad deluge first! All-teeming earth

Disgorge thy poisons, till the attainted air

Offend the sense! Thou, miscreative hell,

Let loose calamity!”

But it is not only in the “sublime and beautiful that Mr. Stephens’s

genius delights” (vide Opinions, p. 4); his play exhibits sentiments of

high morality, quite worthy of the “Editor of the Church of England

Quarterly Review,” the author of “Lay Sermons,” and other religious

works. For example: the lady-killer, Castaldo, is “hotly” loved by the

queen-mother, while he prefers the queen-daughter. The last and Castaldo

are together. The dowager overhears their billing and cooing, and thus,

with great moderation, sends her supposed daughter to ——. But the author

shall speak for himself:—

“Ye viprous twain!

Swift whirlwinds snatch ye both to fire as endless

And infinite as hell! May it embrace ye!

And burn—burn limbs and sinews, souls, until

It wither ye both up—both—in its arms!”

Elegant denunciation!—“viprous,” “hell,” “sinews and souls.” Has Goethe

ever written anything like this? Certainly not. Therefore the “Monthly”

is right at p. 11 of the Opinions. Stephens must be equal, if not

superior, to the author of “Faust.”

One more specimen of delicate sentiment from the lips of a virgin

concerning the lips of her lover, will fully establish the Syncretic

code of moral taste:—

CZERINA (faintly). “Do breathe heat into me:

Lay thy warm breath unto my bloodless lips:

I stagger; I—I must—”

CASTALDO. “In mercy, what?”

CZERINA. “Wed!!!”

The lady ends, most maidenly, by fainting in her lover’s arms.

A higher flight is elsewhere taken. Isabella urges Castaldo to murder

Martinuzzi, in a sentence that has a powerful effect upon the feelings,

for it makes us shudder as we copy it—it will cause even our readers to

tremble when they see it. The idea of using blasphemy as an instrument

for shocking the minds of an audience, is as original as it is worthy of

the sort of genius Mr. Stephens possesses. Alluding to a poniard,

Isabella says:—

“Sheath it where God and nature prompt your hand!”

That is to say, in the breast of a cardinal!!

The vulgar, who set up the common-place standards of nature,

probability, moral propriety, and respect for such sacred names as they

are careful never to utter, except with reverence, will perhaps condemn

Mr. Stephens (the aforesaid “Editor of the Church of England Quarterly

Review,” and author of other religious works) with unmitigated severity.

They must not be too hasty. Mr. Stephens is a genius, and cannot,

therefore, be held accountable for the meaning [pg 87]of his ravings, be

they even blasphemous; more than that he is a Syncretic genius, and his

associates, by the designation they have chosen, by the terms of their

agreement, are bound to cry each other up—to defend one another from the

virulent attacks of common sense and plain reason. They are sworn to

stick together, like the bundle of rods in Æsop’s fable.

A bundle of rods tied with a banner marked 'KANT' SYNCRETISM.

Mr. Stephens, their chief, the god of their idolatry, is, consequently,

more mad, or, according to their creed, a greater genius, than the rest;

and evidently writes passages he would shudder to pen, if he knew the

meaning of them. Upon paper, therefore, the Syncretics are not

accountable beings; and when condemned to the severest penalties of

critical law, must be reprieved on the plea of literary insanity.

It may be said that we have descended to mere detail to illustrate Mr.

Stephens’ peculiar genius—that we ought to treat of the grand design, or

plot of the Hungarian Daughter; but we must confess, with the deepest

humility, that our abilities are unequal to the task. The fable soars

far beyond the utmost flights of our poor conjectures, of our limited

comprehension. We know that at the end there are—one case of poisoning,

one ditto of stabbing with intent, &c., and one ditto of sudden death.

Hence we conclude that the play is a tragedy; but one which “cannot be

intended for an acting play” (preliminary preface, p.1,)—of course as a

tragedy; yet so universal is the author’s genius, that an adaptation of

the Hungarian Daughter, as a broad comedy, has been produced at the

“Dramatic Authors’ Theatre,” having been received with roars of

laughter!

The books before us have been expensively got up. In the Hungarian

Daughter, “rivers of type flow through meadows of margin,” to the length

of nearly three hundred pages. Mr. Stephens is truly a most spirited

printer and publisher of his own works.

But the lavish outlay he must have incurred to obtain such a number of

favourable notices—so many columns of superlative praise—shows him to

be, in every sense—like the prince of puffers, George Robins—“utterly

regardless of expense.” The works third and fourth upon our list,

doubtless cost, for the copyright alone, in ready money, a fortune. It

is astonishing what pecuniary sacrifices genius will make, when it

purloins the trumpet of Fame to puff itself into temporary notoriety.

INQUEST EXTRAORDINARY. The Whigs, who long

Were bold and strong,

On Monday night went dead.

The jury found

This verdict sound—

“Destroy’d by low-priced bread.”

AN EXCLUSIVE APPOINTMENT. It is with the most rampant delight that we

rush to announce, that a special warrant has been issued, appointing our

friend and protégé, the gallant and jocular Sibthorp, to the important

office of beadle and crier to the House of Commons—a situation which has

been created from the difficulty which has hitherto been found in

inducing strangers to withdraw during a division of the House. This

responsible office could not have been conferred upon any one so capable

of discharging its onerous duties as the Colonel. We will stake our

hump, that half-a-dozen words of the gallant Demosthenes would, at any

time have the effect of

People are tossed off of their benches. CLEARING THE STRANGER’S GALLERY.

THE GREAT CRICKET MATCH AT ST. STEPHEN’S. FIRST INNINGS. The return

match between the Reform and Carlton Clubs has been the theme of general

conversation during the past week. Some splendid play was exhibited on

the occasion, and, although the result has realised the anticipations of

the best judges, it was not achieved without considerable exertion.

It will be remembered that, the last time these celebrated clubs met,

the Carlton men succeeded in scoring one notch more than their rivals;

who, however, immediately challenged them to a return match, and have

been diligently practising for success since that time.

The players assembled in Lord’s Cricket Ground on Tuesday last, when the

betting was decidedly in favour of the Cons, whose appearance and manner

was more confident than usual; while, on the contrary, the Rads seemed

desponding and shy. On tossing up, the Whigs succeeded in getting first

innings, and the Tories dispersed themselves about the field in high

glee, flattering themselves that they would not be out long.

Wellington, on producing the ball—a genuine Duke—excited general

admiration by his position. Ripon officiated as bowler at the other

wicket. Sibthorp acted as long-stop, and the rest found appropriate

situations. Lefevre was chosen umpire by mutual consent.

Spencer and Clanricarde went in first. Spencer, incautiously trying to

score too many notches for one of his hits, was stumped out by Ripon,

and Melbourne succeeded him. Great expectations had been formed of this

player by his own party, but he was utterly unable to withstand

Wellington’s rapid bowling, which soon sent him to the right-about.

Clanricarde was likewise run out without scoring a notch.

Lansdowne and Brougham were now partners at the wickets; but Lansdowne

did not appear to like his mate, on whose play it is impossible to

calculate. Coventry, the short slip, excited much merriment, by a futile

attempt to catch this player out, which terminated in his finding

himself horizontal and mortified. Wellington, having bowled out

Lansdowne, resigned his ball to Peel, who took his place at the wicket

with a smile of confidence, which frightened the bat out of the hands of

Phillips, the next Rad.

Dundas and Labouchere were now the batmen. Labouchere is a very

intemperate player. One of Sandon’s slow balls struck his thumb, and put

him out of temper, whereupon he hit about at random, and knocked down

his wicket. Wakley took his bat, but apparently not liking his position,

he hit up and caught himself out.

O’Connell took his place with a lounging swagger, but his first ball was

caught by the immortal Sibthorp, who uttered more puns on the occasion

than the oldest man present recollected to have heard perpetrated in any

given time. Russell—who, by the bye, excavated several quarts of ‘heavy’

during his innings—was the last man the Rads had to put in. He played

with care, and appeared disposed to keep hold of the bat as long as

possible. He was, however, quietly disposed of by one of Peel’s

inexorable balls.

Thus far the game has proceeded. The Cons have yet to go in. The general

opinion is, that they will not remain in so long as the Rads, but that

they will score their notches much quicker. Indeed, it was commonly

remarked, that no players had ever remained in so long, and had done so

little good withal, as the Reformites.

Betting is at 100 to 5 in favour of the Carlton men, and anxiety is on

tip-toe to know the result of the next innings.

The Tories are exulting in their recent victory over the poor Whigs,

whom they affirm have been tried, and found wanting. A trial, indeed,

where all the jurors were witnesses for the prosecution. One thing is

certain, that the country, as usual, will have to pay the costs, for a

Tory verdict will be certain to carry them. The Whigs should prepare a

motion for a new trial, on the plea that the late decision was that of

A crowd of people in a jury box. A PACKED JURY.

DECIDEDLY UNPLEASANT. “Kiss the broad moon.”—MARTINUZZI.

Go kiss the moon!—that’s more, sirs, than I can dare;

’Tis worse than madness—hasn’t she her man there?

CURIOUS COINCIDENCE. The Morning Advertiser has a paragraph containing a

report of an extraordinary indisposition under which a private of the

Royal Guards is now suffering. It appears he lately received a violent

kick from a horse, on the back of his head: since which time his hair

has become so sensitive, that he cannot bear any one to approach him or

touch it. On some portion being cut off by stratagem, he evinced the

utmost disgust, accompanied with a volley of oaths. This may be

wonderful in French hair, but it is nothing to the present sufferings of

the Whigs in England.

[pg 88] THE BARTHOLOMEW FAIR SHOW-FOLKS. Punch having been chosen by the

unanimous voice of the public—the arbiter elegantiarum in all matters

relating to science, literature, and the fine arts—and from his long

professional experience, being the only person in England competent to

regulate the public amusements of the people, the Lord Mayor of London

has confided to him the delicate and important duty of deciding upon the

claims of the several individuals applying for licenses to open show-

booths during the approaching Bartholomew Fair. Punch, having called to

his assistance Sir Peter Laurie and Peter Borthwick, proceeded, on last

Saturday, to hold his inquisition in a highly-respectable court in the

neighbourhood of West Smithfield.

The first application was made on behalf of Richardson’s Booth, by two

individuals named Melbourne and Russell.

PUNCH.—On what grounds do you claim?

MEL.—On those of long occupancy and respectability, my lord.

RUSS.—We employs none but the werry best of actors, my lud—all “bould

speakers,” as my late wenerated manager, Muster Richardson, used to call

‘em.

MEL.—We have the best scenery and decorations, the most popular

performances—

RUSS.—Hem! (aside to MEL.)—Best say nothing about our performances, Mel.

PUNCH.—Pray what situations do you respectively hold in the booth?

MEL.—I am principal manager, and do the heavy tragedy business. My

friend, here, is the stage-manager and low comedy buffer, who takes the

kicks, and blows the trumpet of the establishment.

PUNCH.—What is the nature of the entertainments you have been in the

habit of producing?

RUSS.—Oh! the real legitimate drammar—“A New Way to Pay Old Debts,”

“Raising the Wind,” “A Gentleman in Difficulties,” “Where shall I dine?”

and “Honest Thieves.” We mean to commence the present season with “All

in the wrong,” and “His Last Legs.”

PUNCH.—Humph! I am sorry to say I have received several complaints of

the manner in which you have conducted the business of your

establishment for several years. It appears you put forth bills

promising wonders, while your performances have been of the lowest

possible description.

RUSS.—S’elp me, Bob! there ain’t a word of truth in it. If there’s

anything we takes pride on, ’tis our gentility.

PUNCH.—You have degraded the drama by the introduction of card-shufflers

and thimble-rig impostors.

RUSS.—We denies the thimble-rigging in totum, my lud; that was brought

out at Stanley’s opposition booth.

PUNCH.—At least you were a promoter of state conjuring and legerdemain

tricks on the stage.

RUSS.—Only a little hanky-panky, my lud. The people likes it; they loves

to be cheated before their faces. One, two, three—presto—begone. I’ll

show your ludship as pretty a trick of putting a piece of money in your

eye and taking it out of your elbow, as you ever beheld. Has your

ludship got such a thing as a good shilling about you? ’Pon my honour,

I’ll return it.

PUNCH.—Be more respectful, sir, and reply to my questions. It appears

further, that several respectable persons have lost their honesty in

your booth.

RUSS.—Very little of that ’ere commodity is ever brought into it, my

lud.

PUNCH.—And, in short, that you and your colleagues’ hands have been

frequently found in the pockets of your audience.

RUSS.—Only in a professional way, my lud—strictly professional.

PUNCH.—But the most serious charge of all is that, on a recent occasion,

when the audience hissed your performances, you put out the lights, let

in the swell-mob, and raised a cry of “No Corn Laws.”

RUSS.—Why, my lud, on that p’int I admit there was a slight row.

PUNCH.—Enough, sir. The court considers you have grossly misconducted

yourself, and refuses to grant you license to perform.

MEL.—But, my lord, I protest I did nothing.

PUNCH.—So everybody says, sir. You are therefore unfit to have the

management of (next to my own) the greatest theatre in the world. You

may retire.

MEL. (to RUSS.)—Oh! Johnny, this is your work—with your confounded

hanky-panky.

RUSS.—No—’twas you that did it; we have been ruined by your laziness.

What is to become of us now?

MEL.—Alas! where shall we dine?

The next individual who presented himself, to obtain a license for the

Carlton Club Equestrian Troop, was a strange-loooking character, who

gave his name as Sibthorp.

PUNCH.—What are you, sir?

SIB.—Clown to the ring, my lord, and principal performer on the Salt-

box. I provide my own paint and pipe-clay, make my own jokes, and laugh

at them too. I do the ground and lofty tumbling, and ride the wonderful

donkey—all for the small sum of fifteen bob a-week.

PUNCH.—You have been represented as a very noisy and turbulent fellow.

SIB.—Meek as a lamb, my lord, except when I’m on the saw-dust; there I

acknowledge, I do crow pretty loudly—but that’s in the way of

business,—and your lordship knows that we public jokers must pitch it

strong sometimes to make our audience laugh, and bring the browns into

the treasury. After all, my lord, I am not the rogue many people take me

for,—more the other way, I can assure you, and

“Though to my share some human errors fall,

Look in my face, and you’ll forget them all.”

PUNCH.—A strong appeal, I must confess. You shall have your license.

The successful claimant having made his best bow to Commissioner Punch,

withdrew, whistling the national air of

A woman attacks her husband. “BRITONS, STRIKE HOME.”

A fellow named Peel, who has been for many years in the habit of

exhibiting as a quack-doctor, next applied for liberty to vend his

nostrums at the fair. On being questioned as to his qualifications, he

shook his head gravely, and, without uttering a word, placed the

following card in the hands of Punch.

TO THE GULLIBLE PUBLIC. SIR RHUBARB PILL, M.D. and L.S.D. Professor of

Political Chemistry and Conservative Medicine to the

CARLTON CLUB; PHYSICIAN IN ORDINARY TO THE KING OF HANOVER!!! Inventor

of the People’s Patent Sliding Stomach-pump;—of the Poor Man’s anti-

Breakfast and Dinner Waist-belt;—and of the new Royal extract of

Toryism, as prescribed for, and lately swallowed by,

THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS PERSONAGE IN THESE DOMINIONS. Sir Rhubarb begs

further to state, that he practises national tooth-drawing and bleeding

to an unlimited extent; and undertakes to cure the consumption of bread

without the use of

A FIXED PLASTER. N.B.—No connexion with the corn doctor who recently

vacated the concern now occupied by Sir R.P.

Hours of attendance, from ten till four each day, at his establishment,

Downing-street.—A private entrance for M.P.’s round the corner.

Ben D’Israeli, the proprietor of the Learned Pig, applied for permission

to exhibit his animal at the fair. A license was unhesitatingly granted

by his lordship, who rightly considered that the exhibition of the

extraordinary talents of the pig and its master, would do much to

promote a taste for polite literature amongst the Smithneld “pennyboys.”

A poor old man, who called himself Sir Francis Burdett, applied for a

license to exhibit his wonderful Dissolving Views. The most remarkable

of which were—“The Hustings in Covent-garden—changing to Rous’s dinner

in Drury-lane”—and “The Patriot in the Tower—changing to the Renegade in

the Carlton.” It appeared that the applicant was, at one time, in a

respectable business, and kept “The Old Glory,” a favourite public-house

in Westminster, but, falling into bad company, he lost his custom and

his character, and was reduced to his present miserable occupation.

Punch, in pity for the wretched petitioner, and fully convinced that his

childish tricks were perfectly harmless, granted him a license to

exhibit.

Licenses were also granted to the following persons in the course of the

day:—

Sir E.L. Bulwer, to exhibit his own portrait, in the character of

Alcibiades, painted by himself.

Doctor Bowring, to exhibit six Tartarian chiefs, caught in the vicinity

of the Seven Dials, with songs, translated from the original Irish

Calmuc, by the Doctor.

Emerson Tennent, to exhibit his wonderful Cosmorama, or views of

anywhere and everywhere; in which the striking features of Ireland,

Greece, Belgium, and Whitechapel will be so happily confounded, that the

spectator may imagine he beholds any or all of these places at a single

glance.

Messrs. Stephens, Heraud, and Co., to exhibit, gratis, a Syncretic

Tragedy, with fireworks and tumbling, according to law, between the

acts; to be followed by a lecture on the Unactable Drama.

CAPITAL ILLUSTRATION. At the recent fracas in Pall Mall, between Captain

Fitzroy and Mr. Shepherd, the latter, like his predecessor of old, the

“Gentle Shepherd,” performed sundry vague evolutions with a silver-

mounted cane, and requested Captain Fitzroy to consider himself

horsewhipped. Not entertaining quite so high an opinion of his

adversary’s imaginative powers, the Captain floored the said descendant

of gentleness, thereby ably illustrating the precise difference of the

“real and ideal.”

[pg 89] THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER II. SHOWS HOW AGAMEMNON BECAME

DISGUSTED WITH NUMBER ONE, AND THE AWFUL CONSEQUENCES WHICH SUCCEEDED. A

man holds a bass drum on his back in the shape of a P oor old John’s

alarm was succeeded by astonishment, for without speaking a word,

Agamemnon bounced into his bed-chamber. He thought the room the most

miserable-looking room he had ever entered, though the floor was covered

with a thick Turkey carpet, a bright fire was blazing in the grate, and

everything about seemed fashioned for comfort. He threw himself into an

easy chair, and kicking off one of his pumps, crossed his legs, and

rested his elbow on the table. He looked at his bed—it was a French

one—a mountain of feathers, covered with a thick, white Marseilles

quilt, and festooned over with a drapery of rich crimson damask.

“I’ll have a four-post to-morrow,” growled Collumpsion; “French beds are

mean-looking things, after all. Stuffwell has the fellow-chair to

this—one chair does look strange! I wonder it has never struck me

before; but it is surprising—what—strange ide—as a man—has”—and

Collumpsion fell asleep.

It was broad day when Collumpsion awoke; the fire had gone out, and his

feet were as cold as ice. He (as he is married there’s no necessity for

concealment)—he swore two or three naughty oaths, and taking off his

clothes, hurried into bed in the hope of getting warm.

“How confoundedly cold I am—sitting in that chair all night,

too—ridiculous. If I had had a—I mean, if I hadn’t been alone, that

wouldn’t have happened; she would have waked me.” She—what the deuce

made him use the feminine pronoun!

At two o’clock he rose and entered his breakfast-room. The table was

laid as usual—one large cup and saucer, one plate, one egg-cup, one

knife, and one fork! He did not know wherefore, but he felt to want the

number increased. John brought up a slice of broiled salmon and one egg.

Collumpsion got into a passion, and ordered a second edition. The

morning was rainy, so Collumpsion remained at home, and employed himself

by kicking about the ottoman, and mentally multiplying all the single

articles in his establishment by two.

The dinner hour arrived, and there was the same singular provision for

one. He rang the bell, and ordered John to furnish the table for

another. John obeyed, though not without some strong misgiving of his

master’s sanity, as the edibles consisted of a sole, a mutton chop, and

a partridge. When John left the room at his master’s request,

Collumpsion rose and locked the door. Having placed a chair opposite, he

resumed his seat, and commenced a series of pantomimic gestures, which

were strongly confirmatory of John’s suspicions. He seemed to be holding

an inaudible conversation with some invisible being, placing the

choicest portion of the sole in a plate, and seemingly desiring John to

deliver it to the unknown. As John was not there, he placed it before

himself, and commenced daintily and smilingly picking up very minute

particles, as though he were too much delighted to eat. He then bowed

and smiled, and extending his arm, appeared to fill the opposite glass,

and having actually performed the same operation with his own, he bowed

and smiled again, and sipped the brilliant Xeres. He then rang the bell

violently, and unlocking the door, rushed rapidly back to his chair, as

though he were fearful of committing a rudeness by leaving it. The table

being replenished, and John again dismissed the room, the same pantomime

commenced. The one mutton chop seemed at first to present an obstacle to

the proper conduct of the scene; but gracefully uncovering the

partridge, and as gracefully smiling towards the invisible, he appeared

strongly to recommend the bird in preference to the beast. Dinner at

length concluded, he rose, and apparently led his phantom guest from the

table, and then returning to his arm-chair, threw himself into it, and,

crossing his hands upon his breast, commenced a careful examination of

the cinders and himself. His rumination ended in a doze, and his doze in

a dream, in which he fancied himself a Brobdignag Java sparrow during

the moulting season. His cage was surrounded by beautiful and blooming

girls, who seemed to pity his condition, and vie with each other in

proposing the means of rendering him more comfortable. Some spoke of

elastic cotton shirts, linsey-wolsey jackets, and silk nightcaps; others

of merino hose, silk feet and cotton tops, shirt-buttons and warming-

pans; whilst Mrs. Greatgirdle and Mrs. Waddledot sang an echo duet of

“What a pity the bird is alone.”

“A change came o’er the spirit of his dream.”

He thought that the moulting season was over, and that he was rejoicing

in the fulness of a sleeky plumage, and by his side was a Java

sparrowess, chirping and hopping about, rendering the cage as populous

to him as though he were the tenant of a bird-fancier’s shop. Then—he

awoke just as Old John was finishing a glass of Madeira, preparatory to

arousing Collumpsion, for the purpose of delivering to him a scented

note, which had just been left by the footman of Mrs. Waddledot.

It was lucky for John that A.C.A. had been blessed with pleasant dreams,

or his attachment to Madeira might have occasioned his discharge from

No. 24, Pleasant-terrace.

The note was an invitation to Mrs. Waddledot’s opera-box for that

evening. The performance was to be Rossini’s “La Cenerentola,” and as

Collumpsion recollected the subject of the opera, his heart fluttered in

his bosom. A prince marrying a cinder-sifter for love! What must the

happy state be—or rather what must it not be—to provoke such a

condescension!

Collumpsion never appeared to such advantage as he did that evening; he

was dressed to a miracle of perfection—his spirits were so elastic that

they must have carried him out of the box into “Fop’s-alley,” had not

Mrs. Waddledot cleverly surrounded him by the detachment from the corps

of eighteen daughters, which had (on that night) been placed under her

command.

Collumpsion’s state of mind did not escape the notice of the fair

campaigners, and the most favourable deductions were drawn from it in

relation to the charitable combination which they had formed for his

ultimate good, and all seemed determined to afford him every

encouragement in their power. Every witticism that he uttered elicited

countless smiles—every criticism that he delivered was universally

applauded—in short, Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite was voted the most

delightful beau in the universe, and Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite

gave himself a plumper to the same opinion.

On the 31st of the following month, a string of carriages surrounded St.

George’s Church, Hanover-square, and precisely at a quarter to twelve,

A.M., Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite placed a plain gold ring on the

finger of Miss Juliana Theresa Waddledot, being a necessary preliminary

to the introduction of our hero, the “Heir of Applebite.”

EPIGRAM. “I wonder if Brougham thinks as much as he talks,”

Said a punster perusing a trial:

“I vow, since his lordship was made Baron Vaux,

He’s been Vaux et præterea nihil!”

THE TWO FATAL CHIROPEDISTS. Our great ancestor, Joe Miller, has

recorded, in his “Booke of Jestes,” an epitaph written upon an amateur

corn-cutter, named Roger Horton, who,

“Trying one day his corn to mow off,

The razor slipp’d, and cut his toe off.”

The painful similarity of his fate with that of another corn

experimentalist, has given rise to the following:—

EPITAPH ON LORD JOHN RUSSELL, WHO EXPIRED POLITICALLY, AFTER A LINGERING

ILLNESS, ON MONDAY EVENING, AUGUST 30, 1841. In Minto quies.

Beneath this stone lies Johnny Russell,

Who for his place had many a tussel.

Trying one day the corn to cut down,

The motion fail’d, and he was put down.

The benches which he nearly grew to,

The Opposition quickly flew to;

The fact it was so mortifying,

That little Johnny took to dying.

SHALL GREAT OLYMPUS TO A MOLEHILL STOOP? Some difficulty has arisen as

to the production of Knowles’s new play at the Haymarket Theatre. Mr.

Charles Kean and Miss Helen Faucit having objected to hear the play

read, “because their respective parts had not been previously submitted

to them.”—Sunday Times.—[We are of opinion that they were decidedly

right. One might as well expect a child to spell without learning the

alphabet, as either of the above persons to understand Knowles, unless

enlightened by a long course of previous instruction.]

[pg 90] THE LETTER OF INTRODUCTION. [From a MS. drama called the “COURT

OF VICTORIA.”

Scene in Windsor Castle.

[Her Majesty discovered sitting thoughtfully at an escrutoire.—

Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN.]

LORD CHAMBERLAIN.—May it please your Majesty, a letter from the Duke of

Wellington.

THE QUEEN (opens the letter.)—Oh! a person for the vacant place of

Premier—show the bearer in, my lord. [Exit LORD CHAMBERLAIN.

THE QUEEN (muses).—Sir Robert Peel—I have heard that name before, as

connected with my family. If I remember rightly, he held the situation

of adviser to the crown in the reign of Uncle William, and was

discharged for exacting a large discount on all the state receipts; yet

Wellington is very much interested in his favour.

Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN, who ushers in SIR ROBERT, and then retires.

As he is going—]

LORD CHAMBERLAIN (aside).—If you do get the berth, Sir Robert, I hope

you’ll not give me warning.

[Exit.

SIR ROBERT (looking demurely).—Hem!

[The Queen regards him very attentively.]

THE QUEEN (aside).—I don’t much like the looks of the fellow—that

affectation of simplicity is evidently intended to conceal the real

cunning of his character. (Aloud). You are of course aware of the nature

and the duties of the situation which you solicit?

SIR ROBERT.—Oh, yes, your Majesty; I have filled it before, and liked it

very much.

THE QUEEN.—It’s a most responsible post, for upon your conduct much of

the happiness of my other servants depends.

SIR ROBERT.—I am aware of that, your Majesty; but as no one can hope to

please everybody, I will only answer that one half shall be perfectly

satisfied.

THE QUEEN.—You have recently returned from Tamworth?

SIR ROBERT.—Yes, your Majesty.

THE QUEEN.—We will dispense with forms. At Tamworth, you have been

practising as a quack doctor?

SIR ROBERT.—Yes, madam; I was brought up to doctoring, and am a

professor of sleight-of-hand.

THE QUEEN.—What have you done in the latter art to entitle you to such a

distinction?

SIR ROBERT.—I have performed some very wonderful changes. When I was out

of place, I had opinions strongly opposed to Catholic emancipation; but

when I got into service I changed them in the course of a few days.

THE QUEEN.—I have heard that you boast of possessing a nostrum for the

restoration of the public good. What is it?

SIR ROBERT.—Am I to consider myself “as regularly called in?”

THE QUEEN.—That is a question I decline answering at present.

SIR ROBERT.—Then I regret that I must also remain silent.

THE QUEEN (aside).—The wily fox! (aloud)—Are you aware that great

distress exists in the country?

SIR ROBERT.—Oh, yes! I have heard that there are several families who

keep no man-servant, and that numerous clerks, weavers, and other

artisans, occupy second-floors.

THE QUEEN.—I have heard that the people are wanting bread.

SIR ROBERT.—Ha, ha! that was from the late premier, I suppose. He merely

forgot an adjective—it is cheap bread that the people are clamouring

for.

THE QUEEN.—And why can they not have it?

SIR ROBERT.—I have consulted with the Duke of Richmond upon the subject,

and he says it is impossible.

THE QUEEN.—But why?

SIR ROBERT.—Wheat must be lower before bread can be cheaper.

THE QUEEN.—Well!

SIR ROBERT.—And rents must be less if that is the case, and—

THE QUEEN.—Well!

SIR ROBERT.—And that the landowners won’t agree to.

THE QUEEN.—Well!

SIR ROBERT.—And, then, I can’t keep my place a day.

THE QUEEN.—Then the majority of my subjects are to be rendered miserable

for the advantage of the few?

SIR ROBERT.—That’s the principle of all good governments. Besides, cheap

bread would be no benefit to the masses, for wages would be lower.

THE QUEEN.—Do you really believe such would be the case?

SIR ROBERT.—Am I regularly called in?

THE QUEEN.—You evade a direct answer, I see. Granting such to be your

belief, your friends and landowners would suffer no injury, for their

incomes would procure them as many luxuries.

SIR ROBERT.—Not if they were to live abroad, or patronise foreign

manufactures: and should wages be higher, what would they say to me

after all the money they have expended in bri—I mean at the Carlton

Club, if I allow the value of their “dirty acres” to be reduced.

THE QUEEN.—Pray, what do you call such views?

SIR ROBERT.—Patriotism.

THE QUEEN.—Charity would be a better term, as that is said to begin at

home. How long were you in your last place?

SIR ROBERT.—Not half so long as I wished—for the sake of the country.

THE QUEEN.—Why did you leave?

SIR ROBERT.—Somebody said I was saucy—and somebody else said I was not

honest—and somebody else said I had better go.

THE QUEEN.—Who was the latter somebody?

SIR ROBERT.—My master.

THE QUEEN.—Your exposure of my late premier’s faults, and your present

application for his situation, result from disinterestedness, of course?

SIR ROBERT.—Of course, madam.

THE QUEEN.—Then salary is not so much an object as a comfortable

situation.

SIR ROBERT.—I beg pardon; but I’ve been out of place ten years, and have

a small family to support. Wages is, therefore, some sort of a

consideration.

THE QUEEN.—I don’t quite like you.

SIR ROBERT (glancing knowingly at the Queen).—I don’t think there is any

one that you can have better.

THE QUEEN.—I’m afraid not.

SIR ROBERT.—Then, am I regularly called in?

THE QUEEN.—Yes, you can take your boxes to Downing-street.

[Exeunt ambo.

PARLIAMENTARY INTENTIONS. Mr. Muntz, we understand, intends calling the

attention of Parliament, at the earliest possible period, to the state

of the crops.

Lord Palmerston intends proposing, that a looking-glass for the use of

members should be placed in the ante-room of the House, and that it

shall be called the New Mirror of Parliament.

Mr. T. Duncombe intends moving that the plans of Sir Robert Peel be

immediately submitted to the photographic process, in order that some

light may be thrown upon them as soon as possible.

The Earl of Coventry intends suggesting, that every member of both

Houses be immediately supplied with a copy of the work called “Ten

Minutes’ Advice on Corns,” in order to prepare Parliament for a full

description of the Corn Laws.

EXTRA FASHIONABLE NEWS. Colonel Sibthorp has expressed his intention of

becoming the blue-faced monkey at the Zoological Gardens with his

countenance, on next Wednesday.

Lord Melbourne has received visits of condolence on his retirement from

office, from Aldgate pump—Canning’s statue in Palace-yard—the Three

Kings of Brentford—and the Belle Sauvage, Ludgate-hill.

Her Royal Highness the Princess, her two nurses, and a pap-spoon, took

an airing twice round the great hall of the palace, at one o’clock

yesterday.

The Burlington Arcade will be thrown open to visitors to-morrow morning.

Gentlemen intending to appear there, are requested to come with tooth-

picks and full-dress walking-canes.

Sir Francis Burdett’s top-boots were seen, on last Saturday, walking

into Sir Robert Peel’s house, accompanied by the legs of that venerable

turner.

His Grace the Duke of Wellington inspected all the passengers in Pall

Mall, from the steps of the United Service Club-house, and expressed

himself highly pleased with the celerity of the ‘busses and cabs, and

the effective state of the pedestrians generally.

His Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex has, in the most unequivocal

manner, expressed his opinion on the state of the weather—which he

pronounces to be hot! hot! all hot!

A SINGULAR INADVERTENCE. A good deal of merriment was caused in the

House of Commons, by Mr. Bernal and Commodore Napier addressing the

members as “gentlemen.” This may be excusable in young members, but the

oldest parliamentary reporter has no recollection of the term being used

by any one who had sat a session in the House. “Too much familiarity,”

&c.

[pg 91] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS—No. VIII. A woman sits at a desk while a

gentleman looks on. THE LETTER OF INTRODUCTION.

[pg 93] THE MINISTRY’S ODE TO THE PASSIONS. NOT BY COLLINS. When the

Whig Ministry had run,

Nor left behind a mother’s son,

The Tories, at their leader’s call,

Came thronging round him, one and all,

Exulting, braying, cringing, coaxing,

Expert at humbugging and hoaxing;

By turns they felt an honest zeal

For private good and public weal;

Till all at once they raised such yells,

As rung in Apsley House the bells:

And as they sought snug berths to get

In Bobby Peel’s new cabinet,

Each, for interest ruled the hour,

Would prove his taste for place and power.

First Follett’s hand, his skill to try,

Upon the seals bewilder’d laid;

But back recoil’d—he scarce knew why—

Of Lyndhurst’s angry scowl afraid.

Next Stanley rush’d with frenzied air;

His eager haste brook’d no delay:

He rudely seized the Foreign chair,

And bade poor Cupid trudge away.

With woeful visage Melbourne sate—

A pint of double X his grief beguiled;

And inly pondering o’er his fate,

He bade th’ attendant pot-boy “draw it mild.”

But thou, Sir Jamie Graham—prig;

What was thy delighted musing?

Now accepting, now refusing,

Till on the Admiralty pitch’d,

Still would that thought his speech prolong;

To gain the place for which he long had itch’d,

He call’d on Bobby still through all the song;

But ever as his sweetest theme he chose,

A sovereign’s golden chink was heard at every close,

And Pollock grimly smiled, and shook his powder’d wig.

And longer had he droned—but, with a frown

Brougham impatient rose;

He threw the bench of snoring bishops down,

And, with a withering look,

The Whig-denouncing trumpet took,

And made a speech so fierce and true,

Thrashing, with might and main, both friend and foe;

And ever and anon he beat,

With doubled fist his cushion’d seat;

And though sometimes, each breathless pause between,

Astonished Melbourne at his side,

His moderating voice applied,

Yet still he kept his stern, unalter’d mien,

While battering the Whigs and Tories black and blue.

Thy ravings, Goulburn, to no theme were fix’d.

Not ev’n thy virtue is without its spots;

With piety thy politics were mix’d,

And now they courted Peel, now call’d on Doctor Watts.

With drooping jaw, like one half-screw’d,

Lord Johnny sate in doleful mood,

And for his Secretarial seat,

Sent forth his howlings sad, but sweet

Lost Normanby pour’d forth his sad adieu;

While Palmerston, with graceful air,

Wildly toss’d his scented hair;

And pensive Morpeth join’d the sniv’lling crew.

Yet still they lingered round with fond delay,

Humming, hawing, stopping, musing,