Tory rascals all abusing,

Till forced to move away.

But, oh! how alter’d was the whining tone

When, loud-tongued Lyndhurst, that unblushing wight,

His gown across his shoulders flung,

His wig with virgin-powder white,

Made an ear-splitting speech that down to Windsor rung,

The Tories’ call, that Billy Holmes well knew,

The turn-coat Downshire and his Orange crew;

Wicklow and Howard both were seen

Brushing away the wee bit green;

Mad Londonderry laugh’d to hear,

And Inglis scream’d and shook his ass’s ear

Last Bobby Peel, with hypocritic air,

He with modest look came sneaking:

First to “the Home” his easy vows addrest,—

But soon he saw the Treasury’s red chair,

Whose soft inviting seat he loved the best.

They would have thought, who heard his words,

They saw in Britain’s cause a patriot stand,

The proud defender of his land,

To aw’d and list’ning senates speaking;—

But as his fingers touch’d the purse’s strings,

The chinking metal made a magic sound,

While hungry placemen gather’d fast around:

And he, as if by chance or play,

Or that he would their venal votes repay,

The golden treasures round upon them flings.

SIR ROBERT PEEL AND THE QUEEN. Upon the first interview of the Queen

with Sir Robert Peel, her Majesty was determined to answer only in

monosyllables to all he said; and, in fact, to make her replies an echo,

and nothing more, to whatever he said to her. The following dialogue,

which we have thrown into verse for the purpose of smoothing it—the tone

of it, as spoken, having been on one side, at least, rather rough—ensued

between the illustrious persons alluded to.

HE.—Before we into minor details go,

Do I possess your confidence or no?

SHE.—No.

HE.—You shall not vex me, though your treatment’s rough;

No, madam, I am made of sterner stuff.

SHE.—Stuff.

HE.—Really, if thus your minister you flout,

A single syllable he can’t get out.

SHE.—Get out!

HE.—But try me, madam; time indeed will show

Unto what lengths to serve you I would go.

SHE.—Go.

HE.—We both have power,—’tis doubtful which is greater;

These crooked words had better be made straighter.

SHE.—Traighter (Traitor.)

HE.—Farewell! and never in this friendly strain

(My proffer’d aid foregone) I breathe again!

SHE.—Gone. I breathe again!

SONGS OF THE SEEDY.—NO. 2. I cannot rove with thee, where zephyrs float—

Sweet sylvan scenes devoted to the loves!—

For, oh! I have not got one decent coat,

Nor can I sport a single pair of gloves.

Gladly I’d wander o’er the verdant lawn,

Where graze contentedly the fleecy flock;

But can I show myself in gills so torn,

Or brave the public gaze in such a stock?

I know thou’lt answer me that love is blind,

And faults in one it worships can’t perceive;

It must be sightless, truly, not to find

The hole that’s gaping in my threadbare sleeve.

Farewell, my love—for, oh! by heaven, we part,

And though it cost me all the pangs of hell.

The herd shall not on thee inflict a smart,

By calling after us—“There goes a swell!”

A PRIVATE BOX. During the clear-out on Wednesday last in Downing-street,

a small chest, strongly secured, was found among some models of

balloting-boxes. It had evidently been forgotten for some years, and

upon opening it, was found to contain the Whig promises of 1832. They

were immediately conveyed to Lord Melbourne, who appeared much

astonished at these resuscitation of the

A man is covered with children. HOME OFFICE.

[pg 94] THE LOST MEDICAL PAPERS OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION. “It is

somewhat remarkable,” observe the journals of the past week, “that the

medical division of this scientific meeting has not contributed one

single paper this year in furtherance of its object, although the

communications from that section have usually been of a highly important

character.”

The journals may think it somewhat remarkable—we do not at all; for

here, as in every other event of the day, a great deal depends upon

being “behind the curtain;” and as the greater portion of our life is

passed in that locality, we are always to be relied upon for

authenticity in our statements. The plain truth is, that the papers were

inadvertently lost, and rather than lead to some unpleasant disclosures,

in which the eminent professor to whom they were entrusted would have

been deeply implicated, it was thought best to say nothing about them.

By chance they fell into the hands of the manager of one of our

perambulating theatres, who was toiling his way from the west of England

to Egham races, and having deposited them in his portable green-room,

under the especial custody of the clown, the doctor, and the overbearing

parochial authority, he duly remitted them to our office. We have been

too happy in giving them a place in our columns, feeling an honest pride

in thus taking the lead of the chief scientific publications of the day.

It will be seen that they are drawn up as a report, all ready for

publication, according to the usual custom of such proceedings, where

every one knows beforehand what they are to dispute or agree with.

Dr. Splitnerve communicated a remarkable case of Animal

Magnetism:—Eugene Doldrum, aged 21, a young man of bilious and

interesting temperament, having been mesmerized, was rendered so keenly

magnetic, as to give rise to a most remarkable train of phenomena. On

being seated upon a music-stool, he immediately becomes an animated

compass, and turns round to the north. Knives and forks at dinner

invariably fly towards him, and he is not able to go through any of the

squares, in consequence of being attracted firmly to the iron railings.

As most of the experiments took place at the North London Hospital,

Euston-square was his chief point of attraction, and when he was

removed, it was always found necessary to break off the railings and

take them away with him. This accounted for the decrepit condition of

the fleur de lys that surround the inclosure, which was not, as

generally supposed, the work of the university pupils residing in Gower-

place. Perfect insensibility to pain supervened at the same time, and

his friends took advantage of this circumstance to send him, by way of

delicate compliment, to a lying-in lady, in the style of a pedestrian

pin-cushion, his cheeks being stuck full of minikin pins, on the right

side, forming the words “Health to the Babe,” and on the left,

“Happiness to the Mother.”

Dr. Mortar read a talented paper on the cure of strabismus, or

squinting, by dividing the muscles of the eye. The patient, a working

man, squinted so terribly, that his eyes almost got into one another’s

sockets; and at times he was only able to see by looking down the inside

of his nose and out at the nostrils. The operation was performed six

weeks ago, when, on cutting through the muscles, its effects were

instantly visible: both the eyes immediately diverging to the extreme

outer angles of their respective orbits.

Dr. Sharpeye inquired if the man did not find the present state of his

vision still very perplexing.

Dr. Mortar replied, that so far from injuring his sight, it had proved

highly beneficial, as the patient had procured a very excellent

situation in the new police, and received a double salary, from the

power he possessed of keeping an eye upon both sides of the road at the

same time.

A cross-eyed woman WILL YOU LOOK THIS WAY, IF YOU PLEASE?

An elaborate and highly scientific treatise was then read by Dr. Sexton,

upon a disease which had been very prevalent in town during the spring,

and had been usually termed the influenza. He defined it as a disease of

convenience, depending upon various exciting causes acting upon the

mind. For instance:—

Mrs. A——, a lady residing in Belgrave-square, was on the eve of giving a

large party, when, upon hearing that Mr. A—— had made an unlucky

speculation in the funds, the whole family were seized with influenza so

violently, that they were compelled to postpone the reunion, and live

upon the provided supper for a fortnight afterwards.

Miss B—— was a singer at one of our large theatres, and had a part

assigned to her in a new opera. Not liking it, she worried herself into

an access of influenza, which unluckily seized her the first night the

opera was to have been played.

But the most marked case was that of Mr. C——, a clerk in a city house of

business, who was attacked and cured within three days. It appeared that

he had been dining that afternoon with some friends, who were going to

Greenwich fair the next day, and on arriving at home, was taken ill with

influenza, so suddenly that he was obliged to despatch a note to that

effect to his employer, stating also his fear that he should be unable

to attend at his office on the morrow. Dr. Sexton said he was indebted

for an account of the progress of his disease to a young medical

gentleman, clinical clerk at a leading hospital, who lodged with the

patient in Bartholomew-close. The report had been drawn up for the

Lancet, but Dr. S. had procured it by great interest.

MAY 30, 1841, 11 P.M.—Present symptoms:—Complains of his employer, and

the bore of being obliged to be at the office next morning. Has just

eaten a piece of cold beef and pickles, with a pint of stout. Pulse

about 75, and considerable defluxion from the nose, which he thinks

produced by getting a piece of Cayenne pepper in his eye. Swallowed a

crumb, which brought on a violent fit of coughing. Wishes to go to bed.

MAY 31, 9 A.M.—Has passed a tolerable night, but appears restless, and

unable to settle to anything. Thinks he could eat some broiled ham if he

had it; but not possessing any, has taken the following:

?— Infus. coffee lbj Sacchari ?iij Lactis Vaccæ ?j Ft. mistura, poculum

mane sumendum. A plaster ordered to be applied to the inside of the

stomach, consisting of potted bloater spread upon bread and butter.

Eleven, A.M.—Appears rather hotter since breakfast. Change of air

recommended, and Greenwich decided upon.

Half-past 11.—Complains of the draught and noise of the second-class

railway carriages, but is otherwise not worse. Thinks he should like “a

drain of half-and-half.” Has blown his nose once in the last quarter of

an hour.

Two, P.M.—Since a light dinner of rump steaks and stout, a considerable

change has taken place. He appears labouring under cerebral excitement

and short pipes, and says he shall have a regular beanish day, and go it

similar to bricks. Calls the waiter up to him in one of the booths, and

has ordered “a glass of cocktail with the chill off and a cinder in it.”

Three, P.M.—Has sallied out into the fair, still much excited, calling

every female he meets “Susan,” and pronouncing the s’s with a whistling

accent. Expresses a desire to ride in the ships that go round and round.

Half-past 3.—The motion of the ships has tended considerably to relieve

his stomach. Pulse slow and countenance pale, with a desire for a glass

of ale. Has entered a peepshow, and is now arguing with the exhibitor

upon the correctness of his view of the siege of “St. Jane Daker!” which

he maintains was a sea-port, and not a field with a burning windmill, as

represented in the view.

Eight, P.M.—After rambling vaguely about the fair all the afternoon, he

has decided upon taking a hot-air bath in Algar’s Crown and Anchor

booth. Evidently delirious. Has put on a false nose, and purchased a

tear-coat rattle. Appears labouring under violent spasmodic action of

the muscles of his legs, as he dances “Jim along Josey,” when he sets to

his partner in a country dance of eighty couple.

Half-past 10, P.M.—Has just intimated that he does not see the use of

going home, as you can always go there when you can go nowhere else. Is

seated straddling across one of the tables, on which he is beating time

to the band with a hooky stick. Will not allow the state of his pulse to

be ascertained, but says we may feel his fist if we like.

Eleven.—Considerable difficulty experienced in getting the patient to

the railroad, but we at last succeeded. After telling every one in the

carriage “that he wasn’t afraid of any of them,” he fell into a deep

stertorous sleep. On arriving at home, he got into bed with his boots

on, and passed a restless night, turning out twice to drink water

between one and four.

JUNE.—10, A.M.—Has just returned from his office, his employer thinking

him very unfit for work, and desiring him to lay up for a day or two.

Complains of being “jolly seedy,” and thinks he shall go to Greenwich

again to get all right.

A thrilling paper upon the “Philosophy of death,” was then read by

Professor Wynne Slow. After tracing the origin of that fatal attack,

which it appears the earliest nations were subject to, the learned

author showed profound research in bringing forward the various terms

applied to the act of dying by popular authors. [pg 95]Amongst the

principal, he enumerated “turning your toes up,” “kicking the bucket,”

“putting up your spoon,” “slipping your wind,” “booking your place,”

“breaking your bellows,” “shutting up your shop,” and other phrases full

of expression.

The last moments of remarkable characters were especially dwelt upon, in

connexion, more especially, with the drama, which gives us the best

examples, from its holding a mirror up to nature. It appeared that at

Astley’s late amphitheatre, the dying men generally shuffled about a

great deal in the sawdust, fighting on their knees, and showing great

determination to the last, until life gave way; that at the Adelphi the

expiring character more frequently saw imaginary demons waiting for him,

and fell down, uttering “Off, fiends! I come to join you in your world

of flames!” and that clowns and pantaloons always gave up the ghost with

heart-rending screams and contortions of visage, as their deaths were

generally violent, from being sawn in half, having holes drilled in them

with enormous gimlets, or being shot out of cannon; but that, at the

same time, these deaths were not permanent.

FOREIGN INTELLIGENCE. Our foreign expresses have reached us via

Billingsgate, and are full of interesting matter. Captain Fitz-Flammer

is in prison at Boulogne, for some trifling misunderstanding with a

native butcher, about the settlement of an account; but we trust no time

will be lost by our government in demanding his release at the hands of

the authorities. The attempt to make it a private question is absurd;

and every Englishman’s blood will simmer, if it does not actually boil,

at the intelligence. Fitz-Flammer was only engaged in doing that which

many of our countrymen visit Boulogne expressly to do, and it is hard

that he should have been intercepted in his retreat, after accomplishing

his object. To live at the expense of a natural enemy is certainly a

bold and patriotic act, which ought to excite sympathy at home, and

protection abroad. The English packet, the City of Boulogne, has turned

one of its imitation guns directly towards the town, which, we trust,

will have the effect of bringing the French authorities to reason.

It is expected that the treaty will shortly be signed, by which Belgium

cedes to France a milestone on the north frontier; while the latter

country returns to the former the whole of the territory lying behind a

pig-stye, taken possession of in the celebrated 6th vendemiaire, by the

allied armies. This will put an end to the heart-burnings that have long

existed on either side of the Rhine, and will serve to apply the sponge

at once to a long score of national animosities.

Our letters from the East are far from encouraging. The Pasha has had a

severe sore-throat, and the disaffected have taken advantage of the

circumstance. Ibrahim had spent the two last nights in the mountains,

and was unfurling his standard, when our express left, in the very bosom

of the desert. Mehemet Ali was still obstinate, and had dismissed his

visier for impertinence. The whole of Servia is in a state of revolt,

and the authorities have planted troops along the entire line, the whole

of whom have gone over to the enemy. It is said there must be further

concessions, and a new constitution is being drawn up; but it is not

expected that any one will abide by it. Mehemet attempted to throw

himself upon the rock of Nungab, with a tremendous force, but those

about him wisely prevented him from doing so.

We have received China (tea) papers to the 16th. There is nothing in

them.

FANCIED FAIR. “The Duke of Wellington,” says a correspondent of the

Times, “left his umbrella behind him at a fancy fair, held for

charitable purposes, between Twickenham and Teddington. On discovering

it, Lady P. immediately said, ‘Who will give twenty guineas for the

Duke’s umbrella?’ A purchaser was soon found; and when the fact was

communicated to his Grace, he good-naturedly remarked, ‘I’ll soon supply

you with umbrellas, if you can sell them with so much advantage to the

charity.’” We trust his Grace’s benevolent disposition will not induce

him to carry this offer into execution. We should extremely regret to

see the Hero of Waterloo in Leicester-square, of a rainy night, vending

second-hand parapluies. The same charitable impulse will doubtlessly

induce other fashionable hawkers at fancy fairs to pick his Grace’s

pockets. We are somewhat curious to know what a Wellington bandana would

realise, especially were it the produce of some pretty lady P.’s petty

larceny. “Charity,” it is said, “covereth a multitude of sins.” What

must it do with an umbrella? We fear that Lady P. will some day figure

in the “fashionable departures.”

A man picks another's pocket FOR SYDNEY DIRECT.

PUNCH’S THEATRE. MARTINUZZI AS THE ACT DIRECTS. The production upon the

stage of a tragedy “not intended for an acting play,” as a broad

travestie, is a novel and dangerous experiment—one, however, which the

combined genius of the Dramatic Authors’ Council has made, with the

utmost success. The “Hungarian Daughter” was, under the title of

“Martinuzzi,” received, on its first appearance, with bursts of applause

and convulsions of laughter!

The plot of this piece our literary reviewer has expressed himself

unable to unravel. We are in the same condition; all we can promise is

some account of the scenes as they followed each other; of the

characters, the sentiments, the poetry, and the rest of the fun.

The play opens with an elderly gentleman, in a spangled dressing-gown,

who commences business by telling us the time of day, poetically

clapping a wig upon the sun, by saying, he

“Shakes day about, like perfume from his hair,”

which statement bears out the after sentence, that “the wisdom he

endures is terrible!” An Austrian gentleman—whose dress made us at first

mistake him for Richard III. on his travels—arrives to inform the

gentleman en déshabille—no other than Cardinal Martinuzzi himself—that

he has come from King Ferdinand, to ask if he will be so good as to give

up some regency; which the Cardinal, however, respectfully declines

doing. A gentleman from Warsaw is next announced, and Castaldo retires,

having incidentally declared a passion for the reigning queen of

Hungary.

Mr. Selby, as Rupert from Warsaw, then appears, in a dress most

correctly copied from the costume of the knave of clubs. Being a Pole,

he stirs up the Cardinal vigorously enough to provoke some exceedingly

intemperate language, chiefly by bringing to his memory a case of child-

stealing, to which Martinuzzi was, before he had quite sown his wild

oats, particeps criminis. This case having got into the papers (which

Rupert had preserved), the Cardinal wants to obtain them, but offers a

price not long enough for the Pole, who, declaring that Martinuzzi

carries it “too high” to be trusted with them, vanishes. Mr. Morley

afterwards comes forward to sing a song according to Act of Parliament,

and the scene changes for Miss Collect to comply, a second time, with

the 25th of George II.

In the following scene, the Queen Dowager of Hungary, Isabella,

introduces herself to the audience, to inform them that the Austrian

gentleman, Castaldo, is

“the mild,

Pity-fraught object of her fondness.”

He appears. She makes several inflammatory speeches, which he seems

determined not to understand, for he is in love with the virgin queen;

and maidens before dowagers is evidently his sensible motto.

The second act opens with the queen junior stating her assurance, that

if she lives much longer she will die, and that when she is quite dead,

she will hate Martinuzzi33. “Czerina. When I am dead—which will be

soon—I feel, If I much longer on my throne remain, I shall abhor the

name of Martinuzzi.”. As, however, she means to hate when she is

deceased, she will make the most of her time while alive, by devoting

herself to courtship and Castaldo: for a very tender love-scene ensues,

at the end of which the lady elopes, to leave the lover a clear stage

for some half-dozen minutes’ ecstatics, appropriately ended by his

arrest, ordered by Martinuzzi. Why, it is not stated, the officer not

even producing the copy of a writ.

In the next scene, Isabella is visited by Rupert, who disinterestedly

presents the dowager with the papers for nothing, which he was before

offered an odd castle and snug estate for, by Martinuzzi. This is

accounted for on no other supposition, than the proverbial gallantry of

gentlemen from Warsaw.

Martinuzzi, possessing a ward whom he is anxious should wed the queen,

opens the third act by declaring he will “precipitate the match,” and so

the author considerately sends Czerina to him, to talk the matter over.

But the young lady gets into a passion, and the Cardinal declares he can

make nothing of her, in the following passage:—

“Fool! I can make thee nothing but a laugh.”

A sentiment to which the audience gave a most vociferous echo. The

damsel is angry that she may not have the man she has chosen, and

threatens to faint, but defers that operation till her lover’s arms are

near enough to receive her; which they happen to be just in time, for

Martinuzzi retires and Castaldo comes on. Czerina, to be quite sure,

exclaims, “Are these thy arms?” (sic) and finally faints in the lover’s

embrace, so as to exhibit a picturesque cuddle.

Queen Isabella is discovered, in the second scene of this act, perusing

the much vaunted “papers” with intense interest. Unluckily Castaldo

chooses that moment to complain, that Martinuzzi will not let him marry

her rival. The queen, being by no means a temperate person, and

wondering at his impudence in telling her such a tale, raves thus:—

“My soul’s on fire I’m choked, and seem to perish;

But will suppress my scream”

Probably for fear of compromising Castaldo, who is alone with her; and

she ends the act by requesting the Austrian to murder Martinuzzi; to

which he is so obliging as to consent, the more so, as an order comes

from the Secretary of State for foreign affairs, of his own government,

to “cut off” (sic) the Regent.

The fourth act is enlivened by a masquerade and a murder. The gentleman

from Warsaw having abused the hospitality of his host by getting drunk,

is punished by one of Martinuzzi’s attendants with a mortal stab; and

having, in the agonies of death, made a careful survey of all the sofas

in the apartment, suits himself with the softest, and dies in great

comfort.

[pg 96] After this, the masquerade proceeds with spirit. Isabella mixes

in the festive scene, disguised in a domino, made of black sticking-

plaster. Czerina overhears that she is a usurper and a changeling, and

expresses her surprise in a line most unblushingly stolen from Fitz-Ball

and the other poetico-melo-dramatists:—

“Merciful Heavens! do my ears deceive me?”

The festivities conclude with an altercation between Martinuzzi and

Isabella, carried on with much vigour on both sides. The lady accuses

the gentleman of inebriation, and he owns the soft impeachment, fully

bearing it out by several incoherent speeches.

This was one of the most successful scenes in the comedy. The death of

Rupert, Mr. Morley’s song about “The sea,” the quarrel (which was about

the great pivot of the plot, “the papers,” inscribed, says Martinuzzi,

“With ink that’s brew’d in the infernal Styx,”)

were all received with uproarious bursts of laughter.

In the fifth act, we behold Martinuzzi and the usurping young Queen

making matters up at a railway pace. She has it all her own way. If she

choose, she may marry Castaldo, retire into private life, be a “farm-

house thrall,” and keep a “dairy;” for which estate she has previously

expressed a decided predilection44. Acting play, published in the

theatre, p. 32..

But it is the next scene that the author seems to have reserved for

putting forth his strongest powers of burlesque and broad humour.

Isabella and Castaldo are together; the latter feels a little afraid to

murder Martinuzzi, but is impelled to the deed by a thousand imaginary

torches, which he fears will hurry his “moth-like soul” into their

“blinding sun-beams,” till it (the soul) is scorched “into cinders.”

Castaldo appears, in truth, a very bad barber of murders; for, as he is

rushing out to

“Strike the tyrant down—in crimson streams

Rend every nerve,”

Isabella has the shrewdness to discover that he is without a weapon.

Important omission! The incipient assassin exclaims—

“Oh! that I had my sword!”

but at that moment (clever, dramatic contrivance!)

[Enter CZERINA, with a drawn sword.]

“CZERINA. There’s one! Thine own!”

Far from being grateful for this opportune supply of ways and means for

murder. Castaldo calls the bilbo a “fated aspic,” upon the edge of which

his “eye-balls crack to look,” and makes a raving exit from the stage,

to a roaring laugh from the audience.

It is quite clear to Isabella, from his extreme carelessness about his

tools, that Castaldo is not safely to be trusted with a job which

requires so much tact and business-like exactitude as the capital

offence. She therefore “shows a phial,” which she intends, “occasion

suiting,” for “Martinuzzi’s bane;” thereby hinting that, if Castaldo

fail with his steel medicine, she is ready with a surer potion.

The next scene, being the last, was ushered in with acclamations. The

stage, as is always in that case made and provided, was full. There is a

young gentleman on a throne, and Czerina beside it, having been somehow

ungallantly deposed. Martinuzzi expresses a wish to drink somebody’s

health, and this being the “fitting opportunity” mentioned by the author

in the scene preceeding, Isabella empties the phial of her wrath into

the beverage, and the Cardinal quenches his thirst with a most

intemperate draught. It is now duly announced, that Castaldo is, “with

naked sword, approaching.” That gentleman appears, and makes a speech

long enough for any man who has had such plain warning of what is to

happen—even a cardinal encumbered with a spangled dressing-gown—to get a

mile out of his way. The speech quite ended, he goes to work, and with

“this from King Ferdinand,” thrusts at Martinuzzi. Czerina, however,

throws herself, with great skill, on the point of the sword, and dies.

Another long harangue from Castaldo—which, as he is evidently broken-

winded from exertion, is pronounced in tiny snatches—and he dies with a

“ha!” for want—like many greater men—of breath.

Meanwhile, the poison makes Martinuzzi exceedingly uncomfortable in the

stomachic regions. He is quite sure

“That hath been done to me which sends me star-ward!”

but in his progress thither he evidently loses his way; for he ends the

play by inquiring—

“WHERE IS THE WORLD?”

The sublimity of which query is manifestly insisted on by the author, by

his having it printed in capitals.

When the curtain fell, there arose an uproarious shout for the author;

but instead of “the mantle of the Elizabethan poets,” which, it has been

said, he commonly wears, the most attractive garment that met the view

was an expansive white waistcoat. This latter exhibition concluded the

entertainments, strictly so called; for though a farce followed, it

turned out a terrible bore.

CONCERTS D’ETE. If the advance of musical science is to be effected by

indecent tableaux vivans—by rattling peas against sieves, and putting

out the lights (appropriately enough) when Beethoven is being

murdered—by the most contemptible class of compositions that ever was

put upon score-paper, and noised forth from an ill-disciplined band—if

these be the means towards improving musical taste, Monsieur Jullien is

undoubtedly the harmonic regenerator of this country. He is a great

man—great in his own estimation—great to the ends of his moustachios and

the tips of his gloves—a great composer, and a great charlatan—ex. gr.:—

The overture to the promenade concerts usually consists of a pantomime

entirely new to an English audience. Monsieur Jullien having made his

appearance in the orchestra, seats himself in a conspicuous situation,

to indulge the ladies with the most favourable view of his elegant

person, and the splendid gold-chainery which is spread all over his

magnificent waistcoat. A servant in livery then appears, and presents

him with a pair of white kid gloves. The illustrious conductor, having

taken some time to thrust them upon a very large and red hand, leisurely

takes up his baton, rises, grins upon the expectant musicians, lifts his

arm, and—the first chord is struck!

Quadrilles are the staple of the evening—those composed by Monsieur

Jullien always, of course, claiming precedence and preference. These are

usually interspersed with solos on the flageolet, to contrast with

obligati for the ophecleido; the drummers—side, long, and double—are

seldom inactive; the trombones and trumpets have no sinecure, and there

is always a great mortality amongst the fiddle-strings. Eight bars of

impossible variation is sure to be succeeded by sixteen of the deafening

fanfare of trumpets, combined with smashing cymbalism, and dreadful

drumming.

The public have a taste for headaches, and Jullien has imported a

capital recipe for creating them; they applaud—he bows; and musical

taste goes—in compliment to the ex-waiter’s genuine profession of man-

cook—to pot.

But the ci-devant cuisinier is not content with comparatively harmless,

plain-sailing humbug; he must add some sauce piquante to his musical

hashes. He cannot rest with merely stunning English ears, but must shock

our morals, At the bals masqués, the French dancers, and the hardly

mentionable cancan, were hooted back to their native stews under the

Palais Royal; but he provides substitutes for them in the tableaux

vivans now exhibiting. This, because a more insidious, is a safer

introduction. The living figures are dressed to imitate plaster-of-

Paris, and are so arranged as to form groups, called in the bills

“classical;” but for which it would be difficult to find originals. In

short, the whole thing is a feeler thrown out to see how far French

impudence and French epicureanism in vice may carry themselves. It shall

not be our fault if they do not experience an ignominious downfall, and

beat a speedy retreat, to the tune of the “Rogue’s March,” arranged as a

quadrille!

MADAME TUSSAUD’S, THE REAL TEMPLE OF FAME. “Some men are born to

greatness, some men achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust

upon them.”—SHAKSPEARE.

Reader, should you doubt the above assertion, in the true showman

phraseology, just “Walk up! walk up!” to Madame Tussaud’s, the real

Temple of Fame, and let such doubts vanish for ever; convince yourselves

that the mighty attribute not more survives from good than evil deeds,

though, like poverty, it makes its votaries acquainted with the

strangest of strange bedfellows! The regal ermine and the murderer’s

fustian alike obtain their enviable niche.

The likeness of departed majesty, robed in the matchless splendour of a

ruler’s state, redolent with all the mimic glories of a king’s insignia,

the modelled puppet from the senseless clay, that wore in life the

imperial purple, and moved a breathing thing, chief actor in its

childish mummeries, may here be seen shining in tinselled pomp, in

glittering contrast to the blood-stained shirt through which the dagger

of Ravaillac reached the bosom of the murdered Henry.

The “Real Robes” of the dead George give value to his waxen image! The

heart’s-blood of the slaughtered Henry immortalises the linen bearing

its hideous stain. The daring leader of France’s countless hosts—the

wholesale slaughterer of unnumbered thousands—ambition’s mightiest

son—now ruling kingdoms and now ruled by one—once more than king—in

death the captive of his hated foes—“the great Napoleon!” shares the

small space with the enshrined Fieschi!

The glorious triumphs of the mighty Wellington are here no better

passports than the foul murders of the atrocious Burke; the subtle

Talleyrand, the deep deviser of political schemes, ruler of rulers, and

master mover of the earth’s great puppets, is not one jot superior to

the Italian mountebank, whose well-skilled hand drew tones from catgut

rivalling even the ideal trumpet of great Fame herself!

By some strange anomaly, success and failure alike render the candidates

admissible—no matter the littleness of the source from whence they

sprung. Lord Melbourne’s “premiership” gave shape to the all but

Promethean wax. The failure of John Frost, his humble follower, secured

his right to Fame’s posthumous honours. All partiality is here

forgotten. The titled premier, in the haunts of men, may boast his

monarch’s palace as his home. The suffering felon, though iron binds his

limbs, and eats into his heart—though slow approaching, but sure-coming

death, makes the broad world for him a living grave, here he stands, as

one among the great ones of the show! The amiability of Albert, that

“excellent Prince,” and therefore “most excellent young man,” is

ingeniously contrasted with the vices of a Greenacre, and the villany of

a Hare. The stern endurance and unflinching perseverance of the zealous

and single-hearted Calvin is deprived of its exclusiveness by the more

exciting and equally famous Sir William Courtenay (alias Thom).

The thrilling recollection of the “poet peer,” and “peerless poet,” the

highly-imaginative and unrivalled Byron, whose flood of song, poured out

in one continuous stream of varied passion-breathing fancy, is calmed by

gazing on “dull life’s antipodes,” the bandaged remnant of a dried-up

mummy!

Poor Mary Stuart! the beautiful, the murdered Queen of Scots, is only

parted from the “Maiden Queen,” who sealed her doom, by the

interposition of the blood-stained ruthless wretch (England’s Eighth

Harry), to whom “Bess” owed her birth!

Pitt, Fox, and Canning are matched with Courvoisier, Gould, and Collins.

Liston is vis à vis to Joe Hume, while Louis Philippe but shares

attention with the rivalling models of the Bastille and Guillotine!

Verily, there is a moral in all this, “an we could but find it out.”

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. SEPTEMBER 12, 1841. [pg 97] THE

HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER III. Two wrestling men form the letter A.

fter the ceremony, the happy pair set off for Brighton.”

There is something peculiarly pleasing in the above paragraph. The

imagination instantly conjures up an elegant yellow-bodied chariot,

lined with pearl drab, and a sandwich basket. In one corner sits a fair

and blushing creature partially arrayed in the garments of a bride,

their spotless character diversified with some few articles of a darker

hue, resembling, in fact, the liquid matrimony of port and sherry; her

delicate hands have been denuded of their gloves, exhibiting to the

world the glittering emblem of her endless hopes. In the other, a

smiling piece of four-and-twenty humanity is reclining, gazing upon the

beautiful treasure, which has that morning cost him about six pounds

five shillings, in the shape of licence and fees. He too has deprived

himself of the sunniest portions of his wardrobe, and has softened the

glare of his white ducks, and the gloss of his blue coat, by the

application of a drab waistcoat. But why indulge in speculative dreams

when we have realities to detail!

Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite and his beauteous Juliana Theresa (late

Waddledot), for three days, experienced that—

“Love is heaven, and heaven is love.”

His imaginary dinner-party became a reality, and the delicate attentions

which he paid to his invisible guest rendered his Juliana Theresa’s

life—as she exquisitely expressed it—

“A something without a name, but to which nothing was wanting.”

But even honey will cloy; and that sweetest of all moons, the Apian one,

would sometimes be better for a change. Juliana passed the greater

portion of the day on the sofa, in the companionship of that aromatic

author, Sir Edward; or sauntered (listlessly hanging on Collumpsion’s

arm) up and down the Steine, or the no less diversified Chain-pier.

Agamemnon felt that at home at least he ought to be happy, and,

therefore, he hung his legs over the balcony and whistled or warbled (he

had a remarkably fine D) Moore’s ballad of—

“Believe me, if all those endearing young charms;”

or took the silver out of the left-hand pocket of his trousers, and

placed it in the right-hand receptacle of the same garment.

Nevertheless, he was continually detecting himself yawning or dozing, as

though “the idol of his existence” was a chimera, and not Mrs.

Applebite.

The time at length arrived for their return to town, and, to judge from

the pleasure depicted in the countenances of the happy pair, the

contemplated intrusion of the world on their family circle was anything

but disagreeable. Old John, under the able generalship of Mrs.

Waddledot, had made every requisite preparation for their reception.

Enamelled cards, superscribed with the names of Mr. and Mrs. Applebite,

and united together with a silver cord tied in a true lover’s knot, had

been duly enclosed in an envelope of lace-work, secured with a silver

dove, flying away with a square piece of silver toast. In company with a

very unsatisfactory bit of exceedingly rich cake, this glossy missive

was despatched to the whole of the Applebite and Waddledot connexion,

only excepting the eighteen daughters who Mrs. Waddledot had reason to

believe would not return her visit.

The meeting of the young wife and the wife’s mother was touching in the

extreme. They rushed into each other’s arms, and indulged in plentiful

showers of “nature’s dew.”

“Welcome! welcome home, my dear Juliana!” exclaimed the doting mother.

“It’s the first time, Mr. A., that she ever left me since she was 16,

for so long a period. I have had all the beds aired, and all the chairs

uncovered. She’ll be a treasure to you, Mr. A., for a more tractable

creature was never vaccinated;” and here the mother overcame the orator,

and she wept again.

“My dear mother,” said Agamemnon, “I have already had many reasons to be

grateful for my happy fortune. Don’t you think she is browner than when

we left town?”

“Much, much!” sobbed the mother; “but the change is for the better.”

“I’m glad you think so, for Aggy is of the same opinion,” lisped the

beautiful ex-Waddledot. “Tell ma’ the pretty metaphor you indulged in

yesterday, Aggy.”

“Why, I merely remarked,” replied Collumpsion, blushing, “that I was

pleased to see the horticultural beauties of her cheek superseded by

such an exquisite marine painting. It’s nothing of itself, but Juley’s

foolish fondness called it witty.”

The arrival of the single sister of Mrs. Applebite, occasioned another

rush of bodies and several gushes of tears; then titterings succeeded,

and then a simultaneous burst of laughter, and a rapid exit. Agamemnon

looked round that room which he had furnished in his bachelorhood. A

thousand old associations sprung up in his mind, and a vague feeling of

anticipated evil for a moment oppressed him. The bijouterie seemed to

reproach him with unkindness for having placed a mistress over them, and

the easy chair heaved as though with suppressed emotion, at the thought

that its luxurious proportions had lost their charms. Collumpsion held a

mental toss-up whether he repented of the change in his condition; and,

as faithful historians, we are compelled to state that it was only the

entrance, at that particular moment, of Juliana, that induced him to

cry—woman.

On the following day the knocker of No. 24 disturbed all the other

numerals in Pleasant-terrace; and Mr. and Mrs. A. bowed and curtsied

until they were tired, in acknowledgment of their friends’ “wishes of

joy,” and, as one unlucky old gentleman expressed himself, “many happy

returns of the day.”

It was a matter of surprise to many of the said friends, that so great

an alteration as was perceptible in the happy pair, should have occurred

in such a very short space of time.

“I used to think Mr. Applebite a very nice young man,” said Miss—mind,

Miss Scragbury—“but, dear me, how he’s altered.”

“And Mrs. Applebite used to be a pretty girl,” rejoined her brother

Julius; “but now (Juliana had refused him three times)—but now she’s as

ill-looking as her mother.”

“I’d no idea this house was so small,” said Mrs. Scragmore. “I’m afraid

the Waddledots haven’t made so great a catch, after all. I hope poor

Juley will be happy, for I nursed her when a baby, but I never saw such

an ugly pattern for a stair-carpet in my born days;” and with these

favourable impressions of their dear friends the Applebites, the

Scragmores descended the steps of No. 24, Pleasant-terrace, and then

ascended those of No. 5436 hackney-coach.

About ten months after their union, Collumpsion was observed to have a

more jaunty step and smiling countenance, which—as his matrimonial

felicity had been so frequently pronounced perfect—puzzled his friends

amazingly. Indeed, some were led to conjecture, that his love for

Juliana Theresa was not of the positive character that he asserted it to

be; for when any inquiries were made after her health, his answer had

invariably been, of late, “Why, Mrs. A.—is—not very well;” and a smile

would play about his mouth, as though he had a delightful vision of a

widower-hood. The mystery was at length solved, by the exhibition of

sundry articles of a Lilliputian wardrobe, followed by an announcement

in the Morning Post, under the head of

“BIRTHS.—Yesterday morning, the lady of Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite,

Esq., of a son and heir.”

Pleasant-terrace was strawed from one end to the other; the knocker of

24 was encased in white kid, a doctor’s boy was observed to call three

times a-day, and a pot-boy twice as often.

Collumpsion was in a seventh heaven of wedded bliss. He shook hands with

everybody—thanked everybody—invited everybody when Mrs. A. should be

better, and noted down in his pocket-book what everybody prescribed as

infallible remedies for the measles, hooping-cough, small-pox, and

rashes (both nettle and tooth)—listened for hours to the praises of

vaccination and Indian-rubber rings—pronounced Goding’s porter a real

blessing to mothers, and inquired the price of boys’ suits and rocking-

horses!

In this state of paternal felicity we must leave him till our next.

TO CAPITALISTS. It is rumoured that Macready is desirous of disposing of

his “manners” previous to becoming manager, when he will have no further

occasion for them. They are in excellent condition, having been very

little used, and would be a desirable purchase for any one expecting to

move within the sphere of his management.

REASON’S NE PLUS ULTRA. A point impossible for mind to reach—

To find the meaning of a royal speech.

AN APPROPRIATE NAME. The late Queen of the Sandwich Islands, and the

first convert to Christianity in that country, was called Keopalani,

which means—“the dropping of the clouds from Heaven.”

EPIGRAM ON THE ABOVE. This name’s the best that could be given,

As will by proof be quickly seen;

For, “dropping from the clouds of Heaven,”

She was, of course, the raining Queen.

CAUTION TO SPORTSMEN. Our gallant friend Sibthorp backed himself on the

1st of September to bag a hundred leverets in the course of the day. He

lost, of course; and upon being questioned as to his reason for making

so preposterous a bet, he confessed that he had been induced to do so by

the specious promise of an advertisement, in which somebody professed to

have discovered “a powder for the removal of superfluous hairs.”

[pg 98] OUT OF SEASON. A LYRIC, BY THE LAST MAN—IN TOWN. Chaos returns!

no soul’s in town!

And darkness reigns where lamps once brightened;

Shutters are closed, and blinds drawn down—

Untrodden door-steps go unwhitened!

The echoes of some straggler’s boots

Alone are on the pavement ringing

While ’prentice boys, who smoke cheroots,

Stand critics to some broom-girl’s singing.

I went to call on Madame Sims,

In a dark street, not far from Drury;

An Irish crone half-oped the door.

Whose head might represent a fury.

“At home, sir?” “No! (whisper)—but I’ll presume

To tell the truth, or know the raison.

She dines—tays—lives—in the back room,

Bekase ’tis not the London saison.”

From thence I went to Lady Bloom’s,

Where, after sundry rings and knocking,

A yawning, liveried lad appear’d,

His squalid face his gay clothes mocking

I asked him, in a faltering tone—

The house was closed—I guess’d the reason—

“Is Lady B.’s grand-aunt, then, gone?”—

“To Ramsgate, sir!—until next season!”

I sauntered on to Harry Gray’s,

The ennui of my heart to lighten;

His landlady, with, smirk and smile,

Said, “he had just run down to Brighton.”

When home I turned my steps, at last,

A tailor—whom to kick were treason—

Pressed for his bill;—I hurried past,

Politely saying—CALL NEXT SEASON!

THE GENTLEMAN’S OWN BOOK. We concluded our last article with a brief

dissertation on the cut of the trousers; we will now proceed to the

consideration of coats.

“The hour must come when such things must be made.”

For this quotation we are indebted to

A man carries a book titled 'Poems' THE POET’S PAGE.

There are three kinds of coats—the body, the surtout, and the great.

The body-coat is again divided into classes, according to their

application, viz.—the drawing-room, the ride, and the field.

The cut of the dress-coat is of paramount importance, that being the

garment which decorates the gentleman at a time when he is naturally

ambitious of going the entire D’Orsay. There is great nicety required in

cutting this article of dress, so that it may at one and the same moment

display the figure and waistcoat of the wearer to the utmost advantage.

None but a John o’Groat’s goth would allow it to be imagined that the

buttons and button-holes of this robe were ever intended to be anything

but opposite neighbours, for a contrary conviction would imply the

absence of a cloak in the hall or a cab at the door. We do not intend to

give a Schneiderian dissertation upon garments; we merely wish to trace

outlines; but to those who are anxious for a more intimate acquaintance

with the intricacies and mysteries of the delightful and civilising art

of cutting, we can only say, Vide Stultz.11. Should any gentleman avail

himself of this hint, we should feel obliged if he would mention the

source from whence it was derived, having a small account standing in

that quarter, for tailors have gratitude.

The riding-coat is the connecting link between the DRESS and the rest of

the great family of coats, as one button, and one only of this garment,

may be allowed to be applied to his apparent use.

It is so cut, that the waistcoat pockets may be easy of access. Any

gentleman who has attended races or other sporting meetings must have

found the convenience of this arrangement; for where the course is well

managed, as at Epsom, Ascot, Hampton, &c., by the judicious regulations

of the stewards, the fingers are generally employed in the distribution

of those miniature argentine medallions of her Majesty so particularly

admired by ostlers, correct card-vendors, E.O. table-keepers, Mr. Jerry,

and the toll-takers on the road and the course. The original idea of

these coats was accidentally given by John Day, who was describing, on

Nugee’s cutting-board, the exact curvature of Tattenham Corner.

The shooting-jacket should be designed after a dovecot or a chest of

drawers; and the great art in rendering this garment perfect, is to make

the coat entirely of pockets, that part which covers the shoulders being

only excepted, from the difficulty of carrying even a cigar-case in that

peculiar situation.

The surtout (not regulation) admits of very little design. It can only

be varied by the length of the skirts, which may be either as long as a

fireman’s, or as short as Duvernay’s petticoats. This coat is, in fact,

a cross between the dress and the driving, and may, perhaps, be

described as a Benjamin junior.

Of the Benjamin senior, there are several kinds—the Taglioni, the Pea,

the Monkey, the Box, et sui generis.

The three first are all of the coal-sackian cut, being, in fact, elegant

elongated pillow-cases, with two diminutive bolsters, which are to be

filled with arms instead of feathers. They are singularly adapted for

concealing the fall in the back, and displaying to the greatest

advantage those unassuming castors designated “Jerrys,” which have so

successfully rivalled those silky impostors known to the world as

Side view of a man with a broad-brimmed hat. THIS (S)TILE—FOUR-AND-NINE.

The box-coat has, of late years, been denuded of its layers of capes,

and is now cut for the sole purpose, apparently, of supporting

perpendicular rows of wooden platters or mother-of-pearl counters, each

of which would be nearly large enough for the top of a lady’s work-

table. Mackintosh-coats have, in some measure, superseded the box-coat;

but, like carters’ smock-frocks, they are all the creations of

speculative minds, having the great advantage of keeping out the water,

whilst they assist you in becoming saturated with perspiration. We

strongly suspect their acquaintance with India-rubber; they seem to us

to be a preparation of English rheumatism, having rather more of the

catarrh than caoutchouc in their composition. Everybody knows the

affinity of India-rubber to black-lead; but when made into a Mackintosh,

you may substitute the lum for the plumbago.

We never see a fellow in a seal-skin cap, and one of these waterproof

pudding-bags, but we fancy he would make an excellent model for

A bearded man. THE FIGURE-HEAD OF A CONVICT SHIP.

The ornaments and pathology will next command our attention.

A friend insulted us the other day with the following:—“Billy Black

supposes Sam Rogers wears a tightly-laced boddice. Why is it like one of

Milton’s heroes?” Seeing we gave it up, he replied—“Because Sam’s-on-

agony-stays.”—(Samson Agonistes.)

[pg 99] THE GOLDEN-SQUARE REVOLUTION. [BY EXPRESS.] This morning, at an

early hour, we were thrown into the greatest consternation by a column

of boys, who poured in upon us from the northern entrance, and, taking

up their-station near the pump, we expected the worst.

8 o’clock.—The worst has not yet happened. An inhabitant has entered the

square-garden, and planted himself at the back of the statue; but

everything is in STATUE QUO.

5 minutes past 8.—The boys are still there. The square-keeper is nowhere

to be found.

10 minutes past 8.—The insurgents have, some of them, mounted on the

fire-escape. The square-keeper has been seen. He is sneaking round the

corner, and resolutely refuses to come nearer.

¼ past 8.—A deputation has waited on the square-keeper. It is expected

that he will resign.

20 minutes past 8.—The square-keeper refuses to resign.

22 minutes past 8.—The square-keeper has resigned.

25 minutes past 8.—The boys have gone home.

½ past 8.—The square-keeper has been restored, and is showing great

courage and activity. It is not thought necessary to place him under

arms; but he is under the engine, which can he brought into play at a

moment’s notice. His activity is surprising, and his resolution quite

undaunted.

9 o’clock.—All is perfectly quiet, and the letters are being delivered

by the general post-man as usual. The inhabitants appear to be going to

their business, as if nothing had happened. The square-keeper, with the

whole of his staff (a constable’s staff), may be seen walking quietly up

and down. The revolution is at an end; and, thanks to the fire-engine,

our old constitution is still preserved to us.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A TRIP IN MR HAMPTON’S BALLOON. IN A LETTER FROM A

WOULD-BE PASSENGER. My dear Friend.—You are aware how long I have been

longing to go up in a balloon, and that I should certainly have some

time ago ascended with Mr. Green, had not his terms been not simply a

cut above me, but several gashes beyond my power to comply with them. In

a word, I did not go up with the Nassau, because I could not come down

with the dust, and though I always had “Green in my eye,” I was not

quite so soft as to pay twenty pounds in hard cash for the fun of going,

on

A black man in armor. A DARK (K)NIGHT,

nobody knows where, and coming down Heaven knows how, in a field

belonging to the Lord knows who, and being detained for goodness knows

what, for damage.

Not being inclined, therefore, for a nice and expensive voyage with Mr.

Green, I made a cheap and nasty arrangement with Mr. Hampton, the

gentleman who courageously offers to descend in a parachute—a thing very

like a parasol—and who, as he never mounts much above the height of

ordinary palings, might keep his word without the smallest risk of any

personal inconvenience.

It was arranged and publicly announced that the balloon, carrying its

owner and myself, should start from the Tea-gardens of the Mitre and

Mustard Pot, at six o’clock in the evening; and the public were to be

admitted at one, to see the process of inflation, it being shrewdly

calculated by the proprietor, that, as the balloon got full, the

stomachs of the lookers on would be getting empty, and that the

refreshments would go off while the tedious work of filling a silken bag

with gas was going on, so that the appetites and the curiosity of the

public would be at the same time satisfied.

The process of inflation seemed to have but little effect on the

balloon, and it was not until about five o’clock that the important

discovery was made, that the gas introduced at the bottom had been

escaping through a hole in the top, and that the Equitable Company was

laying it on excessively thick through the windpipes of the assembled

company.

Six o’clock arrived, and, according to contract, the supply of gas was

cut off, when the balloon, that had hitherto worn such an appearance as

just to give a hope that it might in time be full, began to present an

aspect which induced a general fear that it must very shortly be empty.

The audience began to be impatient for the promised ascent, and while

the aeronaut was running about in all directions looking for the hole,

and wondering how he should stop it up, I was requested by the

proprietor of the gardens to step into the car, just to check the

growing impatience of the audience. I was received with that unanimous

shout of cheering and laughter with which a British audience always

welcomes any one who appears to have got into an awkward predicament,

and I sat for a few minutes, quietly expecting to be buried in the silk

of the balloon, which was beginning to collapse with the greatest

rapidity. The spectators becoming impatient for the promised ascent, and

seeing that it could not be achieved, determined, as enlightened British

audiences invariably do, that if it was not to be done, it should at all

events be attempted. In vain did Mr. Hampton come forward to apologise

for the trifling accident; he was met by yells, hoots, hisses, and

orange-peel, and the benches were just about to be torn up, when he

declared, that under any circumstances, he was determined to go up—an

arrangement in which I was refusing to coincide—when, just as he had got

into the car, all means of getting out were withdrawn from under us—the

ropes were cut, and the ascent commenced in earnest.

The majestic machine rose slowly to the height of about eight feet, amid

the most enthusiastic cheers, when it rolled over among some trees, amid

the most frantic laughter. Mr. Hampton, with singular presence of mind,

threw out every ounce of ballast, which caused the balloon to ascend a

few feet higher, when a tremendous gust of easterly wind took us

triumphantly out of the gardens, the palings of which we cleared with

considerable nicety. The scene at this moment was magnificent; the

silken monster, in a state of flabbiness, rolling and fluttering above,

while below us were thousands of spectators, absolutely shrieking with

merriment. Another gust of wind carried us rapidly forward, and,

bringing us exactly in a level with a coach-stand, we literally swept,

with the bottom of our car, every driver from off his box, and, of

course, the enthusiasm of a British audience almost reached its climax.

We now encountered the gable-end of a station-house, and the balloon

being by this time thoroughly collapsed, our aerial trip was brought to

an abrupt conclusion. I know nothing more of what occurred, having been

carried on a shutter, in a state of

A man hangs from a fence by his trousers. SUSPENDED ANIMATION,

to my own lodging, while my companion was left to fight it out with the

mob, who were so anxious to possess themselves of some memento of the

occasion, that the balloon was torn to ribbons, and a fragment of it

carried away by almost every one of the vast multitude which had

assembled to honour him with their patronage.

I have the honour to be, yours, &c. A. SPOONEY.

FEARFUL STATE OF LONDON! A country gentleman informs us that he was

horror-stricken at the sight of an apparently organised band, wearing

fustian coats, decorated with curious brass badges, bearing exceedingly

high numbers, who perched themselves behind the Paddington omnibuses,

and, in the most barefaced and treasonable manner, urged the surrounding

populace to open acts of daring violence, and wholesale arson, by

shouting out, at the top of their voices, “O burn, the City, and the

Bank.”

“WHO ARE TO BE THE LORDS IN WAITING.” “We have lordlings in dozens,” the

Tories exclaim,

“To fill every place from the throng;

Although the cursed Whigs, be it told to our shame,

Kept us poor lords in waiting too long.”

LOOKING ON THE BLACK SIDE OF THINGS. The Honourable Sambo Sutton begs us

to state, that he is not the Honourable —— Sutton who is announced as

the Secretary for the Home Department. He might have been induced to

have stepped into Lord Cottenham’s shoes, on his

An Eskimo runs from a polar bear. There are seals lying on the ground.

RESIGNING THE SEALS.

AWFUL CASE OF SMASHING!—FRIGHTFUL NEGLIGENCE OF THE POLICE Feargus

O’Connor passed his word last week at the London Tavern.

NEW SWIMMING APPARATUS. At the late collision between the Beacon brig

and the Topaz steamer, one of the passengers, anticipating the sinking

of both vessels, and being strongly embued with the great principle of

self-preservation, immediately secured himself the assistance of the

anchor! Did he conceive “Hope” to have been unsexed, or that that

attribute originally existed as a “floating boy?”

[pg 100] SYNCRETIC LITERATURE. “The Loves of Giles Scroggins and Molly

Brown:” an Epic Poem. London: CATNACH.

The great essentials necessary for the true conformation of the

sublimest effort of poetic genius, the construction of an “Epic Poem,”

are numerically three; viz., a beginning, a middle, and an end. The

incipient characters necessary to the beginning, ripening in the middle,

and, like the drinkers of small beer and October leaves, falling in the

end.

The poem being thus divided into its several stages, the judgment of the

writer should emulate that of the experienced Jehu, who so proportions

his work, that all and several of his required teams do their own share

and no more—fifteen miles (or lengths) to a first canto, and five to a

second, is as far from right as such a distribution of mile-stones would

be to the overworked prads. The great fault of modern poetasters arises

from their extreme love of spinning out an infinite deal of nothing.

Now, as “brevity is the soul of wit,” their productions can be looked

upon as little else than phantasmagorial skeletons, ridiculous from

their extreme extenuation, and in appearance more peculiarly empty, from

the circumstance of their owing their existence to false lights. This

fault does not exist with all the master spirits, and, though “many a

flower is born to blush unseen,” we now proceed to rescue from obscurity

the brightest gem of unfamed literature.

Wisdom is said to be found in the mouths of babes and sucklings. So is

the epic poem of Giles Scroggins. Is wisdom Scroggins, or is Scroggins

wisdom? We can prove either position, but we are cramped for space, and

therefore leave the question open. Now for our author and his first

line—

“Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown.”

Beautiful condensation! Is or is not this rushing at once in medias res?

It is; there’s no paltry subterfuge about it—no unnecessary wearing out

of “the waning moon they met by”—“the stars that gazed upon their

joy”—“the whispering gales that breathed in zephyr’s softest

sighs”—their “lover’s perjuries to the distracted trees they wouldn’t

allow to go to sleep.” In short, “there’s no nonsense”—there’s a broad

assertion of a thrilling fact—

“Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown.”

So might a thousand folks; therefore (the reader may say) how does this

establish the individuality of Giles Scroggins, or give an insight to

the character of the chosen hero of the poem? Mark the next line, and

your doubts must vanish. He courted her; but why? Ay, why? for the best

of all possible reasons—condensed in the smallest of all possible space,

and yet establishing his perfect taste, unequalled judgment, and

peculiarly-heroic self-esteem—he courted her because she was

“The fairest maid in all the town.”

Magnificent climax! overwhelming reason! Could volumes written, printed,

or stereotyped, say more? Certainly not; the condensation of “Aurora’s

blushes,” “the Graces’ attributes,” “Venus’s perfections,” and “Love’s

sweet votaries,” all, all is more than spoken in the emphatic words—

“The fairest maid in all the town.”

Nothing can go beyond this; it proves her beauty and her

disinterestedness. The fairest maid might have chosen, nay, commanded,

even a city dignitary. Does the so? No; Giles Scroggins, famous only in

name, loves her, and—beautiful poetic contrivance!—we are left to

imagine he does “not love unloved.” Why should she reciprocate? inquires

the reader. Are not truth and generosity the princely paragons of manly

virtue, greater, because unostentatious? and these perfect attributes

are part and parcel of great Giles. He makes no speeches—soils no satin

paper—vows no vows—no, he is above such humbug. His motto is evidently

deeds, not words. And what does he do? Send a flimsy epistle, which his

fair reader pays the vile postage for? Not he; he

“Gave a ring with posy true!”

Think of this. Not only does he “give a ring,” but he annihilates the

suppositionary fiction in which poets are supposed to revel, and the

ring’s accompaniment, though the child of a creative brain—the burning

emanation from some Apollo-stricken votary of “the lying nine,” imbued

with all his stern morality, is strictly “true.” This startling fact is

not left wrapped in mystery. The veriest sceptic cannot, in imagination,

grave a fancied double meaning on that richest gift. No—the motto

follows, and seems to say—Now, as the champion of Giles Scroggins, hurl

I this gauntlet down; let him that dare, uplift it! Here I am—

“If you loves I, as I loves you!”

Pray mark the syncretic force of the above line. Giles, in expressing

his affection, felt the singular too small, and the vast plural quick

supplied the void—Loves must be more than love.

“If you loves I, as I loves you,

No knife shall cut our loves in two!”

This is really sublime! “No knife!” Can anything exceed the assertion?

Nothing but the rejoinder—a rejoinder in which the talented author not

only stands proudly forward as a poet, but patriotically proves the amor

propriæ, which has induced him to study the staple manufactures of his

beloved country! What but a diligent investigation of the cutlerian

process could have prompted the illustration of practical knowledge of

the Birmingham and Sheffield artificers contained in the following

exquisitely explanatory line. But—pray mark the but—

“But scissors cut as well as knives!”

Sublime announcement! startling information! leading us, by degrees, to

the highest of all earthly contemplations, exalting us to fate and her

peculiar shears, and preparing us for the exquisitely poetical sequel

contained in the following line:—

“And so unsartain’s all our lives.”

Can anything exceed this? The uncertainty of life evidently superinduced

the conviction of all other uncertainties, and the sublime poet bears

out the intenseness of his impressions by the uncertainty of his

spelling! Now, reader, mark the next line, and its context:—

“The very night they were to wed!”

Fancy this: the full blossoming of all their budding joys,

anticipations, death, and hope’s accomplishment, the crowning hour of

their youth’s great bliss, “the very night they were to wed,” is, with

extra syncretic skill, chosen as the awful one in which

“Fate’s scissors cut Giles Scroggins’ thread!”

Now, reader, do you see the subtle use of practical knowledge? Are you

convinced of the impotent prescription from knives only? Can you not

perceive in “Fate’s scissors” a parallel for the unthought-of host “that

bore the mighty wood of Dunsinane against the blood-stained murderer of

the pious Duncan?” Does not the fatal truth rush, like an unseen draught

into rheumatic crannies, slick through your soul’s perception? Are you

not prepared for this—to be resumed in our next?

THE NEW ADMINISTRATION. FROM OUR OWN COURT CIRCULAR. Lord Lyndhurst is

to have the seals; but it is not yet decided who is to be entrusted with

the wafer-stamps. Gold-stick has not been appointed, and there are so

many of the Conservatives whose qualities peculiarly fit them for the

office of stick, that the choice will be exceedingly embarrassing.

Though the Duke of Wellington does not take office, an extra chair has

been ordered, to allow of his having a seat in the Cabinet. And though

Lord Melbourne is no longer minister, he is still to be indulged with a

lounge on the sofa.

If the Duke of Beaufort is to be Master of the Horse, it is probable

that a new office will be made, to allow Colonel Sibthorp to take office

as Comptroller of the Donkeys: and it is said that Horace Twiss is to

join the administration as Clerk of the Kitchen.

It was remarked, that after Sir Robert Peel had kissed hands, the Queen

called for soap and water, for the purpose of washing them.

The Duchess of Buccleugh having refused the office of Mistress of the

Robes, it will not be necessary to make the contemplated new appointment

of Keeper of the Flannel Petticoats.

The Grooms of the Bedchamber are, for the future, to be styled

Postilions of the Dressing-room; because, as the Sovereign is a lady,

instead of a gentleman, it is thought that the latter title, for the

officers alluded to, will be more in accordance with propriety. For the

same excellent reason, it is expected that the Knights of the Bath will

henceforth be designated the Chevaliers of the Foot-pan.

Prince Albert’s household is to be entirely re-modelled, and one or two

new offices are to be added, the want of which has hitherto occasioned

his Royal Highness much inconvenience. Of these, we are only authorised

in alluding, at present, to Tooth-brush in Ordinary, and Shaving-pot in

Waiting. There is no foundation for the report that there is to be a

Lord High Clothes-brush, or Privy Boot-jack.

A VOICE FROM THE AREA. The following letter has been addressed to us by

a certain party, who, as our readers will perceive, has been one of the

sufferers by the late clearance made in a fashionable establishment at

the West-end:—

DEAR PUNCH.—As you may not be awair of the mallancoly change wich as

okkurred to the pore sarvunts here, I hassen to let you no—that every

sole on us as lost our plaices, and are turnd owt—wich is a dredful

klamity, seeing as we was all very comfittible and appy as we was. I

must say, in gustis to our Missus, that she was very fond of us, and

wouldn’t have parted with one of us if she had her will: but she’s only

a O in her own howse, and is never aloud to do as she licks. We got

warning reglar enuff, but we still thort that somethink might turn up in

our fever. However, when the day cum that we was to go, it fell upon us

like a thunderboat. You can’t imagine the kunfewshion we was all threw

into—every body packing up their little afares, and rummidging about for

any trifele that wasn’t worth leaving behind. The sarvunts as is cum in

upon us is a nice sett; they have been a long wile trying after our

places, and at last they have suckseeded in underminding us; but it’s my

oppinion they’ll never be able to get through the work of the house;—all

they cares for is the vails and purkussites. I forgot to menshun that

they hadn’t the decency to wait till we was off the peremasses, wich I

bleave is the etticat in sich cases, but rushed in on last Friday, and

tuck possession of all our plaices before we had left the concirn. I

leave you to judge by this what a hurry they was to get in. There’s one

comfurt, however, that is—we’ve left things in sich a mess in the howse,

that I don’t think they’ll ever be able to set them to rites again. This

is all at present from your afflickted friend,

JOHN THE FOOTMAN.

“I declare I never knew a flatter companion than yourself,” said Tom of

Finsbury, the other evening, to the lion of Lambeth. “Thank you, Tom,”

replied the latter; “but all the world knows that you’re a flatter-er.”

Tom, in nautical phrase, swore, if he ever came athwart his Hawes, that

he would return the compliment with interest.

[pg 101] MY FRIEND TOM. —“Here, methinks,

Truth wants no ornament.”—ROGERS.

We have the happiness to know a gentleman of the name of Tom, who

officiates in the capacity of ostler. We have enjoyed a long

acquaintance with him—we mean an acquaintance a long way off—i.e. from

the window of our dormitory, which overlooks A—s—n’s stables. We believe

we are the first of our family, for some years, who has not kept a

horse; and we derive a melancholy gratification in gazing for hours,

from our lonely height, at the zoological possessions of more favoured

mortals.

“The horse is a noble animal,” as a gentleman once wittily observed,

when he found himself, for the first time in his life, in a position to

make love; and we beg leave to repeat the remark—“the horse is a noble

animal,” whether we consider him in his usefulness or in his beauty;

whether caparisoned in the chamfrein and demi-peake of the chivalry of

olden times, or scarcely fettered and surmounted by the snaffle and hog-

skin of the present; whether he excites our envy when bounding over the

sandy deserts of Arabia, or awakens our sympathies when drawing sand

from Hampstead and the parts adjacent; whether we see him as romance

pictures him, foaming in the lists, or bearing, “through flood and

field,” the brave, the beautiful, and the benighted; or, as we know him

in reality, the companion of our pleasures, the slave of our

necessities, the dislocator of our necks, or one of the performers at

our funeral; whether—but we are not drawing a “bill in Chancery.”

With such impressions in favour of the horse, we have ever felt a deep

anxiety about those to whom his conduct and comfort are confided.

The breeder—we envy.

The breaker—we pity.

The owner—we esteem.

The groom—we respect.

AND

The ostler—we pay.

Do not suppose that we wish to cast a slur upon the latter personage,

but it is too much to require that he who keeps a caravansera should

look upon every wayfarer as a brother. It is thus with the ostler: his

feelings are never allowed to twine

“Around one object, till he feels his heart

Of its sweet being form a deathless part.”

No—to rub them down, give them a quartern and three pen’orth, and not

too much water, are all that he has to connect him with the offspring of

Childers, Eclipse, or Pot-8-o’s; ergo, we pay him.

My friend Tom is a fine specimen of the genus. He is about fifteen hands

high, rising thirty, herring-bowelled, small head, large ears, close

mane, broad chest, and legs à la parentheses ( ). His dress is a long

brown-holland jacket, covering the protuberance known in Bavaria by the

name of pudo, and in England by that of bustle. His breeches are of cord

about an inch in width, and of such capacious dimensions, that a truss

of hay, or a quarter of oats, might be stowed away in them with perfect

convenience: not that we mean to insinuate they are ever thus employed,

for when we have seen them, they have been in a collapsed state, hanging

(like the skin of an elephant) in graceful festoons about the mid-person

of the wearer. These necessaries are confined at the knee by a

transverse row of pearl buttons crossing the genu patella. The pars

pendula is about twelve inches wide, and supplies, during conversation

or rumination, a resting-place for the thumbs or little fingers. His

legs are encased either in white ribbed cotton stockings, or that

peculiar kind of gaiter ’yclept kicksies. His feet know only one pattern

shoe, the ancle-jack (or highlow as it is sometimes called), resplendent

with “Day and Martin,” or the no less brilliant “Warren.” Genius of

propriety, we have described his tail before that index of the mind,

that idol of phrenologists, his pimple!—we beg pardon, we mean his head.

Round, and rosy as a pippin, it stands alone in its native loveliness,

on the heap of clothes beneath.

Tom is not a low man; he has not a particle of costermongerism in his

composition, though his discourse savours of that peculiar slang that

might be considered rather objectionable in the salons of the élite.

The bell which he has the honour to answer hangs at the gate of a west-

end livery-stables, and his consequence is proportionate. To none under

the degree of a groom does he condescend a nod of recognition—with a

second coachman he drinks porter—and purl (a compound of beer and blue

ruin) with the more respectable individual who occupies the hammer-cloth

on court-days. Tom estimates a man according to his horse, and his

civility is regulated according to his estimation. He pockets a gratuity

with as much ease as a state pensioner; but if some unhappy wight

should, in the plenitude of his ignorance, proffer a sixpence, Tom

buttons his pockets with a smile, and politely “begs to leave it till it

becomes more.”

With an old meerschaum and a pint of tolerable sherry, we seat ourselves

at our window, and hold many an imaginative conversation with our friend

Tom. Sometimes we are blest with more than ideality; but that is only

when he unbends and becomes jocular and noisy, or chooses a snug corner

opposite our window to enjoy his otium—confound that phrase!—we would

say his indolence and swagger—

“A pound to a hay-seed agin’ the bay.”

Hallo! that’s Tom! Yes—there he comes laughing out of “Box 4,” with

three others—all first coachmen. One is making some very significant

motions to the potboy at the “Ram and Radish,” and, lo! Ganymede appears

with a foaming tankard of ale. Tom has taken his seat on an inverted

pail, and the others are grouped easily, if not classically, around him.

One is resting his head between the prongs of a stable-fork; another is

spread out like the Colossus of Rhodes; whilst a gentleman in a blue

uniform has thrown himself into an attitude à la Cribb, with the

facetious intention of “letting daylight into the wittling department”

of the pot-boy of the “Ram and Radish.”

Tom has blown the froth from the tankard, and (as he elegantly

designates it) “bit his name in the pot.” A second has “looked at the

maker’s name;” and another has taken one of those positive draughts

which evince a settled conviction that it is a last chance.

Our friend has thrust his hands into the deepest depths of his breeches-

pocket, and cocking one eye at the afore-named blue uniform, asks—

“Will you back the bay?”

The inquiry has been made in such a do-if-you-dare tone, that to

hesitate would evince a cowardice unworthy of the first coachman to the

first peer in Belgrave-square, and a leg of mutton and trimmings are

duly entered in a greasy pocket-book, as dependent upon the result of

the Derby.

“The son of Tros, fair Ganymede,” is again called into requisition, and

the party are getting, as Tom says, “As happy as Harry Stockracy.”

“I’ve often heerd that chap mentioned,” remarks the blue uniform, “but I

never seed no one as know’d him.”

“No more did I,” replies Tom, “though he must be a fellow such as us, up

to everything.”

All the coachmen cough, strike an attitude, and look wise.

“Now here comes a sort of chap I despises,” remarks Tom, pointing to a

steady-looking man, without encumbrance, who had just entered the yard,

evidently a coachman to a pious family; “see him handle a hoss.

Smear—smear—like bees-waxing a table. Nothing varminty about him—nothing

of this sort of thing (spreading himself out to the gaze of his admiring

auditory), but I suppose he’s useful with slow cattle, and that’s a

consolation to us as can’t abear them.” And with this negative

compliment Tom has broken up his conversazione.

I once knew a country ostler—by name Peter Staggs—he was a lower species

of the same genus—a sort of compound of my friend Tom and a waggoner—the

delf of the profession. He was a character in his way; he knew the exact

moment of every coach’s transit on his line of road, and the birth,

parentage, and education of every cab, hack, and draught-horse in the

neighbourhood. He had heard of a mane-comb, but had never seen one; he

considered a shilling for a “feed” perfectly apocryphal, as he had never

received one. He kept a rough terrier-dog, that would kill anything in

the country, and exhibited three rows of putrified rats, nailed at the

back of the stable, as evidences of the prowess of his dog. He swore

long country oaths, for which he will be unaccountable, as not even an

angel could transcribe them. In short, he was a little “varminty,” but

very little.

We will conclude this “lytle historie” with the epitaph of poor Peter

Staggs, which we copied from a rail in Swaffham churchyard.

“EPITAPH ON PETER STAGGS.

Poor Peter Staggs now rests beneath this rail,

Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale;

For twenty years he did the duties well,

Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the ‘Bell.’

But Death stepp’d in, and order’d Peter Staggs

To feed his worms, and leave the farmers’ nags.

The church clock struck one—alas! ’twas Peter’s knell,

Who sigh’d, ‘I’m coming—that’s the ostler’s bell!’”

Peace to his manes!

A HINT FOR POLITICIANS. “If you won’t turn, I will,” as the mill-wheel

said to the stream.

“Why did not Wellington take a post in the new Cabinet?” asked Dicky

Sheil of O’Connell.—“Bathershin!” replied the head of the tail, “the

Duke is too old a soldier to lean on a rotten stick.”

Lord Morpeth intends proceeding to Canada immediately. The object of his

journey is purely scientific; he wishes to ascertain if the Fall of

Niagara be really greater than the fall of the Whigs.

A PRO AND CON. “When is Peel not Peel?”—“When he’s candi(e)d.”

GALVANISM OUTDONE. We have heard of the very dead being endowed, by

galvanic action, with the temporary powers of life, and on such

occasions the extreme force of the apparatus has ever received the

highest praise. The Syncretic march of mind rectifies the above

error—with them, weakness is strength. Fancy the alliterative littleness

of a “Stephens” and a “Selby,” as the tools from which the drama must

receive its glorious resuscitation!

NEWS FOR THE SYNCRETICS. (Extracted from the “Stranger’s Guide to

London.”) Bedlam, the celebrated receptacle for lunatics, is situated in

St. George’s-fields, within five minutes’ walk of the King’s Bench.

There is also another noble establishment in the neighbourhood of

Finsbury-square, where the unhappy victims of extraordinary delusions

are treated with the care and consideration their several hallucinations

require.

[pg 102] PEEL “REGULARLY CALLED IN.” At length, PEEL is called in “in a

regular way.” Being assured of his quarterly fee, the state physician

may now, in the magnanimity of his soul, prescribe new life for moribund

John Bull. Whether he has resolved within himself to emulate the

generous dealing of kindred professors—of those sanative philosophers,

whose benevolence, stamped in modest handbills, “crieth out in the

street,” exclaiming “No cure no pay,”—we know not; certain we are, that

such is not the old Tory practice. On the contrary, the healing, with

Tory doctors, has ever been in an inverse ratio to the reward. Like the

faculty at large, the Tories have flourished on the sickness of the

patient. They have, with Falstaff, “turned diseases to commodity;” their

only concern being to keep out the undertaker. Whilst there’s life,

there’s profit,—is the philosophy of the Tory College; hence, poor Mr.

Bull, though shrunk, attenuated,—with a blister on his head, and

cataplasms at his soles,—has been kept just alive enough to pay. And

then his patience under Tory treatment—the obedience of his swallow!

“Admirable, excellent!” cried a certain doctor (we will not swear that

his name was not PEEL), when his patient pointed to a dozen empty

phials. “Taken them all, eh? Delightful! My dear sir, you are worthy to

be ill.” JOHN BULL having again called in the Tories, is “worthy to be

ill;” and very ill he will be.

The tenacity of life displayed by BULL is paralleled by a case quoted by

LE VAILLANT. That naturalist speaks of a turtle that continued to live

after its brain was taken from its skull, and the cavity stuffed with

cotton. Is not England, with spinning-jenny PEEL at the head of its

affairs, in this precise predicament? England may live; but inactive,

torpid; unfitted for all healthful exertion,—deprived of its grandest

functions—paralyzed in its noblest strength. We have a Tory Cabinet, but

where is the brain of statesmanship?

Now, however, there are no Tories. Oh, no! Sir ROBERT PEEL is a

Conservative—LYNDHURST is a Conservative—all are Conservative. Toryism

has sloughed its old skin, and rejoices in a new coat of many colours;

but the sting remains—the venom is the same; the reptile that would have

struck to the heart the freedom of Europe, elaborates the self-same

poison, is endowed with the same subtilty, the same grovelling, tortuous

action. It still creeps upon its belly, and wriggles to its purpose.

When adders shall become eels, then will we believe that Conservatives

cannot be Tories.

When folks change their names—unless by the gracious permission of the

Gazette—they rarely do so to avoid the fame of brilliant deeds. It is

not the act of an over-sensitive modesty that induces Peter Wiggins to

dub himself John Smith. Be certain of it, Peter has not saved half a

boarding-school from the tremendous fire that entirely destroyed

“Ringworm House”—Peter has not dived into the Thames, and rescued some

respectable attorney from a death hitherto deemed by his friends

impossible to him. It is from no such heroism that Peter Wiggins is

compelled to take refuge in John Smith from the oppressive admiration of

the world about him. Certainly not. Depend upon it, Peter has been

signalised in the Hue and Cry, as one endowed with a love for the silver

spoons of other men—as an individual who, abusing the hospitality of his

lodgings, has conveyed away and sold the best goose feathers of his

landlady. What then, with his name ripe enough to drop from the tree of

life, remains to Wiggins, but to subside into Smith? What hope was there

for the well-known swindler, the posted pickpocket, the callous-hearted,

slug-brained Tory? None: he was hooted, pelted at; all men stopped the

nose at his approach. He was voted a nuisance, and turned forth into the

world, with all his vices, like ulcers, upon him. Well, Tory adopts the

inevitable policy of Wiggins; he changes his name! He comes forth,

curled and sweetened, and with a smile upon his mealy face, and placing

his felon hand above the vacuum on the left side of his bosom—declares,

whilst the tears he weeps would make a crocodile blush—that he is by no

means the Tory his wicked, heartless enemies would call him. Certainly

not. His name is—Conservative! There was, once, to be sure, a Tory—in

existence;

“But he is dead, and nailed in his chest!”

He is a creature extinct, gone with the wolves annihilated by the Saxon

monarch. There may be the skeleton of the animal in some rare

collections in the kingdom; but for the living creature, you shall as

soon find a phoenix building in the trees of Windsor Park, as a Tory

kissing hands in Windsor Castle!

The lie is but gulped as a truth, and Conservative is taken into

service. Once more, he is the factotum to JOHN BULL. But when the knave

shall have worn out his second name—when he shall again be turned

away—look to your feather-beds, oh, JOHN! and foolish, credulous,

leathern-eared Mr. BULL—be sure and count your spoons!

Can it be supposed that the loss of office, that the ten years’ hunger

for the loaves and fishes endured by the Tory party, has disciplined

them into a wiser humanity? Can it be believed that they have arrived at

a more comprehensive grasp of intellect—that they are ennobled by a

loftier consideration of the social rights of man—that they are gifted

with a more stirring sympathy for the wants that, in the present

iniquitous system of society, reduce him to little less than pining

idiotcy, or madden him to what the statutes call crime, and what judges,

sleek as their ermine, preach upon as rebellion to the government—the

government that, in fact, having stung starvation into treason, takes to

itself the loftiest praise for refusing the hangman—a task—for appeasing

Justice with simple transportation?

Already the Tories have declared themselves. In the flush of anticipated

success, PEEL at the Tamworth election denounced the French Revolution

that escorted Charles the Tenth—with his foolish head still upon his

shoulders—out of France, as the “triumph of might over right.” It was

the right—the divine right of Charles—(the sacred ampoule, yet dropping

with the heavenly oil brought by the mystic dove for Clovis, had

bestowed the privilege)—to gag the mouth of man; to scourge a nation

with decrees, begot by bigot tyranny upon folly—to reduce a people into

uncomplaining slavery. Such was his right: and the burst of indignation,

the irresistible assertion of the native dignity of man, that shivered

the throne of Charles like glass, was a felonious might—a rebellious,

treasonous potency—the very wickedness of strength. Such is the opinion

of Conservative PEEL! Such the old Tory faith of the child of Toryism!

Since the Tamworth speech—since the scourging of Sir ROBERT by the

French press—PEEL has essayed a small philanthropic oration. He has

endeavoured to paint—and certainly in the most delicate water-

colours—the horrors of war. The premier makes his speech to the nations

with the palm-branch in his hand—with the olive around his brow. He has

applied arithmetic to war, and finds it expensive. He would therefore

induce France to disarm, that by reductions at home he may not be

compelled to risk what would certainly jerk him out of the

premiership—the imposition of new taxes. He may then keep his Corn

Laws—he may then securely enjoy his sliding scale. Such are the hopes

that dictate the intimation to disarm. It is sweet to prevent war; and,

oh! far sweeter still to keep out the Wigs!

The Duke of WELLINGTON, who is to be the moral force of the Tory

Cabinet, is a great soldier; and by the very greatness of his martial

fame, has been enabled to carry certain political questions which,

proposed by a lesser genius, had been scouted by the party otherwise

irresistibly compelled to admit them. (Imagine, for instance, the

Marquis of Londonderry handling Catholic Emancipation.) Nevertheless,

should “The follies of the Wise”—a chronicle much wanted—be ever

collected for the world, his Grace of Wellington will certainly shine as

a conspicuous contributor. In the name of famine, what could have

induced his Grace to insult the misery at this moment, eating the hearts

of thousands of Englishmen? For, within these few days, the Victor of

Waterloo expressed his conviction that England was the only country in

which “the poor man, if only sober and industrious, WAS QUITE CERTAIN of

acquiring a competency!” And it is this man, imbued with this opinion,

who is to be hailed as the presiding wisdom—the great moral strength—the

healing humanity of the Tory Cabinet. If rags and starvation put up

their prayer to the present Ministry, what must be the answer delivered

by the Duke of Wellington? “YE ARE DRUNKEN AND LAZY!”

If on the night of the 24th of August—the memorable night on which this

heartless insult was thrown in the idle teeth of famishing thousands—the

ghosts of the victims of the Corn Laws,—the spectres of the wretches who

had been ground out of life by the infamy of Tory taxation, could have

been permitted to lift the bed-curtains of Apsley-House,—his Grace the

Duke of Wellington would have been scared by even a greater majority

than ultimately awaits his fellowship in the present Cabinet. Still we

can only visit upon the Duke the censure of ignorance. “He knows not

what he says.” If it be his belief that England suffers only because she

is drunken and idle, he knows no more of England than the Icelander in

his sledge: if, on the other hand, he used the libel as a party warfare,

he is still one of the “old set,”—and his “crowning carnage, Waterloo,”

with all its greatness, is but a poor set-off against the more lasting

iniquities which he would visit upon his fellow-men. Anyhow, he

cannot—he must not—escape from his opinion; we will nail him to it, as

we would nail a weasel to a barn-door; “if Englishmen want competence,

they must be drunken—they must be idle.” Gentlemen Tories, shuffle the

cards as you will, the Duke of Wellington either lacks principle or

brains.

Next week we will speak of the Whigs; of the good they have done—of the

good they have, with an instinct towards aristocracy—most foolishly,

most traitorously, missed.

Q.

[pg 103] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS—No. IX. Red Riding Hood (the Queen) faces a

wolf (Peel) in the Royal Preserve of Mount Peelion. THE ROYAL RED RIDING

HOOD, AND THE MINISTERIAL WOLF.

[pg 105] ROYAL NURSERY EDUCATION REPORT—NO. 3. WHO KILLED COCK RUSSELL?

A NEW VERSION OF THE CELEBRATED NURSERY TALE, WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THE

PRINCESS ROYAL. Who Kill’d Cock Russell?

I, said Bob Peel,

The political eel,

I kill’d Cock Russell.

Who saw him die?

We, said the nation,

At each polling station,

We saw him die.

Who caught his place?

I, for I can lie,

Said turn-about Stanley,

I caught his place.

Who’ll make his shroud?

We, cried the poor

From each Union door,

We’ll make his shroud.

Who’ll dig his grave?

Cried the corn-laws, The fool

Has long been our tool,

We’ll dig his grave.

Who’ll be the parson?

I, London’s bishop,

A sermon will dish up,

I’ll be the parson.

Who’ll be the clerk?

Sibthorp, for a lark,

If you’ll all keep it dark,

He’ll be the clerk.

Who’ll carry him to his grave?

The Chartists, with pleasure,

Will wait on his leisure,

They’ll carry him to his grave.

Who’ll carry the link?

Said Wakley, in a minute,

I must be in it,

I’ll carry the link.

Who’ll be chief mourners?

We, shouted dozens

Of out-of-place cousins,

We’ll be chief mourners.

Who’ll bear the pall?

As they loudly bewail,

Both O’Connell and tail,

They’ll bear the pall.

Who’ll go before?

I, said old Cupid,

I’ll still head the stupid,

I’ll go before.

Who’ll sing a psalm?

I, Colonel Perceval,

(Oh, Peel, be merciful!)

I’ll sing a psalm.

Who’ll throw in the dirt?

I, said the Times,

In lampoons and rhymes,

I’ll throw in the dirt.

Who’ll toll the bell?

I, said John Bull,

With pleasure I’ll pull,—

I’ll toll the bell.

All the Whigs in the world

Fell a sighing and sobbing,

When wicked Bob Peel

Put an end to their jobbing.

TRANSACTIONS AND YEARLY REPORT OF THE HOOKHAM-CUM-SNIVEY LITERARY,

SCIENTIFIC, AND MECHANICS’ INSTITUTION. Collected and elaborated

expressly for “PUNCH,” by Tiddledy Winks, Esq., Hon. Sec., and Editor of

the Peckham Evening Post and Camberwell-Green Advertiser.

Previously to placing the results of my unwearied application before the

public, I think it will be both interesting and appropriate to trace, in

a few words, the origin of this admirable society, by whose

indefatigable exertions the air-pump has become necessary to the

domestic economy of every peasant’s cottage; and the Budelight and beer-

shops, optics and out-door relief, and Daguerrotypes and dirt, have

become subjects with which they are equally familiar.

About the close of last year, a few scientific labourers were in the

habit of meeting at a “Jerry” in their neighbourhood, for the purpose of

discussing such matters as the comprehensive and plainly-written reports

of the British Association, as furnished by the Athenæum, offered to

their notice, in any way connected with philosophy or the belles

lettres. The numbers increasing, it was proposed that they should meet

weekly at one another’s cottages, and there deliver a lecture on any

scientific subject; and the preliminary matters being arranged, the

first discourse was given “On the Advantage of an Air-gun over a

Fowling-piece, in bringing Pheasants down without making a noise.” This

was so eminently successful, that the following discourses were

delivered in quick succession:—

On the Toxicological Powers of Coculus Indicus in Stupifying Fish.

On the Combustion of Park-palings and loose Gate-posts.

On the tendency of Out-of-door Spray-piles to Spontaneous Evaporation,

during dark nights.

On the Comparative Inflammatory properties of Lucifer Matches,

Phosphorus Bottles, Tinder-boxes, and Congreves, as well as Incandescens

Short Pipes, applied to Hay in particular and Ricks in general.

On the value of Cheap Literature, and Intrinsic Worth (by weight) of the

various Publications of the Society for the Confusion of Useless

Knowledge.

The lectures were all admirably illustrated, and the society appeared to

be in a prosperous state. At length the government selected two or three

of its most active members, and despatched them on a voyage of discovery

to a distant part of the globe. The institution now drooped for a while,

until some friends of education firmly impressed with the importance of

their undertaking, once more revived its former greatness, at the same

time entirely reorganizing its arrangements. Subscriptions were

collected, sufficient to erect a handsome turf edifice, with a massy

thatched roof, upon Timber Common; a committee was appointed to manage

the scientific department, at a liberal salary, including the room to

sit in, turf, and rushlights, with the addition, on committee nights, of

a pint of intermediate beer, a pipe, and a screw, to each member.

Gentlemen fond of hearing their own voices were invited to give

gratuitous discourses from sister institutions: a museum and library

were added to the building already mentioned, and an annual meeting of

illuminati was agreed upon.

Amongst the papers contributed to be read at the evening meetings of the

society, perhaps the most interesting was that communicated by Mr.

Octavius Spiff, being a startling and probing investigation as to

whether Sir Isaac Newton had his hat on when the apple tumbled on his

head, what sort of an apple it most probably was, and whether it

actually fell from the tree upon him, or, being found too hard and sour

to eat, had been pitched over his garden wall by the hand of an

irritated little boy. I ought also to make mention of Mr. Plummycram’s

“Narrative of an Ascent to the summit of Highgate-hill,” with Mr.

Mulltour’s “Handbook for Travellers from the Bank to Lisson-grove,” and

“A Summer’s-day on Kennington-common.” Mr. Tinhunt has also announced an

attractive work, to be called “Hackney: its Manufactures, Economy, and

Political Resources.”

It is the intention of the society, should its funds increase, to take a

high place next year in the scientific transactions of the country. Led

by the spirit of enterprise now so universally prevalent, arrangements

are pending with Mr. Purdy, to fit up two punts for the Shepperton

expedition, which will set out in the course of the ensuing summer. The

subject for the Prize Essay for the Victoria Penny Coronation Medal this

year is, “The possibility of totally obliterating the black stamp on the

post-office Queen’s heads, so as to render them serviceable a second

time;” and, in imitation of the learned investigations of sister

institutions, the Copper Jinks Medal will also be given to the author of

the best essay upon “The existing analogy between the mental subdivision

of invisible agencies and circulating decompositions.”—(To be

continued.)

[pg 106] INAUGURATION OF THE IMAGE OF SHAKSPERE. AT THE SURREY THEATRE.

“Be still, my mighty soul! These ribs of mine

Are all too fragile for thy narrow cage.

By heaven! I will unlock my bosom’s door.

And blow thee forth upon the boundless tide

Of thought’s creation, where thy eagle wing

May soar from this dull terrene mass away,

To yonder empyrean vault—like rocket (sky)—

To mingle with thy cognate essences

Of Love and Immortality, until

Thou burstest with thine own intensity,

And scatterest into millions of bright stars,

Each one a part of that refulgent whole

Which once was ME.”

Thus spoke, or thought—for, in a metaphysical point of view, it does not

much matter whether the passage above quoted was uttered, or only

conceived—by the sublime philosopher and author of the tragedy of

“Martinuzzi,” now being nightly played at the English Opera House, with

unbounded success, to overflowing audiences22. Has this paragraph been

paid for as an advertisement?—PRINTER’S DEVIL.—Undoubtedly.—ED.. These

were the aspirations of his gigantic mind, as he sat, on last Monday

morning, like a simple mortal, in a striped-cotton dressing-gown and

drab slippers, over a cup of weak coffee. (We love to be minute on great

subjects.) The door opened, and a female figure—not the Tragic muse—but

Sally, the maid of-all-work, entered, holding in a corner of her dingy

apron, between her delicate finger and thumb, a piece of not too snowy

paper, folded into an exact parallelogram.

“A letter for you, sir,” said the maid of-all-work, dropping a

reverential curtsey.

George Stephens, Esq. took the despatch in his inspired fingers, broke

the seal, and read as follows:—

Surrey Theatre.

SIR,—I have seen your tragedy of “Martinuzzi,” and pronounce it

magnificent! I have had, for some time, an idea in my head (how it came

there I don’t know), to produce, after the Boulogne affair, a grand

Inauguration of the Statue of Shakspere, on the stage of the Surrey, but

not having an image of him amongst our properties, I could not put my

plan into execution. Now, sir, as it appears that you are the exact

ditto of the bard, I shouldn’t mind making an arrangement with you to

undertake the character of our friend Billy on the occasion. I shall do

the liberal in the way of terms, and get up the gag properly, with

laurels and other greens, of which I have a large stock on hand; so that

with your popularity the thing will be sure to draw. If you consent to

come, I’ll post you in six-feet letters against every dead wall in town.

Yours, WILLIS JONES.

When the author of the “magnificent poem” had finished reading the

letter he appeared deeply moved, and the maid of-all-work saw three

plump tears roll down his manly cheek, and rest upon his shirt collar.

“I expected nothing less,” said he, stroking his chin with a mysterious

air. “The manager of the Surrey, at least, understands me—he appreciates

the immensity of my genius. I will accept his offer, and show the

world—great Shakspere’s rival in myself.”

Having thus spoken, the immortal dramatist wiped his hands on the tail

of his dressing-gown, and performed a pas seul “as the act directs,”

after which he dressed himself, and emerged into the open air.

The sun was shining brilliantly, and Phoebus remarked, with evident

pleasure, that his brother had bestowed considerable pains in adorning

his person. His boots shone with unparalleled splendour, and his

waistcoat—

[We omit the remainder of the inventory of the great poet’s wardrobe,

and proceed at once to the ceremony of the Inauguration at the Surrey

Theatre.]

Never on any former occasion had public curiosity over the water been so

strongly excited. Long before the doors of the theatre were opened,

several passengers in the street were observed to pause before the

building, and regard it with looks of profound awe. At half-past six,

two young sweeps and a sand-boy were seen waiting anxiously at the

gallery entrance, determined to secure front seats at any personal

sacrifice. At seven precisely the doors were opened, and a tremendous

rush of four persons was made to the pit; the boxes had been previously

occupied by the “Dramatic Council” and the “Syncretic Society.” The

silence which pervaded the house, until the musicians began to tune

their violins in the orchestra, was thrilling; and during the

performance of the overture, expectation stood on tip-toe, awaiting the

great event of the night.