At length the curtain slowly rose, and we discovered the author of

“Martinuzzi” elevated on a pedestal formed of the cask used by the

celebrated German tub-runner (a delicate compliment, by the way, to the

genius of the poet). On this appropriate foundation stood the great man,

with his august head enveloped in a capacious bread-bag. At a given

signal, a vast quantity of crackers were let off, the envious bag was

withdrawn, and the illustrious dramatist was revealed to the enraptured

spectators, in the statuesque resemblance of his elder, but not more

celebrated brother, WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. At this moment the plaudits were

vigorously enthusiastic. Thrice did the flattered statue bow its head,

and once it laid its hand upon its grateful bosom, in acknowledgment of

the honour that was paid it. As soon as the applause had partially

subsided, the manager, in the character of Midas, surrounded by the nine

Muses, advanced to the foot of the pedestal, and, to use the language of

the reporters of public dinners, “in a neat and appropriate speech,”

deposed a laurel crown upon the brows of Shakspere’s effigy. Thereupon

loud cheers rent the air, and the statue, deeply affected, extended its

right hand gracefully towards the audience. In a moment the thunders of

applause sank into hushed and listening awe, while the author of the

“magnificent poem” addressed the house as follows:—

“My friends,—You at length behold me in the position to which my immense

talents have raised me, in despite of ‘those laws which press so fatally

on dramatic genius,’ and blight the budding hopes of aspiring authors.”

This commencement softened the hearts of his auditors, who clapped their

handkerchiefs to their noses.

“The world,” continued the statue, “may regard me with envy; but I

despise the world, particularly the critics who have dared to laugh at

me. (Groans.) The object of my ambition is attained—I am now the equal

and representative of Shakspere—detraction cannot wither the laurels

that shadow my brows—Finis coronat opus!—I have done. To-morrow I retire

into private life; but though fortune has made me great, she has not

made me proud, and I shall be always happy to shake hands with a friend

when I meet him.”

At the conclusion of this pathetic address, loud cheers, mingled with

tears and sighs, arose from the audience, one-half of whom sunk into the

arms of the other half, and were borne out of the house in a fainting

state; and thus terminated this imposing ceremony, which will be long

remembered with delight by every lover of

A tightrope walker. THE HIGHER WALK OF THE DRAMA.

A CARD. TO THE COMMITTEE OF THE DRAMATIC AUTHORS, ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE.

Mr. Levy, of Holywell-street, perceiving that his neighbour JACOB

FAITHFUL’S farce, entitled “The Cloak and Bonnet,” has not given general

satisfaction, begs respectfully to offer to the notice of the committee,

his large and carefully-assorted stock of second-hand wearing apparel,

from which he will undertake to supply any number of dramas that may be

required, at a moment’s notice.

Mr. L. has at present on hand the following dramatic pieces, which he

can strongly recommend to the public:—

“The Dressing Gown and Slippers.”—A fashionable comedy, suited for a

genteel neighbourhood.

“The Breeches and Gaiters.”—A domestic drama. A misfit at the Adelphi.

“The Wig and Wig-box.”—A broad farce, made to fit little Keeley or

anybody else.

“The Smock-frock and Highlows.”—A tragedy in humble life, with a

terrific dénouement.

*** The above will be found to be manufactured out of the best

materials, and well worthy the attention of those gentlemen who have so

nobly come forward to rescue the stage from its present degraded

position.

THE MONEY MARKET. The scarcity of money is frightful. As much as a

hundred per cent., to be paid in advance, has been asked upon bills; but

we have not yet heard of any one having given it. There was an immense

run for gold, but no one got any, and the whole of the transactions of

the day were done in copper. An influential party created some sensation

by coming into the market late in the afternoon, just before the close

of business, with half-a-crown; but it was found, on inquiry, to be a

bad one. It is expected that if the dearth of money continues another

week, buttons must be resorted to. A party, whose transactions are known

to be large, succeeded in settling his account with the Bulls, by means

of postage-stamps; an arrangement of which the Bears will probably take

advantage.

A large capitalist in the course of the day attempted to change the

direction things had taken, by throwing an immense quantity of paper

into the market; but as no one seemed disposed to have anything to do

with it, it blew over.

The parties to the Dutch Loan are much irritated at being asked to take

their dividends in butter; but, after the insane attempt to get rid of

the Spanish arrears by cigars, which, it is well known, ended in smoke,

we do not think the Dutch project will be proceeded with.

[pg 107] THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE. BY THE REPORTER OF THE “OBSERVER.” The

“mysterious and melodramatic silence” which Mr. C. Mathews promised to

observe as to his intentions in regard to the present season, has at

length been broken. On Monday last, September the sixth, Covent Garden

Theatre opened to admit a most brilliant audience. Amongst the company

we noticed Madame Vestris, Mr. Oxberry, Mr. Harley, Miss Rainsforth, and

several other distingué artistes. It would seem, from the substitution

of Mr. Oxberry for Mr. Keeley, that the former gentleman is engaged to

take the place of the latter. Whispers are afloat that, in consequence,

one of the most important scenes in the play is to be omitted. Though of

little interest to the audience, it was of the highest importance to the

gentleman whose task it has hitherto been to perform the parts of

Quince, Bottom, and Flute.

We, who are conversant with all the mysteries of the flats’ side of the

green curtain, beg to assure our readers, that the Punch scene hath

taken wing, and that the dressing-room of the above-named characters

will no longer be redolent of the fumes of compounded bowls. We may here

remark that, had our hint of last season been attended to, the Punch

would have still been continued:—Mr. Harley would not consent to have

the flies picked out of the sugar. Rumour is busy with the suggestion

that for this reason, and this only, Keeley seceded from the

establishment.

Three characters pour into a bowl marked PUNCH. We think it exceedingly

unwise in the management not to have secured the services of Madame

Corsiret for the millinery department. Mr. Wilson still supplies the

wigs. We have not as yet been able to ascertain to whom the swords have

been consigned. Mr. Emden’s assistant superintends the blue-fire and

thunder, but it has not transpired who works the traps.

With such powerful auxiliaries, we can promise Mr. C. Mathews a

prosperous season.

THE AMENDE HONORABLE. Quoth Will, “On that young servant-maid

My heart its life-string stakes.”

“Quite safe!” cries Dick, “don’t be afraid—

She pays for all she breaks.”

PROVIDING FOR EVIL DAYS. The iniquities of the Tories having become

proverbial, the House of Lords, with that consideration for the welfare

of the country, and care for the morals of the people, which have ever

characterised the compeers of the Lord Coventry, have brought in a bill

for the creation of two Vice-Chancellors. Brougham foolishly proposed an

amendment, considering one to be sufficient, but found himself in a

singular minority when the House

A man tumbles from a carriage. DIVIDED ON THE MOTION.

In the Egyptian room of the British Museum is a statue of the deity

IBIS, between two mummies. This attracted the attention of Sibthorp, as

he lounged through the room the other day with a companion. “Why,” said

his friend, “is that statue placed between the other two?” “To preserve

it to be sure,” replied the keenly-witted Sib. “You know the old saying

teaches us, ‘In medio tutissimus Ibis.’”

PUNCH’S THEATRE. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JAMES DAWSON. Two men cross

swords to make a letter M. ercy on us, what a code of morality—what a

conglomeration of plots (political, social, and domestic)—what an

exemplar of vice punished and virtue rewarded—is the “Newgate Calendar!”

and Newgate itself! what tales might it not relate, if its stones could

speak, had its fetters the gift of tongues!

But these need not be so gifted: the proprietor of the Victoria Theatre

supplies the deficiency: the dramatic edition of Old-Bailey experience

he is bringing out on each successive Monday, will soon be complete; and

when it is, juvenile Jack Sheppards and incipient Turpins may complete

their education at the moderate charge of sixpence per week. The

“intellectualization of the people” must not be neglected: the gallery

of the Victoria invites to its instructive benches the young, whose

wicked parents have neglected their education—the ignorant, who know

nothing of the science of highway robbery, or the more delicate

operations of picking pockets. National education is the sole aim of the

sole lessee—money is no object; but errand-boys and apprentices must

take their Monday night’s lessons, even if they rob the till. By this

means an endless chain of subjects will be woven, of which the Victoria

itself supplies the links; the “Newgate Calendar” will never be

exhausted, and the cause of morality and melodrama continue to run a

triumphant career!

The leaf of the “Newgate Calendar” torn out last Monday for the

delectation and instruction of the Victoria audience, was the “Life and

Death of James Dawson,” a gentleman rebel, who was very properly hanged

in 1746.

The arrangement of incidents in this piece was evidently an appeal to

the ingenuity of the audience—our own penetration failed, however, in

unravelling the plot. There was a drunken, gaming, dissipated student of

St. John’s, Cambridge—a friend in a slouched hat and an immense pair of

jack-boots, and a lady who delicately invites her lover (the hero) “to a

private interview and a cold collation.” There is something about a

five-hundred-pound note and a gambling-table—a heavy throw of the dice,

and a heavier speech on the vices of gaming, by a likeness of the

portrait of Dr. Dilworth that adorns the spelling-books. The hero rushes

off in a state of distraction, and is followed by the jack-boots in

pursuit; the enormous strides of which leave the pursued but little

chance, though he has got a good start.

At another time two gentlemen appear in kilts, who pass their time in a

long dialogue, the purport of which we were unable to catch, for they

were conversing in stage-Scotch. A man then comes forward bearing a

clever resemblance to the figure-head of a snuff-shop, and after a few

words with about a dozen companions, the entire body proceed to fight a

battle; which is immediately done behind the scenes, by four pistols, a

crash, and the double-drummer, whose combined efforts present us with a

representation of—as the bills kindly inform us—the “Battle of

Culloden!” The hero is taken prisoner; but the villain is shot, and his

jack-boots are cut off in their prime.

James Dawson is not despatched so quickly; he takes a great deal of

dying,—the whole of the third act being occupied by that inevitable

operation. Newgate—a “stock” scene at this theatre—an execution, a lady

in black and a state of derangement, a muffled drum, and a “view of

Kennington Common,” terminate the life of “James Dawson,” who, we had

the consolation to observe, from the apathy of the audience, will not be

put to the trouble of dying for more than half-a-dozen nights longer.

Before the “Syncretic Society” publishes its next octavo on the state of

the Drama, it should send a deputation to the Victoria. There they will

observe the written and acted drama in the lowest stage it is possible

for even their imaginations to conceive. Even “Martinuzzi” will bear

comparison with the “Life and Death of James Dawson.”

THE BOARDING SCHOOL. At the “Boarding School” established by Mr. Bernard

in the Haymarket Theatre, young ladies are instructed in flirting and

romping, together with the use of the eyes, at the extremely moderate

charges of five and three shillings per lesson; those being the prices

of admission to the upper and lower departments of Mr. Webster’s

academy, which is hired for the occasion by that accomplished professor

of punmanship Bayle Bernard. The course of instruction was, on the

opening of the seminary, as follows:—

The lovely pupils were first seen returning from their morning walk in

double file, hearts beating and ribbons flying; for they encountered at

the door of the school three yeomanry officers. The military being very

civil, the eldest of the girls discharged a volley of glances; and

nothing could exceed the skill and precision with which the ladies

performed their eye-practice, the effects of which were destructive

enough to set the yeomanry in a complete flame; and being thus primed

and loaded for closer engagements with their charming adversaries, they

go off.

The scholars then proceed to their duties in the interior of the

academy, and we find them busily engaged in the study of “The Complete

Loveletter [pg 108]Writer.” It is wonderful the progress they make even

in one lesson; the basis of it being a billet each has received from the

red-coats. The exercises they have to write are answers to the notes,

and were found, on examination, to contain not a single error; thus

proving the astonishing efficacy of the Bernardian system of “Belles’

Lettres.”

Meanwhile the captain, by despatching his subalterns on special duty,

leaves himself a clear field, and sets a good copy in strategetics, by

disguising himself as a fruit-woman, and getting into the play-ground,

for the better distribution of apples and glances, lollipops and kisses,

hard-bake and squeezes of the hand. The stratagem succeeds admirably;

the enemy is fast giving way, under the steady fire of shells (Spanish-

nut) and kisses, thrown with great precision amongst their ranks, when

the lieutenant and cornet of the troop cause a diversion by an open

attack upon the fortress; and having made a practicable breach (in their

manners), enter without the usual formulary of summoning the governess.

She, however, appears, surrounded by her staff, consisting of a teacher

and a page, and the engagement becomes general. In the end, the yeomanry

are routed with great loss—their hearts being made prisoners by the

senior students of this “Royal Military Academy.”

The yeomanry, not in the least dispirited by this reverse, plan a fresh

attack, and hearing that reinforcements are en route, in the persons of

the drawing, dancing, and writing masters of the “Boarding School,” cut

off their march, and obtain a second entrance into the enemy’s camp,

under false colours; which their accomplishments enable them to do, for

the captain is a good penman, the lieutenant dances and plays the

fiddle, and the cornet draws to admiration, especially—“at a month.”

Under such instructors the young ladies make great progress, the

governess being absent to see after the imaginary daughter of a

fictitious Earl of Aldgate. On her return, however, she finds her pupils

in a state of great insubordination, and suspecting the teachers to be

incendiaries, calls in a major of yeomanry (who, unlike the rest of his

troop, is an ally of the lady), to put them out. The invaders, however,

retreat by the window, but soon return by the door in their uniform, to

assist their major in quelling the fears of the minors, and to complete

the course of instruction pursued at the Haymarket “Boarding School.”

Mr. J. Webster, as Captain Harcourt, played as well as he could: and so

did Mr. Webster as Lieutenant Varley, which was very well indeed, for he

cannot perform anything badly, were he to try. An Irish cornet, in the

mouth of Mr. F. Vining, was bereft of his proper brogue; but this loss

was the less felt, as Mr. Gough personated the English Major with the

rale Tipperary tongue. Mrs. Grosdenap was a perfect governess in the

hands of Mrs. Clifford, and the hoydens she presided over exhibited true

specimens of a finishing school, especially Miss P. Horton;—that careful

and pleasing artiste, who stamps character upon everything she does, and

individuality upon everything she says. In short, all the parts in the

“Boarding School” are so well acted, that one cannot help regretting

when it breaks up for the evening. The circulars issued by its

proprietors announce that it will be open every night, from ten till

eleven, up to the Christmas holidays.

As a subject, this is a perfectly fair, nay, moral one; despite some

silly opinions that have stated to the contrary. Satire, when based upon

truth, is the highest province of the stage, which enables us to laugh

away folly and wickedness, when they cannot be banished by direct

exposure. Ladies’ boarding-schools form, in the mass, a gross and

fearful evil, to which the Haymarket author has cleverly awakened

attention. Why they are an evil, might be easily proved, but a

theatrical critique in PUNCH is not precisely the place for a discussion

on female education.

ENJOYMENT. The “Council of the Dramatic Authors’ Theatre” enticed us

from home on Monday last, by promising what as yet they have been unable

to perform—“Enjoyment.” As usual, they obtained our company under false

pretences: for if any “enjoyment” were afforded by their new farce, the

actors had it all to themselves.

It is astonishing how vain some authors are of their knowledge of any

particular subject. Brewster monopolises that of the polarization of

light and kaleidoscopes—poor Davy surfeited us with choke damps and the

safety lantern—the author of “Enjoyment” is great on the subject of

cook-shops; the whole production being, in fact, a dramatic lecture on

the “slap-bang” system. Mr. Bang, the principal character, is the master

of an eating-house, to which establishment all the other persons in the

piece belong, and all are made to display the author’s practical

knowledge of the internal economy of a cook-shop. Endless are the jokes

about sausages—roast and boiled beef are cut, and come to again, for a

great variety of facetiæ—in short, the entire stock of fun is cooked up

from the bill of fare. The master gives his instructions to his “cutter”

about “working up the stale gravy” with the utmost precision, and the

“sarver out” undergoes a course of instruction highly edifying to

inexperienced waiters.

This burletta helps to develop the plan which it is the intention of the

“council” to follow up in their agonising efforts to resuscitate the

expiring drama. They, it is clear, mean to make the stage a vehicle for

instruction.

Miss Martineau wrote a novel called “Berkeley the Banker,” to teach

political economy—the “council” have produced “Enjoyment” as an eating-

house keepers’ manual, complete in one act. This mode of dramatising the

various guides to “trade” and to “service” is, however, to our taste,

more edifying than amusing; for much of the author’s learning is thrown

away upon the mass of audiences, who are only waiters between the acts.

They cannot appreciate the nice distinctions between “buttocks and

rounds,” neither does everybody perceive the wit of Joey’s elegant

toast, “Cheap beef and two-pence for the waiter!” This kind of

erudition—like that expended upon Chinese literature and the arrow-

headed hieroglyphics of Asia Minor—is confined to too small a class of

the public for extensive popularity, though it may be highly amusing to

the table-d’hôte and ham-and-beef interest.

The chief beauty of the plot is its extreme simplicity; a half-dozen

words will describe it:—Mr. Bang goes out for a day’s “Enjoyment,” and

is disappointed! This is the head and front of the farceur’s

offending—no more. Any person eminently gifted with patience, and

anxious to give it a fair trial, cannot have a better opportunity of

testing it than by spending a couple of hours in seeing that single

incident drag its slow length along, and witnessing a new comedian,

named Bass, roll his heavy breadth about in hard-working attempts to be

droll. As a specimen of manual labour in comedy, we never saw the acting

of this débutant equalled.

We are happy to find that, determined to give “living English dramatists

a clear stage and fair play,” the “Council” are bringing forward a

series of stale translations from the French in rapid succession. The

“Married Rake,” and “Perfection,”—one by an author no longer “living,”

both loans from the Magasin Théâtral—have already appeared.

FINE ARTS. SUFFOLK-STREET GALLERY.—ART-UNION. The members of this

institution have, with their usual liberality, given the use of their

Galleries for the exhibition of the pictures selected by the prize-

holders of the Art-Union of London of the present year. The works chosen

are 133 in number; and as they are the representatives of “charming

variety,” it is naturally to be expected that, in most instances, the

selection does not proclaim that perfect knowledge of the material from

which the 133 jewel-hunters have had each an opportunity of choosing;

nevertheless, it is a blessed reflection, and a proof of the

philanthropic adaptation of society to societies’ means—a beneficent

dovetailing—an union of sympathies—that to every one painter who is

disabled from darting suddenly into the excellencies of his profession,

there are, at least, one thousand “connoisseurs” having an equal degree

of free-hearted ignorance in the matter, willing to extend a ready hand

to his weakly efforts, and without whose generosity he could never place

himself within the observation and patronage of the better informed in

art. As this lottery was formed to give an interest, indiscriminately,

to the mass who compose it, the setting apart so large a sum as £300 for

a prize is, in our humble opinion, anything but well judged.

The painter of a picture worth so high a sum needs not the assistance

which the lottery affords; and although it may be urged, that some one

possessing sufficient taste, but insufficient means to indulge that

taste, might, perchance, obtain the high prize, it is evident that such

bald reasoning is adduced only to support individual interest. The

principle is, consequently, inimical to those upon which the Art-Union

of London was founded; and, farther, it is most undeniable, that more

general good, and consequent satisfaction, would arise both to the

painter and the public (i.e. that portion of the public whose

subscriptions form the support of the undertaking), had the large prize

been divided into two, four, or even six other, and by no means

inconsiderable ones. We are fully aware of the benefits that have been

conferred and received, and that must still continue to be so, from this

praiseworthy undertaking. As an observer of these things, we cannot

withhold expressing our opinions upon any part of the system which, in

honest thought, appears imperfect, or not so happily directed as it

might be. But should PUNCH become prosy, his audience will vanish.

To prevent those visitors to this exhibition, who do not profess an

intimacy with the objects herein collected for their amusement, from

being misled by the supposititious circumstance of the highest prize

having commanded the best picture, we beg to point to their attention

the following peculiarities (by no means recommendatory) in the work

selected by the most fortunate of the jewel-hunters; it is catalogued

“The Sleeping Beauty,” by D. Maclise, R.A., and assuredly painted with

the most independent disdain for either law or reason. Never has been

seen so signal a failure in attempting to obtain repose by the

introduction of so many sleeping figures. The appointment of parts to

form the general whole, the first and last aim of every other painter,

D. Maclise, R.A., has most gallantly disregarded. If there be effect, it

certainly is not in the right place, or rather there is no concentration

of effect; it possesses the glare of a coloured print, and that too of a

meretricious sort—incidents there are, but no plot—less effect upon the

animate than the inanimate. The toilet-table takes precedence of the

lady—the couch before the sleeper—the shadow, in fact, before the

substance; and as it is a sure mark of a vulgar mind to dwell upon the

trifles, and lose the substantial—to scan the dress, and neglect the

wearer, so we opine the capabilities of D. Maclise, R.A., are brought

into requisition to accommodate such beholders. He has, moreover,

carefully avoided any approximation to the vulgarity of flesh and blood,

in his representations of humanity; and has, therefore, ingeniously

sought the delicacy of Dresden china for his models. To conclude our

notice, we beg to suggest the addition of a torch and a rosin-box,

which, with the assistance of Mr. Yates, or the Wizard of the North,

would render it perfect (whereas, without these delusive adjuncts, it is

not recognisable in its puppet-show propensities) as a first-rate

imitation of the last scene in a pantomime.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. SEPTEMBER 18, 1841. [pg 109] THE

HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER IV. HAS A GREAT DEAL TO SAY ABOUT SOME ONE

ELSE BESIDES OUR HERO. DESCRIPTION indness was a characteristic of

Agamemnon’s disposition, and it is not therefore a matter of surprise

that “the month”—the month, par excellence, of “all the months i’the

kalendar”—produced a succession of those annoyances which, in the best

regulated families, are certain to be partially experienced by the

masculine progenitor. O, bachelors! be warned in time; let not love link

you to his flowery traces and draw you into the temple of Hymen! Be not

deluded by the glowing fallacies of Anacreon and Boccaccio, but remember

that they were bachelors. There is nothing exhilarating in caudle, nor

enchanting in Kensington-gardens, when you are converted into a light

porter of children. We have been married, and are now seventy-one, and

wear a “brown George;” consequently, we have experience and cool blood

in our veins—two excellent auxiliaries in the formation of a correct

judgment in all matters connected with the heart.

Our pen must have been the pinion of a wild goose, or why these

continued digressions?

Agamemnon’s troubles commenced with the first cough of Mrs. Pilcher on

the door-mat. Mrs. P. was the monthly nurse, and monthly nurses always

have a short cough. Whether this phenomenon arises from the obesity

consequent upon arm-chairs and good living, or from an habitual

intimation that they are present, and have not received half-a-crown, or

a systematic declaration that the throat is dry, and would not object to

a gargle of gin, and perhaps a little water, or—but there is no use

hunting conjecture, when you are all but certain of not catching it.

Mrs. Pilcher was “the moral of a nurse;” she was about forty-eight and

had, according to her own account, “been the mother of eighteen lovely

babes, born in wedlock,” though her most intimate friends had never been

introduced to more than one young gentleman, with a nose like a wart,

and hair like a scrubbing-brush. When he made his debut, he was attired

in a suit of blue drugget, with the pewter order of the parish of St.

Clement on his bosom; and rumour declared that he owed his origin to

half-a-crown a week, paid every Saturday. Mrs. Pilcher weighed about

thirteen stone, including her bundle, and a pint medicine-bottle, which

latter article she invariably carried in her dexter pocket, filled with

a strong tincture of juniper berries, and extract of cloves. This

mixture had been prescribed to her for what she called a “sinkingness,”

which afflicted her about 10 A.M., 11 A.M. (dinner), 2 P.M., 3 P.M. 4

P.M. 5 P.M. (tea), 7 P.M., 8 P.M. (supper), 10 P.M., and at uncertain

intervals during the night.

Mrs. Pilcher was a martyr to a delicate appetite, for she could never

“make nothing of a breakfast if she warn’t coaxed with a Yarmouth

bloater, a rasher of ham, or a little bit of steak done with the gravy

in.”

Her luncheon was obliged to be a mutton-chop, or a grilled bone, and a

pint of porter, bread and cheese having the effect of rendering her “as

cross as two sticks, and as sour as werjuice.” Her dinner, and its

satellites, tea and supper, were all required to be hot, strong, and

comfortable. A peculiar hallucination under which she laboured is worthy

of remark. When eating, it was always her declared conviction that she

never drank anything, and when detected coquetting with a pint pot or a

tumbler, she was equally assured that she never did eat anything after

her breakfast.

Mrs. Pilcher’s duties never permitted her to take anything resembling

continuous rest; she had therefore another prescription for an hour’s

doze after dinner. Mrs. Pilcher was also troubled with a stiffness of

the knee-joints, which never allowed her to wait upon herself.

When this amiable creature had deposited herself in Collumpsion’s old

easy-chair, and, with her bundle on her knees, gasped out her first

inquiry—

“I hopes all’s as well as can be expected?”

The heart of Pater Collumpsion trembled in his bosom, for he felt that

to this incongruous mass was to be confided the first blossom of his

wedded love; and that for one month the dynasty of 24, Pleasant-terrace

was transferred from his hands to that of Mrs. Waddledot, his wife’s

mother, and Mrs. Pilcher, the monthly nurse. There was a short struggle

for supremacy between the two latter personages; but an angry appeal

having been made to Mrs. Applebite, by the lady, “who had nussed the

first families in this land, and, in course, know’d her business,” Mrs.

Waddledot was forced to yield to Mrs. Pilcher’s bundle in transitu, and

Mrs. Applebite’s hysterics in perspective.

Mrs. Pilcher was a nursery Macauley, and had the faculty of discovering

latent beauties in very small infants, that none but doting parents ever

believed. Agamemnon was an early convert to her avowed opinions of the

heir of Applebite, who, like all other heirs of the same age, resembled

a black boy boiled—that is, if there is any affinity between lobsters

and niggers. This peculiar style of eloquence rendered her other

eccentricities less objectionable; and when, upon one occasion, the

mixture of juniper and cloves had disordered her head, instead of

comforting her stomachic regions, she excused herself by solemnly

declaring, that “the brilliancy of the little darling’s eyes, and his

intoxicating manners, had made her feel as giddy as a goose.”

Collumpsion and Theresa both declared her discernment was equal to her

caudle, of which, by-the-bye, she was an excellent concocter and

consumer.

Old John and the rest of the servants, however, had no parental string

at which Mrs. Pilcher could tug, and the consequence was, that they

decided that she was an insufferable bore. Old John, in particular, felt

the ill effects of the heir of Applebite’s appearance in the family, and

to such a degree did they interfere with his old comforts, without

increasing his pecuniary resources, that he determined one morning, when

taking up his master’s shaving water, absolutely to give warning; for

what with the morning calls, and continual ringing for glasses—the

perpetual communication kept up between the laundry-maid and the mangle,

and of which he was the circulating medium—the insolence of the nurse,

who had ordered him to carry five soiled—never mind—down stairs: all

these annoyances combined, the old servant declared were too much for

him.

Collumpsion laid his hand on John’s shoulder, and pointing to some of

the little evidences of paternity which had found their way even into

his dormitory, said, “John, think what I suffer; do not leave me; I’ll

raise your wages, and engage a boy to help you; but you are the only

thing that reminds me of my happy bachelorhood—you are the only one that

can feel a—feel a—”

“Caudle regard,” interrupted John.

“Caudle be ——.” The “rest is silence,” for at that moment Mrs. Waddledot

entered the room, gave a short scream, and went out again.

The month passed, and a hackney-coach, containing a bundle and the

respectable Mrs. Pilcher, &c., rumbled from the door of No. 24, to the

infinite delight of old John the footman, Betty the housemaid, Esther

the nurserymaid, Susan the cook, and Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite the

proprietor.

How transitory is earthly happiness! How certain its uncertainty! A

little week had passed, and the “Heir of Applebite” gave notice of his

intention to come into his property during an early minority, for his

once happy progenitor began to entertain serious intentions of employing

a coroner’s jury to sit upon himself, owing to the incessant and “ear-

piercing pipe” of his little cherub. Vainly did he bury his head beneath

the pillow, until he was suffused with perspiration—the cry reached him

there and then. Cold air was pumped into the bed by Mrs. Applebite, as

she rocked to and fro, in the hope of quieting the “son of the

sleepless.” Collumpsion was in constant communication with the dressing-

table—now for moist-sugar to stay the hiccough—then for dill-water to

allay the stomach-ache. To save his little cherub from convulsions,

twice was he converted into a night-patrole, with the thermometer below

zero—a bad fire, with a large slate in it, and an empty coal-scuttle.

SURREY ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. “Variety,” say our school copy-books, “is

charming;” hence this must be the most charming place of amusement in

London. The annexed list of entertainments was produced on Tuesday last,

when were added to the usual passe-temps, a flower and fruit show. Wild

beasts in cages; flowers of all colours and sizes in pots; enormous

cabbages; Brobdignag apples; immense sticks of rhubarb; a view of Rome;

a brass band; a grand Roman cavalcade passing over the bridge of St.

Angelo; a deafening park of artillery, and an enchanting series of

pyrotechnic wonders, such as catherine-wheels, flower-pots, and rockets;

an illumination of St. Peter’s; blazes of blue-fire, showers of steel-

filings, and a grand blow up of the castle of St. Angelo.

Such are the entertainments provided by the proprietor. The

company—which numbered at least from five to six thousand—gave them even

greater variety. Numerous pic-nic parties were seated about on the

grass; sandwiches, bottled stout, and (with reverence be it spoken) more

potent liquors seemed to be highly relished, especially by the ladies.

Ices were sold at a pastry-cook’s stall, where a continued feu-de-joie

of ginger-pop was kept up during the whole afternoon and evening. In

short, the scene was one of complete al fresco enjoyment; how could it

be otherwise? The flowers delighted the eye; Mr. Godfrey’s well-trained

band (to wit, Beethoven’s symphony in C minor, with all the fiddle

passages beautifully executed upon clarionets!) charmed the ear; and the

edibles and drinkables aforesaid the palate. Under such a press of

agreeables, the Surrey Zoological Gardens well deserve the name of an

Englishman’s paradise.

[pg 110] ON THE SCIENCE OF ELECTIONEERING. To the progress of science

and the rapid march of moral improvement the most effectual spur that

has ever been applied was the Reform Bill. Before the introduction of

that measure, electioneering was a simple process, hardly deserving the

name of an art; it has now arrived at the rank of a science, the great

beauty of which is, that, although complicated in practice, it is most

easy of acquirement. Under the old system boroughs were bought by

wholesale, scot and lot; now the traffic is done by retail. Formerly

there was but one seller; at present there must be some thousands at

least—all to be bargained with, all to be bought. Thus the “agency”

business of electioneering has wonderfully increased, and so have the

expenses.

In fact, an agent is to an election what the main-spring is to a watch;

he is, in point of fact, the real returning-officer. His importance is

not less than the talents and tact he is obliged to exert. He must take

a variety of shapes, must tell a variety of lies, and perform the part

of an animated contradiction. He must benevolently pay the taxes of one

man who can’t vote while in arrear; and cruelly serve notices of

ejectment upon another, though he can show his last quarter’s receipt—he

must attend temperance meetings, and make opposition electors too drunk

to vote. He must shake hands with his greatest enemy, and palm off upon

him lasting proofs of friendship, and silver-paper hints which way to

vote. He must make flaming speeches about principle, puns about

“interest,” and promises concerning everything, to everybody. He must

never give less than five pounds for being shorn by an honest and

independent voter, who never shaves for less than two-pence—nor under

ten, for a four-and-ninepenny goss to an uncompromising hatter. He must

present ear-rings to wives, bracelets to daughters, and be continually

broaching a hogshead for fathers, husbands, and brothers. He must get up

fancy balls, and give away fancy dresses to ladies whom he

fancies—especially if they fancy his candidate, and their husbands fancy

them. He must plan charities, organise mobs, causing free-schools to be

knocked up, and opponents to be knocked down. Finally, he must do all

these acts, and spend all these sums purely for the good of his country;

for, although a select committee of the house tries the validity of the

election—though they prove bribery, intimidation, and treating to

everybody’s satisfaction, yet they always find out that the candidate

has had nothing to do with it—that the agent is not his agent, but has

acted solely on patriotic grounds; by which he is often so completely a

martyr, that he is, after all, actually prosecuted for bribery, by order

of the very house which he has helped to fill, and by the very man (as a

part of the parliament) he has himself returned.

That this great character might not be lost to posterity, we furnish our

readers with the portrait of

A man made of a whisky barrel (Best British), 'Cheap Bread', etc.,

standing on a banner marked 'Independence'. AN ELECTION AGENT.

THE STATISTICAL SOCIETY. This useful society will shortly publish its

Report; and, though we have not seen it, we are enabled to guess with

tolerable accuracy what will be the contents of it:

In the first place, we shall be told the number of pins picked up in the

course of the day, by a person walking over a space of fifteen miles

round London, with the number of those not picked up; an estimate of the

class of persons that have probably dropped them, with the use they were

being put to when they actually fell; and how they have been applied

afterwards.

The Report will also put the public in possession of the number of pot-

boys employed in London; what is the average number of pots they carry

out; and what is the gross weight of metal in the pots brought back

again. This interesting head will include a calculation of how much beer

is consumed by children who are sent to fetch it in jugs; and what is

the whole amount of malt liquor, the value of which reaches the

producer’s pocket, while the mouth of the consumer, and not that of the

party paying for it, receives the sole benefit.

There are also to be published with the Report elaborate tables, showing

how many quarts of milk are spilt in the course of a year in serving

customers; what proportion of water it contains; and what are the

average ages and breed of the dogs who lap it up; and how much is left

unlapped up to be absorbed in the atmosphere.

When this valuable Report is published, we shall make copious extracts.

A NOVEL ENTERTAINMENT. DRURY-LANE THEATRE. Novelty is certainly the

order of the day. Anything that does not deviate from the old beaten

track meets with little encouragement from the present race of

amusement-seekers, and, consequently, does not pay the entrepreneur.

Nudity in public adds fresh charms to the orchestra, and red-fire and

crackers have become absolutely essential to harmony. Acting upon this

principle, Signor Venafra gave (we admire the term) a fancy dress ball

at Drury-lane Theatre on Monday evening last, upon a plan hitherto

unknown in England, but possibly, like the majority of deceptive

delusions now so popular, of continental origin. The whole of the

evening’s entertainment took place in cabs and hackney-coaches, and

those vehicles performed several perfectly new and intricate figures in

Brydges-street, and the other thoroughfares adjoining the theatres. The

music provided for the occasion appeared to be an organ-piano, which

performed incessantly at the corner of Bow-street, during the evening.

Most of the élite of Hart-street and St. Giles’s graced the animated

pavement as spectators. So perfectly successful was the whole affair—on

the word of laughing hundreds who came away saying they had never been

so amused in their lives—that we hear it is in agitation never to

attempt anything of the kind again.

DONE AGAIN. Dunn, the bailless barrister, complained to his friend

Charles Phillips, that upon the last occasion he had the happiness of

meeting Miss Burdett Coutts on the Marine Parade, notwithstanding all he

has gone through for her, she would not condescend to take the slightest

notice of him. So far from offering anything in the shape of

consolation, the witty barrister remarked, “Upon my soul, her conduct

was in perfect keeping with her situation, for what on earth could be

more in unison with a sea-view than

A man carves 'Snooks' into a tree. A CUTTER ON THE BEACH?”

It is well known that the piers of Westminster Bridge have considerably

sunk since their first erection. They are not the only peers, in the

same neighbourhood that have become lowered in the position they once

occupied.

[pg 111] ASSERTION OF THE UNINTELLIGIBLE. OR, “A KANTITE’S” FLIGHTS AT

AN EXORDIUM. FLIGHT THE FIRST. He who widely, yet ascensively,

expatiates in those in-all-ways-sloping fields of metaphysical

investigation which perplex whilst they captivate, and bewilder whilst

they allure, cannot evitate the perception of perception’s fallibility,

nor avoid the conclusion (if that can be called a conclusion to which,

it may be said, there are no premises extant) that the external senses

are but deceptive media of interior mental communication. It behoves the

ardent, youthful explorator, therefore, to ——, &c. &c.

FLIGHT THE SECOND. In the Promethean persecutions which assail the

insurgent mentalities of the youth and morning vigour of the

inexpressible human soul, when, flushed with Æolian light, and, as it

were, beaded with those lustrous dews which the eternal Aurora lets fall

from her melodious lip; if it escape living from the beak of the vulture

(no fable here!), then, indeed, it may aspire to ——, &c. &c.

FLIGHT THE THIRD. If, with waxen Icarian wing, we seek to ascend to that

skiey elevation whence only can the understretching regions of an

impassive mutability be satisfactorily contemplated; and if, in our

heterogeneous ambition, aspirant above self-capacity, we approach too

near the flammiferous Titan, and so become pinionless, and reduced again

to an earthly prostration, what marvel is it, that ——, &c. &c.

FLIGHT THE FOURTH. When the perennial Faustus, ever-resident in the

questioning spirit of immortal man, attempts his first outbreak into the

domain of unlimited inquiry, unless he take heed of the needfully-

cautious prudentialities of mundane observance, there infallibly attends

him a fatal Mephistophelean influence, of which the malign tendency,

from every conclusion of eventuality, is to plunge him into perilous

vast cloud-waves of the dream-inhabited vague. Let, then, the young

student of infinity ——, &c. &c.

FLIGHT THE FIFTH. Inarched within the boundless empyrean of thought,

starry with wonder, and constellate with investigation; at one time

obfuscated in the abysm-born vapours of doubt; at another, radiant with

the sun-fires of faith made perfect by fruition; it can amaze no

considerative fraction of humanity, that the explorer of the indefinite,

the searcher into the not-to-be-defined, should, at dreary intervals,

invent dim, plastic riddles of his own identity, and hesitate at the

awful shrine of that dread interrogatory alternative—reality, or dream?

This deeply pondering, let the eager beginner in the at once linear and

circumferent course of philosophico-metaphysical contemplativeness,

introductively assure himself that ——, &c. &c.

FINAL FLIGHT. As, “in the silence and overshadowing of that night whose

fitful meteoric fires only herald the descent of a superficial fame into

lasting oblivion, the imbecile and unavailing resistance which is made

against the doom must often excite our pity for the pampered child of

market-gilded popularity;” and as “it is not with such feelings that we

behold the dark thraldom and long-suffering of true intellectual

strength,” of which the “brief, though frequent, soundings beneath the

earthly pressure will be heard even amidst the din of flaunting crowds,

or the solemn conclaves of common-place minds,” of which the “obscured

head will often shed forth ascending beams that can only be lost in

eternity;” and of which the “mighty struggles to upheave its own weight,

and that of the superincumbent mass of prejudice, envy, ignorance,

folly, or uncongenial force, must ever ensure the deepest sympathy of

all those who can appreciate the spirit of its qualities;” let the

initiative skyward struggles towards the zenith-abysses of the inane

impalpable ——, &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c.

Dramatic Authors’ Theatre, Sept. 16, 1841.

HUMANE SUGGESTION. MASTER PUNCH,—Mind ye’s, I’ve been to see these here

Secretens at the English Uproar ’Ouse, and thinks, mind ye’s, they aint

by no means the werry best Cheshire; but what I want to know is this

here—Why don’t they give that wenerable old genelman, Mr. Martinussy,

the Hungry Cardinal, something to eat?—he is a continually calling out

for some of his Countrys Weal, (which, I dare say, were werry good) and

he don’t never git so much as a sandvich dooring the whole of his life

and death—I mention dese tings, because, mind ye’s, it aint werry kind

of none on ‘em.

I remains, Mr. PUNCH, Sir, yours truly,

DEF BURKE,

A man with a nasty black eye. HIS MARK.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE STATUE OF GEORGE CANNING AND SIR ROBERT PEEL. The

new Premier was taking a solitary stroll the other evening through

Palace-yard, meditating upon the late turn which had brought the Tories

to the top of the wheel and the Whigs to the bottom, and pondering on

the best ways and means of keeping his footing in the slippery position

that had cost him so much labour to attain. While thus employed, with

his eyes fixed on the ground, and his hands buried in his breeches-

pockets, he heard a voice at no great distance, calling in familiar

tone—

“Bob! Bob!—I say, Bob!”

The alarmed Baronet stopped, and looked around him to discover the

speaker, when, casting his eyes upon the statue of George Canning in the

enclosure of Westminster Abbey, he was astonished to perceive it nodding

its head at him, like the statue in “Don Giovanni,” in a “How d’ye do?”

kind of way. Sir Robert, who, since his introduction to the Palace, has

grown perilously polite, took off his hat, and made a low bow to the

figure.

STATUE.—Bah! no nonsense, Bob, with me! Put on your hat, and come over

here, close to the railings, while I have a little private confab with

you. So, you have been called in at last?

PEEL.—Yes. Her Majesty has done me the honour to command my services;

and actuated by a sincere love of my country, I obeyed the wishes of my

Royal Mistress, and accepted office; though, if I had consulted my own

inclinations, I should have preferred the quiet path of private—

STATUE.—Humbug! You forget yourself, Bob; you are not now at Tamworth,

or in the house, but talking to an old hand that knows every move on the

political board,—you need have no disguise with me. Come, be candid for

once, and tell me, what are your intentions?

PEEL.—Why, then, candidly, to keep my place as long as I can—

STATUE.—Undoubtedly; that is the first duty of every patriotic minister!

But the means, Bob?

PEEL—Oh! Cant—cant—nothing but cant! I shall talk of my feeling for the

wants of the people, while I pick their pockets; bestow my pity upon the

manufacturers, while I tax the bread that feeds their starving families;

and proclaim my sympathy with the farmers, while I help the arrogant

landlords to grind them into the dust.

STATUE.—Ah! I perceive yon understand the true principles of

legislation. Now, I once really felt what you only feign. In my time, I

attempted to carry out my ideas of amelioration, and wanted to improve

the moral and physical condition of the people, but—

PEEL.—You failed. Few gave you credit for purely patriotic motives—and

still fewer believed you to be sincere in your professions. Now, my plan

is much easier, and safer. Give the people fair promises—they don’t cost

much—but nothing besides promises; the moment you attempt to realise the

hopes you have raised, that moment you raise a host of enemies against

yourself.

STATUE.—But if you make promises, the nation will demand a fulfilment of

them.

PEEL.—I have an answer ready for all comers—“Wait awhile!” ’Tis a famous

soother for all impatient grumblers. It kept the Whigs in office for ten

years, and I see no reason why it should not serve our turn as long.

Depend upon it, “Wait awhile” is the great secret of Government.

STATUE.—Ah! I believe you are right. I now see that I was only a novice

in the trade of politics. By the bye, Bob, I don’t at all like my

situation here; ’tis really very uncomfortable to be exposed to all

weathers—scorched in summer, and frost-nipped in winter. Though I am

only a statue, I feel that I ought to be protected.

PEEL.—Undoubtedly, my dear sir. What can I do for you?

STATUE.—Why, I want to get into the Abbey, St. Paul’s, or Drury Lane.

Anywhere out of the open air.

PEEL.—Say no more—it shall be done. I am only too happy to have it in my

power to serve the statue of a man to whom his country is so deeply

indebted.

STATUE.—But when shall it be done, Bob? To-morrow?

PEEL.—Not precisely to-morrow; but—

STATUE.—Next week, then?

PEEL.—I can’t say; but don’t be impatient—rely on my promise, and wait

awhile, wait awhile, my dear friend. Good night.

STATUE.—Oh! confound your wait awhile. I see I have nothing to expect.

THE BEAUTY OF BRASS. Tom Duncombe declares he never passes McPhail’s

imitative-gold mart without thinking of Ben D’Israeli’s speeches, as

both of them are so confoundedly full of fantastic

A man wearing three hats. MOSAIC ORNAMENTS.

[pg 112] PUNCH AT THE ART-UNION EXHIBITION AGAIN Limited space in our

last number prevented our noticing any other than the Sleeping Beauty;

and, as there are many other humorous productions possessing equal

claims to our attention in the landscape and other departments of art,

we shall herein endeavour to point out their characteristics—more for

the advantage of future purchasers than for the better and further

edification of those whose meagre notions and tastes have already been

shown. And as the Royal Academicians, par courtesy, demand our first

notice, we shall, having wiped off D. M’Clise, R.A., now proceed, baton

in hand, to make a few pokes at W.F. Witherington, R.A., upon his work

entitled “Winchester Tower, Windsor Castle, from Romney Lock.”

This is a subject which has been handled many times within our

recollection, by artists of less name, less fame, and less pretensions

to notice, if we except the undeniable fact of their displaying

infinitely more ability in their representations of the subject, than

can by any possibility be discovered in the one by W. F. Witherington,

R.A. If our remarks were made with an affectionate eye to the young

ladies of the satin-album-loving school, we should assuredly style this

“a duck of a picture”—one after their own hearts—treated in mild and

undisturbed tones of yellow, blue, and pink—and what yellows! what

blues! and what pinks! Some kind, superintending genius of landscape-

painting evidently prepared the scene for W.F. Witherington, R.A. It

displays nothing of the vulgar every-day look of nature, as seen at

Romney Lock, or any other spot; not a pebble out of its place—not a leaf

deranged—here are bright amber trees, and blue metallic towers, prepared

gravel-walks, and figures nicely cleaned and bleached to suit; it is, in

truth, the most genteel landscape ever looked on. Nothing but absolute

needlework can create more wonderment. Fie! fie! get thee hence, W.F.

Witherington, R.A.

Just placed over the last-mentioned picture, and, doubtlessly so

arranged that the gentle R.A. should find that, although his bright

specimen of mild murder may be adjudged the worst in the collection,

still there are others worthy of being classed in the same order of

oddities. Behold No. 19, entitled, “Landscape—Evening—J.F. Gilbert,” and

selected by Mr. John Bullock from the Royal Academy. “What’s in a name?”

In the charitable hope that there is a chance of this purchaser being

toned down in the course of time, after the same manner that pictures

are, and, by that process, display more sobriety, we most humbly offer

to Mr. B. our modest judgment upon his selection (not upon his choice,

but upon the thing chosen). That it is a landscape we gloomily admit;

but that it represents “Evening” we steadily deny. The exact period of

the day, after much puzzling and deliberation, we cannot arrive at; one

thing yet we are assured of—that it has been painted in company with a

clock that was either too fast or too slow. The composition, which has

very much the appearance of the by-gone century, is a prime selection

from the finest parts of those very serene views to be found adorning

the lowest interiors of wash-hand basins, with a dash from the works of

Smith of Chichester, whose mental elevation in his profession was only

surpassed by the high finish of his apple-trees, and the elaborate

nothingness of his general choice of subject. In the foreground of the

picture, the artist has, however, most aptly introduced the two

vagabonds invariably to be seen idling in the foregrounds of landscapes

of this class—two rascally scouts who have put in appearance from time

immemorial; they are here just as in the works alluded to, the one

sitting, the other of course standing, and courteously bending to

receive the remarks of his friend. By the side of the stream, which

flows through (or rather takes up) the middle of the picture, and

immediately opposite to the two everlastings, is a little plain-looking

agriculturist, who appears to be watching them. He is in the careless

and ever-admitted picturesque position of leaning over a garden fence;

but whether the invariables are aware of the little gentleman, and are

consequently conversing in an undertone, we leave every beholder to

speculate and settle for himself. Behind the worthy small farmer, and

coming from the door of his residence, most cleverly introduced, is his

wife (we know it to represent the wife, from the clear fact of the

lady’s appearance being typical of the gentleman’s), who is in the act

of observing that the children are waiting his presence at table, and

adding, no doubt, that he had better come in and assist her in the

cabbage-and-bacon duties of the repast, than lose his time and annoy the

family.

We must now draw the spectator from the above-mentioned objects to a

little piscatorial sportsman, who, apart from them, and in the

retirement of his own thoughts upon worms, ground-bait, and catgut,

lends his aid, together with a lively little amateur waterman, paddling

about in a little boat, selfishly built to hold none other than

himself—a hill rising in the middle ground, and two or three minor

editions of the same towards the distance, carefully dotted with trees,

after the fashion of a ready-made portable park from the toy depot in

the Lowther Arcade—two bee-hives, a water-mill, some majestic smoke,

something that looks like a skein of thread thrown over a mountain, and

the memorable chiaro-scuro, form the interesting episodes of this

glorious essay in the epic pastoral.

SYNCRETIC LITERATURE Observations on the Epic Poem of Giles Scroggins

and Molly Brown—resumed.

The fatal operation of the unavoidable, ever-impending, ruthless shears

of the stern controller of human destiny, and curtailer of human

life—the action by which

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

or rather the thread of Giles Scroggins’ life, at once and most

completely establishes the wholesome moral as to the fearful uncertainty

of all sublunary anticipations, and stands forth a beautiful beacon to

warn the over-weaning “worldly wisemen” from their often too-fondly-

cherished dreams of realising, by their own means and appliances, the

darling projects of their ambitious hopes!

The immediate effect of the operation performed by Fate’s scissors, or

rather by Fate herself—as she was the great and absolute disposer—to

whom the implement employed was but a matter of fancy; for had Fate so

chosen, a bucket, a bowie-knife, a brick-bat, a black cap, or a box of

patent pills, might, as well as her destructive shears, have made a

tenant for a yawning grave of doomed Giles Scroggins. We say, the

immediate effect arising from this cutting cause was one in which both

parties—the living bride and defunct bridegroom—were equally concerned,

their lover’s co-partnership rendering each liable for the acts or

accidents of the other; therefore as may be (and we think is) clearly

established, under these circumstances,

“They could not be mar-ri-ed!”

There is something deliciously affecting in the beautiful drawing out of

the last syllable!—it seems like the lingering of the heart’s best

feelings upon the blighted prospects of its purest joys!—the ceremony

that would have completed the union of the loving maiden and admiring

swain, blending, as it were, like the twin prongs of a brass-bound

toasting-fork, their interests in one common cause. The ceremony of

love’s concentration can never be performed! but the heart-feeling poet

extends each tiny syllable even to its utmost stretch, that the tear-

dropping reader may, while gulping down his sympathies, make at least a

handsome mouthful of the word.

We now approach, with considerable awe, a portion of our task to which

we beg to call the undivided attention of our erudite readers. Upon

referring to the original black-letter quarto, we find, after each

particular sentence, the author introduces, with consummate tact, a

line, meant, as we presume, as a kind of literary resting-place, upon

which the delighted mind might, in the sweet indulgence of repose,

reflect with greater pleasure on the thrilling parts, made doubly

thrilling by the poet’s fire. The diversity of these, if we may so

express them, “camp stools” of imagination, is worthy of remark, both as

to their application and amplitude. For instance, after one line, and

that if perused with attention, comparatively less abstruse than its

fellows, the gifted poet satisfies himself with the insertion of three

sonorous, but really simple syllables, they are invariably at follows—

“Too-ral-loo!”

But when two lines of the poem—burning with thought, bursting with

action—entrance by their sublimity the enraptured reader, greater time

is given, and more extended accommodation for a mental sit-down is

afforded in the elaborate and elongated composition of

“Whack! fol-de-riddle lol-de-day!”

These introductions are of a high classic origin. Many professors of

eminence have quarrelled as to whether they were not the original of the

“Greek chorus;” while others, of equal erudition, have as stoutly

maintained, though closely approximating in character and purpose, they

are not the “originals,” but imitations, and decidedly admirable ones,

from those celebrated poets.

A Mr. William Waters, a gentleman of immense travel, one who had left

the burning zone of the far East to visit the more chilling gales of a

European climate, a philosopher of the sect known as the “Peripatetic,”

a devoted follower of the heathen Nine, whose fostering care has ever

been devoted to the tutelage of the professors of sweet sounds; and

therefore Waters was a high authority, declared in the peculiar patois

attendant upon the pronunciation of a foreign mode of speech—that

“Too-ral-loo”

was to catch him wind! And

“Whack! fol-de-riddle lol-de-day,”

to let “um rosin up him fuddlestick!” These deductions are practical, if

not poetical; but these are but the emanations from the brain of

one—hundreds of other commentators differ from his view.

The most erudite linguists are excessively puzzled as to the nation

whose peculiar language has been resorted to for these singular and

unequalled introductions. The

“Too-ral-loo”

has been given up in despair. The nearest solution was that of an

eminent arithmetician, who conjectured from the word too (Anglice,

two)—and the use of the four cyphers—those immediately following the T

and L—that [pg 113] they were intended to convey some notion of the

personal property of Giles Scroggins or Molly Brown (he never made up

his mind which of the two); and merely wanted the following marks to

render them plain:—

T—oo (two)—either shillings or pence—and L—oo: no pounds!

This may or may not be right, but the research and ingenuity deserve the

immortality we now confer upon it. The other line, the

“Whack! fol-de-riddle lol-de-day!”

has, perhaps, given rise to far more controversy, with certainly less

tangible and satisfactory results.

The scene of the poem not being expressly stated in the original or

early black-letter translation, many persons—whose love of country

prompted their wishes—have endeavoured to attach a nationality to these

gordian knots of erudition. An Hibernian gentleman of immense

research—the celebrated “Darby Kelly”—has openly asserted the whole

affair to be decidedly of Milesian origin: and, amid a vast number of

corroborative circumstances, strenuously insists upon the solidity of

his premises and deductions by triumphantly exclaiming, “What, or who

but an Irish poet and an Irish hero, would commence a matter of so much

consequence with the soul-stirring “whack!” adopted by the great author,

and put into the mouth of his chosen hero?” Others again have

supposed—which is also far more improbable—that much of the obscurity of

the above passage has its origin from simple mis-spelling on the part of

the poet’s amanuensis—he taking the literal dictation, forgetting the

sublime author was suffering from a cold in the head, which rendered the

words in sound—

“Riddle lol the lay;”

whereas they would otherwise have been pronounced—

“Riddle—all the day”—

that being an absolute and positive allusion to the agricultural

pursuits of Giles Scroggins, he being generally employed by his more

wealthy master—a great agrarian of those times—in the manly though

somewhat fatiguing occupation of “riddling all the day:” an occupation

which—like this article—was to be frequently resumed.

A NEW THEORY OF POCKETS. DEFINITION Pocket, s. the small bag inserted

into clothes.—WALKER (a new edition, by Hookey).

We are great on the subject of pockets—we acknowledge it—we avow it.

From our youth upwards, and we are venerable now, we have made them the

object of untiring research, analysis, and speculation; and if our

exertions have occasionally involved us in contingent predicaments, or

our zeal laid us open to conventional misconstructions, we console

ourselves with Galileo and Tycho Brahe, who having, like us, discovered

and arranged systems too large for the scope of the popular intellect,

like us, became the martyrs of those great principles of science which

they have immortalized themselves by teaching.

The result of a course of active and careful (s)peculations on the

philosophy and economy of pockets, has led us to the conviction that

their intention and use are but very imperfectly understood, even by the

intelligent and reflective section of the community. It is, we fear, a

very common error to regard them as conventional recesses, adapted for

the reception and deposit of such luxurious additaments to the attire as

are detached, yet accessory and indispensable ministers to our comfort.

Now this delusive supposition is diametrically opposed to the truth.

Pockets (we must be plain)—pockets are not made to put into, but to take

out of; and, although it is of course necessary that, in order to

produce the result of withdrawal, they be previously furnished with the

wherewithal to withdraw, yet the process of insertion and supply is only

carried on for the purpose of assisting the operation of the system.

And having, we trust, logically established this point, we shall hazard

no incautious position in asserting that the man who empties a pocket,

fulfils the object for which it was founded and established. And

although, unhappily, a prejudice still exists in the minds of the

uneducated, in favour of emptying their own pockets themselves, it must

be evident that none but a narrow mind can take umbrage at the trifling

acceleration of an event which must inevitably occur; or would desire to

appropriate the credit of the distribution, as well as to deserve the

merit of the supply.

We perceive with concern and apprehension, that pockets are gradually

falling into disuse. To use the flippant idiom of the day, they are

going out! This is an alarming, as well as a lamentable fact; and one,

too, strikingly illustrative of the degeneracy of modern fashions.

Whether we ascribe the change to a contemptuous neglect of ancestral

institutions, or to an increasing difficulty in furnishing the

indispensable attributes of the pocket, it is alike indicative of a

crisis; and we confess that it is matter of astonishment to us, that in

these days of theory and hypothesis, no man has ventured to trace the

distress and the ruin now impending over the country, to the increasing

disrespect and disuse of—pockets.

By way of approving our conjecture, let us contrast the garments of the

hour with those of England in the olden time—long ago, when boards

smoked and groaned under a load of good things in every man’s house;

when the rich took care of the poor, and the poor took care of

themselves; when husband and wife married for love, and lived happily

(though that must have been very long ago indeed); the athletic yeoman

proceeded to his daily toil, enveloped in garments instinct with

pockets. The ponderous watch—the plethoric purse—the massive snuff-

box—the dainty tooth-pick—the grotesque handkerchief; all were

accommodated and cherished in the more ample recesses of his coat; while

supplementary fobs were endeared to him by their more seductive

contents: as ginger lozenges, love-letters, and turnpike-tickets. Such

were the days on which we should reflect with regret; such were the men

whom we should imitate and revere. Had such a character as we have

endeavoured feebly to sketch, met an individual enveloped in a shapeless

cylindrical tube of pale Macintosh—impossible for taste—incapable of

pockets—indefinite and indefinable—we question whether he would have

regarded him in the light of a maniac, an incendiary, or a foreign

spy—whether he would not have handed him immediately over to the

exterminators of the law, as a being too depraved, too degraded for

human sympathy. And yet—for our prolixity warns us to conclude—and yet

the festering contagion of this baneful example is now-a-days hidden

under the mask of fashion. FASHION! and has it indeed come to this? Is

fashion to trample on the best and finest feelings of our nature? Is

fashion to be permitted to invade us in our green lanes, and our high

roads, under our vines and our fig-trees, without hindrance, and without

pockets? For the sake of human nature, we hope not—for the sake of our

bleeding country, we hope not. No! “Take care of your pockets!” is one

of the earliest maxims instilled into the youthful mind; and

emphatically do we repeat to our fellow-countrymen—Englishmen, take care

of your pockets!

PUNCH’S THEATRE. A seated man blows smoke. His body and the plume form

the letter C. ritics, as well as placemen, are occasionally sinecurists,

and, like the gentlemen of England immortalised by Dibdin, are able, now

and then, to “live at home at ease”—to dine (on dining days) in comfort,

not having to rise from table to give authors or actors their dessert.

This kind of novelty in our lives takes place when managers produce no

novelties in their theatres; when authors are lazy, and actors do not

come out in new parts but are contented with wearing out old ones—when,

in short, such an eventless theatrical week as the past one leaves us to

the enjoyment of our own hookahs, and the port of our cellar-keeping

friends. The play-bills seem to have been printed from stereotype, for,

like the laws of the Medes and Persians, they have never altered—since

our last report.

This unexpected hot weather has visited the public with many a

“Midsummer night’s dream,” although it is—and Covent Garden has opened

because it is September; Sheridan’s “Critic” has been very busy there,

though PUNCH’S has had nothing to do. “London Assurance” is still seen

to much advantage, and so is Madame Vestris.

The Haymarket manager continues to wade knee-deep in tragedy, in spite

of the state of the weather. The fare is, however, too good for any

change in the carte. “Werner” forms a substantial standing dish. The

“Boarding School” makes a most palpable entrée; while “Bob Short,” and

“My Friend the Captain,” serve as excellent after-courses. The promises

recorded in the Haymarket bills are, a new tragedy by a new author, and

an old comedy called “Riches;” a certain hit, if the continued success

of “Money” be any criterion.

It is with feelings of the most rabid indignation that we approach the

Strand Theatre, and the ruthless threat its announcements put forth of

the future destruction of the only legitimate drama that is now left

amongst us; that is to say, “PUNCH.” When Thespis and his pupil Phynicus

“came out” at the feasts of Bacchus; when “Roscius was an actor in

Rome;” when Scaramouch turned the Materia Medica into a farce, and

became a quack doctor in Italy; when Richardson set up his show in

England—all these geniuses were peregrinate, peripatetic—their scenes

were really moving ones, their tragic woes went upon wheels, their

comedies were run through at the rate of so many miles per hour; the

entire drama was, in fact, a travelling concern. Punch, the concentrated

essence of all these, has, up to this date, preserved the pristine

purity of his peripatetic fame; he still remains on circuit, he still

retains his legitimacy. But, alas! ere this sheet has passed through the

press, while its ink is yet as wet as our dear Judy’s eyes, he will have

fallen from his high estate: Hall will have housed him! Punch will have

taken a stationary stand at the Strand Theatre!! The last stroke will

have been given to the only ancient drama remaining, except the

tragedies of Sophocles, and “Gammer Gurton’s Needle.”

With feelings of both sorrow and anger, we turn from the pedestrian to

the equestrian drama. The Surrey has again, as of yore, become the

Circus; she has been joined to Ducrow and his stud by the usual symbol

of union—a ring. “Mazeppa” is ridden by Mr. Cartlitch, with great

success, and the wild horse performed by an animal so highly trained,

that it is as tame as a lap-dog—has galloped through a score or so of

nights, to the delight of some thousands of spectators. The scenes in

the circle exhibit the usual round of entertainment, and the Merryman

delivers those reliques of antique facetiæ which have descended to the

clowns of the ring from generation to generation, without the smallest

innovation. Thus the Surrey shows symptoms of high prosperity, and

properly declines to fly in Fortune’s face by attempting novelty.

The Victoria continues to kill “James Dawson,” in spite of our

prediction. The bills, however, promise that he shall die outright on

Monday next, and a happy release it will be. The proprietor of “Sadler’s

Wells” is making most spirited efforts to attract play-goers to the

Islington side of the New River, by a return to the legitimate drama of

his theatre, viz.—real water; while his box check-taker has kept one

important integer of the public away; namely, that singular plural we—by

impertinence for which we have exhausted all patience without obtaining

redress.

There are, we hear, other theatres open in London, one called the “City

of London,” somewhere near Shoreditch; another in Whitechapel, both

terræ incognitæ to us. The proprietors of these have handsomely

presented us with free admissions. We beg them to accept our thanks for

their courtesy; but are sorry we cannot avail ourselves of it till they

add the obligation of providing us with guides.

[pg 114] THE CORN LAWS AND CHRISTIANITY. Doctor Chalmers refused to

attend the synod of Clergymen gathered together to consider the relative

value of the Big and Little Loaf, on the ground that the reverend

gentlemen were beginning their work at the wrong end. Wages will go up

with Christianity, says the Doctor; cheap corn will follow the

dissemination of cheap Bibles. “I know of no other road for the

indefinite advancement of the working classes to a far better

remuneration, and, of course, a far more liberal maintenance, in return

for their toils, than they have ever yet enjoyed—it is a universal

Christian education.” Such are the words of Doctor CHALMERS.

We perfectly agree with the reverend doctor. Instead of shipping

Missionaries to Africa, let us keep those Christian sages at home for

the instruction of the English Aristocracy. When we consider the

benighted condition of the elegant savages of the western squares,—when

we reflect upon the dreadful scepticism abounding in Park-lane, May-

fair, Portland-place and its vicinity,—when we contemplate the

abominable idols which these unhappy natives worship in their

ignorance,—when we know that every thought, every act of their misspent

life is dedicated to a false religion, when they make hourly and daily

sacrifice to that brazen serpent,

SELF!—

when they offer up the poor man’s sweat to the abomination,—when they

lay before it the crippled child of the factory,—when they take from

life its bloom and dignity, and degrading human nature to mere brute

breathing, make offering of its wretchedness as the most savoury morsel

to the perpetual craving of their insatiate god,—when we consider all

the “manifold sins and wickednesses” of the barbarians in purple and

fine linen, of those pampered savages “whose eyes are red with wine and

whose teeth white with milk,”—we do earnestly hope that the suggestion

of Doctor Chalmers will be carried into immediate practical effect, and

that Missionaries, preaching true Christianity, will be sent among the

rich and benighted people of this country,—so that the poor may believe

that the Scriptures are something more than mere printed paper, seeing

their glorious effects in the awakened hearts of those who, in the

arrogance of their old idolatry, called themselves their betters!

“A universal Christian education!” To this end, the Bench of Bishops

meet at Lambeth; and discovering that locusts and wild honey—the

Baptist’s diet—may be purchased for something less than ten thousand a

year,—and, after a minute investigation of the Testament, failing to

discover the name of St. Peter’s coachmaker, or of St. Paul’s footman,

his valet, or his cook,—take counsel one with another, and resolve to

forego at least nine-tenths of their yearly in-comings. “No!” they

exclaim—and what apostolic brightness beams in the countenance of

CANTERBURY—what celestial light plays about the fleshy head of

LONDON—what more than saint-like beauty surprises the cowslip-coloured

face of EXETER—what lambent fire, what looks of Christian love play

about and beam from the whole episcopal Bench!—“No!” they cry—“we will

no longer have the spirit oppressed by these cumbrous trappings of

fleshy pride! We will promote an universal Christian education—we will

teach charity by examples, and live unto all men by a personal

abstinence from the bickerings and malice of civil life. We will not

defile the sacred lawn with the mud of turnpike acts—we will no longer

sweat in the House of Lords, but labour only in the House of the Lord!”

Their Christian hearts sweetly suffused with sudden meekness, the

Bishops proceed—staff in hand, and Bible under arm—from Lambeth Palace.

How the people make way for the holy procession! Hackney-coachmen on

their stands uncover themselves, and the drayman, surprised in his

whistle, doffs his beaver to the reverend pilgrims. With measured step

and slow, they proceed to Downing-street; the self-deputed Missionaries,

resolved to give her Majesty’s ministers “a Christian education.” Sir

ROBERT PEEL is immediately taken in hand by the Bishop of EXETER; who

sets the Baronet to learn and exemplify the practical beauties of the

Lord’s Prayer. When Sir ROBERT comes to “give us this day our daily

bread,” he insists upon adding the words “with a sliding scale.”

However, EXETER, animated by a sudden flux of Christianity, keeps the

baronet to his lesson, and the Premier is regenerated; yea, is “a brand

snatched from the fire.”

Lord LYNDHURST makes a great many wry mouths at some parts of the

Decalogue—we will not particularise them—but the Bishop of London is

resolute, and the new Lord Chancellor is, in all respects a bran-new

Christian.

Lord STANLEY begs that when he prays for power to forgive all his

enemies, he may be permitted to except from that prayer—DANIEL

O’CONNELL. The Bishop is, however, inexorable; and O’Connell is to be

prayed for, in all churches visited by Lord STANLEY.

Several of the bishops, smitten by the heathen darkness of the great

majority of the Cabinet—affected by their utter ignorance of the

practical working of Christianity—burst into tears. It will not be

credited by those disposed to think charitably of their fellow-

creatures, that—we state the melancholy fact upon the golden word of the

Bishop of EXETER—several Cabinet ministers had never heard of the divine

sentence which enjoins upon us to do to others as we would they should

do unto us. Sir JAMES GRAHAM, for instance, declared that he had always

understood the passage to simply run—“Do others;” and had, therefore, in

very many acts of his political life, squared his doings according to

the mutilated sentence. All the Cabinet had, more or less, some idea of

the miracle of the Loaves and the Fishes. Indeed, many of them confessed

that with them, the Loaves and the Fishes had, during their whole

political career, contained the essence of Christianity. Sir EDWARD

KNATCHBULL, Lord ELLENBOROUGH, and GOULBURN declared that for the last

ten years they had hungered for nothing else.

We cannot dwell upon every individual case of ignorance displayed in the

Cabinet. We confine ourselves to the glad statement, that every minister

from the first lord of the treasury to the grooms in waiting, vivified

by the sacred heat of their schoolmaster Bishops, illustrate the great

truth of Doctor CHALMERS, that the poor man can only obtain justice “by

a universal Christian education.”

The Bench of Bishops do not confine their labours to the instruction of

the Cabinet. By no means. They have appointed prebends, deans, canons,

vicars, &c., to teach the members of both houses of Parliament practical

Christianity towards their fellow-men. Lord LONDONDERRY has sold his

fowling-piece for the benefit of the poor—has given his shooting-jacket

to the ragged beggar that sweeps the crossing opposite the Carlton

Club—and resolving to forego the vanities of grouse, is now hard at work

on “The Acts of the Apostles.” Colonel SIBTHORP—after unceasing labour

on the part of Doctor CROLY—has managed to spell at least six of the

hard names in the first chapter of St. Matthew, and can now, with very

slight hesitation, declare who was the father of ZEBEDEE’S children!

“An universal Christian education!” Oh, reader! picture to yourself

London—for one day only—operated upon by the purest Christianity.

Consider the mundane interests of this tremendous metropolis directed by

Apostolic principles! Imagine the hypocrisy of respectability—the

conventional lie—the allowed ceremonial deceit—the tricks of trade—the

ten thousand scoundrel subterfuges by which the lowest dealers of this

world purchase Bank-stock and rear their own pine-apples—the common,

innocent iniquities (innocent from their very antiquity, having been

bequeathed from sire to son) which men perpetrate six working-days in

the week, and after, lacker up their faces with a look of sleek humility

for the Sunday pew—consider all this locust swarm of knaveries

annihilated by the purifying spirit of Christianity, and then look upon

London breathing and living, for one day only, by the sweet, sustaining

truth of the Gospel!

Had our page ten thousand times its amplitude, it would not contain the

briefest register of the changes of that day!

There is a scoundrel attorney, who for thirty years has become plethoric

on broken hearts. The scales of leprous villany have fallen from him;

and now, an incarnation of justice, he sits with open doors, to pour oil

into the wounds of the smitten—to make man embrace man as his brother—to

preach lovingkindness to all the world, and—without a fee—to chant the

praises of peace and amity.

Crib the stockbroker meets Horns a fellow-labourer in the same hempen

walk of life. Crib offers to buy a little Spanish of Horns. “My dear

Crib,” says Horns, “it is impossible; I can’t sell; for I have just

received by a private hand from Cadiz, news that must send the stock

down to nothing. I am a Christian, my dear Crib,” says Horns, “and as a

Christian, how could I sell you a certain loss?”

A mistaken, but well-meaning man, although a tailor, meets his debtor in

Bow-street. A slight quarrel ensues; whereupon, the debtor (to show that

the days of chivalry are not gone) kicks his tailor into the gutter.

Does the tailor take the offender before Mr. JARDINE? By no means. The

tailor is a Christian; and learning the exact measure of his enemy, and

returning good for evil, he, in three days’ time, sends to his assailant

a new suit of the very best super Saxony.

How many quacks we see rushing to the various newspaper offices to

countermand their advertisements! What gaps in the columns of the

newspapers themselves! Where is the sugary lie—the adroit slander—the

scoundrel meanness, masking itself with the usage of patriotism? All,

all are vanished, for—the Morning Herald is published upon Christian

principles!

Let us descend to the smallest matters of social life. “Will this

gingham wash?” asks Betty the housemaid of Twill the linen-draper. Twill

is a Christian; and therefore replies, “it is a very poor article, and

it will not wash!”

We are with Doctor Chalmers for Christianity—but not Christianity of one

side. “Pray for those who despitefully use you,” say the Corn Law

Apostles to the famishing; and then, cocking their eye at one another,

and twitching their tongues in their mouths they add—“for this is

Christianity!”

Q.

ENCOURAGEMENT OF NATIVE TALENT. Her Majesty has, it seems, presented the

conductor of the Gazette Musicale with a gold medal and her portrait, as

a reward for his constant efforts in the cause of music (vide Morning

Post, Sept. 9). From this, it may be supposed, foreigners alone are

deemed worthy of distinction; but our readers will be glad to learn,

that Rundells have been honoured with an order for a silver whistle for

PUNCH. His unceasing efforts in the causes of humbug, political,

literary, and dramatic, having drawn forth this high mark of royal

favour.

[pg 115] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS—NO. X. A man holds a paper marked 'Her

Majesty's Command to Dinner' THE DINER-OUT.

[pg 117] THE OMEN OUTWITTED: OR, HOW HIS REVERENCE’S HEELS TOOK STEPS TO

SAVE HIS HEAD. “So, Dick, I mean your ‘reverence,’ you like the blessed

old country as well as ever, eh, lad?”

“As well, ay, almost better. My return to it is like the meeting of

long-parted friends—the joy of the moment is pure and unalloyed—all

minor faults are forgotten—all former goodness rushes with double force

from the recollection to the heart, and the renewal of old fellowship

grafts new virtues (the sweet fruits of regretted absence) upon him who

has been the chosen tenant of our ‘heart of hearts.’”

“His reverence’s health—three times three (empty them heeltaps, Jack,

and fill out of the fresh jug)—now, boys, give tongue. That’s the raal

thing; them cheers would wake the seven sleepers after a dose of

laudanum. Bless you, and long life to you! That’s the worst wish you’ll

find here.”

“I know that right well, uncle. I know it, feel it, and most heartily

thank you all.”

“Enough said, parson. By dad, Dick, its mighty droll to be calling you,

that was but yesterday a small curly-pated gossoon, by that clerical

mouthful of a handle to your name. But do you find us altered much?”

“There is no change but Time’s—that has fallen lightly. To be sure,

yesterday I was looking for the heads of my strapping cousins at the

bottom button of their well-filled waistcoats, and, before Jack’s

arrival, meant to do a paternal and patriarchal ‘pat’ on his, at

somewhere about that altitude; a ceremony he must excuse, as the little

lad of my mind has thought proper to expand into a young Enniskillen of

six feet three.”

“He’s a mighty fine boy—the lady-killing vagabone!” said the father,

with a kind look of gratified pride; and then added, as if to stop the

infection of the vanity, “and there’s no denying he’s big enough to be

better.” Here a slight scrimmage at the door of the dining-room

attracted the attention of the “masther.”

“What’s the meaning of that noise, ye vagabones?”

“Spake up, Mickey.”

“Is it me?” “It is.” “Not at all, by no means. Let Paddy do it, or Tim

Carroll; they’re used to going out wid the car, and don’t mind spaking

to the quality.” “Take yourselves out o’that, or let me know what you

want, and be pretty quick about it, too.”

The result of this order was the appearance of Tim Carroll in the centre

of the room—a dig between the shoulders, and vigorously-applied kick

behind, hastening him into that somewhat uneasy situation, with a degree

of expedition perfectly marvellous.

“Spake out, what is it?” “Ahem!” commenced Tim; “you see, sir (aside),

I’ll be even wid you for that kick, you thief of the world—you see,

Paddy (bad manners to him) and the rest o’ the boys, was thinking that,

owing to the change o’ climate, Master Richard—that is, his new

riverence—has gone through by rason of laving England and comin’

here—and mighty could, no doubt, he was on the journey—be praised he’s

safe—the boy, sir, was thinkin’, masther dear, it was nothing but their

duty, and what was due to the family, to ax your honour’s opinion about

their takin’ the smallest taste of whiskey in life, jist to be drinking

his riverence’s Masther Richard’s health, and”—“Success to him!” shouted

the chorus at the door. “That’s it!” said the masther. “And nothing but

it!” responded the chorus. “Nelly, my jewel! take the kays and give them

anything in dacency!” “Hurrah! smiling good luck to you, for ever and

afther!” “That’ll do, boys! but stay: it’s Terence Conway’s wedding

night—it’s a good tenant he’s been to me—take the sup down there, and

you’ll get a dance; now be off, you devils!”

“Many thanks to your honour!” chorused the delighted group; and “I done

that iligant, anyhow,” muttered the gratified, successful, and,

therefore, forgiving orator. “I’ll try again. Ahem! wouldn’t the young

gentlemen just step down for a taste?” “By all manes!” was chimed at

once; their hats were mounted in a moment, and off they set.

Terence Conway’s farm was soon reached; the barn affording the most

accommodation for the numerous visitors, was fitted up for the occasion.

It was nearly full, as Terence was a popular man—one that didn’t grudge

the “bit and sup,” and never turned his back upon friend or foe. Loud

and hearty were the cheers of the delighted tenantry, as the three sons

of their beloved landlord passed the threshold. The appearance of the

“stranger” was received with no such demonstrations of welcome; on the

contrary, there was a sullen silence, soon after broken by suppressed

and angry murmurs. These were somewhat appeased by one of the sons

introducing his “cousin,” and endeavouring to joke the peasants into

good-humour, by laughingly assuring them his “reverence” was but a bad

drinker, and would not deprive them of much of the poteen; then passing

his arm through the parson’s, he led the way, as it afterwards turned

out, rather unfortunately, to the top of the barn, and there, followed

by his brothers, they took their seats.

The entrance of the Catholic priest (a most amiable man) at this moment

attracted the entire attention of the party, during which time Tim

Carroll elbowed his way to the place where his master was seated, and

calling him partially aside, whispered, “Master John, dear, tell his

riverence, Master Richard, to go.”

“What for?”

“Sure, is not he entirely in black?”

“Well, what of it?”

“What of it? Houly Paul! the likes o’ that! If my skin was as hard as a

miser’s heart, I wouldn’t put it into a black coat, and come to a

wedding in it; it’s the devil’s own bad omen, and nothing else!”

“You are right! What a fool I was not to tell Dick! Cousin, a word!”

Here the clamour became somewhat louder, the priest taking an active

part, and speaking rapidly and earnestly in their native tongue to the

evidently excited peasantry. He suddenly broke from them, and hastening

to the Protestant clergyman, grasped his hand, and, shaking it heartily,

wished him “health, long life, and happiness:” and lifting a tumbler of

punch to his lips, drank off nearly half its contents, exclaiming the

customary, “God save all here!” He then presented the liquor to the

stranger, saying in a low earnest voice, “Drink that toast, sir!”

This order was instantly complied with. The clear tones of the young

man’s unfaltering voice and the hearty cordiality of his utterance had a

singular effect upon the more turbulent; the priest passed rapidly from

the one to the other, and endeavoured to say something pleasant to all,

but, despite his attempts at calmness, he was evidently ill at ease.

Tim Carroll again sidled up to his young master.

“The boys mane harrum, sir,” said Tim; “but never mind, there’s five of

us here. We’ve not been idle, we’ve all been taking pick o’ the sticks,

and divil a stroke falls upon one of the ould ancient family widout

showing a bruck head or a flat back for it.”

“What am I to understand by this?” inquired the young stranger.

“That you’re like Tom Fergusson when he rode the losing horse—you’ve

mounted the wrong colour; and, be dad, you are pretty well marked down

for it, sir; but never mind, there’s Tim Carroll looking as black as the

inside of a sut-bag. Let him come on! he peeled the skin off them shins

o’ mine at futball; maybe, I won’t trim his head with black thorn for

that same, if he’s any ways obstropolis this blessed night.”

“Silence, sir! neither my inclination nor sacred calling will allow me

to countenance a broil! I have been the first offender—to attempt to

leave the room now would but provoke an attack; leave this affair to me,

and don’t interfere.”

“By the powers! if man or mortal lifts his hand to injure you, I’ll

smash the soul out of him! Do you think, omen or no omen, I’ll stand by

and see you harmed?—not a bit of it! If you are a parson and a child of

peace, I have the honour to be a soldier, and claim my right to battle

in your cause.”

Maugre the pacific tone of the unfortunately-accoutered ecclesiastic,

there was something of defiance in his flashing eye and crimson cheek,

as he turned his brightening glance upon what might almost be called the

host of his foes; and the nervous pressure which returned the grasp of

his cousin’s sinewy hand, spoke something more of readiness for battle

than could have been gathered from his expressed wishes.

“If, Jack, it comes to that, why, as human nature is weak—excuse what I

may feel compelled to do; but for the present pray oblige me by keeping

your seat and the peace; or, if you must move and fidget about, go and

make that pugnacious Tim Carroll as decent as you can.”

“I’ll be advised by you, Dick; but look out!” So saying, the stalwart

young officer bustled his way to the uproarious Tim.

It was well he did so, or bloodshed must have ensued, as at that moment

a tall and powerful man, brother-in-law to the bride, lifted his stick,

and after giving it the customary twirl aimed a point-blank blow at the

head of the ill-omened parson. The bound of an antelope brought the girl

to the spot; her small hand averted the direction of the deadly weapon,

and before the action had been perceived by any present, or the attempt

could be resumed, she dropped a curtesy to the assailant, and in a loud

voice, with an affected laugh, exclaimed—

“You, if you plaise, sir;” and, turning quickly to the fiddler,

continued: “Any tune you like, Mr. Murphy, sir; but, good luck to you,

be quick, or we won’t have a dance to-night!”

“Clear the floor!—a dance! a dance!” shouted every one.

In a few seconds the angry scowl had passed from the flushed cheeks of

Dan Sheeny, and there he was, toe and heeling, double shuffling, and

cutting it over the buckle, to the admiration of all beholders. The

bride was seated near the stranger—he perceived this, and suddenly

quitting his place, danced up to her, and nodding, as he stopped for a

moment, invited her to join him. She was ever light of foot, and, as she

said afterwards, “would have danced her life out but she’d give the poor

young gentleman a chance.” Long and vigorously did Dan Sheeny advance,

retire, curvette, and caper. The whiskey and exertion at length overcame

him, and he left the lady sole mistress of the floor. By this time

murmurs had again arisen, and all eyes were turned upon the intruder,

who had been intently engaged observing the dancers. It was an

accomplishment for which he had been celebrated previous to his taking

orders, and the old feeling so strongly interested him, that he was

absorbed in the pleasure of witnessing the activity and joyousness of

the performers. He turned his head for an instant—a heavy hand was laid

upon his shoulder. On his starting up, he saw nothing but the smiling

Norah pressing the arm of a tall peasant, and curtseying him a challenge

to join her “on the floor.” He paused for a moment, then gaily taking

her hand, advanced with her to the centre. All eyes were bent upon them,

but there was no restraint in the young parson’s manner. The most

popular jig-tune was called for—to it they went; his early-taught and

well-practised feet beat living echoes to the most rapid bars. A foot of

ground seemed ample space for all the intricate compilation of the raal

Conamera “capers.” The tune was changed again and again; again and again

was his infinity of steps adapted to its varying sounds: to use a

popular phrase, you might have heard a pin drop. Every mouth was closed,

every eye fixed upon his rapid feet; and, when at length wearied with

exertion, the almost fainting girl was falling to the earth, her gallant

partner caught her in his arms, and, like an infant, bore her to the

open air, one loud and general cheer burst from their unclosed lips; a

few moments restored the pretty lass to perfect health. Her first words

were, “Leave me, sir, and save yourself.” It was too late; borne on the

shoulders of the admiring mob, who, despite his suit of sables (now

rendered innoxious by the varying colour of the crimson kerchief the

young bride bound round his neck), he was soon seated in the chair of

honour, and there, surrounded by his friends, finished the night the

“lion of the dance.” And thus it was that his “Reverence’s heels took

steps to preserve his head.”—FUSBOS

[pg 118] TRANSACTIONS AND YEARLY REPORT. OF THE HOOKHAM-CUM-SNIVEY

LITERARY, SCIENTIFIC, AND MECHANICS’ INSTITUTION. (Continued from our

last.)

An important and advantageous arrangement in the transactions of the

society, since its foundation, has been the institution of the classes

“for the acquisition of a general smattering of everything,” more

especially as concerning the younger branches of society. It is,

however, much to be regretted, that the public examination of the

juvenile members, upon the subjects they had listened to during the past

course, did not turn out so well as the committee could have wished. The

various professors had taken incredible pains to teach the infant

philosophers correct answers to the separate questions that would be

asked them, in order that they might reply with becoming readiness.

Unfortunately the examiner began at the wrong end of the class, and

threw them all out, except the middle one. We sub-join a few of the

questions:—

State the distance, in miles, from the Hanwell Lunatic Asylum to the

Tuesday in Easter week, and show how long a man would be going from one

to the other, if he travelled at the rate of four gallons a minute.

Required to know the advantages of giving tracts to poor people who

cannot read, and how many are equivalent to a sliding-scale penny

buster, in the way of nourishment.

“Was Lord John Russell in his Windsor uniform, ever mistaken for a two-

penny postman; if so, what great man imagined the affinity?

A smoking, drinking sailor sits atop a telescope marked 'BACCA'. The

School of Design and Drawing has made very creditable progress, and the

subscribers will be gratified in learning, that one of the pupils sent

in a design for the Nelson Testamonial, which would in all probability

have been accepted, had not the decision been made in the usual

preconcerted underhand manner. Following the columnar idea of Mr.

Railton, our talented pupil had put forth a peculiarly appropriate idea:

the shaft would have been formed by a sea-telescope of gigantic

proportions, pulled out to its utmost extent. On the summit of this

Nelson would have been seated, as on the maintop, smoking his pipe, from

which real smoke would have issued. This would have been produced by a

stove at the bottom of the column, whose object was to furnish a steady

supply of baked potatoes, uninfluenced by the fluctuations of the

market, to the cabmen of Trafalgar-square, and the street-sweepers at

Charing-cross. The artist who designed the elegant structure at King’s-

cross, which partakes so comprehensively of the attributes of a pump, a

watch-house, a lamp-post, and a turnpike, would have superintended its

erection, and a carved figure-head might have been purchased, for a mere

song, to crown the elevation. It would not have much mattered whether

the image was intended for Nelson or not, because, from its extreme

elevation, no one, without a spy-glass, could have told one character

from another—Thiers from Lord John Russell, George Steevens from

Shakspere, Muntz from the Duke of Brunswick, or anybody else.

THE MUSEUM. The museum of the institution has been gradually increasing

in valuable additions, and donations are respectfully requested from

families having any dust-collecting articles about their houses which

they are anxious to get rid of.

The first curiosities presented were, of course, those which have formed

the nucleus of every museum that was ever established, and consisted of

“South Sea Islander’s paddles and spears, North American mocassins and

tomahawks, and Sandwich (not in Kent, but in the Pacific Ocean) canoes

and fishing-tackle. In addition, we have received the following, which

the society beg to acknowledge:—

The jaw-bone of an animal, supposed to be a cow, found two feet below

the surface, in digging for the Great Western Railway, near Slough.

Farthing, penny, and sixpence, of the reign of George the Fourth.

Piece of wood from the red-funnel steam-boat sunk off the Isle of Dogs,

in August, 1841, which had been under water nearly six days.

A variety of articles manufactured from the above, sufficient to build a

boat twelve times the size, may be purchased of the librarian.

A floor-tile, in excellent preservation, from the old Hookham-cum-Snivey

workhouse kitchen, before the new union was built.

Specimens of pebbles collected from the gravel-pits at Highgate, and a

valuable series of oyster-shells, discovered the day after Bartholomew-

fair, near the corner of Cock-lane.

A small lizard, caught in the Regent’s-park, preserved in gin-and-water,

in a soda-water bottle, and denominated by the librarian “a heffut.”

LIBRARY. Advertisement half of a Times newspaper for March, 1838.

Playbill of the English Opera during Balfe’s management, supposed to be

that of the memorable night when 16l. 4s. was taken, in hard cash, at

the doors.

View of the Execution of the late Mr. Greenacre in front of Newgate,

published by Catnach, from a drawing by an unknown artist. (Very rare!)

MS. pantomime, refused at the Haymarket, entitled “Harlequin and the

Hungarian Daughter; or, All My Eye and Betty Martinuzzi,” with the whole

of the songs, choruses, and incidental combats and situations. Presented

by the author, in company with a receipt for red and green fire.

Bound copy of Sermons preached at Hookham-cum-Snivey Church, by the

Reverend Peter Twaddle, on the occasions, of building a dusthole for the

national schools; of outfitting the missionaries who are exported

annually to be eaten by the Catawampous Indians; on the death of Mr.

Grubly, the retired cheesemonger, who endowed the weathercock; and in

aid of the funds of the “newly-born-baby-clothes-bag-and-basket-

institution:” printed at the desire of his, “he fears, in this instance,

too partial” parishioners, and presented by himself.

OUR FOREIGN RELATIONS. The treaty of the four powers, to which Chelsea,

Battersea, Brompton, and Wandsworth are parties, and from which Pimlico

has hitherto obstinately stood aloof, has at length been ratified by the

re-entry of that impetuous suburb into the general views of Middlesex.

We have now a right to call upon Pimlico to disarm, and to cut off its

extra watchman with a promptitude that shall show the sincerity with

which it has joined the neighbouring powers in the celebrated treaty of

Kensington. It is already known that, by this document, Moses Hayley is

recognised as hereditary beadle, and Abraham Parker is placed in

undisturbed possession of the post of waterman on the coach-stand in the

outskirts. We are not among those who expect to find a spirit of

propagandism prevailing in the policy of the powers of Pimlico. The

lamplighter who lights the district is a man of sound discernment, and

there is everything to hope from the moderation he has always exhibited.

SIBTHORP ON THE CORN LAW. Sibthorp came out in full fig at Sir Robert

Peel’s dinner. While he was having his hair curled, and the irons were

heating, he asked the two-penny operator what was his opinion of the

corn-law question. The barber’s answer suggested the following con.:—

“Why am I like a man eating a particular sort of fancy

bread?”—“Because,” answered the tonsor, “you are having

A man gets his hair styled. A TWOPENNY TWIST”

This reply made the Colonel’s hair stand on end, taking it quite out of

curl.

FISH SAUCE. The boy Jones, in one of his visits to the Palace, to avoid

detection, secreted himself up the kitchen chimney. The intense heat

necessary for the preparation of a large dish of white-bait for her

Majesty’s dinner compelled him to relax his hold, and in an instant he

was precipitated among the Blackwall delicacies. The indignant cook

immediately demanded “his business there.” “Don’t you see,” observed the

younker, “I’m

A boy tumbles into a large frying pan. ONE OF THE FRY?”

[pg 119] PUNCH’S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE. NO. 4. NATURAL HISTORY.

Definition.—The history of “naturals”—which chiefly include the human

species—and of “simples” (herbs), occupies the branch of science we are

about to enlighten our readers upon. It treats, in fact, of animated

nature; while physical history—instead of being the history of

Apothecaries’ Hall, as many suppose—deals exclusively with inanimate

matter.

Of genus, species, and orders.—If, in the vegetable world, we commence

with the buttercup, and trace all the various kinds and sizes of plants

that exist, up to the pine (Norwegian), and down again to the hautboy

(Cormack’s Princesses); if, among the lower animals, we begin with a

gnat and go up to an elephant, or select from the human species a Lord

John Russell, and place him beside a professor Whewell, we shall see

that nature provides an endless variety of all sorts of everything. Now,

to render a knowledge of everything in natural history as difficult of

acquirement as possible to everybody, the scientific world divides

nature into the above-mentioned classes, to which Latin names are given.

For instance, it would be vulgarly ridiculous to call a “cat” by its

right name; and when one says “cat,” a dogmatic naturalist is justified

in thinking one means a lion or tiger, both these belonging to the

category of “cats;” hence, a “cat” is denominated, for shortness, felis

Ægyptiacus; an ass is turned into a horse, by being an equus; a woman

into a man, for with him she is equally homo.

Of this last species it is our purpose exclusively to treat. The variety

of it we commence with is,

THE BARBER (homo emollientissimus.—TRUEFIT). Physical structure and

peculiarities.—The most singular peculiarity of the barber is, that

although, in his avocations, he always is what is termed a “strapper,”

yet his stature is usually short. His tongue, however, makes up for this

deficiency, being remarkably long,—a beautiful provision of nature; for

while he is seldom called upon to use his legs with rapidity, his

lingual organ is always obliged to be on the “run.” His eyes are keen,

and his wits sharp; his mouth is tinged with humour, and his

hair—particularly when threatening to be gray—with poudre unique.

Manner, prepossessing; crop, close; fingers, dirty; toes, turned out. He

seldom indulges in whiskers, for his business is to shave.

1. Habits, reproduction, and food.—A singular uniformity of habits is

observable amongst barbers. They all live in shops curiously adorned

with play-bills and pomatum-pots, and use the same formulary of

conversation to every new customer. All are politicians on both sides of

every subject; and if there happen to be three sides to a question, they

take a triangular view of it.

2. Reproduction.—Some men are born barbers, others have barberism thrust

upon them. The first class are brought forth in but small numbers, for

shavers seldom pair. The second take to the razor from disappointment in

trade or in love. This is evident, from the habits of the animal when

alone, at which period, if observed, a deep, mysterious, melo-dramatic

gloom will be seen to overspread his countenance. He is essentially a

social being; company is as necessary to his existence as beards.

3. Food.—Upon this subject the most minute researches of the most prying

naturalists have not been able to procure a crumb of information. That

the barber does eat can only be inferred; it cannot be proved, for no

person was ever known to catch him in the act; if he does masticate, he

munches in silence and in secret11. Not so of drinking. Only last week

we saw, with our own eyes, a pot of ale in a barber’s shop; and very

good ale it was, too, for we tasted it..

Geographical distribution of barbers.—Although the majority of barbers

live near the pole, they are pretty diffusely disseminated over the

entire face of the globe. The advance of civilization has, however, much

lessened their numbers; for we find, wherever valets are kept, barbers

are not; and as the magnet turns towards the north, they are attracted

to the east. In St. James’s, the shaver’s “occupation’s gone;” but

throughout the whole of Wapping, the distance is very short

A man is hit on the head by a barber pole. “FROM POLE TO POLE.”

A LECTURE ON MORALITY.—BY PUNCH. Moral philosophers are the greatest

fools in the world. I am a moral philosopher; I am no fool though. Who

contradicts me? If any, speak, and come within reach of my cudgel. I am

a moral philosopher of a new school. The schoolmaster is abroad, and I

am the schoolmaster; but if anybody says that I am abroad, I will knock

him down. I am at home. And now, good people, attend to me, and you will

hear something worth learning.

The reason why I call all moral philosophers fools is, because they have

not gone properly to work. Each has given his own peculiar notions,

merely, to the world. Now, different people have different opinions:

some like apples, and others prefer another sort of fruit, with which,

no doubt, many of you are familiar. “Who shall decide when doctors

disagree?”

My system of morality is the result of induction. I am very fond of

Bacon—I mean, the Bacon recommended to you by the “Society for the

Diffusion of Useful Knowledge”—Lord Bacon. I therefore study the actions

of mankind, and draw my inferences accordingly. The people whose conduct

I attend to are those who get on best in the world; for the object of

all morality is to make ourselves happy, and as long as we are so, what,

my good friends, does it signify?

The first thing that you must do in the study of morals is, to get rid

of all prejudices. Bacon and I quite agree upon this point. By

prejudices I mean your previous notions concerning right and wrong.

Dr. Johnson calls morality “the doctrine of the duties of life.” In this

definition I agree. The doctor was a clever man. I very much admire the

knock-down arguments that he was so fond of; it is the way in which I

usually reason myself. Now the duties of life are two-fold—our duty to

others and our duty to ourselves. Our duty to ourselves is to make

ourselves as comfortable as possible; our duty to others, is to make

them assist us to the best of their ability in so doing. This is the

plan on which all respectable persons act, and it is one which I have

always followed myself. What are the consequences? See how popular I am;

and, what is more, observe how fat I have got! Here is a corporation for

you! Here is a leg! What think you of such a cap as this? and of this

embroidered coat? Who says that I am not a fine fellow, and that my

system is not almost as fine? Let him argue the point with me, if he

dare!

Happiness consists in pursuing our inclinations without disturbance, and

without getting into trouble. Make it, then, your first rule of conduct

always to do exactly as you please; that is, if you can. I am not like

other moralists, who talk in one way and act in another. What I advise

you to do, is nothing more than what I practise myself, as you have very

often observed, I dare say.

Be careful to show, invariably, a proper respect for the laws; that is

to say, when you do anything illegal, take all the precautions that you

can against being found out. Here, perhaps, my example is somewhat at

variance with my doctrine; but I am stronger, you know, than the

executive, and therefore, instead of my respecting it, it ought to

respect me.

Be sure to keep a quiet conscience. In order that you may secure this

greatest of blessings, never allow yourselves to regret any part of your

past behaviour; and whenever you feel tempted to do so, take the

readiest means that you can think of to banish reflection, or, as Lord

Byron very properly terms it—

“The blight of life, the demon Thought!”

You have observed that, after having knocked anybody on the head, I

generally begin to dance and sing. This I do, not because I am troubled

with any such weakness as remorse, but in order to instruct you. I do

not mean to say that you are to conduct yourselves precisely in the same

manner under similar circumstances; a pipe, or a pot, or a pinch of

snuff—in short, any means of diversion—will answer your purpose equally

well.

Adhere strictly to truth—whenever there is no occasion for lying. Be

particularly careful to conceal no one circumstance likely to redound to

your credit. But when two principles clash, the weaker, my good people,

must, as the saying is, go to the wall. If, therefore, it be to your

interest to lie, do so, and do it boldly. No one would wear false hair

who had hair of his own; but he who has none, must, of course, wear a

wig. I do not see any difference between false hair and false

assertions; and I think a lie a very useful invention. It is like a coat

or a pair of breeches, it serves to clothe the naked. But do not throw

your falsifications away: I like a proper economy. Some silly persons

would have you invariably speak the truth. My friends, if you were to

act in this way, in what department of commerce could you succeed? How

could you get on in the law? what vagabond would ever employ you to

defend his cause? What practice do you think you would be likely to

procure as a physician, if you were to tell every old woman who fancied

herself ill, that there was nothing the matter with her, or to prescribe

abstinence to an alderman, as a cure for indigestion? What would be your

prospect in the church, where, not to mention a few other little

trifles, you would have, when you came to be made a bishop, to say that

you did not wish to be any such thing? No, my friends, truth is all very

well when the telling of it is convenient; but when it is not, give me a

bouncing lie. But that one lie, object the advocates of uniform

veracity, will require twenty more to make it good: very well, then,

tell them. Ever have a due regard to the sanctity of oaths; this you

will evince by never using them to support a fiction, except on high and

solemn occasions, such as when you are about to be invested with some

public dignity. But avoid any approach to a superstitious veneration for

them: it is to keep those thin-skinned and impracticable individuals who

are infected by this failing from the management of public affairs, that

they have been, in great measure, devised.

Never break a promise, unless bound to do so by a previous one; and

promise yourselves from this time forth never to do anything that will

put you to inconvenience.

[pg 120] Never take what does not belong to you. For, as a young pupil

who formerly attended these lectures pathetically expressed himself, he

furnishing, at the time, in his own person, an illustration of the

maxim—

“Him as prigs wot isn’t his’n,

Ven ’a’s cotch must go to pris’n!”

But what is it that does not belong to you? I answer, whatever you

cannot take with impunity. Never fail, however, to appropriate that

which the law does not protect. This is a duty which you owe to

yourselves. And in order that you may thoroughly carry out this

principle, procure, if you can, a legal education; because there are a

great many flaws in titles, agreements, and the like, the knowledge of

which will often enable you to lay hands upon various kinds of property

to which at first sight you might appear to have no claim. Should you

ever be so circumstanced as to be beyond the control of the law, you

will, of course, be able to take whatever you want; because there will

be nothing then that will not belong to you. This, my friends, is a

grand moral principle; and, as illustrative of it, we have an example

(as schoolboys say in their themes) in Alexander the Great; and besides,

in all other conquerors that have ever lived, from Nimrod down to

Napoleon inclusive.

Speak evil of no one behind his back, unless you are likely to get

anything by so doing. On the contrary, have a good word to say, if you

can, of everybody, provided that the person who is praised by you is

likely to be informed of the circumstance. And, the more to display the

generosity of your disposition, never hesitate, on convenient occasions,

to bestow the highest eulogies on those who do not deserve them.

Be abstemious—in eating and drinking at your own expense; but when you

feed at another person’s, consume as much as you can possibly digest.

Let your behaviour be always distinguished by modesty. Never boast or

brag, when you are likely to be disbelieved; and do not contradict your

superiors—that is to say, when you are in the presence of people who are

richer than yourselves, never express an opinion of your own.

Live peaceably with all mankind, if you can; but, as you cannot,

endeavor, as the next best thing, to settle all disputes as speedily as

possible, by coming, without loss of time, to blows; provided always

that the debate promises to be terminated, by reason of your superior

strength, in your own favour, and that you are not likely to be taken up

for knocking another person down. It is very true that I, individually,

never shun this kind of discussion, whatever may be the strength and

pretensions of my opponent; but then, I enjoy a consciousness of

superiority over the whole world, which you, perhaps, may not feel, and

which might, in some cases, mislead you. I think, however, that a

supreme contempt for all but yourselves is a very proper sentiment to

entertain; and, from what I observe of the conduct of certain teachers,

I imagine that this is what is meant by the word humility. You must,

nevertheless, be careful how you display it; do so only when you see a

probability of overawing and frightening those around you, so as to make

them contributors to the great aim of your existence—self-gratification.

Be firm, but not obstinate. Never change your mind when the result of

the alteration would be detrimental to your comfort and interest; but do

not maintain an inconvenient inflexibility of purpose. Do not, for

instance, in affairs of the heart, simply because you have declared,

perhaps with an oath or two, that you will be constant till death, think

it necessary to make any effort to remain so. The case stands thus: you

enter into an agreement with a being whose aggregate of perfections is

expressible, we will say, by 20. Now, if they would always keep at that

point, there might be some reason for your remaining unaltered, namely,

your not being able to help it. But suppose that they dwindle down to

19-1/2, the person, that is, the whole sum of the qualities admired, no

longer exists, and you, of course, are absolved from your engagement.

But mind, I do not say that you are justified in changing only in case

of a change on the opposite side: you may very possibly become simply

tired. In this case, your prior promise to yourself will absolve you

from the performance of the one in question.

And now, my good friends, before we part, let me beg of you not to allow

yourselves to be diverted from the right path by a parcel of cant. You

will hear my system stigmatised as selfish; and I advise you, whenever

you have occasion to speak of it in general society, to call it so too.

You will thus obtain a character for generosity; a very desirable thing

to have, if you can get it cheap. Selfish, indeed! is not self the axis

of the earth out of which you were taken? The fact is, good people, that

just as notions the very opposite of truth have prevailed in matters of

science, so have they, likewise, in those of morals. A set of

impracticable doctrines, under the name of virtue, have been preached up

by your teachers; and it is only fortunate that they have been practised

by so few; those few having been, almost to a man, poisoned, strangled,

burnt, or worse treated, for their pains.

But here comes the police, to interfere, as usual, with the

dissemination of useful truths. Farewell, my good people; and whenever

you are disposed for additional instruction, I can only say that I shall

be very happy to afford it to you for a reasonable consideration.

A BOWER OF BLISS IN STANGATE. Oh, fly to the Bower—fly with me.—OLD OR

NEW SONG (I forget which).

If you take a walk over Waterloo-bridge, and, after going straight on

for some distance, turn to the right, you will find yourself in the New-

Cut, where you may purchase everything, from a secretaire-bookcase to a

saveloy, on the most moderate terms possible. The tradesmen of the New-

Cut are a peculiar class, and the butchers, in particular, seem to be

brimming over with the milk of human kindness, for every female customer

is addressed as “My love,” while every male passer-by is saluted with

the friendly greeting of “Now, old chap, what can I do for you?” The

greengrocers in this “happy land” earnestly invite the ladies to “pull

away” at the mountains of cabbages which their sheds display, while

little boys on the pavement offer what they playfully designate “a

plummy ha’p’orth,” of onions to the casual passenger.

At the end of the New-Cut stands the Marsh-gate, which, at night, is all

gas and ghastliness, dirt and dazzle, blackguardism and brilliancy. The

illumination of the adjacent gin-palace throws a glare on the haggard

faces of those who are sauntering outside. Having arrived thus far,

watch your opportunity, by dodging the cabs and threading the maze of

omnibuses, to effect a crossing, when you will find Stangate-street,

running out, as some people say, of the Westminster-road; though of the

fact that a street ever ran out of a road, we take leave to be

sceptical.

Well, go on down this Stangate-street, and when you get to the bottom,

you will find, on the left-hand, THE BOWER! And a pretty bower it is,

not of leaves and flowers, but of bricks and mortar. It is not