“A bower of roses by Bendermere’s stream,

With the nightingale singing there all the day long;

In the days of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream,

To sit ’mid the roses and hear the birds’ song.

That bower, and its music, I never forget:

But oft, when alone, at the close of the year,

I think is the nightingale singing there yet,

Are the roses still fresh by the calm Bendermere?”

No, there is none of this sentimental twaddle about the Bower to which

we are alluding. There are no roses, and no nightingale; but there are

lots of smoking, and plenty of vocalists. We will paraphrase Moore,

since we can hardly do less, and we may say, with truth,

“There’s a Bower in Stangate’s respectable street,

There’s a company acting there all the night long;

In the days of my childhood, egad—what a treat!

To listen attentive to some thundering song.

That Bower and its concert I never forget;

But oft when of halfpence my pockets are clear,

I think, are the audience sitting there yet,

Still smoking their pipes, and imbibing their beer?”

Upon entering the door, you are called on to pay your money, which is

threepence for the saloon and sixpence for the boxes. The saloon is a

large space fitted up something like a chapel, or rather a court of

justice; there being in front of each seat a species of desk or ledge,

which, in the places last named would hold prayer-books or papers, but

at the Bower are designed for tumblers and pewter-pots. The audience,

like the spirits they imbibe, are very much mixed; the greater portion

consisting of respectable mechanics, while here and there may be seen an

individual, who, from his seedy coat, well-brushed four-and-nine hat,

highly polished but palpably patched highlows, outrageously shaved face

and absence of shirt collar, is decidedly an amateur, who now and then

plays a part, and as he is never mistaken for an actor on the stage,

tries when off to look as much like one as possible.

The boxes are nothing but a gallery, and are generally visited by a

certain class of ladies who resemble angels, at least, in one

particular, for they are “few and far between.”

But what are the entertainments? A miscellaneous concert, in which the

first tenor, habited in a surtout, with the tails pinned back, to look

like a dress-coat, apostrophises his “pretty Jane,” and begs

particularly to know her reason for looking so sheyi—vulgo, shy. Then

there is the bass, who disdains any attempt at a body-coat, but honestly

comes forward in a decided bearskin, and, while going down to G,

protests emphatically that “He’s on the C (sea).” Then there is the

prima donna, in a pink gauze petticoat, over a yellow calico slip, with

lots of jewels (sham), an immense colour in the very middle of the

cheek, but terribly chalked just about the mouth, and shouting the

“Soldier tired,” with a most insinuating simper at the corporal of the

Foot-guards in front, who returns the compliment by a most outrageous

leer between each whiff of his tobacco-pipe.

Then comes an Overture by the band, which is a little commonwealth, in

which none aspires to lead, none condescends to follow. At it they go

indiscriminately, and those who get first to the end of the composition,

strike in at the point where the others happen to have arrived; so that,

if they proceed at sixes and sevens, they generally contrive to end in

unison.

Occasionally we are treated with Musard’s Echo quadrilles, when the

solos are all done by the octave flute, so are all the echoes, and so is

everything but the cada.

But the grand performance of the night is the dramatic piece, which is

generally a three-act opera, embracing the whole debility of the

company. There is the villain, who always looks so wretched as to

impress on the mind that, if honesty is not the best policy, rascality

is certainly the worst. Then there is the lover, whose woe-begone

countenance and unhappy gait, render it really surprising that the

heroine, in dirty white sarsnet, should have displayed so much

constancy. The low comedy is generally done by a gentleman who, while

fully impressed with the importance of the “low,” seems wholly to

overlook the “comedy;” and there is now and then a banished nobleman,

who appears to have entirely forgotten everything in the shape of

nobility during his banishment. There is not unfrequently a display of

one of the proprietor’s children in a part requiring “infant innocence;”

and as our ideas of that angelic state are associated principally with

pudding heads and dirty faces, the performance is generally got through

with a nastiness approaching to nicety. But it is time to make our

escape from the Bower, and we therefore leave them to get through the

“Chough and Crow”—which is often the wind-up, because it admits of a

good deal of growling—in our absence. We cannot be tempted to remain

even to witness the pleasing performances of the “Sons of Syria,” nor

the “Aunts of Abyssinia.” We will not wait to see Mr. Macdonald sing

“Hot codlings” on his head, though the bills inform us he has been

honoured by a command to go through that interesting process from

“nearly all the crowned heads in Europe.”

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. SEPTEMBER 25, 1841. [pg 121] THE

HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER V. SHOWS THAT “THERE’S MANY A SLIP” BETWEEN

OTHER THINGS BESIDE “THE CUP AND THE LIP.” Block and tackle are lifting

a 'T' into place. he heir of Applebite continued to squall and thrive,

to the infinite delight of his youthful mamma, who was determined that

the joyful occasion of his cutting his first tooth should be duly

celebrated by an evening party of great splendour; and accordingly cards

were issued to the following effect:—

MR. AND MRS. APPLEBITE

REQUEST THE HONOUR OF

—— ——‘s

COMPANY TO AN EVENING PARTY,

On Thursday, the 12th inst.

Quadrilles. An Answer will oblige.

It was the first home-made party that Collumpsion had ever given; for

though during his bachelorhood he had been no niggard of his

hospitality, yet the confectioner had supplied the edibles, and the

upholsterer arranged the decorations; but now Mrs. Applebite, with a

laudable spirit of economy, converted No. 24, Pleasant-terrace, into a

perfect cuisine for a week preceding the eventful evening; and old John

was kept in a constant state of excitement by Mrs. Waddledot, who

superintended the ornamental department of these elaborate preparations.

Agamemnon felt that he was a cipher in the house, for no one

condescended to notice him for three whole days, and it was with extreme

difficulty that he could procure the means of “recruiting exhausted

nature” at those particular hours which had hitherto been devoted to the

necessary operation.

On the morning of the 12th, Agamemnon was anxiously engaged in

endeavouring to acquire a knowledge of the last alterations in the

figure of La Pastorale, when he fancied he heard an unusual commotion in

the lower apartments of his establishment. In a few moments his name was

vociferously pronounced by Mrs. Applebite, and the affrighted

Collumpsion rushed down stairs, expecting to find himself another

Thyestes, whose children, it is recorded, were made into a pie for his

own consumption.

On entering the kitchen he perceived the cause of the uproar, although

he could see nothing else, for the dense suffocating vapour with which

the room was filled.

“Oh dear!” said Mrs. Applebite, “the chimney’s on fire; one pound of

fresh butter—”

“And two pound o’lard’s done it!” exclaimed Susan.

“What’s to be done?” inquired Collumpsion.

“Send for my brother, sir,” said Betty.

“Where does he live?” cried old John.

“On No. 746,” replied Betty.

“Where’s that?” cried the whole assembled party.

“I don’t know, but it’s a hackney-coach as he drives,” said Betty.

A general chorus of “Pshaw!” greeted this very unsatisfactory rejoinder.

Another rush of smoke into the kitchen rendered some more active

measures necessary, and, after a short discussion, it was decided that

John and Betty should proceed to the roof of the house with two pailsful

of water, whilst Agamemnon remained below to watch the effects of the

measure. When John and Betty arrived at the chimney-pots, the pother was

so confusing, that they were undecided which was the rebellious flue!

but, in order to render assurance doubly sure, they each selected the

one they conceived to be the delinquent, and discharged the contents of

their buckets accordingly, without any apparent diminution of the

intestine war which was raging in the chimney. A fresh supply from a

cistern on the roof, similarly applied, produced no better effects, and

Agamemnon, in an agony of doubt, rushed up-stairs to ascertain the cause

of non-abatement. Accidentally popping his head into the drawing-room,

what was his horror at beholding the beautiful Brussels carpet, so

lately “redolent of brilliant hues,” one sheet of inky liquid, into

which Mrs. Waddledot (who had followed him) instantly swooned.

Agamemnon, in his alarm, never thought of his wife’s mother, but had

rushed half-way up the next flight of stairs, when a violent knocking

arrested his ascent, and, with the fear of the whole fire-brigade before

his eyes, he re-rushed to open the door, the knocker of which kept up an

incessant clamour both in and out of the house. The first person that

met his view was a footman, 25, dyed with the same sooty evidence of

John and Betty’s exertions, as he had encountered on entering his own

drawing-room. The dreadful fact flashed upon Collumpsion’s mind, and

long before the winded and saturated servant could detail the horrors he

had witnessed in “his missuses best bed-room, in No. 25,” the bewildered

proprietor of No. 24 was franticly shaking his innocently offending

menials on the leads of his own establishment. Then came a confused

noise of little voices in the street, shouting and hurraing in the

fulness of that delight which we regret to say is too frequently felt by

the world at large at the misfortunes of one in particular. Then came

the sullen rumble of the parish engine, followed by violent assaults on

the bell and knocker, then another huzza! welcoming the extraction of

the fire-plug, and the sparkling fountain of “New River,” which followed

as a providential consequence. Collumpsion again descended, as John had

at last discovered the right chimney, and having inundated the stewpans

and the kitchen, had succeeded in extinguishing the sooty cause of all

these disasters. The mob had, by this time, increased to an alarming

extent. Policemen were busily employed in making a ring for the

exhibition of the water-works—little boys were pushing each other into

the flowing gutters—small girls, with astonished infants in their arms,

were struggling for front places against the opposite railings; and

every window, from the drawing-rooms to the attics, in Pleasant-terrace

were studded with heads, in someway resembling the doll heads in a

gingerbread lottery, with which a man on a wooden leg was tempting the

monied portion of the juvenile alarmists. Agamemnon opened the door, and

being flanked by the whole of his household, proceeded to address the

populace on the present satisfactory state of his kitchen chimney. The

announcement was received by expressions of extreme disgust, as though

every auditor considered that a fire ought to have taken place, and that

they had been defrauded of their time and excitement, and that the

extinguishing of the same by any other means than by legitimate engines

was a gross imposition. He was about remonstrating with them on the

extreme inconvenience which would have attended a compliance with their

reasonable and humane objections, when his eloquence was suddenly cut

short by a jet d’eau which a ragged urchin directed over him, by

scientifically placing his foot over the spouting plug-hole. This clever

manoeuvre in some way pacified the crowd, and after awaiting the re-

appearance of the parish engineer, who had insisted on a personal

inspection of the premises, they gave another shout of derision and

departed.

Thus commenced the festivities to celebrate the advent of the first

tooth of the Heir of Applebite.

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

is filled with beauty and fashion, there being lots of large curls and

small bonnets in every portion of the town and neighbourhood.

We understand it is in contemplation to convert the mud on the banks of

the river into sand, in order that the idea of the sea-side may be

realised as far as possible. Two donkey cart-loads have already been

laid down by way of experiment, and the spot on which they were thrown

was literally thronged with pedestrians. The only difficulty likely to

arise is, that the tide washes the sand away, and leaves the mud just as

usual.

The return of the imports and exports shows an immense increase in the

prosperity of this, if not salubrious sea-port, at least healthy

watercourse. It seems that the importation of Margate slippers this

year, as compared with that of the last, has been as two-and-three-

quarters to one-and-a-half, or rather more than double, while the

consumption of donkeys has been most gratifying, and proves beyond doubt

that the pedestrians and equestrians are not so numerous by any means as

the asinestrians. The first round of a new ladder for ascending the

balconies of the bathing-rooms was laid on Wednesday, amidst an

inconvenient concourse of visitors. With the exception of a rap on the

toes received by those who pressed so much on the carpenter employed as

to retard the progress of his work, all passed off quietly. After the

ceremony, the man was regaled by the proprietor of the rooms with some

beer, at the tap of the neighbouring hotel for families and gentlemen.

[pg 122] A crowd gathers around 'Punch Office' PUNCH’S ESSENCE OF

GUFFAW. SCRUPULOUSLY PREPARED FROM THE RECIPE OF THE LATE MR. JOSEPH

MILLER, AND PATRONISED BY THE ROYAL FAMILY, THE TWELVE JUDGES, THE LORD

CHANCELLOR, THE SWELL MOB, MR. HOBLER, AND THE COURT OF ALDERMEN; ALSO

BY THE COMMISSIONERS OF POLICE, THE SEXTON OF ST. MARYLEBONE, THE

PHOENIX LIFE ASSURANCE COMPANY, THE KING OF THE SANDWICH ISLANDS, AND

THE LONDON MISSIONARY SOCIETY. This inestimable composition, which cures

all disorders, and keeps in all climates, may be had of every

respectable bookseller on the face of the globe. Price 3d.

TESTIMONIALS. TO MR. PUNCH. SIR,—Having incautiously witnessed two

consecutive performances of Mr. Macready in the “Lady of Lyons,” the

comic portions of them threw me into a state of deep and chronic

melancholy, which the various physicians employed were unable to cure.

Hearing, however, of your excellent medicine, I took it regularly every

Saturday for five weeks, and am now able to go about my daily

employment, which being that of a low comedian, was materially

interfered with by my late complaint.

I remain, with gratitude, yours truly,

JOHN SAUNDERS.

New Strand Theatre.

SIR,—I was, till lately, private secretary to Lord John Russell. I had

to copy his somniferous dispatches, to endure a rehearsal of his prosy

speeches, to get up, at an immense labour to myself, incessant laughs at

his jokes. At length, by the enormous exertions the last duty imposed

upon me, I sunk into a hopeless state of cachinnatory impotence: my

risible muscles refused to perform their office, and I lost mine. I was

discharged. Fortunately, however, for me, I happened to meet with your

infallible “Pills to Purge Melancholy,” and tried Nos. 1 to 10 inclusive

of them.

With feelings overflowing with gratitude, I now inform you, that I have

procured another situation with Sir James Graham; and to show you how

completely my roaring powers have returned, I have only to state, that

it was I who got up the screeching applause with which Sir James’s

recent jokes about the Wilde and Tame serjeants were greeted.

I am, Sir, yours,

GEORGE STEPHEN,

Late “over”-Secretary, and Author of the “Canadian Rebellion.”

SIR,—Being the proprietor of several weekly newspapers, which I have

conducted for many years, my jocular powers gradually declined, from

hard usage and incessant labour, till I was reduced to a state of

despair; for my papers ceasing to sell, I experienced a complete

stoppage of circulation.

In this terrible state I had the happiness to meet with your “Essence of

Guffaw,” and tried its effect upon my readers, by inserting several

doses of your Attic salt in my “New Weekly Messenger,” “Planet,” &c. &c.

The effects were wonderful. Their amount of sale increased at every

joke, and has now completely recovered.

I am, Sir,

JOHN BELL.

Craven-street, Strand.

Note.—This testimonial is gratifying, as the gentleman has hitherto

failed to acknowledge the source of the wonderful cure we have effected

in his property.

SIR,—As the author of the facetious political essays in the “Morning

Herald,” it is but due to you that I should candidly state the reason

why my articles have, of late, so visibly improved.

In truth, sir, I am wholly indebted to you. Feeling a gradual debility

come over my facetiæ, I tried several potions of the “New Monthly” and

“Bentley’s Miscellany,” without experiencing the smallest relief.

“PUNCH” and his “Essence of Guffaw” were, however, most strongly

recommended to me by my friend the editor of “Cruikshank’s Omnibus,” who

had wonderfully revived after taking repeated doses. I followed his

example, and am now completely re-established in fine, jocular health.

I am, Sir,

THE “OWN CORRESPONDENT.”

Shoe-lane.

Inestimable SIR,—A thousand blessings light upon your head! You have

snatched a too fond heart from a too early grave. My life-preserver, my

PUNCH! receive the grateful benedictions of a resuscitated soul, of a

saved Seraphina Simpkins!

Samuel, dearest PUNCH, was false! He took Jemima to the Pavilion; I

detected his perfidy, and determined to end my sorrows under the fourth

arch of Waterloo-bridge.

In my way to the fatal spot I passed—no, I could not pass—your office.

By chance directed, or by fate constrained, I stopped to read a placard

of your infallible specific. I bought one dose—it was enough. I have now

forgotten Samuel, and am happy in the affection of another.

Publish this, if you please; it may be of service to young persons who

are crossed in love, and in want of straw-bonnets at 3s. 6d. each, best

Dunstable.

I am, yours,

SERAPHINA SIMPKINS,

Architect of Tuscan, straw, and other bonnets, Lant-street, Borough.

CAUTION.—None are genuine unless duly stamped—with good humour, good

taste, and good jokes. Observe: “PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, price

Threepence,” is on the cover. Several spurious imitations are abroad, at

a reduced price, the effects of which are dreadful upon the system.

W(H)AT TYLER. The following pictorial joke has been sent to us by Count

D’Orsay, which he denominates

An aristocratic black man is fitted for a hat. TILING A FLAT.

All our attempts to discover the wit of this tableau d’esprit have been

quite fu-tile. Perhaps our readers will be more successful.

A MESMERIC ADVERTISEMENT. Wanted, by Mons. Lafontaine, a few fine able-

bodied young men, who can suffer the running of pins into their legs

without flinching, and who can stare out an ignited lucifer without

winking. A few respectable-looking men, to get up in the room and make

speeches on the subject of the mesmeric science, will also be treated

with. Quakers’ hats and coats are kept on the premises. Any little boy

who has been accustomed at school to bear the cane without wincing will

be liberally treated with.

AN ALARMING STRIKE. HORACE TWISS, on being told that the workmen

employed at the New Houses of Parliament struck last week, to the number

of 468, declared that he would follow their example unless Bob raised

his wages.

[pg 123] SIR RHUBARB PILL, M.P. & M.D. “Now the Poor Law is the only

remedy for all the distresses referred to contained in the whole of the

Baronet’s speech.”—Morning Chronicle, Sept. 21.

Oh! dear Doctor,

Great bill

And pill

Concoctor,

Most worthy follower in the steps

Of Dr. Epps,

And eke that cannie man

Old Dr. Hanneman—

Two individuals of consummate gumption,

Who declare,

That whensoe’er

The patient’s labouring under a consumption,

To save him from a trip across the Styx,

To ancient Nick’s

In Charon’s shallop,

If the consumption be upon the canter,

It should be put upon the gallop

Instanter;

For, “similia similibus curantur,”

Great medicinal cod

(Beating the mode

Of old Hippocrates, whom M.D.’s mostly follow,

Quite hollow);

Which would make

A patient take

No end of verjuice for the belly-ache;

And find, beyond a question,

A power of good in

A lump of cold plum-pudding

For a case of indigestion.

And just as sage,

In this wise age,

’Faith, Dr. Peel, is your law;

Which, as a remedy

For poverty,

Would recommend the Poor Law.

MATINEE MESMERIQUE Or, Procédé Humbugaresque. There is at present in

London a gentleman with an enormous beard, who professes the science of

animal magnetism, and undertakes to deprive of sense those who come

under his hand; but as those who flock to his exhibition have generally

left all the sense they possess at home, he finds it difficult to

accomplish his purposes. If it is animal magnetism to send another to

sleep, what a series of Soirées Mesmériques must take place in the House

of Commons during the sitting of Parliament! There is no doubt that Sir

Robert Peel is the Lafontaine of political mesmerism—the fountain of

quackery—and every pass he makes with his hand over poor John Bull

serves to bring him into that state of stupefaction in which he may be

most easily victimised. While Lafontaine thrusts pins into his patient,

the Premier sends poor John into a swoon, for the purpose of, as it is

vulgarly termed, sticking it into him; and as the French quack holds

lucifers to the nostril, Peel plays the devil under the very nose of the

paralysed sufferer. One resorts to electrics, the other to election

tricks, but each has the same object in view—to bring the subject of the

operation into a state of unconsciousness. If the Premier would give a

Matinée Politique, it would prove a formidable rival to the Soirée

Mesmérique of the gentleman in the beard, who seems impressed with the

now popular idea, that genius and a clean chin are wholly incompatible.

(H)ALL IS LOST NOW! ‘Sir B. HALL is still Sir B. Hall. Where is the

peerage—the “B-all and end-all” of his patriotism? Really the Whigs

ought to have given the poor dog a bone, considering with what

perseverance he has always been

A poodle begs for a bone. STANDING FOR MARROWBONE (MARYLEBONE).

When a person holds an argument with his neighbour on the opposite aide

of the street, why is there no chance of their agreeing?—Because they

argue from different premises.

NOVEL SUBSCRIPTIONS. Looking into an Australian paper the other day, we

cast our eye over a list of subscriptions for the “St. Patrick’s Orphan

School, Windsor;” which, after enumerating several sums, varying from

10l. to five shillings, ended with the following singular

contributions:—

MR. BURKE—A supply of potatoes. A FRIEND—Five pounds of beef, and a

coat. A FRIEND IN NEED—A shoulder of mutton. A POOR WOMAN—A large

damper. AN EMIGRANT—Ten quarts of milk. AN EMIGRANT—A frying-pan. At

first we were disposed to be amused with the heterogeneous nature of the

contributions, but, on reflection, we felt disposed to applaud a plan

which enabled every one to bestow a portion of any article of which he

possesses a superabundance. If, for instance, a similar subscription

were began here, we might expect to find the following contributions:—

SIR ROBERT PEEL—A large stock of political consistency. LORD

LONDONDERRY—An ounce of wit. LORD NORMANBY—A complete copy of “Yes and

No.” COLONEL SIBTHORP—A calf’s-head, garnished. THE BISHOP OF EXETER—His

pastoral blessing. LORD MELBOURNE AND LORD JOHN RUSSELL—A pair of cast-

off slippers. MR. WAKELY—A dish of Tory flummery. DAN O’CONNELL—A prime

lot of A goat butts a man. REAL IRISH BUTTER.

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—NO. 7. Fair Daphne has tresses as bright as

the hue

That illumines the west when a summer-day closes;

Her eyes seem like violets laden with dew,

Her lips will compare with the sweetest of roses.

By Daphne’s decree I am doom’d to despair,

Though ofttimes I’ve pray’d the fair maid to revoke it.

“No—Colin I love”—(thus will Daphne declare)

“Put that in your pipe, if you will, sir, and smoke it.”

Once I thought that she loved me (O! fatal deceit),

For she wore at the dance the gay wreath I had twined her;

She smiled when I swore that I envied each sweet,

And vow’d that in love’s rosy chains I would bind her.

I press’d her soft hand, and a blush dyed her cheek;

“Oh! there’s love,” I exclaim’d, “in that eye’s liquid glancing.”

She spoke, and I think I can still hear her speak—

“You know about love what a pig knows of dancing!”

JOE HUM(E)ANITY. The “late of” Middlesex, during his visit to

Switzerland, happened to be charged, at a cottage half-way up the Jura,

three farthings for seven eggs. Astonished and disgusted at the demand,

he vehemently declared that things were come to a pretty

A man stabs another with a rapier. PASS IN THE MOUNTAINS

THE MINISTERIAL TOP. We understand Sir James Graham has lately been

labouring under severe and continued fits of vertigo, produced, as his

medical attendants state, by his extraordinary propensity for turning

round.

[pg 124] BERNARD CAVANAGH AND THE POOR LAW COMMISSIONERS. It is not

generally known that the above gentleman has been officially engaged by

the eminent and philanthropic pauper-patrons, to put his principles into

practice throughout the whole of the Unions in the United Kingdom.

Knowing the extraordinary appetite of the vulgar for anything

approaching the unintelligible and marvellous, we feel sorry to be

obliged, by a brief detail of this gentleman’s early life and habits, to

divest the present phenomenon of much of its apparent wonder and

romance.

Mr. Cavanagh was in infancy rather remarkable for the many sleepless

nights he occasioned his worthy parents by his juvenile intimations that

fasting at that time was no part of his system. He progressed rapidly in

his powers of consumption, and was indeed a child of

A portly matron in full regalia. A FULL HABIT;

or, as his nurse expressed it, he was alwaist good for three rounds at

breakfast, not at all to be sneezed at luncheon, anything but bad at

dinner, hearty at tea (another three-rounder), and very consistent at

supper.

“Reverse of fortune changes friends”—reverse of circumstances, alas! too

often changes feeds!—pecuniary disappointments brought on a reduction of

circumstances—reduction of circumstances occasioned a reduction of

meals, and the necessity for such reduction being very apparent to a

philosophic mind, engendered a reduction of craving for the same.

Perhaps nothing could have proved more generally beneficial than the

individual misfortunes of Mr. Bernard Cavanagh, which transferred him to

one of those Elysiums of brick and mortar, the “Poor Law Union.” Here,

as he himself expresses it, the fearful fallacies of his past system

were made beautifully apparent; he felt as if existence could be

maintained by the infinitesimal process, so benevolently advocated and

regularly prepared, that one step more was all that was necessary to

arrive at dietary perfectibility. That step he took, it being simply,

instead of next to nothing, to live on nothing at all; and now, such was

his opinion of the condiments supplied, he declares it to be by far the

pleasantest of the two.

It has been reported that Mr. Bernard Cavanagh’s powers of abstinence

have their latent origin in enthusiasm. This he confesses to be the

case, his great admiration for fasting having arisen from the

circumstance of his frequently seeing the process of manufacturing the

pauper gruel, which sight filled him with most intense yearnings to hit

upon some plan by which, as far as he was concerned, he might for ever

avoid any participation in its consumption.

That immense cigar, the mild Cavanagh! favours us with the following

practical account of his system; by which he intends, through the means

of enthusiasm, to render breakfasts a superfluity—luncheons,

inutilities—dinners, dreadful extravagancies—teas, iniquitous wastes—and

suppers, supper-erogatories.

Mr. B.C. proposes the instant dismissal, without wages or warning, of

all the cooks, and substitution of the like number of Ciceros; thereby

affording a more ample mental diet, as the followers will be served out

with orations instead of rations. For the proper excitement of the

necessary enthusiasm, he submits the following Mental Bill of Fare:—

FOR STRONG STOMACHS AND WEAK INTELLECTS:— Feargus O’Connor, as per Crown

and Anchor. Mr. Vincent. Mr. Roebuck, with ancestral sauce—very fine, if

not pitched too strong. N.B.—In case of surfeit from the above, the

editor of the Times may be resorted to as an antidote. Daniel

O’Connell—whose successful practice of the exciting and fasting, or

rather, starving system, among the rent contributors in Ireland, not

only proves the truth of the theory, but enables B.C. to recommend him

as the safest dish in the carte. FOR WEAK STOMACHS AND VERY SMALL

IMAGINATIONS:— D’Israeli (Ben)—breakfast off the “Wondrous Tale of

Alroy.” Bulwer—lunch on “Siamese Twins.” Stephens—dine off “The

Hungarian Daughter.” Heraud—tea off “The Deluge,”—sup off the whole

Minerva Library. N.B.—None of the above, will bear the slightest

dilution. FOR DELICATE DIGESTIONS, AND LIMITED UNDERSTANDINGS, PERUSALS

OF “World of Fashion.” Lord John Russell’s “Don Carlos.” Montgomery’s

“Satan” (very good as a devil). “Journal of Civilization.” Any of F.

Chorley’s writings, Robins’ advertisements, or poetry relating to

Warren’s Jet Blacking. FOR MENTAL BOLTERS Ainsworth’s “Jack Sheppard.”

Harmer’s “Weekly Dispatch.” “Newgate Calendar.” “Terrific Register,”

“Frankenstein,” &c. &c. &c. The above forms a brief abstract of Mr.

B.C.’s plan, furnished and approved by the Poor Law Commissioners. We

are credibly informed that the same enlightened gentleman is at present

making arrangements with Sir Robert Peel for the total repeal of the use

of bread by all operatives, and thereby tranquillising the present state

of excitement upon the corn-law question; proving bread, once

erroneously considered the staff of life, to be nothing more than a mere

ornamental opera cane.

SYNCRETIC LITERATURE. Concluding remarks on an Epic Poem of Giles

Scroggins and Molly Brown.

The circumstance which rendered Giles Scroggins peculiarly ineligible as

a bridegroom eminently qualified him as a tenant for one of those

receptacles in which defunct mortals progress to “that bourne from

whence no traveller returns.” Fancy the bereaved Molly, or, as she is in

grief, and grief is tragical, Mary Brown, denuded of her scarf and black

gloves, turning faintly from the untouched cake and tasteless wine, and

retiring to the virtuous couch, whereon, with aching heart, the poet

asserts she, the said

“Poor Molly, laid her down to weep;”

and then contemplate her the victim of somnolent consequences, when—

“She cried herself quite fast asleep,”

Here an ordinary mind might have left the maiden and reverted “to her

streaming eyes,” inflamed lids, dishevelled locks, and bursting sigh, as

satisfactory evidences of the truth of her broken-heartedness, but the

“great anonymous” of whom we treat, scorns the application of such

external circumstances as agents whereby to depict the intenseness of

the passion of the ten thousand condensed turtle-doves glowing in the

bosom of his heroine. Sleep falls upon her eyes; but the “life of

death,” the subtle essence of the shrouded soul, the watchful sentinel

and viewless evidence of immortality, the wild and flitting air-wrought

impalpabilities of her fitful dreams, still haunt her in her seeming

hours of rest. Fancy her feelings—

“When, standing fast by her bed-post,

A figure tall her sight engross’d,”

and it cried—

“‘I be’s Giles Scroggins’ ghost.’”

Such is the frightful announcement commemorative of this visitation from

the wandering spirit of the erratic Giles. Death has indeed parted them.

Giles is cold, but still his love is warm! He loved and won her in

life—he hints at a right of possession in death; and this very

forgetfulness of what he was, and what he is, is the best essence of the

overwhelming intensity of his passion. He continues (with a beautiful

reliance on the faith and living constancy of Molly, in reciprocation,

though dead, of his deathless attachment) to offer her a share, not of

his bed and board, but of his shell and shroud. There is somewhat of the

imperative in the invitation, which runs thus:—

“The ghost it said so solemnly,

‘Oh, Molly, you must go with me,

All to the grave, your love to cool.’”

We have no doubt this assumption of command on the part of the ghost—an

assumption, be it remembered, never ventured upon by the living

Giles—gave rise to some unpleasant reflections in the mind of the

slumbering Molly. Must is certainly an awkward word. Tell any lady that

she must do this, or must do that, and, however much her wishes may have

previously prompted the proceeding, we feel perfectly satisfied, that on

the very shortest notice she will find an absolute and undeniable reason

why such a proceeding is diametrically opposed to the line of conduct

she will, and therefore ought to, adopt.

With an intuitive knowledge of human nature, the great poet purposely

uses the above objectionable word. How could he do otherwise, or how

more effectually, and less offensively, extricate Molly Brown from the

unpleasant tenantry of the proposed under-ground floor? Command

invariably begets opposition, opposition as certainly leads to argument.

So proves our heroine, who, with a beautiful evasiveness, delivers the

following expostulation:—

“Says she, ‘I am not dead, you fool!’”

One would think that was a pretty decent clincher, by way of a reason

[pg 125] for declining the proposed trip to Giles Scroggins’ little

property at his own peculiar “Gravesend;” but as contradiction begets

controversy, and the enlightened poet is fully aware of the effect of

that cause, the undaunted sprite of the interred Giles instantly opposes

this, to him, flimsy excuse, and upon the peculiar veracity of a

wandering ghost, triumphantly exclaims, in the poet’s words—words that,

lest any mistake should arise as to the speaker by the peculiar

construction of the sentence, are rendered doubly individual, for—

“Says the ghost, says he, vy that’s no rule!”

There’s a staggerer! being alive no rule for not being buried! how is

Molly Brown to get out of that high-pressure cleft-stick? how! that’s

the question! Why not in a state of somnolency, not during the “death of

each day’s life; no, it is clear, to escape such a consummation she must

be wide awake.” The poet sees this, and with the energy of a master-

mind, he brings the invisible chimera of her entranced imagination into

effective operation. Argument with a man who denies first premises, and

we submit the assertion that vitality is no exception to the treatment

of the dead, amounts to that. We say, argument with such a man is worse

than nothing; it would be fallacious as the Eolian experiment of

whistling the most inspiriting jigs to an inanimate, and consequently

unmusical, milestone, opposing a transatlantic thunder-storm with “a

more paper than powder” “penny cracker,” or setting an owl to outstare

the meridian sun.

The poet knew and felt this, and therefore he ends the delusion and

controversy by an overt act:—

“The ghost then seized her all so grim,

All for to go along with him;

‘Come, come,’ said he, ‘e’er morning beam.’”

To which she replies with the following determined announcement:—

“‘I von’t!’ said she, and scream’d a scream,

Then she voke, and found she’d dream’d a dream!”

These are the last words we have left to descant upon: they are such as

should be the last; and, like Joseph Surface, “moral to the end.” The

glowing passions the fervent hopes, the anticipated future, of the

loving pair, all, all are frustrated! The great lesson of life imbues

the elaborate production; the thinking reader, led by its sublimity to a

train of deep reflection, sees at once the uncertainty of earthly

projects, and sighing owns the wholesome, though still painful truth,

that the brightest sun is ever the first cause of the darkest shadow;

and from childhood upwards, the blissful visions of our gayest

fancy—forced by the cry of stern reality—call back the mental wanderer

from imaginary bliss, to be again the worldly drudge; and, thus awakened

to his real state, confess, like our sad heroine, Molly Brown, he too,

has dreamt a dream.

FUSBOS.

FATHER O’FLYNN AND HIS CONGREGATION. Father Francis O’Flynn, or, as he

was generally called by his parishioners, “Father Frank,” was the

choicest specimen you could desire of a jolly, quiet-going, ease-loving,

Irish country priest of the old school. His parish lay near a small town

in the eastern part of the county Cork, and for forty-five years he

lived amongst his flock, performing all the duties of his office, and

taking his dues (when he got them) with never-tiring good-humour. But

age, that spares not priest nor layman, had stolen upon Father Frank,

and he gradually relinquished to his younger curates the task of

preaching, till at length his sermons dwindled down to two in the

year—one at Christmas, and the other at Easter, at which times his

clerical dues were about coming in. It was on one of these memorable

occasions that I first chanced to hear Father Frank address his

congregation. I have him now before my mind’s eye, as he then appeared;

a stout, middle-sized man, with ample shoulders, enveloped in a coat of

superfine black, and substantial legs encased in long straight boots,

reaching to the knee. His forehead, and the upper part of his head, were

bald; but the use of hair-powder gave a fine effect to his massive, but

good-humoured features, that glowed with the rich tint of a hale old

age. A bunch of large gold seals, depending from a massive jack-chain of

the same metal, oscillated with becoming dignity from the lower verge of

his waistcoat, over the goodly prominence of his “fair round belly.”

Glancing his half-closed, but piercing eye around his auditory, as if

calculating the contents of every pocket present, he commenced his

address as follows:—“Well, my good people, I suppose ye know that to-

morrow will be the pattern11. Pattern—a corruption of Patron—means, in

Ireland, the anniversary of the Saint to whom a holy well has been

consecrated, on which day the peasantry make pilgrimages to the well. 2.

Beads 3. Pretty girl of Saint Fineen, and no doubt ye’ll all be for

going to the blessed well to say your padhereens;2 but I’ll go bail

there’s few of you ever heard the rason why the water of that well won’t

raise a lather, or wash anything clean, though you were to put all the

soap in Cork into it. Well, pay attintiou, and I’ll tell you.—Mrs.

Delany, can’t you keep your child quiet while I’m spaking?—It happened a

long while ago, that Saint Fineen, a holy and devout Christian, lived

all alone, convaynient to the well; there he was to be found ever and

always praying and reading his breviary upon a cowld stone that lay

beside it. Onluckily enough, there lived also in the neighbourhood a

callieen dhas3 called Morieen, and this Morieen had a fashion of coming

down to the well every morning, at sunrise, to wash her legs and feet;

and, by all accounts, you couldn’t meet a whiter or shapelier pair from

this to Bantry. Saint Fineen, however, was so disthracted in his

heavenly meditations, poor man! that he never once looked at them; but

kept his eyes fast on his holy books, while Morieen was rubbing and

lathering away, till the legs used to look like two beautiful pieces of

alabasther in the clear water. Matters went on this way for some time,

Morieen coming regular to the well, till one fine morning, as she

stepped into the water, without minding what she was about, she struck

her foot against a a stone and cut it.

“‘Oh! Millia murdher! What’ll I do?’ cried the callieen, in the

pitifulles voice you ever heard.

“‘What’s the matter?’ said Saint Fineen.

“‘I’ve cut my foot agin this misfortinat stone,’ says she, making

answer.

“Then Saint Fineen lifted up his eyes from his blessed book, and he saw

Morieen’s legs and feet.

“‘Oh! Morieen!’ says he, after looking awhile at them, ‘what white legs

you have got!’

“‘Have I?’ says she, laughing, ‘and how do you know that?’

“Immediately the Saint remimbered himself, and being full of remorse and

conthrition for his fault, he laid his commands upon the well, that its

water should never wash anything white again.—and, as I mentioned

before, all the soap in Ireland wouldn’t raise a lather on it since. Now

that’s the thrue histhory of St. Fineen’s blessed well; and I hope and

thrust it will be a saysonable and premonitory lesson to all the young

men that hears me, not to fall into the vaynial sin of admiring the

white legs of the girls.”

As soon as his reverence paused, a buzz of admiration ran through the

chapel, accompanied by that peculiar rapid noise made by the lower class

of an Irish Roman Catholic congregation, when their feelings of awe,

astonishment, or piety, are excited by the preacher.44. This sound,

which is produced by a quick motion of the tongue against the teeth and

roof of the mouth, may be expressed thus; “tth, tth, tth, tth, tth.”

Father Frank having taken breath, and wiped his forehead, resumed his

address.

“I’m going to change my subject now, and I expect attintion. Shawn

Barry! Where’s Shawn Barry?”

“Here, your Rivirence,” replies a voice from the depth of the crowd.

“Come up here, Shawn, ’till I examine you about your Catechism and

docthrines.”

A rough-headed fellow elbowed his way slowly through the congregation,

and moulding his old hat into a thousand grotesque shapes, between his

huge palms, presented himself before his pastor, with very much the air

of a puzzled philosopher.

“Well, Shawn, my boy, do you know what is the meaning of Faith?”

“Parfictly, your Rivirence,” replied the fellow, with a knowing grin.

“Faith means when Paddy Hogan gives me credit for half-a-pint of the

best.”

“Get out of my sight, you ondaycent vagabond; you’re a disgrace to my

flock. Here, you Tom M’Gawley, what’s Charity?”

“Bating a process-sarver, your Rivirence,” replied Tom, promptly.

“Oh! blessed saints! how I’m persecuted with ye, root and branch. Jim

Houlaghan, I’m looking at you, there, behind Peggy Callanane’s cloak;

come up here, you hanging bone slieveen55. A sly rogue. and tell me what

is the Last Day?”

“I didn’t come to that yet, sir,” replied Jim, scratching his head.

“I wouldn’t fear you, you bosthoon. Well, listen, and I’ll tell you.

It’s the day when you’ll all have to settle your accounts, and I’m

thinking there’ll be a heavy score against some of you, if you don’t

mind what I’m saying to you. When that day comes, I’ll walk up to Heaven

and rap at the hall door. Then St. Pether, who will be takin’ a nap

after dinner in his arm-chair, inside, and not liking ta be disturbed,

will call out mighty surly, ‘Who’s there?’”

“‘It’s I, my Lord,’ I’ll make answer.

“Av course, he’ll know my voice, and, jumping up like a cricket, he’ll

open the door as wide as the hinges will let it, and say quite politely—

“‘I’m proud to see you here, Father Frank. Walk in, if you plase.’

“Upon that I’ll scrape my feet, and walk in, and then St. Pether will

say agin—

“‘Well, Father Frank, what have you got to say for yourself? Did you

look well afther your flock; and mind to have them all christened, and

married, and buried, according to the rites of our holy church?’

“Now, good people, I’ve been forty-five years amongst you, and didn’t I

christen every mother’s soul of you?”

Congregation.—You did,—you did,—your Rivirence.

Father Frank.—Well, and didn’t I bury the most of you, too?

Congregation.—You did, your Rivirence.

Father Frank.—And didn’t I do my best to get dacent matches for all your

little girls? I And didn’t I get good wives for all the well-behaved

boys in my parish?—Why don’t you spake up, Mick Donovan?

Mick.—You did, your Rivirence.

Father Frank.—Well, that’s settled:—but then St. Pether will say—“Father

Frank,” says he, “you’re a proper man; but how did your flock behave to

you—did they pay you your dues regularly?” Ah! good Christians, how

shall I answer that question? Put it in my power to say something good

of you: don’t be ashamed to come up and pay your priest’s dues.

Come,—make a lane there, and let ye all come up with conthrite hearts

and open hands. Tim Delaney!—make way for Tim:—how much will you give,

Tim?

Tim.—I’ll not be worse than another, your Riverence. I’ll give a crown.

Father Frank.—Thank you, Timothy: the dacent drop is in you. Keep a

lane, there!—any of ye that hasn’t a crown, or half-a-crown, don’t be

bashful of coming up with your hog or your testher.66. A shilling or a

sixpence.

And thus Father Frank went on encouraging and wheedling his flock to pay

up his dues, until he had gone through his entire congregation, when I

left the chapel, highly amused at the characteristic scene I had

witnessed.

X.

A PRUDENT REASON. Our gallant Sibthorp was lately invited by a friend to

accompany him in a pleasure trip in his yacht to Cowes. “No!” exclaimed

Sib.; “you don’t catch me venturing near Cowes.” “And why not?” inquired

his friend. “Because I was never vaccinated,” replied the hirsute hero.

[pg 126] DOCTOR PEEL TAKING TIME TO CONSULT. Once upon a time—says an

old Italian novelist—a horse fell, as in a fit, with his rider. The

people, running from all sides, gathered about the steed, and many and

opposite were the opinions of the sudden malady of the animal; as many

the prescriptions tendered for his recovery. At length, a great hubbub

arose among the mob; and a fellow, with the brass of a merryandrew, and

the gravity of a quack-doctor, pressed through the throng, and

approached the beast. Suddenly there was silence. It was plain to the

vulgar that the solemn new-comer had brought with him some exquisite

specific: it was evident, from the grave self-complacency of the

stranger, that with a glance, he had detected the cause of sickness in

the horse,—and that, in a few seconds, the prostrate animal, revivified

by the cunning of the sage, would be up, and once more curvetting and

caracoling. The master of the steed eyed the stranger with an

affectionate anxiety; the mob were awed into breathless expectation. The

wise man shook his head, put his cane to his nose, and proceeded to open

his mouth. It was plain he was about to speak. Every ear throbbed and

gaped to catch the golden syllables. At length the doctor did speak: for

casting about him a look of the profoundest knowledge, and pointing to

the steed, he said, in a deep, solemn whisper,—“Let the horse alone!”

Saying this, the doctor vanished!

The reader will immediately make the application. The horse John Bull is

prostrate. It will be remembered that Colonel SIBTHORP (that dull

mountebank) spoke learnedly upon glanders—that others declared the

animal needed a lighter burthen and a greater allowance of corn,—but

that the majority of the mob made way for a certain quacksalver PEEL,

who being regularly called in and fee’d for his advice, professed

himself to be possessed of some miraculous elixir for the suffering

quadruped. All eyes were upon the doctor—all ears open for him, when lo!

on the 16th of September,—PEEL, speaking with the voice of an oracle,

said—“It is not my intention in the present session of Parliament to

submit any measures for the consideration of the House!” In other

words—“Let the horse alone!”

The praises of the Tory mob are loud and long at this wisdom of the

doctor. He had loudly professed an intimate knowledge of the ailments of

the horse—he had long predicted the fall of the poor beast,—and now,

when the animal is down, and a remedy is looked for that shall once more

set the creature on his legs, the veterinary politician says—“Let the

horse alone!”

The speech of Sir ROBERT PEEL was a pithy illustration of the good old

Tory creed. He opens his oration with a benevolent and patriotic

yearning for the comforts of Parliamentary warmth and ventilation. He

moves for papers connected with “the building of the two houses of

Parliament, and with the adoption of measures for warming and

ventilating those houses!” The whole policy of the Tories has ever

exemplified their love of nice warm places; though, certainly, they have

not been very great sticklers for atmospheric purity. Indeed, like

certain other labourers, who work by night, they have toiled in the

foulest air,—have profited by the most noisome labour. When Lord JOHN

RUSSELL introduced that imperfect mode of ventilation, the Reform Bill,

into the house, had he provided for a full and pure supply of public

opinion,—had he ventilated the Commons by a more extended franchise,—Sir

ROBERT PEEL would not, as minister, have shown such magnanimous concern

for the creature comforts of Members of Parliament—he might, indeed,

have still displayed his undying love of a warm place; but he would not

have enjoyed it on the bench of the Treasury. As for ventilation, why,

the creature Toryism, like a frog, could live in the heart of a tree;—it

being always provided that the tree should bear golden pippins.

We can, however, imagine that this solicitude of Sir ROBERT for the ease

and comfort of the legislative Magi may operate to his advantage in the

minds of certain honest folk, touched by the humanity which sheds so

sweet a light upon the opening oration of the new minister. “If”—they

will doubtless think—“the humane Baronet feels so acutely for the Lords

Spiritual and Temporal,—if he has this regard for the convenience of

only 658 knights and burgesses,—if, in his enlarged humanity, he can

feel for so helpless a creature as the Earl of COVENTRY, so mild, so

unassuming a prelate as the Bishop of EXETER—if he can sympathise with

the wants of even a D’ISRAELI, and tax his mighty intellect to make even

SIBTHORP comfortable,—surely the same minister will have, aye, a morbid

sense of the wants, the daily wretchedness of hundreds of thousands,

who, with the fiend Corn Law grinning at their fireless hearths—pine and

perish in weavers’ hovels, for the which there has as yet been no

‘adoption of measures for the warming and ventilating.’” “Surely”—they

will think—“the man whose sympathy is active for a few of the ‘meanest

things that live’ will gush with sensibility towards a countless

multitude, fluttering into rags and gaunt with famine. He will go back

to first principles; he will, with a giant’s arm, knock down all the

conventionalities built by the selfishness of man—(and what a labourer

is selfishness! there was no such hard worker at the Pyramids or the

wall of China)—between him and his fellow! Hunger will be fed—nakedness

will be clothed—and God’s image, though stricken with age, and broken

with disease, be acknowledged; not in the cut-and-dried Pharisaical

phrase of trading Church-goers, as a thing vested with immortality—as a

creature fashioned for everlasting solemnities—but practically treated

as of the great family of man—a brother, invited with the noblest of the

Cæsars, to an immortal banquet!”

Such may be the hopes of a few, innocent of the knowledge of the stony-

heartedness of Toryism. For ourselves, we hope nothing from Sir ROBERT

PEEL. His flourish on the warming and ventilation of the new Houses of

Parliament, taken in connexion with his opinions on the Corn Laws,

reminds us of the benevolence of certain people in the East, who,

careless and ignorant of the claims of their fellow-men, yet take every

pains to erect comfortable hospitals and temples for dogs and vermin.

Old travellers speak of these places, and of men being hired that the

sacred fleas might feed upon their blood. Now, when we consider the

history of legislation—when we look upon many of the statutes emanating

from Parliament—how often might we call the House of Commons the House

of Fleas? To be sure, there is yet this great difference: the poor who

give their blood there, unlike the wretches of the East, give it for

nothing!

Sir ROBERT’S speech promises nothing whatever as to his future policy.

He leaves everything open. He will not say that he will not go in

precisely the line chalked out by the Whigs. “Next session,” says. Sir

ROBERT, “you shall see what you shall see.” About next February, Orson,

in the words of the oracle in the melo-drama, will be “endowed with

reason.” Until then, we must accept a note-of-hand for Sir ROBERT, that

he may pay the expenses of the government.

“I have already expressed my opinion, that it is absolutely necessary to

adopt some measures for equalising the revenue and expenditure, and we

will avail ourselves of the earliest opportunity, after mature

consideration of the circumstances of the country, to submit to a

committee of the whole house measures for remedying the existing state

of things. Whether that can be best done by diminishing the expenditure

of the country, or by increasing the revenue, or by a combination of

those two means—the reduction of the expenditure and the increase of the

revenue—I must postpone for future consideration.”

Why, Sir ROBERT was called in because he knew the disease of the

patient. He had his remedy about him. The pills and the draught were in

his pocket—yes, in his patriotic poke; but he refused to take the lid

from the box—resolutely determined that the cork should not be drawn

from the all-healing phial—until he was regularly called in; and, as the

gypsies say, his hand crossed with a bit of money. Well, he now swears

with such vigour to the excellence of his physic—he so talks for hours

and hours upon the virtues of his drugs, that at length a special

messenger is sent to him, and directions given that the Miraculous

Doctor should be received at the state entrance of the patient’s castle,

with every mark of consideration. The Doctor is ensured his fee, and he

sets to work. Thousands and thousands of hearts are beating whilst his

eye scrutinizes John Bull’s tongue—suspense weighs upon the bosom of

millions as the Doctor feels his pulse. Well, these little ceremonies

settled, the Doctor will, of course, pull out his phial, display his

boluses, and take his leave with a promise of speedy health. By no

means. “I must go home,” says the Doctor, “and study your disease for a

few months; cull simples by moonlight; and consult the whole Materia

Medica; after that I’ll write you a prescription. For the present, good

morning.”

“But, my dear Doctor,” cries the patient, “I dismissed my old physician,

because you insisted that you knew my complaint and its, remedy

already.”

“That’s very true,” says Doctor PEEL, “but then I wasn’t called in.”

The learned Baldæus tells us, that “Ceylon doctors give jackall’s flesh

for consumptions.” Now, consumption is evidently John Bull’s malady;

hence, we would try the Ceylon prescription. The jackalls are the

landowners; take a little of their flesh, Sir ROBERT, and for once,

spare the bowels of the manufacturer.

Q.

[pg 127] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XI. Two men play cards, surrounded by

items marked 'Property Tax' and 'Cheap Bread'. PLAYING THE KNAVE.

DEDICATED TO THE MEMBERS OF ST. STEPHEN’S.

[pg 129] BUNKS’S DISCOVERIES IN THE THAMES. A highly important and

interesting survey of the coast between Arundel-stairs and Hungerford-

market pier, is now being executed, under the superintendence of Bill

Bunks, late commander of the coal-barge “Jim Crow.” The result of his

labours hitherto have been of the most interesting nature to the natural

historian, the antiquarian, and the navigator. In his first report to

the magistrates of the Thames-police, he states that he has advanced in

his survey to Waterloo-bridge stairs, which he describes as a good

landing-place for wherries, funnies, and small craft, but inadequate as

a harbour for vessels of great burthen. The shore from Arundel-street,

as far as he has explored, consists chiefly of a tenacious, dark-

coloured substance, very closely resembling thick mud, intermixed with

loose shingles, pebbles, and coal-slates. The depth of water is

uncertain, as it varies with the tide, which he ascertains rises and

falls every six hours; the greatest depth of water being usually found

at the time when the tide is full in, and vice versa. He has also made

the valuable discovery, that a considerable portion of the shore is

always left uncovered at low water, at which periods he availed himself

of the opportunity afforded him of examining it more minutely, and of

collecting a large number of curious specimens in natural history, and

interesting antiquarian relics. As we have had the privilege of being

permitted to view them in the private museum of the “Stangate-and-

Milbank-both-sides-of-the-water-united-for-the-advancement- of-Science-

Association,” we are enabled to lay before our readers the particulars

of a few of these spoils, which the perseverance and intrepidity of our

gallant countryman, Bill Bunks, has rescued from the hungry jaws of the

rapacious deep; viz.:—

“A case of shells.” The greater number of the specimens are pronounced,

by competent judges, to be shells of the native oyster; a fact worthy of

note, as it proves the existence, in former ages, of an oyster-bed on

this spot, and oysters being a sea-fish, it appears evident that either

the sea has removed from London, or London has withdrawn itself from the

sea. The point is open to discussion. We hope that the “Hookham-cum-

Snivey Institution” will undertake the solution of it at one of their

early meetings.

“The neck of a black bottle, with a cork in it.” This is a very

interesting object of art, and one which has given rise to considerable

discussion amongst the literati. The cork, which is inserted in the

fragment of the neck, is quite perfect; it has been impressed with a

seal in reddish-coloured wax; a portion of it remains, with a partly

obliterated inscription, in Roman characters, of which we have been

enabled to give the accompanying fac-simile.

A partially obliterated seal, marked 'BR / PAT / BR'. With considerable

difficulty we have deciphered the legend thus:—The first letter B has

evidently been a mistake of the engraver, who meant it for a P, the

similarity of the sounds of the two letters being very likely to lead

him into such an error. With this slight alteration, we have only to add

the letter O to the first line, and we shall have “PRO.” It requires

little acuteness to discover that the second word, if complete, would be

“PATRIA;” and the letters BR, the two lowest of the inscription, only

want the addition of the letters IT to make “BRIT.” or “BRITANNIARUM.”

The legend would then run, “PRO PATRIA BRITANNIARUM,” which there is

good reason to suppose was the inscription on the cellar seal of Alfred

the Great, though some presumptuous and common-minded persons have

asserted that the legend, if perfect, would read, “BRETT’S PATENT

BRANDY.” Every antiquarian has, however, indignantly refused to admit

such a degrading supposition.

“A perfect brick, and two broken tiles.” The first of these articles is

in a high state of preservation, and from the circumstance of portions

of mortar being found adhering to it, it is supposed that it formed part

of the old London Wall. We examined the fragments of the tiles

carefully, but found no inscription or other data, by which to ascertain

their probable antiquity: the tiles, in short, are buried in mystery.

“A fossil flat-iron.” This antediluvian relic was found imbedded in a

Sandy deposite opposite Surrey-street, near high-water mark.

“An ancient leather buskin,” supposed to have belonged to one of the

Saxon kings. This singular covering for the foot reaches no higher than

the ancle, and is laced up the front with a leathern thong, like a

modern highlow, to which it bears a very decided resemblance.

“A skeleton of some unknown animal.” Antiquarians cannot agree to what

genus this animal belonged; ignorant people imagine it to have been a

cat.

“A piece of broken porcelain.” This is an undoubted relic of Roman

manufacture, and appears to have formed part of a plate. The blue

“willow pattern” painted on it shows the antiquity of that popular

design.

There are several other extremely rare and curious antiquities to be

seen in this collection, which we have not space to notice at present,

but shall take an early opportunity of returning to the valuable

discoveries made by the indefatigable Mr. Bunks.

A NEW CONJURING COMPANY. A report of so extraordinary a nature has just

reached us, that we hasten to be the first, as usual, to lay the

outlines of it before our readers, with the same early authenticity that

has characterised all our other communications. Mr. Yates is at present

in Paris, arranging matters with Louis Philippe and his family, to

appear at the Adelphi during the ensuing season!!

It would appear that the mania for great people wishing to strut and

fret their four hours and a quarter upon the stage is on the increase—at

least according to our friends the constituent members of the daily

press. Despite the newspaper-death of the manager of the Surrey, by

which his enemies wished to “spargere voces in vulgum ambiguas” to his

prejudice (which means, in plain English, to tell lies of him behind his

back), we have seen the report contradicted, that Mrs. Norton was about

to appear there in a new equestrian spectacle, with double platforms,

triple studs of Tartar hordes, and the other amphitheatrical enticers.

We ourselves can declare, that there is no foundation in the

announcement, no more than in the on dit that the Countess of

Blessington was engaged as a counter-attraction, for a limited number of

nights, at the Victoria; or her lovely niece—a power in herself—had been

prevailed upon to make her début at the Lyceum, in a new piece of a

peculiar and unprecedented plot, which was prevented from coming off by

some disagreement as to terms between the principal parties concerned.

For true theatrical intelligence, our columns alone are to be relied

upon; bright as a column of sparkling water, overpowering as a column of

English cavalry, overlooking all London at once, as the column of the

Monument, but not so heavy as the column of the Duke of York.

Mais revenons à nos moutons: which implies (we are again compelled to

translate, and this time it is for the benefit of those who have not

been to Boulogne), “we spoke of Louis Philippe and his family.” This

sagacious monarch, foreseeing that the French were in want of some new

excitement, and grieving to find that the pompe funèbre of Napoleon, and

the inauguration of his statue upon the monument of the victories that

never took place, had not made the intense impression upon the minds of

his vivacious subjects that he had intended it should produce, begins to

think, that before long a fresh émeute will once more throw up the

barricades and paving-stones in the Rue St. Honoré and Boulevard des

Italiens. As such, with the prudent foresight which has hitherto

directed all his proceedings, he is naturally looking forward to the

best means of gaining an honest livelihood for himself and family,

should a corrupted national guard, or an excited St. Antoine mob take it

into their heads to dine in the Tuileries without being asked. Having

read in the English newspapers, which he regularly peruses, of the

astounding performances of the Wizard of the North at the Adelphi, more

especially as regards the “paralysing gun delusion,” he commences to

imagine that he is well qualified to undertake the same responsibility,

more especially from the practice he has had in that line from pistols,

rifles, fowling-pieces, and, above all, twenty-barrel infernal machines.

He has therefore offered his services at the Adelphi, and Mr. Yates,

with his accustomed energy, and avowed propensity for French

translations, has agreed to bring him over. If we remember truly, the

Wizard says in his programme, that the secret shall die with him. We beg

to inform him, in all humility, that he deceives himself, for Louis

Philippe and the Duke d’Aumale know the trick as well as he does. They

would ride through two lines of sans culottes, all armed to the teeth,

without the least injury. They would catch the bullets in their teeth,

and take them home as curiosities.

Orleans, from his knowledge of the English language, will probably

become the adapter of the pieces “from the French” about to be produced.

The Duke de Nemours will be engaged to play the fops in the light

comedies, a line which, it is anticipated, he will shine in; and the

Prince de Joinville can dance a capital sailor’s hornpipe, which he

learnt on board the Belle Poule, a name which our own sailors, with an

excusable disregard for genders, converted into “The Jolly Cock.” Of

course, from his late experience, d’Aumale will assist Louis Philippe,

upon emergency, in the gun trick, and, with the other attractions, a

profitable season is sure to result.

AN EXTENSIVE SACRIFICE. By Dr. Reid’s new plan for ventilating the House

of Commons, a porous hair carpet will be required for the floor; to

provide materials for which Mr. Muntz has, in the most handsome manner,

offered to shave off his beard and whiskers. This is true

magnanimity—Muntz is a noble fellow! and the lasting gratitude of the

House is due to him and his hairs for ever.

[pg 130] FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. It is expected that Mr. Snooks and

family will pass the winter at Battersea, as the warmth of the climate

is strongly recommended for the restoration of the health of Mrs.

Snooks, who is in a state of such alarming delicacy, as almost to

threaten a realisation of the fears of her best friends and the hopes of

the black-job master who usually serves the family.

Mr. Snivins gave a large tea-party, last week, at Greenwich, where the

boiling water was supplied by the people of the house, the essentials

having been brought by the visitors.

Mr. Popkins has left his attic in the New-Cut, for a tour on the Brixton

tread-mill.

K 32 left his official residence at the station-house, for his beat in

Leicester-square, and repaired at once to a public-house in the

neighbourhood, where he had an audience of several pickpockets.

We are authorised to state, that there is no foundation whatever for the

report that a certain well-known policeman is about to lead to the altar

a certain unknown lady. The rumour originated in his having been seen

leading her before the magistrate.

Dick Wiggins transacted business yesterday in Cold Bath-fields, and

picked the appointed quantity of oakum.

Mr. Baron Nathan has left Margate for Kennington. We have not heard

whether he was accompanied by the Baroness. The Honourable Miss Nathan,

when we last heard of her, was dancing a hornpipe among a shilling’s

worth of new laid eggs, at Tivoli.

A few minutes after Sir Robert Peel left Privy-Gardens, in a carriage

and four, for Claremont, Sam Snoxell jumped up behind the Brighton

stage, from which he descended, after having been whipped down, at

Kennington.

IMPORTANT INVENTION. The celebrated savant Sir Peter Laurie, whose

scientific labours to discover the cause of the variation of the

weathercock on Bow Church, have astonished the Lord Mayor and the Board

of Aldermen, has lately turned his attention to the subject of

railroads. The result of his profound cogitations has been highly

satisfactory. He has produced a plan for a railway on an entirely new

principle, which will combine cheapness and security in an extraordinary

degree. We have been favoured with a view of the inventor’s plans, and

we have no hesitation in saying that, if adopted, the most timid person

may, with perfect safety, take

A person sits on a fence rail. A RIDE ON THE RAIL.

THE BATTLE AND THE BREEZE. Our readers are informed that, despite the

belligerent character of the correspondence between the fierce Fitz-Roy

and the “Gentle” Shepherd, although it came to a slight blow, there is

nothing to warrant an anticipation of their

A person scales a ladder to dump a basket in a cart. GETTING UP THE

BREEZE.

THE FASTING PHENOMENON. The Tories have engaged Bernard Cavanagh, the

Irish fasting phenomenon, to give lectures on his system of abstinence,

which they think might be beneficially introduced amongst the working-

classes of England. This is a truly Christian principle of government,

for while the people fast, the ministers will not fail to prey.

TORY BOONS. Air.—“NORA CREINA” The Whigs they promised every day

To cure the ills which did surround us;

It should have been, “no cure, no pay!”

For now we’re worse than when they found us.

The Tory clique at length are in,

And vow that they will save the nation,

So kindly give us, to begin—

Exchequer bills and ventilation.

Oh! the artful Tories dear,

Oh! the dear, the artful Tories

They alone perceive, ’tis clear,

That taxes tend to England’s glories.

The Whigs declared cheap bread was good;

To satisfy the people’s cravings

They tried to take the tax off wood—

Lord knows what might be done with shavings!

The Tories vow these schemes were wrong,

And adverse to good legislation;

Therefore, propose (so runs our song)—

Exchequer bills and ventilation.

Oh! the artful Tories dear,

Oh! the dear and artful Tories;

They alone perceive, ’tis clear,

Taxes tend to England’s glories.

The Whigs became the poor man’s foe,

Mix’d ashes in his cup of sorrow;

Nor thought the pauper’s “lot of woe,”

Perchance might be their own to-morrow.

The Tories said they were his friend,

That they abhorr’d procrastination;

So give—till next July shall end—

Exchequer bills and ventilation.

Oh! the artful Tories dear,

Oh! the dear and artful Tories;

They alone perceive, ’tis clear,

Taxes tend to England’s glories.

RECREATION FOR THE PUBLIC. Sir Robert Peel seems impressed with the

necessity of providing the citizens of London with additional parks,

where they may recreate themselves, and breathe the free air of heaven.

But, strange as it may seem, the people cannot live on fresh air,

unaccompanied by some stomachic of a more substantial nature; yet they

are forbidden to grumble at the diet, or, if they do, they are silenced

according to the good old Tory plan of

Canons fire on people carrying signs reading 'THE CHARTER' OPENING A

PARK FOR THE PEOPLE.

Colonel Sibthorp thinks he recollects having been Hannibal once—long

ago—although he cannot account for his having been beaten in the Pun-ic

war.

THE LIGHT OF ALL NATIONS. The public are aware that this important

national undertaking, which is now about to be commenced, is to be a

prodigious cast-iron light-house on the Goodwin Sands. Peter Borthwick

and our Sibby are already candidates for the office of universal

illuminators. Peter rests his claims chiefly on the brilliancy of his

ideas, as exemplified in his plan for lighting the metropolis with

bottled moonshine; while Sib. proudly refers to our columns for

imperishable evidences of the intensity of his wit, conscious that these

alone would entitle him to be called “the light of all nations.” We

trust that Sir Robert Peel will exercise a sound discretion in bestowing

this important situation. Highly as we esteem Peter’s dazzling

talents—profoundly as we admire his bottled moonshine scheme—we feel

there is no man in the world more worthy of being elevated to the

lantern than our refulgent friend Sibthorp.

[pg 131] A SHORT TREATISE OF DRAMATIC CASUALTIES. VERY PROFITABLE TO

READ. Let our Treatise of Dramatic Casualties be that which treateth of

the misfortunes contingent upon the profession of dramatic authors. Now,

of unfortunate dramatic authors there be two grand kinds—namely, they

that be unfortunate before the production of their works, and they that

be unfortunate after the production of their works.

And first, among them that be unfortunate before the production of their

works may he enumerated—

—He that, having but one manuscript of his piece leaveth the same with

the manager for inspection, and it falleth out that he seeth it no more,

neither heareth thereof. —He that having translated a piece from the

French, and bestowed thereon much time, findeth himself forestalled. —He

that, having written a pantomime, carrieth it in his pocket, and

straight there cometh a dishonest person, who, taking the same, selleth

it for waste paper. —He that presenteth his piece to all the theatres in

succession, and lo! it ever returneth, accompanied with a polite note

expressive of disapprobation or the like. —He whose piece is approved by

the manager, but, nevertheless, the same produceth it not, for divers

reasons, which do vary at every interview. —He that communicateth the

idea of a yet unwritten drama to a friend, who, being of a fair wit, and

prompt withal, useth the same to his own ends and reapeth the harvest

thereof. And secondly, of them that be unfortunate after the production

of their works, there be some whose pieces are successful, and there be

some whose pieces are not successful.

And firstly, of unfortunate authors whose pieces are unsuccessful there

be—

—Those who write a piece which faileth through its own demerits, which

may be, as— —He that writeth a farce or comedy, and neglecteth to

introduce jokes in the same. —He that writeth a farce or comedy, and

introduceth bad jokes in the same. —He that writeth a farce or comedy,

and introduceth old jokes in the same. —He that writeth a tragedy, and

introduceth matter for merriment therein. —He that, in either tragedy,

comedy, farce, or other entertainment, shocketh the propriety of the

audience, or causeth a division in the same, by political allusions. —He

that writeth a piece which faileth, though not through its own demerits,

which may be, as— —When the principal actor, not having the author’s

words by heart, and being of a suggestive wit and good assurance,

substituteth others, which he deemeth sufficient. —When the principal

actor, not having the author’s words by heart, and being of a dull and

heavy turn, and deaf withal, substituteth nothing, but standeth aghast,

yearning for the voice of the prompter. —When the scene-shifter

ingeniously introduceth a forest into a bed-chamber, or committeth the

like incongruity, marvellous pleasant and mirthful to behold, but in no

way conducive to success. —When pistols or other fire-arms do miss fire;

when red fire igniteth not, or igniteth the scenes; when a trap-door

refuseth to open, a rope to draw, and the like. —When the author

intrusteth his principal part to a new actor, and it falleth out that

the same doth grievously offend the audience, who straight insist that

he do quit the stage, whereby the ruin of the piece is consummated.

—Likewise there be misfortunes that arise from the audience; as, when at

a momentous point of the plot there entereth one heated with liquor, and

causeth a disturbance, or a woman with a huge bonnet becometh the

subject of a discussion as to her right to wear the same, and impede the

view of them that be behind; also when there cometh in a ruffian, or

more, in a pea-coat, who having been charged by an enemy to work the

ruin of the piece, endeavoureth to do the same, by dint of hisses or

other unseemly noises, all of which be highly pernicious. Secondly, of

those unfortunate authors who have been successful, there be—

—He whose piece, albeit successful, is withdrawn to make room for the

Christmas pantomine, Easter piece, or other entertainment equally

cherished by the manager, who thereupon groundeth a plea of non-payment.

—He who being a creditor of the manager, and the same being unable to

meet his obligations, by an ingenious contrivance of the law becometh

cleansed thereof, an operation which hath been conceitedly termed

“whitewashing.” —He that writeth a piece with a friend, and the same

claimeth the entire authorship thereof and emolument therefrom. And

there be divers other calamities which we have neither space nor time to

enumerate, but which be all incentives to abstain from dramatic writing.

PERDITUS.

PUNCH’S THEATRE. JACK KETCH; OR, A LEAF FROM TYBURN TREE. Modern

legislation is chiefly remarkable for its oppressive interference with

the elegant amusements of the mob. Bartholomew-fair is abolished; bull-

baiting, cock-pits, and duck-hunts are put down by act of Parliament;

prize-fighting, by the New Police—even those morally healthful

exhibitions, formerly afforded opposite the Debtors’ Door of Newgate,

for the sake of example—that were attended by idlers in hundreds, and

thieves in thousands—are fast growing into disuse. The “masses” see no

pleasure now: even the hanging-matches are cut off.

Deeply compassionating the effects of so illiberal an innovation, Mr. G.

Almar the author to, and Mr. R. Honner the proprietor of, Sadler’s Wells

Theatre, have produced an exhibition which in a great degree makes up

for the infrequent performances at the Old Bailey. Those whose moral

sensibilities are refined to the choking point—who can relish stage

strangulation in all its interesting varieties better than Shakspere,

are now provided with a rich treat. They need not wait for the

Recorder’s black cap and a black Monday morning—the Sadler’s Wells’

people hang every night with great success; for, unless one goes early,

there is—as is the case wherever hanging takes place—no standing room to

be had for love or money.

The play is simply the history of Jack Ketch, a gentleman who flourished

at the beginning of the last century, and who, by industry and

perseverance, attained to the rank of public executioner; an office he

performed with such skill and effect that his successors have, as the

bills inform us, inherited “his soubriquet” with his office. He is

introduced to the audience as a ropemaker’s apprentice, living in the

immediate neighbourhood of Execution-Dock, and loving Barbara Allen, “a

young spinster residing at the Cottage of Content, upon the borders of

Epping Forest, supporting herself by the produce of her wheel and the

cultivation of her flower-garden.” He beguiles his time, while twisting

the hemp, by spinning a tedious yarn about this well-to-do spinster;

from which we infer Barbara’s barbarity, and that he is crossed in love.

The soliloquy is interrupted by an elderly man, who enters to remark

that he has come out for a little relaxation after a hard morning’s

work: no wonder, for we soon learn that he is the Jack Ketch of his day,

and has, but an hour before, tucked up two brace of pirates. With this

pleasing information, and a sharp dialogue on his favourite subject with

the hero, he retires.

Here the interest begins; three or four foot-stamps are heard behind;

Jack starts—“Ah, that noise,” &c.—and on comes the author of the piece,

“his first appearance here these five years.” He approaches the foot-

lights—he turns up his eyes—he thumps his breast—and goes through this

exercise three or four times, before the audience understand that they

are to applaud. They do so; and the play goes on as if nothing had

happened; for this is an episode expressive of a “first appearance these

five years.” Gipsy George or Mr. G. Almar, whichever you please, having

assured Jack Ketch that he is starving and in utter destitution,

proceeds to give five shillings for a piece of rope, and walks away,

after taking great pains to assure everybody that he is going to hang

himself. Before, however, he has had time to make the first coil of a

hempen collar, Jack looks off, and descries the stranger in the last

agonies of strangulation, amidst the most deafening applause from the

audience, whose disgust is indignantly expressed by silence when he

exits to cut the man down. Their delight is only revived by the

apparition of Gipsy George, pale and ghastly, with the rope round his

neck, and the exclamation that he is “done for.” Barabbas, the hangman,

who re-appears with the rest, is upbraided by Jack for coolly looking on

and letting the man hang himself, without raising an alarm. Mr. B.

answers, that “it was no business of his.” Like Sir Robert Peel and the

rest of the profession, it was evidently his maxim not to interfere,

unless “regularly called in.” The Gipsy, so far from dying, recovers

sufficiently to make to Jack some important disclosures; but of that

mysterious kind peculiar to melodrama, by which nobody is the wiser.

They, however, bear reference to Jack’s deceased father, a clasp-knife,

a certain Sir Gregory of “the gash,” and the four gentlemen so recently

suspended at Execution-Dock.

The residence of Content and Barbara Allen is a scene, the minute

correctness of which it would be wicked to doubt, when the bills so

solemnly guarantee that it is copied from the “best authorities.”

Barbara opens the door, makes a curtsey, produces a purse, and after

saying she is going to pay her rent, is, by an ingenious contrivance of

the Sadler’s Wells’ Shakspere, confronted with her landlord, the Sir

Gregory before-mentioned. All stage-landlords are villains, who prefer

seduction to rent, and he of the “gash” is no exception. The struggle,

rescue, and duel, which follow, are got through in no time. The last

would certainly have been fatal, had not the assailant’s servant come on

to announce that “a gentleman wished to speak to him at his own

residence.” The lover (who is of course the rescuer) deems this a

sufficient excuse to let off his antagonist without a scratch; Barbara

rewards him with an embrace and a rose, just as another rival intrudes

himself in the person of Mr. John Ketch. The altercation which now

ensues is but slight; for Jack, instead of fighting, goes off to

Fairlop-fair with another young lady, who seems to come upon the stage

for no other purpose than to oblige him. At the fair we find Jack’s

spirits considerably damped by the prediction of a gipsy, that he will

marry a hangman’s daughter; but, after the jumping in sacks, which forms

a part of the sports, he rescues Barbara from being once more assailed

by her landlord. Thereupon another component of the festive scene—our

friend the hangman—declares that she is his daughter! “Horror” tableau,

and end of Act I.

After establishing a lapse of four years between the acts, the author

takes [pg 132]high ground;—we are presented with the summit of Primrose-

hill, St. Paul’s in the distance, and a gentleman with black clothes,

and literary habits, reading in the foreground. This turns out to be

“The Laird Lawson,” Barbara’s favoured lover and benevolent duellist.

Though on the top of Cockney Mount, he is suffering under a deep

depression of spirits; for he has never seen Miss Allen during four

years, come next Fairlop-fair. Having heard this, the audience is, of

course, quite prepared for that lady’s appearance; and, sure enough, on

she comes, accounting for her presence with great adroitness:—having

left the city to go to Holloway, she is taking a short cut over

Primrose-hill. The lovers go through the mode of recognition never

departed from at minor theatres, with the most frantic energy, and have

nearly hugged themselves out of breath, when the executioner papa

interrupts the blissful scene, without so much as saying how he got

there; but “finishers” are mysterious beings. Barabbas denounces the

laird; and when his consent is asked for the hand of Miss Barbara, tells

the lover “he will see him hanged first!”

The moon, a dark stage, and Jack Ketch in the character of a foot-pad,

now add to the romance of the drama. Not to leave anything unexplained,

the hero declares, that he has cut the walk of life he formerly trod in

the rope ditto, and has been induced to take to the road solely by Fate,

brandy and (not salt, but) Barbara! By some extraordinary accident,

every character in the piece, with two exceptions, have occasion to

tread this scene—“Holloway and heath near the village of Holloway”

(painted from the best authorities), just exactly in time to be robbed

by Ketch; who shows himself a perfect master of his business, and a

credit to his instructor; for Gipsy George rewards Jack for saving him

from hanging, by showing his friend the shortest way to the gallows.

In the following scene, the plot breaks out in a fresh place. The man

with the “gash,” and Gipsy George are together, going over some youthful

reminiscences. It seems that once upon a time there were six pirates;

four were those pendents from the gibbet at Execution-Dock one hears so

much about at the commencement; the fifth is the speaker, Gipsy George;

and “you,” exclaims that person, striking an attitude, and addressing

Sir Gregory, “make up the half-dozen!” They all formerly did business in

a ship called the “Morning Star,” and whenever the ex-pirate number five

is in pecuniary distress, he bawls out into the ear of ci-devant pirate

number six, the words “Morning Star!” and a purse of hush-money is

forked out in a trice. In this manner Gipsy George accumulates, by the

end of the piece, a large property; for six or eight purses, all ready

filled for each occasion, thus pass into his pockets.

The “best authorities” furnish us, next, with an interior; that of “the

Mug, a chocolate house and tavern,” where a new plot is hatched against

the crown and dignity of the late respected George the First, by a party

of Jacobites. These consist of a half-dozen of Hanoverian Whigs, who

enter, duly decorated with an equal number of hats of every variety of

cock and cockade. The heroine seems to have engaged herself here as

waitress, on purpose to meet her persecutor, Sir Gregory, and her late

lover, Jack Ketch. What comes of this rencontre it is impossible to make

out, for a general mélée ensues, caused by a discovery of the plot;

which is by no means a gunpowder plot; for although a file of soldiers

present their arms for several minutes full at the conspirators, not a

single musket goes off. Perhaps gunpowder was expensive in the reign of

George the First. Jack Ketch ends the act with a dream—an apropos

finale, for we caught several of our neighbours napping. The scene in

which this vision takes place is the crowning result of the painter’s

researches amongst the “best authorities;” it being no less than “a

garret in Grub-street, in which the great Daniel De Foe composed his

romance of Robinson Crusoe!!”

A fishing-party—whose dulness is relieved by a suicide—opens the last

act: one of the anglers having finished a comic song—which from its

extreme gravity forms an appropriate dirge to the forthcoming felo-de-

se—goes off with his companion to leave the water clear for Barbara

Allen, who enters, takes an affecting leave of her laird lover, and

straightway drowns herself. Jack Ketch is now, by a rapid change of

scene, discovered in limbo, and condemned to death; why, we were too

stupid to make out. The fatal cart—very likely modelled after “the best

authorities”—next occupies the stage, drawn by a real horse, and filled

with Sir Gregory Gash (who it seems is going to be hanged) and Jack

Ketch not as a prisoner, but as an officer of the crown; for we are to

suppose that Mr. Barabbas, having retired from the public scaffold to

private life, has seceded in favour of Jack Ketch, who is saved from the

rope himself, on condition of his using it upon the person of Sir

Gregory and every succeeding criminal. All the characters come on with

the cart, and a dénouement evidently impends. The distracted lover

demands of somebody to restore his mistress, which Gipsy George is

really so polite as to do; for although the bills expressly inform us

she has committed “suicide,” and we have actually seen her jump into the

river Lea; yet there she is safe and sound!—carefully preserved in an

envelope formed partly by the Gipsy himself, and partly by his cloak.

She, of course, embraces her lover, and leaves Jack Ketch to embrace his

profession with what appetite he may; all, in fact, ends happily, and

Sir Gregory goes off to be hanged.

This, then, is the state to which the founders of the Newgate school of

dramatic literature, and the march of intellect, have brought us.

Nothing short of actual hanging—the most revolting and repulsive of all

possible subjects to enter, much less to dwell in any mind not actually

savage—must now be provided to meet the refined taste of play-goers. In

the present instance, nothing but the actual spiciness of the subject

saved the piece from the last sentence of even Sadler’s Wells’ critical

law; for in construction and detail, it is the veriest mass of

incoherent rubbish that was ever shot upon the plains of common sense.

The sketch we have made is in no one instance exaggerated. Our readers

may therefore easily judge whether we speak truly or not.

PUNCH AT THE NEW STRAND. When Napoleon first appeared before the grand

army after his return from Elba—when Queen Victoria made her débût at

the assemblage of her first parliament—when Kean performed “Othello” at

Drury Lane immediately after he had caused a certain friend of his to

play the same part in the Court of King’s Bench—the public mind was

terribly agitated, and the public’s legs instinctively carried them, on

each occasion, to behold those great performers. When—to give these

circumstances their highest application,—“Punch,” on Thursday last, came

out in the regular drama, the excitement was no less intense. Boxes were

besieged; the pit was choked up, and the gallery creaked with its

celestial encumbrance.

As the curtain drew up, there would have been a death-like silence but

for the unparalleled sales that were taking place in apples, oranges,

and ginger-beer. Expectation was on tip-toe, as were the persons

occupying that department of the theatre called “standing-room.” The

looked-for moment came; the “drop” ascended, and the spectators beheld

Mr. Dionysius Swivel, a pint of ale, and Punch’s theatre!

“Tragedy,” saith the Aristotelian recipe for cooking up a serious drama,

“should have the probable, the marvellous, and the pathetic.” In the

tableau thus presented, the audience beheld the three conditions

strictly complied with all at once. “It was highly probable,” as Mr.

Swivel observed to the source of pipes, ’bacca, and malt—in other words,

to the landlady he was addressing—that his master, the showman, was

unable to pay the score he had run up; it was marvellous that the

proprietor of so popular a puppet as “Punch” should not have even the

price of a pint of ale in his treasury; lastly, that circumstance was

deeply pathetic; for what so heart-rending as the exhibition of fallen

greatness, of broken-down prosperity, of affluence regularly stumped and

hard-up! The fact is, that “Punch,” his theatre, and corps dramatique,

are in pawn for eight-and-ninepence!

In the midst of this distress there appears a young gentleman, giving

vent to passionate exclamations, while furiously buttoning up a tight

surtout. The object of his love is the daughter of the object of his

hate. Mr. Snozzle, having previously made his bow, overhears him, and

being the acting manager of “Punch,” and having a variety of plots for

rescuing injured lovers from inextricable difficulties on hand, offers

one of them to the lover, considerably over cost price; namely, for the

puppet-detaining eight-and-ninepence, and a glass of brandy-and-water.

The bargain being struck, the scene changes.

To the happiness of being the possessor of “Punch,” Mr. Snozzle adds

that of having a wonderful wife—a lady of universal talents; who dances

in spangled shoes, plays on the tamburine, and sings Whitechapel French

like a native. This inestimable creature has already gone round the town

on a singing, dancing, and cash-collecting expedition; accompanied by

the drum, mouth-organ, and Swivel. We now find her enchanting the

flinty-hearted father, Old Fellum. Having been instrumental, by means of

her vocal abilities, in drawing from him a declaration of amorous

attachment and half-a-crown, she retires, to bury herself in the arms of

her husband, and to eradicate the score, recorded in chalk, at Mrs.

Rummer’s hotel.

In the meantime Snozzle, having sold a plot, proceeds to fulfil the

bargain by executing it. He enters with PUNCH’S theatre, to treat Old

Fellum with a second exhibition, and his daughter with an elopement; for

in the midst of the performance the young lady detects the big drum in

the act of “winking at her;” and she soon discovers that PUNCH’S

orchestra is no other than her own lover. Fellum is delighted with the

show, to which he is attentive enough to allow of the lovers’ escaping.

He pursues them when it is too late, and having been so precipitate in

his exit as to remember to forget to pay for his amusement, Swivel

steals a handsome cage, parrot included.

Good gracious! what a scene of confusion and confabulation next takes

place! Fellum’s first stage in pursuit is the public-house; there he

unwittingly persuades Mrs. Snozzle that her spouse is unfaithful—that he

it was who “stole away the old man’s daughter.” Mrs. Snozzle raves, and

threatens a divorce; Snozzle himself trembles—he suspects the police are

after him for being the receiver of stolen goods, instead of the

deceiver of unsuspecting virtue. Swivel dreads being taken up for

prigging the parrot; and a frightful catastrophe is only averted by the

entrance of the truant lovers, who have performed the comedy of

“Matrimony” in a much shorter time than is allowed by the act of

Parliament.

Mrs. Keeley played the tamburine, and the part of Snozzle femme. This

was more than acting; it was nature enriched with humour—character

broadly painted without a tinge of caricature. The solemnity of her

countenance, while performing with her feet, was a correct copy from the

expression of self-approbation—of the wonder-how-I-do-it-so-well—always

observable during the dances of the fair sex; her tones when singing

were unerringly brought from the street; her spangled dress was

assuredly borrowed from Scowton’s caravan. As a work of dramatic art,

this performance is, of its kind, most complete. Keeley’s Snozzle was

quiet, rich, and philosophical; and Saunders made a Judy of himself with

unparalleled success. Frank Finch got his deserts in the hands of a Mr.

Everett; for being a lover, no matter how awkward and ungainly an actor

is made to represent him.

“OH! DAY AND NIGHT, BUT THIS IS WONDROUS STRANGE!” “We believe, from the

first, Day was intended to mount, and wherefore it was made a mystery we

know not.—DOINGS AT DONCASTER.”—[Sunday Times.]

Poor Coronation well may say,

“A mystery I mark;

Though jockey’d by the lightest Day

They tried to keep me dark.”

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. OCTOBER 2, 1841. [pg 133] THE

TIPTOES. A SKETCH. "The Wrongheads have been a considerable family ever

since England was England."

VANBRUGH.

Two women on stilts for a letter M. orning and evening, from every

village within three or four miles of the metropolis, may be remarked a

tide of young men wending diurnal way to and from their respective desks

and counters in the city, preceded by a ripple of errand-boys, and light

porters, and followed by an ebb of plethoric elderly gentlemen in drab

gaiters. Now these individuals compose—for the most part—that

particular, yet indefinite class of people, who call themselves

“gentlemen,” and are called by everybody else “persons.” They are a

body—the advanced guard—of the “Tiptoes;” an army which invaded us some

thirty years ago, and which, since that time, has been actively and

perseveringly spoiling and desolating our modest, quiet, comfortable

English homes, turning our parlours into “boudoirs,” ripping our

fragrant patches of roses into fantastic “parterres,” covering our

centre tables with albums and wax flowers, and, in short (for these

details pain us), stripping our nooks and corners of the welcome warm

air of pleasant homeliness, which was wont to be a charm and a

privilege, to substitute for it a chilly gloss—an unwholesome straining

after effect—a something less definite in its operation than in its

result, which is called—gentility.

To have done with simile. Our matrons have discovered that luxury is

specifically cheaper than comfort (and they regard them as independent,

if not incompatible terms); and more than this, that comfort is, after

all, but an irrelevant and dispensable corollary to gentility, while

luxury is its main prop and stay. Furthermore, that improvidence is a

virtue of such lustre, that itself or its likeness is essential to the

very existence of respectability; and, by carrying out this proposition,

that in order to make the least amount of extravagance produce the

utmost admiration and envy, it is desirable to be improvident as

publicly as possible; the means for such expenditure being gleaned from

retrenchments in the home department. Thus, by a system of domestic

alchemy, the education of the children is resolved into a vehicle; a

couple of maids are amalgamated into a man in livery; while to a single

drudge, superintended and aided by the mistress and elder girls, is

confided the economy of the pantry, from whose meagre shelves are

supplied supplementary blondes and kalydors.

Now a system of economy which can induce a mother to “bring up her

children at home,” while she regards a phaeton as absolutely necessary

to convey her to church and to her tradespeople, and an annual visit to

the sea-side as perfectly indispensable to restore the faded complexions

of Frances and Jemima, ruined by late hours and hot cream, may be

considered open to censure by the philosopher who places women (and

girls, i.e. unmarried women) in the rank of responsible or even rational

creatures. But in this disposition he would be clearly wrong. Before

venturing to define the precise capacity of either an individual or a

class, their own opinion on the subject should assuredly be consulted;

and we are quite sure that there is not one of the lady Tiptoes who

would not recoil with horror from the suspicion of advancing or even of

entertaining an idea—it having been ascertained that everything original

(sin and all) is quite inconformable with the feminine character—unless

indeed it be a method of finding the third side of a turned silk—or of

defining that zero of fortune, to stand below which constitutes a

“detrimental.”

The Misses Tiptoe are an indefinite number of young ladies, of whom it

is commonly remarked that some may have been pretty, and others may,

hereafter, be pretty. But they never are so; and, consequently, they are

very fearful of being eclipsed by their dependents, and take care to

engage only ill-favoured governesses, and (but ‘tis an old pun) very

plain cooks. The great business of their lives is fascination, and in

its pursuit they are unremitting. It is divided in distinct departments,

among the sisters; each of whom is characterised at home by some

laudatory epithet, strikingly illustrative of what they would like to

be. There is Miss Tiptoe, such an amiable girl! that is, she has a large

mouth, and a Mallan in the middle of it. There is Jemima, “who enjoys

such delicate health “—that is, she has no bust, and wears a scarf. Then

there is Grace, who is all for evening rambles, and the “Pilgrim of

Love;” and Fanny, who can not help talking; and whom, in its turn,

talking certainly cannot help. They are remarkable for doing a little of

everything at all times. Whether it be designing on worsted or on

bachelors—whether concerting overtures musical or matrimonial; the same

pretty development of the shoulder through that troublesome scarf—the

same hasty confusion in drawing it on again, and referring to the watch

to see what time it is—displays the mind ever intent on the great object

of their career. But they seldom marry (unless, in desperation, their

cousins), for they despise the rank which they affect to have

quitted—and no man of sense ever loved a Tiptoe. So they continue at

home until the house is broken up; and then they retire in a galaxy to

some provincial Belle Vue-terrace or Prospect-place; where they

endeavour to forestall the bachelors with promiscuous orange-blossoms

and maidenly susceptibilities. We have characterised these heart-burning

efforts after “station,” as originating with, and maintained by, the

female branches of the family; and they are so—but, nevertheless, their

influence on the young men is no less destructive than certain. It is a

fact, that, the more restraint that is inflicted on these individuals in

the gilded drawing-room at home, the more do they crave after the

unshackled enjoyment of their animal vulgarity abroad. Their principal

characteristics are a love of large plaids, and a choice vocabulary of

popular idiomatic forms of speech; and these will sufficiently define

them in the saloons of the theatres and in the cigar divans. But they

are not ever thus. By no means. At home (which does not naturally

indicate their own house), having donned their “other waistcoat” and

their pin (emblematic of a blue hand grasping an egg, or of a butterfly

poised on a wheel)—pop! they are gentlemen. With the hebdomadal

sovereign straggling in the extreme verge of their pockets—with the

afternoon rebuke of the “principal,” or peradventure of some senior

clerk, still echoing in their ears—they are GENTLEMEN. They are desired

to be such by their mother and sisters, and so they talk about cool

hundreds—and the points of horses—and (on the strength of the dramatic

criticisms in the Satirist) of Grisi in Norma, and Persiani in La

Sonnambula—of Taglioni and Cerito—of last season and the season before

that.

We know not how far the readers of PUNCH may be inclined to approve so

prosy an article as this in their pet periodical; but we have ventured

to appeal to them (as the most sensible people in the country) against a

class of shallow empirics, who have managed to glide unchidden into our

homes and our families, to chill the one and to estrange the other.

Surely, surely, we were unworthy of our descent, could we see unmoved

our lovely English girls, whose modesty was wont to be equalled only by

their beauty, concentrating all their desires and their energies on a

good match; or our reverend English matrons, the pride and honour of the

land, employing themselves in the manufacture of fish-bone blanc-mange

and mucilaginous tipsy-cakes; or our young Englishmen, our hope and our

resource, spending themselves in the debasing contamination of cigars

and alcohol.

CONDENSED PARLIAMENTARY REPORT ON THE MISCELLANEOUS ESTIMATES. Vide

Examiner.

MR. WILLIAMS—objected— SIR T. WILDE—vindicated— SIR R. PEEL—doubted— MR.

PLUMPTRE—opposed— MR. VILLIERS—requested— MR. EWART—moved— MR.

EASTCOURT—thought— MR. FERRAND—complained— LORD JOHN RUSSELL—wished— MR.

AGLIONBY—was of opinion— MR. STEWART WORTLEY—hoped— MR. WAKLEY—thought—

MR. RICE—urged— MR. FIELDEN—regretted— MR. WARD—was convinced— TAKING

THE HODDS. On a recent visit of Lord Waterford to the “Holy Land,” then

to sojourn in the hostel or caravansera of the protecting Banks of that

classic ground, that interesting young nobleman adopted, as the seat of

his precedency, a Brobdignag hod, the private property of some

descendant from one of the defunct kings of Ulster; at the close of an

eloquent harangue; his lordship expressed an earnest wish that he should

be able to continue

One man carries another on some sort of stick. GOING IT LIKE BRICKS—

a hope instantly gratified by the stalwart proprietor, who, wildly

exclaiming, “Sit aisy!” hoisted the lordly burden on his shoulders, and

gave him the full benefit of a shilling fare in that most unusual

vehicle.

Q.E.D. “SIR ROBERT PEEL thinks a great deal of himself,” says the

British Critic. “Yes,” asserts PUNCH, “he is just the man to trouble

himself about trifles.”

[pg 134] A god throws 'Leader' bolts at three men. ROEBUCK DEFYING THE

“THUNDERER.” Roebuck was seated in his great arm chair,

Looking as senatorial and wise

As a calf’s head, when taken in surprise;

A half-munch’d muffin did his fingers bear—

An empty egg-shell proved his meal nigh o’er.

When, lo! there came a tapping at the door:

“Come in!” he cried,

And in another minute by his side

Stood John the footboy, with the morning paper,

Wet from the press. O’er Roebuck’s cheek

There passed a momentary gleam of joy,

Which spoke, as plainly as a smile could speak,

“Your master’s speech is in that paper, boy.”

He waved his hand—the footboy left the room—

Roebuck pour’d out a cup of Hyson bloom;

And, having sipp’d the tea and sniff’d the vapour,

Spread out the “Thunderer” before his eyes—

When, to his great surprise,

He saw imprinted there, in black and white,

That he, THE ROE-buck—HE, whom all men knew,

Had been expressly born to set worlds right—

That HE was nothing but a parvenu.

Jove! was it possible they lack’d the knowledge he

Boasted a literary and scientific genealogy!

That he had had some ancestors before him—

(Beside the Pa who wed the Ma who bore him)—

Men whom the world had slighted, it is true,

Because it never knew

The greatness of the genius which had lain,

Like unwrought ore, within each vasty brain;

And as a prejudice exists that those

Who never do disclose

The knowledge that they boast of, seldom have any,

Each of his learned ancestors had died,

By an ungrateful world belied,

And dubb’d a Zany.

That HE should be

Denied a pedigree!

Appeared so monstrous in this land of freedom,

He instantly conceived the notion

To go down to the House and make a motion,

That all men had a right to those who breed ‘em.

Behold him in his seat, his face carnation,

Just like an ace of hearts,

Not red and white in parts,

But one complete illumination.

He rises--members blow their noses,

And cough and hem! till one supposes,

A general catarrh prevails from want of ventilation.

He speaks:—

Mr. Speaker, Sir, in me you see

A member of this house (hear, hear),

With whose proud pedigree

The “Thunderer” has dared to interfere.

Now I implore,

That Lawson may be brought upon the floor,

And beg my pardon on his bended knees.

In whatsoever terms I please.

(Oh! oh!)

(No! no!)

I, too, propose,

To pull his nose:

No matter if the law objects or not;

And if the printer’s nose cannot be got,

The small proboscis of the printer’s devil

Shall serve my turn for language so uncivil!

The “Thunderer” I defy,

And its vile lie.

(As Ajax did the lightning flash of yore.)

I likewise move this House requires—

No, that’s too complimentary—desires,

That Mr. Lawson’s brought upon the floor.