The thing was done:

The house divided, and the Ayes were—ONE!

EXPRESS FROM WINDSOR. Last evening a most diabolical, and, it is to be

regretted successful, attempt, was made to kiss the Princess Royal. It

appears that the Royal Babe was taking an airing in the park, reclining

in the arms of her principal nurse, and accompanied by several ladies of

the court, who were amusing the noble infant by playing rattles, when a

man of ferocious appearance emerged from behind some trees, walked

deliberately up to the noble group, placed his hands on the nurse, and

bent his head over the Princess. The Honourable Miss Stanley, guessing

the ruffian’s intention, earnestly implored him to kiss her instead, in

which request she was backed by all the ladies present.11. This

circumstance alone must at once convince every unprejudiced person of

the utter falsity of the reports (promulgated by certain interested

parties) of the disloyalty of the Tory ladies, when we see several dames

placed in the most imminent danger, yet possessing sufficient presence

of mind to offer lip-service to their sovereign.—EDITOR. Morn. Post. He

was not, however, to be frustrated in the attempt, which no sooner had

he accomplished, than he hurried off amidst the suppressed screams of

the ladies. The Royal Infant was immediately carried to the palace,

where her heart-rending cries attracted the attention of her Majesty,

who, on hurrying to the child, and hearing the painful narration, would,

in the burst of her maternal affection, have kissed the infant, had not

Sir J. Clarke, who was fortunately present, prevented her so doing.

Dr. Locock was sent for from town, who, immediately on his arrival at

Windsor, held a conference with Sir J. Clarke, and a basin of pap was

prepared by them, which being administered to the Royal Infant, produced

the most satisfactory results.

We are prohibited from stating the measures taken for the detection of

the ruffian, lest their disclosure should frustrate the ends of justice.

A ROYAL DUCK. His Royal Highness Prince Albert, during the sojourn of

the Court at Windsor Castle, became, by constant practice in the Thames,

so expert a swimmer, that, with the help of a cork jacket, he could,

like Jones of the celebrated firm of “Brown, Jones, and Robinson,” swim

“anywhere over the river.” Her Majesty, however, with true conjugal

regard for the safety of the royal duck, never permitted him to venture

into the water without

A youth is plunged into a river by two women. A COMPANION OF THE BATH.

HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS. Michelly, of the Morning Post, was boasting to

Westmacott of his intimate connexion with the aristocracy. “The area-

stocracy, more likely,” replied the ex-editor of the Argus.

[pg 135] GREAT ANNUAL MICHAELMAS JUBILEE. MAGNIFICENT CELEBRATION OF

GOOSE-DAY. How often are we—George Stephens-like—to be called upon to

expend our invaluable breath in performing Eolian operations upon our

own cornopean! Here have we, at an enormous expense and paralysing

peril, been obliged to dispatch our most trusty and well-beloved

reporter, to the fens in Lincolnshire, stuffed with brandy, swathed in

flannel, and crammed with jokes; from whence he, at the cost of infinite

pounds, unnumbered rheumatisms, and a couple of agues, caught, to speak

vulgarly, “in a brace of shakes,” has forwarded us the following

authentic account of the august proceedings which took place in that

county on the anniversary of the great St. Michaelmas.

FROM OUR OWN CORRESPONDENT. Tuesday night.—Depths of the fens—just

arrived—only time to state all muck—live eels and festivity—Sibthorp in

extra force—betting 6 to 4 “he cooks everybody’s goose”—no

takers—D’Israeli says it’s a gross want of sympathy—full account to-

morrow—expect rare doings—must conclude—whrr-rh-h—tertian coming

on—promises great shakes.

I am, sincerely and shiveringly,

YOUR OWN CORRESPONDENT.

Wednesday morning.—The day dawned like a second deluge, and the various

volunteer dramatis personæ seemed like the spectres of the defunct

water-dogs of Sadler’s Wells. An eminent tallow-chandler from the east

end of Whitechapel contracted for the dripping, and report says he found

it a very swimming speculation. Life-preservers, waterproof and washable

hats, were on the ground, which, together with Macintoshes and corks,

formed a pleasing and varied group. The grand stand was graced by

several eminent and capacious geese; nor was the infantine simplicity of

numerous promising young goslings wanting to complete the delightful

ensemble.

The business of the day commenced with a grand commemorative procession

of homage to the prize goose, the representative of whom, we are proud

to say, fell by election to the envied lot of the gallant, jocose, and

Joe Millertary Colonel Sibthorp.

ORDER OF PROCESSION. Trumpeter in Ordinary to “all the geese,” and

himself in particular,

On his extraordinary Pegasus, beautifully represented by a Jackass,

Idealised with magnificent goose’s wings.

Mr. GEORGE STEPHENS, Grand Master of Hanky-panky.

Balancing on the Pons Asinorum of his Nose the Identical goose-quill

with which he indited the Wondrous Tale of Alroy,

Mr. BEN D’ISRAELI (much admired).

The great Stuffer and Crammer, bearing a stupendous dish

Of Sage and Onions,

Seated in a magnificent Sauce-boat, supported on either side by

Two fly pages bearing Apple-sauce,

And a train-bearer distributing mustard,

SIR EDWARD GEORGE ERLE LYTTON BULWER.

Grand Officiating Gravy Spoon,

A character admirably sustained, and

supported to the life, by

PETER BORTHWICK, M.P. and G.O.G.S.

Drawer and Carver-in-Chief,

Bearing some splendidly-dissected giblets, with gilt gizzard under his

right arm, and plated liver under his left,

Surgeon WAKLEY, M.P.

Hereditary Champion of the Pope’s Nose,

Bearing the dismembered Relic enclosed in a beautifully-enamelled

Dutch oven,

DANIEL O’CONNELL, M.P.

The grand Prize Goose,

Reclining on a splendid willow-pattern well dish,

Colonel WALDO SIBTHORP!

Supported by CHARLES PEARSON, and Sir PETER LAURIE,

With flowery potatoes and shocking greens.

Grand Accountant-General,

With a magnificent banner, bearing an elaborate average rate of the

price

of geese.

And the cheapest depôts for the same,

JOSEPH HUME, M.P.

This imposing procession having reached the grand kitchen, which had

been erected for the occasion, the festivities instantly commenced by

the Vice-Goose, Sir EDWARD LYTTON ERLE BULWER, proposing the health of

the gallant Chairman, the Great-grand Goose:—

“Mr. Chairman and prize goose,—The feelings which now agitate my

sensorium on this Michaelmasian occasion stimulate the vibratetiuncles

of the heartiean hypothesis, so as to paralyse the oracular and

articulative apparatus of my loquacious confirmation, overwhelming my

soul-fraught imagination, as the boiling streams of liquid lava, buried

in one vast cinereous mausoleum—the palace-crowded city of the engulphed

Pompeii. (Immense cheers.)—I therefore propose a Methusalemic elongation

of the duration of the vital principle of the presiding anserian

paragon.” (Stentorian applause, continued for half-an-hour after the

rising of the Prize Goose) who said—

“Fellow Geese and Goslings,—Julius Cæsar, when he laid the first stone

of the rock of Gibraltar—Mr. Carstairs, the celebrated caligrapher, when

he indited the inscription on the Rosetta stone—Cleopatra, when she

hemmed Anthony’s bandanna with her celebrated needle—the Colossus of

Rhodes, when he walked and won his celebrated match against Captain

Barclay—Galileo, when he discovered and taught his grandmother the mode

of sucking eggs—could not feel prouder than I do upon the present

occasion. (Cheers.) These reminiscences, I can assure you, will ever

stick in my grateful gizzard.”

Here the gallant Colonel sat down, overcome by his feelings and several

glasses of Betts’ best British brandy.

Song—“Goosey, goosey gander.”

Mr. D’ISRAELI then rose, and said,—“Chair, and brethren of the quill, I

feel, in assuming the perpendicular, like the sun when sinking into his

emerald bed of western waters. Overcome by emotions mighty as the

impalpable beams of the harmonious moon’s declining light, and forcibly

impressed as the trembling oak, girt with the invisible arms of the

gentle loving zephyr; the blush mantles on my cheek, deep as the

unfathomed depths of the azure ocean. I say, gentlemen, impressed as I

am with a sense—with a sense, I say, with a sense—” Here the hon.

gentleman sat down for want of a termination.

Song—“No more shall the children of Judah sing.”

Mr. PETER BORTHWICK (having corked himself a handsome pair of

mustachios), next rose, and said,—“Most potent, grave, and reverend

signors, and Mr. Chairman,—if it were done, when ‘tis done, then ‘twere

well it were done quickly’—in rising to drink—‘my custom always of an

afternoon’—the health of Sir Peter Laurie, and whom I can ask, in the

language of the immortal bard, ‘where gottest thou that goose look,’ I

can only say, ‘had Heaven made me such another,’ I would not”— Then

Peter Borthwick sat down, evidently indisposed, exclaiming—“The drink,

Hamlet, the drink!!!”

Here our reporter left the meeting, who were vociferously chanting, by

way of grace, previous to the attack on the “roast geese,” the

characteristic anthem of the “King of the Cannibal Islands.”

DYER IGNORANCE. It has been rumoured that Mr. Bernal, the new member,

has been for some weeks past suffering from a severe attack of scarlet

fever, caused by his late unparliamentary conduct in addressing the

assembled legislators as—gentlemen. We are credibly informed that this

unprecedented piece of ignorance has had the effect, as Shakspere says,

of

A man gets money from a chubby soldier. “MAKING THE GREEN ONE

RED.”—Macbeth.

MAKING A COMPOSITION WITH ONE’S ANCESTORS. Roebuck, the ex-attorney, and

member for Bath, who has evinced a most commendable love of his parents,

from his great-grandfather upwards, seeing the utter impossibility of

carrying through the “whole hog” conviction of their respectability, and

finding himself in rather an awkward “fix,” on the present occasion begs

to inform the editor of the Times, that he will be most happy to accept

a compromise, on their literary and scientific attainments, at the very

reasonable rate of

A man sits in a chicken coop. SIX-AND-EIGHTPENCE IN THE POUND.

[pg 136] PUNCH’S HISTRIONIC READINGS IN HISTORY. NO. 1.—ENGLAND. Of the

early history of England nothing is known. It was, however, invaded by

the Normans; but whether they were any relations of the once celebrated

Norman the pantaloon, we have no authentic record. The kingdom had at

one time seven kings—two of whom were probably the two well-known kings

of Brentford. Perhaps, also, the king of Little Britain made a third;

while old king Cole may have constituted a fourth; thus leaving only a

trifling balance of three to be accounted for.

Alfred the Great is supposed to have been originally a baker, from his

having undertaken the task of watching the cakes in the neat-herd’s

oven; and Edward the Black Prince was probably a West Indian, who found

his way to our hospitable shores at an early period.

We now come to King John, who ascended the throne after putting out his

nephew’s eyes with a pair of curling-irons, and who is the first English

Sovereign who attempted to write his own name; for the scrawl is

evidently something more than his mark, which is attached to Magna

Charta.

We need say nothing of Richard the Third, with whom all our play-going

friends are familiar, and who made the disgraceful offer, if Shakspeare

is to be believed, of parting with the whole kingdom for a horse, though

it does not appear that the disreputable bargain was ever completed.

The wars of York and Lancaster, which, though not exactly couleur de

rose, were on the subject of white and red roses (that is to say, China

and cabbage), united the crown in the person of Henry the Seventh, known

to the play-going public as the Duke of Richmond, and remarkable for

having entered the country by the Lincolnshire fens; for he talks of

having got into “the bowels of the land” immediately on his arrival.

Henry the Eighth, as everybody knows, was the husband of seven wives,

and gave to Mr. Almar (the Sadler’s Wells Stephens) the idea of his

beautiful dramatic poem of the Wife of Seven Husbands.

Elizabeth’s reign is remarkable for having produced a mantle which is

worn at the present day, it having been originally made for one

Shakspeare; but it is now worn by Mr. George Stephens, for whom,

however, it is a palpable misfit, and it sits upon him most awkwardly.

Charles the First had his head cut off, and Mr. Cathcart acted him so

naturally in Miss Mitford’s play that one would have thought the monarch

was entirely without a head all through the tragedy.

Cromwell next obtained the chief authority. This man was a brewer, who

did not think “small beer” of himself, and inundated his country with

“heavy wet,” in the shape of tears, for a long period.

Charles the Second, well known as the merry monarch, is remarkable only

for his profligacy, and for the number of very bad farces in which he

has been the principal character. His brother James had a short reign,

but not a merry one. He is the only English sovereign who may be said to

have amputated his bludgeon; which, if we were speaking of an ordinary

man and not a monarch, we should have rendered by the familiar phrase of

“cut his stick,” a process which was soon performed by his majesty.

The crown now devolved upon William and Mary, upon whom half-a crown a-

piece was thus settled by the liberality of Parliament. William was

Prince of Orange, a descendant probably of the great King Pippin.

Anne of Denmark comes next on our list, but of her we shall say nothing;

and as the Georges who followed her are so near own time, we shall

observe, with regard to them, an equally impenetrable mystery.

WAR TO THE NAIL. The British Critic, the high church, in fact, steeple

Tory journal, tells its readers, “if we strike out the first person of

Robert’s speeches, ay, out of his whole career, they become a rope

untwisted,” &c. &c. &c. This excited old lady is evidently anxious to

disfigure the head of the government, by scratching Sir Robert Peel’s

I’s out.

MOLAR AND INCISOR. Muntz, in rigging Wakley upon the late article in the

Examiner, likening the member for Finsbury, in his connexion with Sir

Robert Peel, “to the bird which exists by picking the crocodile’s

teeth,” jocularly remarked, “Well, I never had any body to pick my

teeth.” “I should think not, or they would have chosen a much better

set.”

TWENTY POUNDS. READER, did you ever want twenty pounds? You have—you

have!—I see it—I know it! Nay, never blush! Your hand—your hand!

READER.—Sir, I—

Silence!—nonsense—stuff; don’t, don’t prevaricate—own it as I do,—own it

and rejoice.

READER.—Really, sir, this conduct—

Is strange. Granted; don’t draw back; come, a cordial gripe. We are

friends; we have both suffered from the same cause. There, that’s

right—honest palm to palm. Now, how say you—have you ever wanted twenty

pounds?

READER.—Frankly, then, I have.

Mind to mind, as hand to hand. Have you felt as I did? Did its want

cloud the sun, wither the grass, and blight the bud?

READER.—It did.

But how, marry, how? What! you decline confession—so you may—I’ll be

more explicit. I was abroad, far from my “father-land”—there’s a magic

in the word!—the turf we’ve played on, the hearts we love, the graves we

venerate—all, all combine to concentrate its charm.

READER.—You are digressing.

Thank you, I am; but I’ll resume. While I could buy them, friends indeed

were plenty. Alas! prudence is seldom co-mate with youth and

inexperience. The golden dream was soon to end—end even with the yellow

dross that gave it birth. Fallacious hopes of coming “posts,” averted

for a time my coming wretchedness—three weeks, and not a line! The

landlord suffered from an intermitting affection, characteristic of the

“stiff-necked generation;”—he bowed to others—galvanism could not have

procured the tithe of a salaam for me. His till was afflicted with a

sort of sinking-fundishness. I was the contractor of “the small bill,”

whose exact amount would enable him to meet a “heavy payment;” my very

garments were “tabooed” from all earth’s decencies; splashes seemed to

have taken a lease of the bottoms of my trousers. My boots, once objects

of the tenderest care of their unworthy namesake, seemed conscious of

the change, and drooped in untreed wretchedness, desponding at the

wretched wrinkles now ruffling the once smooth calf! My coat no more

appeared to catch the dust; as if under the influence of some invisible

charm, its white-washed elbows never struck upon the sight of the else

all-seeing boots; spider never rushed from his cell with the post-haste

speed with which he issued from his dark recess, to pick the slightest

cobweb that ever harnessed Queen Mab’s team, from other coats; a gnat, a

wandering hair left its location, swept by the angry brush from the

broad-cloth of those who paid their bills—as far as I was concerned—all

were inoculated with this strange blindness. It was an overwhelming

ophthalmia! The chambermaid, through its fatality, never discovered that

my jugs were empty, my bottle clothed with slimy green, my soap-dish

left untenanted. A day before this time had been sufficient service for

my hand-towel; now a week seemed to render it less fit to taste the rubs

of hands and soap. Dust lost its vice, and lay unheeded in the crammed

corner of my luckless room.

READER.—I feel for you.

Silence! the worst is yet to come. At dinner all things changed—soup,

before too hot to drink, came to my lips cool as if the north wind had

caressed it; number was at an end; I ranked no longer like a human

being; I was a huge ought—a walking cypher—a vile round O. I had neither

beginning nor end. Go where I would—top, bottom, sides, ‘twas all the

same. Bouilli avoided me—vegetables declined growing under my eyes—fowls

fled from me. I might as well have longed for ice-cream in

Iceland—dessert in a desert. I had no turn—I was the last man.

Nevertheless, dinner was a necessary evil.

READER.—And tea?

Was excluded from the calendar. Night came, but no rest—all things had

forgotten their office. The sheets huddled in undisturbed selfishness,

like knotted cables, in one corner of the bed; the blankets, doubtless

disgusted at their conduct, sought refuge at the foot; and the flock,

like most other flocks, without a directing hand, was scattered in

disjointed heaps.

READER.—Did not you complain?

I did—imprimis—to boots—boots scratched his head; ditto waiter—waiter

shook his; the chambermaid, strange to say, was suddenly deaf.

READER.—And the landlord?

Did nothing all day; but when I spoke, was in a hurry, “going to his

ledger,” Had I had as many months as hydra, that would have stopped them

all.

READER.—You were to be pitied.

I was. I rose one morning with the sun—it scorched my face, but shone

not. Nature was in her spring-time to all others, though winter to me. I

wandered beside the banks of the rapid Rhine, I saw nothing but the

thick slime that clogged them, and wondered how I could have thought

them beautiful; the pebbles seemed crushed upon the beach, the stream

but added to their lifelessness by heaping on them its dull green slime;

the lark, indeed, was singing—Juliet was right—its notes were nothing

but “harsh discords and unpleasing sharps”—a rainbow threw its varied

arch across the heavens—sadness had robbed it of its charm—it seemed a

visionary cheat—a beautiful delusion.

READER.—I feel with you.

I thank you. I went next day.

READER.—What then?

The glorious sun shed life and joy around—the clear water rushed

bounding on in glad delight to the sweet music of the scented wind—the

pebbly beach welcomed its chaste cool kiss, and smiled in freshness as

it rolled again back to its pristine bed. The buds on which I stepped,

elastic with high hope, sprung from the ground my foot had pressed them

to—the lark—

[pg 137] READER.—You can say nothing new about that.

You are right. I’ll pass it, and come at once to an end. My boots stood

upright, conscious of their glare; a new spring rushed into my bottles;

Flora’s sweets were witnessed in my dress; a mite, a tiny mite, might

have made progress round my room, nor found a substance larger than

itself to stop its way. My lips at dinner were scalded with the steaming

soup; the eager waiters, rushing with the choicest sauce, in dread

collision met, and soused my well-brushed coat. I was once more number

one!—all things had changed again.

READER—Except the rainbow.

Ay, even that.

READER,—Indeed! how so?

If still impalpable to the gross foot of earth, it seemed to the charmed

mind a glowing passage for the freed spirit to mount to bliss!

READER.—May I ask what caused this difference?

You may, and shall be answered. I had received—

READER.—What?

TWENTY POUNDS!

FUSBOS.

CURIOSITY HUNTERS There is a large class of people in the world—the

business of whose lives is to hunt after and collect trifling

curiosities; who go about like the Parisian chiffonniers, grubbing and

poking in the highways and byeways of society, for those dearly-prized

objects which the generality of mankind would turn up their noses at as

worthless rubbish. But though the tribe of curiosity-hunters be

extremely numerous, Nature, by a wise provision, has bestowed on them

various appetites, so that, in the pursuit of their prey, they are led

by different instincts, and what one seizes with avidity, another

rejects as altogether unworthy of notice.

The varieties of the species are interminable; some of them are well

known, and need no description—such as the book-worm, the bird-stuffer,

the coin-taster, the picture-scrubber, &c.; but there are others whose

tastes are singularly eccentric: of these I may mention the snuff-box

collector, the cane-fancier, the ring-taker, the play-bill gatherer, to

say nothing of one illustrious personage, whose passion for collecting a

library of Bibles is generally known. But there is another individual of

the species that I have not yet mentioned, whose morbid pleasure in

collecting relics and memorials of the most revolting deeds of blood and

crime is too well authenticated to be discredited. I believe that this

variety, which I term “The Criminal Curiosity Hunter,” is unknown to

every country in the world, except England.

How such a horrible taste should have been engendered here, is a

question not easily solved. Physiologists are inclined to attribute it

to our heavy atmosphere, which induces gloomy thoughts and fancies;

while moralists assign as its cause, the sanguinary spirit of our laws,

our brutal exhibitions of hanging, drawing and quartering, of

gibbettings, whippings, brandings, and torturings, which degrade men’s

natures, and give them a relish for scenes of blood and cruelty.

It happened that I had occasion to call on one of those “Criminal

Curiosity Hunters” lately. He received me with extreme urbanity, and

pointing to an old-fashioned-looking arm-chair, requested me to be

seated.—I did so.

“I suppose, sir,” said he, with an air of suppressed triumph, “that you

have no idea that you are now sitting in a remarkable chair?”

I assured him I was totally unconscious of the fact.

“I can tell you, then,” he replied, “that it was in that chair

Fauntleroy, the banker, who was hanged for forgery, was sitting when he

was arrested.”

“Indeed!”

“Fact, sir! I gave ten guineas for it. I thought also to have obtained

the night-cap in which he slept the night before his execution, but

another collector was beforehand with me, and bribed the turnkey to

steal it for him.”

“I had no idea there could be any competition for such an article,” I

observed.

“Ah! sir,” said he, with a deep sigh, “you don’t know the value of these

interesting relics. I have been for upwards of thirty years a collector

of them, and I have now as pretty a museum of Criminal Curiosities as

you could desire to see.”

“It seems you have been indefatigable in your pursuit,” said I.

“Yes,” he replied, “when a man devotes himself to a great object, he

must go to it heart and soul. I have spared neither time nor money in my

pursuit; and since I became a collector, I have attended the execution

of every noted malefactor throughout the kingdom.”

Perceiving that my attention was drawn to a common rope, which served as

a bell-pull, he said—

“I see you are remarking my bell-cord—that is the identical rope, sir,

which hanged Bellingham, who shot Mr. Perceval in the House of Commons.

I offered any sum for the one in which Thistlewood ended his life to

match it—but I was unfortunately disappointed; and the laws have now

become so disgracefully lenient, that I fear I shall never have an

opportunity of procuring a respectable companion rope for the other side

of my mantel-piece. And ‘tis all owing to the rascally Whigs, sir—they

have swept away all our good old English customs, and deprived us of our

national recreations. I remember, sir, when Monday was called ‘hanging

day’ at the Old Bailey; on that morning a man might he certain of seeing

three or four criminals swung off before his breakfast. ‘Tis a curious

study, sir, that of hanging—I have seen a great many people suffer in my

time: some go off as quiet as lambs, while others die very reluctantly.

I have remarked, sir, that ‘tis very difficult to hang a Jew pedlar, or

a hackney-coachman—there’s something obstinate in their nature that

won’t let them die like other men. But, as I said before, the Whigs and

reformers have knocked up the hanging profession; and if it was not for

the suicides, which, I am happy to say, are as abundant as ever, I don’t

know what we should do.”

After my friend’s indignation against the anti-hanging principles of

Reform had subsided a little, he invited me to examine his curiosities,

which he had arranged in an adjoining room.

“I have not,” said he, as we were proceeding thither, “confined my

collection to objects connected with capital offenders only; it

comprehends relics of every grade of crime, from murder to petty

larceny. In that respect I am liberal, sir.”

We had now reached the door of the apartment, when my conductor, seizing

my arm suddenly, pointed to the door-mat upon which I had just set my

foot, and said, “Observe that mat, sir; it is composed of oakum picked

by the fair fingers of the late Lady Barrymore, while confined in the

Penitentiary.”

I cast a glance at this humble memorial of her late ladyship’s industry,

and passed into the museum. In doing so, I happened to stumble over a

stable-bucket, which my friend affirmed was the one from which Thurtell

watered his horse on his way to Probert’s cottage. Opening a drawer, he

produced a pair of dirty-looking slippers, the authentic property of the

celebrated Ikey Solomons; and along with them a pair of cotton hose,

which he assured me he had mangled with his own hands in Sarah Gale’s

mangle. In another drawer he directed my attention to a short clay pipe,

once in the possession of Burke; and a tobacco-stopper belonging to

Hare, the notorious murderer. He had also preserved with great care

Corder’s advertisement for a wife, written in his own hand, as it

appeared in the weekly papers, and a small fragment of a tile from the

Red Barn, where Maria Martin was murdered by the same Corder. He also

possessed the fork belonging to the knife with which some German, whose

name I forget, cut his wife’s and children’s throats; and a pewter half-

quartern measure, used at the Black Lion, in Wych-street, by Sixteen-

string Jack.

There were, likewise, in the collection several interesting relics of

humorous felony; such as the snuff-box of the Cock-lane ghost—the stone

thrown by Collins at William the Fourth’s head—a copy of Sir Francis

Burden’s speech, for which he was committed to the Tower—an odd black

silk glove, worn by Mr. Cotton, the late ordinary of

Newgate—Barrington’s silver tooth-pick—and a stay-lace of Miss Julia

Newman.

These were but a small portion of the contents of the museum; but I had

seen enough to make me sick of the exhibition, and I withdrew with the

firm resolution never again, during my life, to enter the house of a

Criminal Curiosity Hunter.

X.

ECCENTRICITIES OF THE MINOR DRAMA. We had intended to have arranged, for

the use of future syncretics, a system of coincidences, compiled from

the plots of those magnificent soul-stirring extravaganzas produced and

acted at the modern temples of the drama—the chaste Victoria—the

didactic Sadler’s Wells—and the tramontane Pavilion: but we have found

the subject too vast for comprehension, and must content ourselves with

noting some of the more exorbitant and refined instances of genius and

hallucination displayed in those mighty works. Among these the following

are pre-eminent:—

It is a remarkable thing that mothers are always buried on the tops of

inaccessible mountains, and that, when it occurs to their afflicted

daughters to go and pray at their tombs, they generally choose a

particularly inclement night as best adapted for that purpose. It is

convenient, too, if any murder took place exactly on the spot, exactly

twenty years before, because in that case it is something agreeable to

reflect upon and allude to.

It is remarkable that people never lie down but to dream, and that they

always dream quite to the purpose, and immediately on having done

dreaming, they wake and act upon it.

It is remarkable that young men never know definitely whose sons they

are, and generally turn out to belong to the wrong father, and find that

they have been falling in love with their sisters, and all that sort of

thing.

N.B. Wanted, a new catastrophe for these incidents, as suicide is going

out of fashion.

It is remarkable that whenever people are in a particular hurry to be

off, they make a point of singing a song to put themselves in spirits,

and as an effectual method of concealing their presence from their

enemies, who are always close at hand with knives.

It is remarkable that things always go wrong until the last scene, and

then there is such hurry and bustle to get them right again, that no one

would ever believe it could be done in the time; only they know it must

be, and make up their minds to it accordingly.

One word more. Like St. Dunstan’s feet, which possessed the sacred

virtue of self-multiplication, and of which there existed three at one

time, it appears to be a prerogative of epithets of the superlative

degree to attach themselves to any number of substantives. Thus the most

popular comedian of the day is five different men—the most beautiful

drama ever produced is two farces—an opera and a tragedy—and the most

decided hit in the memory of man is the “Grecian Statues”—“The Wizard of

the Moon”—“The Devil’s Daughter”—“Martinuzzi”—and “The Refuge for the

Destitute.”

[pg 138] THE “WELL-DRESSED” AND THE “WELL-TO-DO.” “There has for the

last few days been a smile on the face of every well-dressed gentleman,

and of every well-to-do artisan, who wend their way along the streets of

this vast metropolis. It is caused by the opposition exhibition of

Friday night in the House of Commons.”

Such is the comfortable announcement of a Tory morning paper,—the very

incarnation of spiteful imbecility. Such is the self-complacency of the

old Tory hag, that in her wildest moments would bite excessively,—if she

only had teeth. She has, however, in the very simplicity of her

smirking, let out the whole secret—has, in the sweet serenity of her

satisfaction, revealed the selfishness, the wickedness of her creed.

Toryism believes only in the well-dressed and the well-to-do. Purple and

fine linen are the instrumental parts of her religion. She subscribes,

in fact, to forty-three points; four meals a day being added to her

Christian Thirty-nine Articles. Her faith is in glossy raiment and a

full belly. She has such a reverence for the loaves and fishes, that in

the fulness of her devotion, she would eat them—as the author of the

Almanach des Gourmands advises the epicure to eat a certain exquisite

dainty—“on her knees.” She would die a martyr at the fire;—but then it

must be lighted in the kitchen.

The parliamentary exhibition which, according to the Sycorax of

Toryism—a Sycorax with double malice, but no potency—has set all the

well-dressed and well-to-do part of “this vast metropolis” off in one

simultaneous simper, took place on the following motion made by Mr.

FIELDEN:—

“Resolved,—That the distress of the working people at the present time

is so great through the country, but particularly in the manufacturing

districts, that it is the duty of this House to make instant inquiry

into the cause and extent of such distress, and devise means to remedy

it; and, at all events, to vote no supply of money until such inquiry be

made.”—(Hear, hear.)

This motion was negatived by 149 to 41; and it is to this negative that,

according to the avowal of our veracious contemporary, we owe the

radiant looks that have lighted up the streets of London for the past

few days. In the same sense of the writer, but in the better words of

the chorus of Tom Thumb—

“Nature seemed to wear a universal grin!”

It being always premised and settled that the term nature only

comprehends the people with sleek coats and full stomachs. Nature abhors

a vacuum,—therefore has nought to do with empty bellies. Happy are the

men whose fate, or better philosophy, has kept them from the turnips and

the heather—fortunate mortals, who, banned from the murder of partridges

and grouse, have for the last few days of our contemporary, been

dwellers in merry London! What exulting faces! What crowds of well-

dressed, well-fed Malvolios, “smiling” at one another, though not cross-

gartered! To a man prone to ponder on that many-leaved, that scribbled,

blurred and blotted volume, the human face,—that mysterious tome printed

with care, with cunning and remorse,—that thing of lies, and miseries,

and hypocritic gladness,—that volume, stained with tears, and scribbled

over and over with daily wants, and daily sufferings, and daily

meannesses;—to such a reader who, from the hieroglyphic lines of feigned

content, can translate the haggard spirit and the pining heart,—to such

a man too often depressed and sickened by the contemplation of the

carnivorous faces thronging the streets of London—faces that look as if

they deemed the stream of all human happiness flowed only from the

Mint,—to such a man, how great the satisfaction, how surpassing the

enjoyment of these “last few days!” As with the Thane of Cawdor, every

man’s face has been a book; but, alas! luckier than Macbeth, that book

has been—Joe Miller!

Every well-dressed gentleman has smiled, but then the source of his

satisfaction has been the rags fluttering on the human carcases in the

manufacturing districts. Every well-to-do artisan has wended his way

along the streets showing his teeth, but then at his own sweet will he

can employ those favoured instruments on roast or boiled: hence his

smile for those who, gifted with the like weapons, bear them as men bear

court swords, for ornament, not use. Alas! the smirk of the well-dressed

may be struck into blank astonishment by the fluttering of rags—by a

standard of tatters borne by a famine-maddened myriad; the teeth of the

dragon want may be sown, and the growth may, as of old, be armed men.

Yet can we wonder at the jocoseness of those arrayed in lawn and broad-

cloth—can we marvel at the simper of the artisan fresh from his beef and

pudding, solaced with tobacco and porter? Surely not; for the smile

breaks under the highest patronage; nay, even broad grins would have the

noblest warranty, for his Grace the Duke of Wellington has pronounced

rags to be the livery only of wilful idleness—has stamped on the

withering brow of destitution the brand of the drunkard. Therefore, clap

your hands to your pulpy sides, oh well-dressed, well-to-do London, and

disdaining the pettiness of a simper, laugh an ogre’s laugh at the rags

of Manchester—grin like a tickled Polyphemus at the hunger of Bolton!

Our babbling, anile friend, in the very looseness of her prating has let

out the truth. Or rather—a common custom with her—she has talked in her

sleep. Her very weakness has, however, given a point to her revelation.

“Diamonds dart their brightest lustre,

from a palsy-shaken head!”

In the midst of her snores she has but revealed the plot entered into

between those most respectable conspirators, Broad Cloth and Beef,

against those old offenders, those incorrigible miscreants, Rags and

Want! The confederacy is, to be sure, older than the crucified thieves;

but then it has not been so undisguisedly avowed. Broad Cloth has, on

the contrary, affected a sympathy with tatters, though with a constancy

of purpose has refused an ell from its trailing superfluity to solace

the wretchedness; the tears of Beef dropt on the lank abdomen of

Starvation, are ancient as post diluvian crocodiles.—but it has spared

no morsel to the object of its hypocritic sorrow. Now, however, even the

decency of deceit is to be dropt, and Broad Cloth is to make sport with

the nakedness of the land, and merry Beef is to roar like the bulls of

Bashan at the agonies of famine!

As the winter approaches we are promised increasing sources of amusement

from the manufacturing districts. What sunny faces will break though the

fogs of November—what giggling will drown the cutting blasts of January!

Eschewing the wise relaxation of pantomimes, we shall be taught to

consult the commercial reports in the newspapers as the highest and

fullest source of salutary laughter. How we shall simper when mills are

stopped—how crow with laughter when whole factories are silent and

deserted! How reader—(for we acknowledge none who are not well-dressed

and well-to-do)—how you will scream with joy when banks break!—and how

consult the list of bankrupts as the very spirit and essence of the most

consummate fun. Insolvency shall henceforth be synonymous with

repartee—and compositions with creditors practical bons mots.

Oh! reader—(but mind, you must, we say, to be our reader, be well-

dressed and well-to-do; for though we owe the very paper beneath your

eye to rags, we trust we are sufficiently in the mode to laugh

contemptuously at such abominations)—oh! reader, quit your lighter

recreations; seek not for merriment in fictitious humour; it is a poor,

unsatisfactory diet, weak and watery; but find substantial drollery from

the fluttering of tatters—laugh, and with the crowing joy, grow sleek

and lusty at the writhings and the lamentations of want!

We have, however, a recent benevolent instance of the political and

social power of dress—an instance gathered from the Court of Spain. The

organ (or rather barrel-organ of Toryism, for it has only a set number

of tunes) which played our opening quotation, also grinds the

following:—

“The Regent Espartero, and the tutor Arguelles, are doing all in their

power to keep the young Queen and the Infanta in good humour,

encouraging the Princesses in many little indulgences suitable to their

age and sex, especially in the article of dress, in which their royal

mother was more than inattentive. This line of conduct, coupled with the

expected arrival of the Infant, Don Francisco de Paula and his family,

who are to be received with every mark of respect, indicates that the

present rulers of Spain, aware of their critical situation, wish to

strengthen themselves by the support of the great majority of the royal

family.”

Thus, if the royal family of Spain have an excess of courtesy and

benevolence towards the people, such blessings will drop upon them from

the fringed petticoats of the little sovereign. Thus curiously

considered, may we not trace a bounteous political measure to the lace

veil of a Queen, and find a great national benefit in the toe of a

slipper?

Happy Spaniards! Give fine clothes to your rulers, and they yearn with

benevolence towards the donors. They do not walk about the streets of

Madrid, smiling in the strength of their wardrobe at the nakedness of

those who have subscribed the bravery. Oh, ye “well-dressed gentlemen,”

and oh, ye “well-to-do artisans!”—be instructed by the new petticoats of

Queen Isabella, and smile no at rags and famine.

[pg 139] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XII. A group of peacocks with men's

faces look down on a blackbird with a man's face. THE TORY PEACOCKS AND

THE FINSBURY DAW.

[pg 141] TRANSACTIONS OF THE GEOLOGICAL SOCIETY OF HOOKHAM-CUM-SNIVEY.

There is not a more interesting science than geology, which, as our

readers are aware, treats principally of mud and minerals. The

association at Hookham-cum-Snivey has been very active during the

summer, and may be said to have been up to its knees in dirt and filth,

gravel and gypsum, coal, clay and conglomerate, for a very considerable

period.

It having been determined to open a sewer where the old Hookham-road

meets with the ancient Roman footpath at Snivey, the junction of which

gives name to the modern town, the Geological Association passed a

strong resolution, in which it was asserted, that the opportunity had at

length arrived for solving the great doubt that had long perplexed the

minds of the inhabitants as to whether the soil in the neighbourhood was

crustaceous or carboniferous. The crustaceous party had been long

triumphing in the fact, that a mouldy piece of bread had been found at

two feet below the surface, when digging for the foundation of a swing

erected in a garden in the neighbourhood; but the carboniferous

enthusiasts had been thrown into ecstacies, by the sexton having come

upon a regular strata of undoubted cinders, in clearing out a piece of

ground at the back of the parson’s residence. Some evil-disposed persons

had the malice to say that the spot had been formerly the site of a

subsequently-filled-up dusthole; but the crustaceous party, depending as

they did upon a single piece of bread—all crumb too—however genuine,

could not be said to have so much to go upon as the carboniferous

section, with their heap of cinders, the latter being large in quantity,

though of doubtful authority.

However, the opening of the sewer was looked forward to with intense

interest, as being calculated to decide the great question, and all the

principal geologists were on the spot several hours before operations

commenced, for the purpose of inspecting the surface of the ground

before it was disturbed by the spade and pickaxe of the labourer.

It was found that the earth consisted of an outer coat of dust, amongst

which were several stones, varying in size, with here and there a bone

picked exceedingly clean, and evidently belonging to a sheep; all of

which facts gave promise of most gratifying results to the true lover of

geology. At length the labourer came in sight, and was greeted with loud

cheers from the crustaceous party, which were ironically echoed by the

disciples of the carboniferous school, and a most significant “hear,

hear,” proceeded from an active partisan of the latter class, when the

first stroke of the pickaxe proclaimed the commencement of an operation

upon which so much was known to depend for the interests of geology. The

work had proceeded for some time amid breathless interest, interrupted

only by sneers, cheers, jeers, and cries of “Oh, oh!” or “No, no!” As

the throwing up of a shovelful of earth excited the hopes of one party,

or the fears of the other, when a hard substance was struck upon, which

caused a thrilling sensation among the bystanders. The pressure of the

geologists, all eager to inspect the object that had created so much

curiosity, could hardly be restrained, and the president was thrown,

with great violence, into the hole that had been dug, from which he was

pulled with extraordinary strength of body, and presence of mind, by the

honorary treasurer.

The hard substance was found to consist of a piece of iron, of which it

appeared a vein, or rather an artery, ran both backwards and forwards

from the spot where it was first discovered. The confusion was at its

height, for it was supposed a mine had been discovered, and a long

altercation ensued; the town-clerk claiming it in the name of the lord

of the manor, while the beadle, with a confused idea about mines being

royal property, leaped into the hole, and, in the Queen’s name, took

possession of everything. A desperate struggle ensued, in which several

geologists were laid straight upon the strata, and were converted into

secondary deposits on the surface of the earth; when the lamplighter,

coming by, recognised the hard iron substance as the large main of the

Equitable Company. It became therefore necessary to relinquish any

further investigation on the spot originally chosen, and the matter was

postponed to another day, so that the great crustaceous and

carboniferous question remains exactly where it did, to the great injury

of the harmony and good feeling that has never yet prevailed, though it

is hoped it some time or other may prevail, among the inhabitants.

But though public investigation of geological truth is for a time at a

stand-still, we are glad to be able to record the following remarkable

instance of private enterprise:—

A very active member of the association—the indefatigable Mr.

Grubemup—determined to leave no stone unturned for the purpose of making

observations, went out, attended by a single assistant, and made a

desperate attempt to turn the mile-stone in the Kensington-road, in the

hope of finding some geological facts at the bottom of it. After several

hours’ labour before day-break, to avoid interruption from the police,

he succeeded in introducing the point of a pickaxe beneath the base of

the stone; and eventually he had the satisfaction of removing it from

its position, when he made the following geological observations:—He

found a primary deposit of dark soil, and, on putting his spectacles to

his eyes, he distinctly detected a common worm in a state of high

salubrity. This clearly proved to him that there must formerly have been

a direct communication between Hookham-cum-Snivey and the town of

Kensington, for the worm found beneath the milestone exactly resembled

one now in the Hookham-cum-Snivey Museum, and which is known as the

vermis communis, or earth-worm, and which has always excited

considerable interest among the various visitors. Mr. Grubemup,

encouraged by this highly satisfactory result, proceeded to scratch up

with his thumb-nail a portion of the soil, and his geological enterprise

was speedily rewarded by a fossil of the most interesting character.

Upon close inspection it proved to be a highly crystallised rat’s-tail,

from which the geologist inferred that there were rats on the

Kensington-road at a much earlier period than milestones. We have not

heard that the ingenious gentleman carried his examination further, but

in the present state of geology, any contribution to the science,

however small, will be thankfully received by the knowledge-loving

community.

LAYS OF THE “BEAU MONDE.” BY THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING POST. I saw at

Lord George’s rout,

Amid a blaze of ton;

And such a tournure ne’er “came out”

For Maradon Carson!

For who that mark’d that sylph-like grace

That full Canova hip,

That robe of rich Chantilly lace,

That faultless satin slip,

Could doubt that she would be the belle

To make a thousand waistcoats swell?

I saw her seated by my lord,

As joli comme un ange;

She took some pate perigord.

And after that blanc mange:

A glass of Moyse’s pink champagne

Lent lustre to ses eux.

And then—I heard a Grisian strain—

It was her sweet adieux;

And I—my friend the butler sought,

To slake with stout each burning thought.

METROPOLITAN IMPROVEMENTS. It is at length decided that Aldgate pump is

to be painted, but the vestry have not yet determined what the colour is

to be. It is thought, to suit the diversity of opinions in the parish

cabinet, that it will be painted in a harlequin pattern.

It is seriously contemplated to attempt the removal of the ancient “Hot

Codlings” stand from the west-end of Temple Bar. The old woman who at

present occupies the premises is resolved to resist to the utmost so

unjust an aggression.

The Corporation of the City of London have, in the most liberal manner,

given a plot of ground, eighteen by thirteen and a half-inches, for the

erection of a pickled whilks and pennywinkle establishment, at the

corner of Newgate-street and the Old Bailey. This will be a valuable

boon to the Blue-coat boys, and will tend to cause a brisk influx of

loose coppers to this hitherto much-neglected spot.

The disgraceful state of the gutter-grating in Little Distaff-lane has,

at length, awakened the attention of the parish authorities. For several

days past it has been choked by an accumulation of rubbish, but we are

now enabled, on good authority, to state that the parish-beadle has been

directed to poke it with his staff, which it is hoped will have the

effect of removing the obstruction.

The Commissioners of Woods and Forests have ordered plans and estimates

to be laid before them for the erection of a duck-house on the island of

the pond in St. James’s Park.

It has been decided that the exhibition of fancy paper on the boards of

the enclosure of Trafalgar-square is to continue open to the public till

further notice.

By a recent Act of Parliament, foot passengers crossing Blackfriars-

bridge are allowed to walk on whichever side of it they like best.

ERRATA IN THE “TIMES.” For “Sir James Graham denied that he ever changed

his friends or his principles,” read “hanged his friends or his

principles.”

For “Lord John Russell said that he had strenuously endeavoured to keep

pace with the march of Reform,” read “keep place with the march of

Reform.”

For “though Sir Robert Peel is the ostensible head, the Duke of

Wellington holds the reins of the present administration,” read “the

Duke of Wellington holds the brains of the present administration.”

For “Colonel Sibthorp said he despised the man who suffered himself be

made the tool of a party,” read “the fool of a party.”

[pg 142] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT A buccolic scene

in a wreath forms a letter O. ur lively neighbours on the opposite side

of the Pas de Calais (as they are pleased, in a spirit of patriotic

appropriation, to translate the Straits of Dovor), have lately shot off

a flight of small literary rockets about Paris, which have exploded

joyously in every direction, producing all sorts of fun and merriment,

termed Les Physiologies—a series of graphic sketches, embodying various

every-day types of characters moving in the French capital. In the same

spirit we beg to bring forward the following papers, with the hope that

they will meet with an equally favourable reception.

1. THE INTRODUCTORY DISCOURSE. We are about to discuss a subject as

critical and important to take up as the abdominal aorta; for should we

offend the class we are about to portray, there are fifteen hundred

medical students, arrived this week in London, ripe and ready to avenge

themselves upon our devoted cranium, which, although hardened throughout

its ligneous formation by many blows, would not be proof against their

united efforts. And we scarcely know how or where to begin. The

instincts and different phases, under which this interesting race

appears, are so numerous, that far from complaining of the paucity of

materials we have to work upon, we are overwhelmed by mental

suggestions, and rapidly-dissolving views, of the various classes from

Guy’s to the London University, from St. George’s to the London

Hospital, perpetually crowding upon our brains (if we have any), and

rendering our ideas as completely muddled as those of a “new man” who

has, for the first week of October, attended every single lecture in the

day, from the commencement of chemistry, at nine in the morning, to the

close of surgery, at eight in the evening. Lecture! auspicious word! we

have a beginning prompted by the mere sound. We will address you,

medical students, according to the style you are most accustomed to.

Gentlemen,—Your attention is to be this morning directed to an important

part of your course on physiology, which your various professors, at two

o’clock on Saturday afternoon, will separately tell you is derived from

two Greek words, so that we have no occasion to explain its meaning at

present. Magendie, Müller, Mayo, Millengen, and various other M’s, have

written works upon physiology, affecting the human race generally; you

are now requested to listen to the demonstration of one species in

particular—the Medical Student of London.

Lay aside your deeper studies, then, and turn for a while to our lighter

sketches; forget the globules of the blood in the contemplation of red

billiard balls; supplant the tunica arachnoidea of the brain by a

gossamer hat—the rete mucosum of the skin by a pea-jacket; the vital

fluid by a pot of half-and-half. Call into play the flexor muscles of

your arms with boxing-gloves and single-sticks; examine the secreting

glands in the shape of kidneys and sweetbreads; demonstrate other

theories connected with the human economy in an equally analogous and

pleasant manner; lay aside your crib Celsus and Steggall’s Manual for

our own more enticing pages, and find your various habits therein

reflected upon paper, with a truth to nature only exceeded by the

artificial man of the same material in the Museum of King’s College.

Assume for a time all this joyousness. PUNCH has entered as a pupil at a

medical school (he is not at liberty to say which), on purpose to note

your propensities, and requests you for a short period to look upon him

as one of your own lot. His course will commence next week, and “The New

Man” will be the subject.

A tableau with a tankard, a pipe, cards, etc. MICHAELMAS DAY Every one

knows that about this time of the year geese are in their prime, and are

particularly good when stuffed with sage; which accounts for the fact,

that Sibthorp has made some sage remarks, so that he may not lose by

comparison with the “foolish birds,” with whom he feels a natural

sympathy.

We have never been able to discover the connexion between geese and

Michaelmas. There is a reason for associating ducks with Midsummer: we

can understand the meaning of poultry at Christmas, for birds are

appropriate to a period when every one sends in his bill; but why poor

St. Michael should be so degradingly associated with a goose is beyond

our comprehension, and baffles our ingenuity. If St. Michael had been a

tailor, or an actor, or an author, we could have understood how goose

might have applied to him; but as he was neither one nor the other, we

really are at a loss to conceive why a goose should have become so

intimately associated with his name and character.

Among other curious incidents, it may be remarked that, with an

instinctive dread of goose, the redoubtable Martinuzzi drew in his

horns, just on the eve of Michaelmas, and the Syncretics have just shut

up shop in time to avoid the “compliments of the season” that they had

every right and every reason to anticipate would be bestowed, if not

with a “liberal hand,” at least with “a lavish mouth,” by their

audience.

It must be remembered by all the geese against whom PUNCH thinks proper

to indulge his wit, that at this season of the year they must expect to

be roasted. Upon the whole, however, we have a high respect for “the

foolish bird,” and when it is remembered that the geese saved Rome, we

do not think we are wrong in suggesting the possibility of England being

yet saved by Lord Coventry, or any other cackler in either house of

Parliament.

“LAND SHARKS AND SEA GULLS.” Admiral Napier observed that “retired

lawyers got better paid than retired admirals.” A gross injustice, as

their vocations bear an extraordinary similarity; par example—both are

attachés of the Fleet: in an action, both know the necessity of being

bailed out to prevent swamping. One service is distinguished by its

“davits,” the other by its “affidavits;” and they are mutually and

equally admired for, and known by, their craft. The only difference

between them being, that the lawyer serves “two masters”—the admiral,

invariably, three masters. If the same remark applies to the members of

the army-list, as well as to those of the navy and law, we must say that

it is an extremely shabby method of

A man picks the pocket of a soldier. “RELIEVING GUARD.”

LIST OF OUTRAGES. The following list of outrages, recently perpetrated

in the vicinity of a notoriously bad house near Westminster Abbey, has

not appeared in any of the daily papers:—

LORD MELBOURNE—frightfully beaten, and turned out of his house by a gang

of Peelites.

LORD JOHN RUSSELL—struck on the head by a large majority, and flung into

a quandary.

LORD COTTENHAM—tripped up by a well-known member of the swell mob, and

robbed of his seals.

MR. ROEBUCK—stripped and treated with barbarous inhumanity by a

notorious bruiser named the Times. The unfortunate gentleman lies to the

present moment speechless from the injuries he has sustained.

LORD NORMANBY—stabbed with some sharp instrument, supposed to be Lord

Stanley’s tongue.

LORD MORPETH—struck in the dark by an original idea, from the effects of

which he has not yet recovered.

ROOT AND BRANCH. Roebuck, in complaining of the stigmas cast by the

Times upon his pedigree, and vehemently insisting on the character of

his family tree, was kindly assisted by Tom Duncombe, who declared the

genus indisputable, as nobody could look in Roebuck’s face without

perceiving his family tree must have been the “plane-tree.”

[pg 143] SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—NO. 8. You say I have forgot the vow

I breath’d in days long past;

But had I faithful been, that thou

Hadst loved me to the last.

Without me, e’en a throne thou’dst scorn—

With me, contented beg!

False maid! ’tis not that I’m forsworn,—

The boot’s on t’other leg.

Amidst the revel thou wast gay,

The blithest with the song!

Though thou believ’dst me far away,

An exile at Boulogne.

’Twas then, and not till then, my heart

To love thee did refuse;

My vows became (false that thou art!)—

Another pair of shoes!

AFFAIRS IN CHINA. PRIVATE LETTER FROM A YOUNG OFFICER AT THE ENGLISH

FACTORY, CANTON, TO HIS BROTHER IN ENGLAND. DEAR TOM,—Everything is

going on gloriously—the British arms are triumphant—and we now only

require the Emperor of China’s consent to our taking possession of his

territory, which I am sorry to say there is at present no likelihood of

obtaining. However, there is little doubt, if we be not all swept off by

ague and cholera, that we shall be able to maintain our present position

a few months longer. Our situation here would be very comfortable if we

had anything to eat, except bad beef and worse biscuit; these, however,

are but trifling inconveniences; and though we have no fresh meat, we

have plenty of fish in the river. One of our men caught a fine one the

other day, which was bought and cooked for the officers’ mess, by which

means we were all nearly destroyed—the fish unfortunately happening to

be of a poisonous nature; in consequence of which a general order was

issued the next day, forbidding the troops to catch or eat any more

fish. The country around the factory is beautiful; but we deem it

prudent to keep within the walls, as the Chinese are very expert at

picking up stragglers, whom they usually strangle. Beyond this we cannot

complain of our situation; fowls are extremely abundant, but I have not

seen any, the inhabitants having carried them up the country along with

their cattle and provisions of every description. The water here is so

brackish that it is almost impossible to drink it; there are, however

some wells of delicious water in the neighbourhood, which would be a

real treasure to us if the Chinese had not poisoned them.

Notwithstanding these unavoidable privations, the courage of our troops

is indomitable; a detachment of the ——th regiment succeeded last week in

taking possession of an island in the river, nearly half an acre in

extent; it has, however, since been deemed advisable to relinquish this

important conquest, owing to the muddy nature of the soil, into which

several of our brave fellows sank to the middle, and were with

difficulty extricated. A gallant affair took place a few days ago

between two English men-of-war’s boats and a Chinese market junk, which

was taken after a resolute defence on the part of the Chinaman and his

wife, who kept up a vigorous fire of pumpkins and water-melons upon our

boats, until their supply was exhausted, when they were forced to

surrender to British valour. The captured junk has since been cut up for

the use of the forces. Though this unpleasant state of affairs has

interrupted all formal intercourse between the Chinese and English,

Captain Elliot has given a succession of balls to the occupants of a

small mud fort near the shore, which I fear they did not relish, as

several of them appeared exceedingly hurt, and removed with remarkable

celerity out of reach of the Captain’s civilities. Thus, instead of

opening the trade, this proceeding has only served to open the breach.

The Emperor, I hear, is enraged at our successes, and has ordered the

head and tail of the mandarin, Keshin, to be sent in pickle to the

imperial court at Pekin. A new mandarin has arrived, who has presented a

chop to Captain Elliott, but I hope, where there is so much at stake,

that he will not be put off with a chop. There is no description of tea

to be had in the market now but gunpowder, which, by the last reports,

is going off briskly. Our amusements are not very numerous, being

chiefly confined to yawning and sleeping; of this latter recreation I

must confess that we enjoy but little, owing to the mosquitos, who are

remarkably active and persevering in their attacks upon us. But with the

exception of these tormenting insects, and a rather alarming variety of

centipedes, scorpions, and spiders, we have no venomous creatures to

disturb us. The weather is extremely hot, and the advantages of the

river for bathing would be very great if it were not so full of sharks.

I have much more to relate of our present cheering prospects and

enviable situation, but a ship is on the point of sailing for England,

so must conclude in haste.

Ever, dear Tom, yours, R.B.

POACHED EGOTISM. The Examiner observes, in speaking of the types of the

new premier’s policy,—“The state, I am the state,” said the most

arrogant of French monarchs. “The administration, I am the

administration,” would seem to say Sir Robert Peel. In the speech

explanatory of his views, which cannot be likened to Wolsey’s “Ego et

Rex meus,” because the importance of the ego is not impaired by any

addition.—This literally amounts to a conviction, on the part of the

editor of the Examiner, that the premier’s expression is all in his “I.”

THE POLITICAL NATURALIST’S LIBRARY CONTENTS OF THE VOLUMES ALREADY

PUBLISHED. THE SUPER-NATURAL HISTORY OF— “HUMMING” BIRDS.—With Memoir

and Portraits of Peel, Stanley and Aberdeen.

BIRDS OF THE “GAME” KIND.—Portrait and Memoir of Mr. Gully.

FISHES OF THE “PERCH” GENUS.—Biographical notices of the late Ministry.

RUMINATING ANIMALS, Vol. 1.—Contents: Goats, &c. Portrait of Mr. Muntz.

RUMINATING ANIMALS, Vol. 2.—Contents: Deer, Antelopes, &c. Portrait of

Mr. Roebuck.

MARSUPIALS, OR “POUCHED” ANIMALS.—With many plates. Portrait and Memoir

of Daniel O’Connell, Esq.

BRITISH BUTTERFLIES.—Portrait and Memoir of Sir E. Lytton Bulwer.

COMPLETION OF THE WORK.—Considerable progress has been making in the

concluding volume of the series. Rats, with portraits of Burdett,

Gibson, Wakley, et genus omne; but the subject is so vast that no

definite time can be fixed for its publication.

A GREAT CARD. MR. WAKLEY begs to inform the Lords of the Treasury, the

editor of the Times, and the Master of the Mint, that ever anxious to

rise in the world, he has recently been induced to undertake the

sweeping of Conservative flues, and the performance of any dirty work

which his Tory patrons may deem him worthy to perform. Certain

objections having been made as to his qualifications for a climbing boy,

Mr. W. pledges himself to undergo any course of training, to enable him

to get through the business, and to remove any apprehension of his ever

becoming

A small black man standing in a bag, holding a brush. A POTTED BLOATER.

THE POETICAL JUSTICE. SIR PETER LAURIE, in commenting upon the late case

of false imprisonment, where two young men had been unjustifiably

handcuffed by the police, delivered himself of the following exquisite

piece of rhetoric:—“He did not think it possible that such a case of

abuse could pass unnoticed as that he had just heard. The general

conduct of the police was, he believed, good; but the instances of

arbitrary conduct and overbearing demeanour set to flight all the

ancient examples brought forward to enrich by contrast the serious parts

of the glorious genius of Shakspeare.” We never understood or imagined

there was an Anacreon among the aldermen, a Chaucer in the common

council, or a Moliere at the Mansion-house. We have now discovered the

Peter Lauriate of the City—the poet of the Poultry. Who, in the face of

the above sentence, can deny his right to these titles, if, like

ourselves, they are

A tough-looking man. OPEN TO CONVICTION!

THE EVIL MOST TO BE DREADED. A clergyman, lately preaching to a country

congregation, used the following persuasive arguments against the vice

of swearing:—“Oh, my brethren, avoid this practice, for it is a great

sin, and, what is more, it is ungenteel!”

[pg 144] PUNCH’S THEATRE. WHAT WILL THE WORLD SAY? The family of the

“Sponges” distributes itself over the entire face of society—its members

are familiar with almost every knocker, and with nearly everybody’s

dinner-hour. They not unfrequently come in with the eggs, and only go

out with the last glass of negus. They seem to possess the power of

ubiquity; for, go where you will, your own especial sponge (and

everybody with more than two hundred a-year has one), is sure to present

himself. He is ready for anything, especially where eating, love,

duelling, or drinking, is concerned. To oblige you, he will breakfast at

supper-time, or sup at breakfast-time; he will drink any given quantity,

at any time, and will carry any number of declarations of love to any

number of ladies, or of challenges to whole armies of rivals: thus far

he is useful; for he is obliging, and will do anything—but pay.

When he has absorbed all the moisture his victims are able to supply, he

may be seen walking about in moody solitude in the parks, where he

sponges upon the ducks, and owes for the use of the chairs. In this dry

and destitute condition, behold the sponge of the Covent-Garden

Comedy—Captain Tarradiddle. He is in St. James’ Park; for, possessing

imaginary rather than substantial claims to military rank, he flits

about the Horse-Guards to keep up his character. A person is already

upon the stage, for whom you instinctively shudder—you perceive, at

once, that he is “in” for dinner, wine, theatre, and supper—you pity

him; you see the sponge, speciously, but surely, fasten himself upon his

victim like a vampire. Mr. Pye Hilary, being a barrister and a man of

the world, resigns himself, however, to his fate. As to shaking off his

leech, he knows that to be impossible; and he determines to make what

use of him he can. There is a fine opportunity, for Mr. Pye Hilary is in

love, in despair, and in waiting: he expects his mistress’s abigail; in

negociating with whom, he conceives Tarradiddle will be a valuable

assistant. Mrs. Tattle arrives. Preliminaries having been duly settled,

articles offensive and defensive are entered into, to carry out a plan

by which the lover shall gain an interview with the mistress; and the

treaty is ratified by a liberal donation, which the Captain makes to the

maid out of his friend’s purse. The servant is satisfied, and goes off

in the utmost agitation, for Miss Mayley and her guardian are coming;

and she dreads being caught in the fact of bribery. Mr. Hilary trembles;

so does the young lady, when she appears; and the agitation of all

parties is only put an end to by the fall of the act-drop.

If any class of her Majesty’s subjects are more miserable than another,

it is that of gentlemen’s servants. One of these oppressed persons is

revealed to us in the next act. Poor fellow! he has nothing to do but to

sit in the hall, and nothing to amuse him but the newspaper. But his

misfortunes do not end here: as if to add insult to injury, the family

governess presumes to upbraid him, and actually insists upon his taking

a letter to the post. Mr. Nibble declines performing so undignified a

service, in the most footman-like terms; but unfortunately, as it

generally happens, in families where there are pretty governesses and

gallant sons, Miss de Vere has a protector in the Hon. Charles Norwold,

who overhears her unreasonable demand, and with a degree of injustice

enough to make the entire livery of London rave with indignation,

inflicts upon his father’s especial livery, and Nibble’s illustrious

person, a severe caning. The consequence of this “strike” is, that

Nibble gives warning, Lord and Lady Norwold are paralysed at this

important resignation; for by it they discover that a secret coalition

has taken place between their son and the governess—they are man and

wife! Good heavens! the heir of all the Norwolds marry a teacher, who

has nothing to recommend her but virtue, talent, and beauty!

Monstrous!—“What will the world say?”

The treaty formed between Mistress Tattle and Mr. Pye Hilary is in the

next act being acted upon. We behold Captain Tarradiddle, as one of the

high contracting parties’ ambassador, taking lodgings in a house exactly

opposite to that in which Miss Mayley resides. Of course nothing so

natural as that the Captain should indulge his friend with a visit for a

few days, or, if possible, for a few weeks. It is also natural that the

host, under the circumstances, should wish to know something of the

birth, parentage, and education of his guest, of which, though an old

acquaintance; he is, as yet, entirely ignorant. Now, if it be possible

to affront a real sponge (but there is nothing more difficult), such

inquiries are likely to produce that happy consummation. Tarradiddle,

however, gets over the difficulty with the tact peculiar to his class,

and is fortunately interrupted by the announcement that Tattle is in the

parlour, duly keeping her agreement, by bringing her mistress’s

favourite canary, which, having flown away quite by accident, under her

guidance, has chosen to perch in Hilary’s new lodging, on purpose to

give him the opportunity of returning it, and of obtaining an interview

with Miss Mayley. The expedient succeeds in the next scene; the lover

bows and stammers—as lovers do at first interviews—the lady is polite

but dignified, and Tarradiddle, who has been angling for an invitation,

has his hopes entirely put to flight by the entrance of the lady’s

guardian, Mr. Warner, who very promptly cuts matters short by ringing

the bell and saying “Good evening,” in that tone of voice which always

intimates a desire for a good riddance. This hint is too broad ever to

be mistaken; so the sponge and his victim back out.

Mr. Warner is a merchant, and all merchants in plays are the “noblest

characters the world can boast,” and very rich. Thus it has happened

that Warner has, through a money-agent, one Grub, been enabled to lend,

at various times, large sums of money, to Lady Norwold—her ladyship

being one of those who, dreading “what will the world say?” is by no

means an economist, and prefers “ruin to retrenchment.” As security for

these loans, the lady deposits her jewels, suite by suite, till the

great object of all Warner’s advances gets into his possession—namely, a

bracelet, which is a revered relic of the Norwold family. So far Warner,

in spite of a troublesome ward, and his late visitors, is happy; but he

soon receives a letter, which puts his happiness to flight. His

daughter, who has been on a visit in Paris, became, he now learns,

united some months before, to Charles Norwold, and a governess in his

father’s family. By further inquiries, he learns that the son is

discarded, and is, with his wife, consigned to beggary, for fear

of—“what will the world say?”

The fourth act exhibits one of the scenes of human life hitherto veiled

from the eyes of the most prying—a genuine specimen of the sponge

species—at home! Actually living under a roof that he calls his own; in

company with a wife who is certainly nobody else’s. She is

ironing—Tarradiddle is smoking, and, like all smokers, philosophising.

Here we learn the Honourable Charles Norwold and his wife have taken

lodgings; hither they are pursued by Hilary, who has managed to

ingratiate himself with Warner, and undertaken to trace the merchant’s

lost daughter; here, to Pye’s astonishment, he finds his friend and

sponge. Some banter ensues, not always agreeable to the Captain, but all

ends very pleasantly by the entrance of Warner, who discovers his

daughter, and becomes a father-in-law with a good grace.

The denouement is soon told:—Warner, having received his daughter and

her husband, gives a party at which Lady, and afterwards Lord Norwold,

are present. Here Warner’s anxiety to obtain the bracelet is explained.

He reminds his lordship that he once accused his elder brother of

stealing that very bauble; and the consequence was, that the accused

disappeared, and was never after heard of. Warner avows himself to be

that brother, but declines disturbing the rights or property of his

lordship, if he will again receive his son. This is, of course, done.

Hilary jokes himself into Miss Mayley’s good graces, and Tarradiddle, in

all the glories of a brown coat, and an outrageously fine waistcoat,

enters to make the scene complete, and to help to speak the tag, in

which all the characters have a hand; Mrs. Glover ending by making a

propitiatory appeal to the audience in favour of the author, who ought

to be very grateful to her for the captivating tones in which she asked

for an affirmative answer to the question—

“What will the world say?”

Circumstances prevent us from giving any opinion whatever, except upon

the scenery, the appointments, and the acting. The first is

beautiful—the second appropriate and splendid—the last natural, pointed,

and in good taste.

SIBTHORPIANA. A clergyman was explaining to the gallant officer the

meaning of the phrase “born again;” but it was quite unintelligible to

Sib., who remarked that he knew no one who could bear him even once.

“Do you read the notice to correspondents in PUNCH?” quoth Sib.—“I do,”

replied Hardinge, “and I wonder people should send them such

trash.”—“Pooh!” retorted the punster—“Pooh! you know that wherever PUNCH

is to be found, there are always plenty of spoons after it.”

“It’s a wonder you’re not drunk,” said Sibthorp to Wieland—“a great

wonder, because—do you give it up?—Because you’re a tumbler full of

spirits.”

CURIOUS AMBIGUITY. The correspondent of a London paper, writing from

Sunderland respecting the report that Lord Howick had been fired at by

some ruffian, says, with great naïveté, “a gun was certainly pointed at

his lordship’s head, but it is generally believed there was nothing in

it.”—We confess we are at a loss to know whether the facetious writer

alludes to the gun or the head.

THE THORNY PREMIER. A Tory evening paper tells its readers that Sir

Robert Peel expects a harassing opposition from the late ministry, but

that he is prepared for them on all points. This reminds us of the

defensive expedient of the hedgehog, which, conscious of its weakness,

rolls itself into a ball, to be prepared for its assailants on all

points.

TO PROFESSORS OF LANGUAGES WHO GIVE LONG CREDIT AND TAKE SMALL PAY.

Mister F. &c. &c. &c. Bayley is anxious to treat for a course of lessons

in the purest Irish. None but such as will conceal a West Indian patois

will be of the slightest use. For particulars, and cards to view, apply

to Mr. Catnach, Music and Marble Warehouse, Seven-dials.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. OCTOBER 9, 1841. [pg 145] A

MANUAL OF DENOUEMENTS. “In the king’s name,

Let fall your swords and daggers.”—CRITIC.

A hunter with a rifle in front of two leaning trees forms a letter A.

melo-drama is a theatrical dose in two or three acts, according to the

strength of the constitution of the audience. Its component parts are a

villain, a lover, a heroine, a comic character, and an executioner.

These having simmered and macerated through all manner of events, are

strained off together into the last scene; and the effervescence which

then ensues is called the dénouement, and the dénouement is the soul of

the drama.

Dénouements are of three kinds:—The natural, the unnatural, and the

supernatural.

The “natural” is achieved when no probabilities are violated;—that is,

when the circumstances are such as really might occur—if we could only

bring ourselves to think so—as, (ex. gr.)

When the villain, being especially desirous to preserve and secrete

certain documents of vital importance to himself and to the piece, does,

most unaccountably, mislay them in the most conspicuous part of the

stage, and straightway they are found by the very last member of the

dram. pers. in whose hands he would like to see them.

When the villain and his accomplice, congratulating each other on the

successful issue of their crimes, and dividing the spoil thereof (which

they are always careful to do in a loud voice, and in a room full of

closets), are suddenly set upon and secured by the innocent yet

suspected and condemned parties, who are at that moment passing on their

way to execution.

When the guiltless prisoner at the bar, being asked for his defence, and

having no witnesses to call, produces a checked handkerchief, and

subpoenas his own conscience, which has such an effect on the villain,

that he swoons, and sees demons in the jury-box, and tells them that “he

is ready,” and that “he comes,” &c. &c.

When the deserter, being just about to be shot, is miraculously saved by

his mistress, who cuts the matter very fine indeed, by rushing in

between “present” and “fire;” and, having ejaculated “a reprieve!” with

all her might, falls down, overcome by fatigue—poor dear! as well she

may—having run twenty-three miles in the changing of a scene, and

carried her baby on her arm all the blessed way, in order to hold him up

in the tableau at the end.

N.B.—Whenever married people rescue one another as above, the

“dénouement” belongs to the class “unnatural;” which is used when the

author wishes to show the intensity of his invention—as, (ex. gr. again)

When an old man, having been wounded fatally by a young man, requests,

as a boon, to be permitted to examine the young man’s neck, who,

accordingly unloosing his cravat, displays a hieroglyphic neatly

engraved thereon, which the old man interprets into his being a

parricide, and then dies, leaving the young man in a state of histrionic

stupor.

When a will is found embellished with a Daguerréotype of four fingers

and a thumb, done in blood on the cover, and it turns out that the

residuary legatee is no better than he should be—but, on the contrary, a

murderer nicely ripe for killing.

The “supernatural” dénouement is the last resource of a bewildered

dramatist, and introduces either an individual in green scales and wings

to match, who gives the audience to understand that he is a fiend, and

that he has private business to transact below with the villain; who,

accordingly, withdraws in his company, with many throes and groans, down

the trap.

Or a pale ghost in dingy lawn, apparently afflicted with a serious

haemorrhage in the bosom, who appears to a great many people, running,

in dreams; and at last joins the hands of the young couple, and puts in

a little plea of her own for a private burial.

And there are many other variations of the three great classes of

dénouements; such as the helter-skelter nine-times-round-the-stage-

combat, and the grand mêlée in which everybody kills everybody else, and

leaves the piece to be carried on by their executors; but we dare unveil

the mystery no further.

SPORTING FACE. “Well,” said Roebuck to O’Connell, “despite Peel’s

double-face propensities, he is a great genius.” “A great Janus indeed,”

answered the liberathor.

“A RING! A RING!!” The political pugilistic scrimmage which recently

took place in the House of Congress so completely coincides with the

views and propensities of the “universal scrimmage” member for Bath,

that he intends making a motion for the erection of a twenty-four-foot-

ring on the floor of the House, for the benefit of opposition members.

The Speaker, says Roebuck, will, in that case, be enabled to ascertain

whether the “noes” or “ayes” have it, without tellers.

PUNCH’S GUIDE TO THE WATERING PLACES.—No. 1. BRIGHTON If you are either

in a great hurry, or tired of life, book yourself by the Brighton

railroad, and you are ensured one of two things—arrival in two hours, or

destruction by that rapid process known in America as “immortal smash,”

which brings you to the end of your journey before you get to the

terminus. Should you fortunately meet with the former result, and finish

your trip without ending your mortal career, you find the place beset

with cads and omnibuses, which are very convenient; for if your hotel or

boarding-house be at the extremity of the town, you would have to walk

at least half a mile but for such vehicles, and they only charge

sixpence, with the additional advantage of the great chance of your

luggage being lost. If you be a married man, you will go to an hotel

where you can get a bed for half-a-guinea a night, provided you do not

want it warmed, and use your own soap; but it is five shillings extra if

you do. Should you be a bachelor, or an old maid, you, of course, put up

at a boarding-house, where you see a great deal of good society at two

guineas a week; for every third man is a captain, and every fifth woman

“my lady.” There, too, you observe a continual round of courtship going

on; for it comes in with the coffee, and continues during every meal.

“Marriages,” it is said, “are made in heaven”—good matches are always

got up at meal-times in Brighton boarding-houses.

Brighton is decidedly a fishing-town, for besides the quantity of John

Dorys caught there, it is a celebrated place for pursey half-pay

officers to angle in for rich widows. The bait they generally use

consists of dyed whiskers, and a distant relationship to some of the

“gentles” or nobles of the land. The town itself is built upon the

downs—a series of hills, which those in the habit of walking over them

are apt to call “ups and downs.” It consists entirely of hotels,

boarding-houses, and bathing-machines, with a pavilion and a chain-pier.

The amusements are various, and of a highly intellectual character: the

chief of them being a walk from the esplanade to the east cliff, and a

promenade back again from the east cliff to the esplanade. Donkey-races

are in full vogue, insomuch that the highways are thronged with

interesting animals, decorated with serge-trappings and safety-saddles,

and interspersed with goat-carts and hired flys. There is a library,

where the visiters do everything but read; and a theatre, where—as

Charles Kean is now playing there—they do anything but act. The ladies

seem to take great delight in the sea-bath, and that they may enjoy the

luxury in the most secluded privacy, the machines are placed as near to

the pier as possible. This is always crowded with men, who, by the aid

of opera glasses, find it a pleasing pastime to watch the movements of

the delicate Naiads who crowd the waters.

Those to whom Brighton is recommended for change of air and of scene get

sadly taken in, for here the air—like that of a barrel-organ—never

changes, as the wind is always high. In sunshine, Brighton always looks

hot; in moonshine, eternally dreary; the men are yawning all day long,

and the women sitting smirking in bay-windows, or walking with puppy-

dogs and parasols, which last they are continually opening and shutting.

In short, when a man is sick of the world, or a maiden of forty-five has

been so often crossed in love as to be obliged to leave off hoping

against hope, Brighton is an excellent place to prepare him or her for a

final retirement from life—whether that is contemplated in the Queen’s

Bench, a convent, a residence among the Welsh mountains, or the

monastery of La Trappe, a month’s probation in Brighton, at the height

of the season, being well calculated to make any such change not only

endurable, but agreeable.

CUSTOM-HOUSE SALE. LOT 1.—A PORT. For sale, Thorwaldsen’s Byron, rich in

beauty,

Because his country owes, and will not pay, “duty.”

[pg 146] THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER VI. TREATS OF CHALK-AND-QUA-

DRILL-OGY. A shepherd sits under a tree, forming a letter E. ntirely

disgusted with his unsuccessful appeal to the enlightened British public

assembled in the front of his residence, and which had produced effects

so contrary to what he had conceived would be the result, Agamemnon

called a committee of his household, to determine on the most advisable

proceedings to be adopted for remedying the evils resulting from the

unexpected pyrotechnic display of the morning. The carpet was

spoiled—the house was impregnated with the sooty effluvia, and the

company was expected to arrive at nine o’clock. What was to be done?

Betty suggested the burning of brown paper and scrubbing the carpet;

John, assafœtida and sawdust; Mrs. Waddledot, pastilles and chalking the

floor. As the latter remedies seemed most compatible with the gentility

of their expected visiters, immediate measures were taken for carrying

them into effect. A dozen cheese-plates were disposed upon the stairs,

each furnished with little pyramids of fragrance; old John, who was

troubled with an asthma, was deputed to superintend them, and nearly

coughed himself into a fit of apoplexy in the strenuous discharge of his

duty.

Whilst these in-door remedial appliances were in progress, Agamemnon was

hurrying about in a hack cab to discover a designer in chalk, and at

length was fortunate enough to secure the “own artist” of the celebrated

“Crown and Anchor.” Mr. Smear was a shrewd man, as well as an excellent

artist; and when he perceived the very peculiar position of things, he

forcibly enumerated all the difficulties which presented themselves, and

which could only be surmounted by a large increase of remuneration.

“You see, sir,” said Mr. Smear, “that wherever that ere water has been

it’s left a dampness ahind it; the moistur’ consekent upon such a

dampness must be evaporated by ever-so-many applications of the warming-

pan. The steam which a rises from this hoperation, combined with the

extra hart required to hide them two black spots in the middle, will

make the job come to one-pund-one, independently of the chalk.”

Agamemnon had nothing left but compliance with Mr. Smear’s demand; and

one warming and three stew-pans, filled with live coals, were soon

engaged in what Mr. Smear called the “ewaporating department.” As soon

as the boards were sufficiently dry, Mr. Smear commenced operations. In

each of the four corners of the room he described the diagram of a coral

and bells, connecting them with each other by graceful festoons of blue-

chalk ribbon tied in large true-lover’s knots in the centre. Having thus

completed a frame, he proceeded, after sundry contortions of the facial

muscles, to the execution of the great design. Having described an

ellipse of red chalk, he tastefully inserted within it a perfect

representation of the interior of an infant’s mouth in an early stage of

dentition, whilst a graceful letter A seemed to keep the gums apart to

allow of this artistical exhibition. Proudly did Mr. Smear cast his

small grey eyes on Agamemnon, and challenge him, as it were, to a

laudatory acknowledgment of his genius; but as his patron remained

silent, Mr. Smear determined to speak out.

“Hart has done her best—language must do the rest. I am now only

awaiting for the motter. What shall I say, sir?”

“‘Welcome’ is as good as anything, in my opinion,” replied Collumpsion.

“Welcome!” ejaculated Smear: “a servile himitation of a general

’lumination idea, sir. We must be original. Will you leave it to me?”

“Willingly,” said Agamemnon. And with many inward protestations against

parties in general and his own in particular, he left Mr. Smear and his

imagination together.

The great artist in chalk paced the room for some minutes, and then

slapped his left thigh, in confirmation of the existence of some

brilliant idea. The result was soon made apparent on the boards of the

drawing-room, where the following inscription attested the immensity of

Smear’s genius—

"PARTAKE OF OUR DENTAL DELIGHT."

The guinea was instantly paid; but Collumpsion was for a length of time

in a state of uncertainty as to whether Mr. Smear’s talents were

ornamental or disfigurative. Nine o’clock arrived, and with it a rumble

of vehicles, and an agitation of knocker, that were extremely

exhilarating to the heretofore exhausted and distressed family at 24.

We shall not attempt to particularise the arrivals, as they were

precisely the same set as our readers have invariably met at routs of

the second class for these last five years. There was the young

gentleman in an orange waistcoat, bilious complexion, and hair à la

Petrarch, only gingered; and so also were the two Misses ——, in blue

gauze, looped up with coral,—and that fair-haired girl who “detethted

therry,” and those black eyes, whose lustrous beauty made such havoc

among the untenanted hearts of the youthful beaux;—but, reader, you must

know the set that must have visited the Applebites.

All went “merry as a marriage bell,” and we feel that we cannot do

better than assist future commentators by giving a minute analysis of a

word which so frequently occurs in the fashionable literature of the

present day that doubtlessly in after time many anxious inquiries and

curious conjectures would be occasioned, but for the service we are

about to confer on posterity (for the pages of PUNCH are immortal) by a

description of

A QUADRILLE: which is a dance particularly fashionable in the nineteenth

century. In order to render our details perspicuous and lucid, we will

suppose—

—A gentleman in tight pantaloons and a tip. —Ditto in loose ditto, and a

camellia japonica in the button-hole of his coat. —Ditto in a crimson

waistcoat, and a pendulating eye-glass. —Ditto in violent wristbands,

and an alarming eruption of buttons. ALSO, —A young lady in pink-gauze

and freckles. —Ditto in book-muslin and marabouts. —Ditto with blonde

and a slight cast. —Ditto in her 24th year, and black satin. The four

gentlemen present themselves to the four ladies, and having smirked and

“begged the honour,” the four pairs take their station in the room in

the following order:

The tip and the freckles. The camelia japonica, and the marabouts. The

crimson waistcoat, and the slight cast. The violent wristbands and the

black satin. During eight bars of music, tip, crimson, camellia, and

wristbands, bow to freckles, slight cast, marabouts, and black satin,

who curtsey in return, and then commence

LA PANTALON, by performing an intersecting figure that brings all

parties exactly where they were; which joyous circumstance is celebrated

by bobbing for four bars opposite to each other, and then indulging in a

universal twirl which apparently offends the ladies, who seize hold of

each other’s hands only to leave go again, and be twirled round by the

opposite gentleman, who, having secured his partner, promenades her half

round to celebrate his victory, and then returns to his place with his

partner, performing a similar in-and-out movement as that which

commenced la Pantalon.

L’ETE is a much more respectful operation. Referring to our previous

arrangement, wristbands and freckles would advance and retire—then they

would take two hops and a jump to the right, then two hops and a jump to

the left—then cross over, and there hop and jump the same number of

times and come back again, and having celebrated their return by bobbing

for four bars, they twirl their partners again, and commence

LA POULE. The crimson waistcoat and marabouts would shake hands with

their right, and then cross over, and having shaken hands again with the

left, come back again. They then would invite the camellia and the

slight cast to join them, and perform a kind of wild Indian dance “all

of a row.” After which they all walk to the sides they have no business

upon, and then crimson runs round marabout, and taking his partner’s

hand, i.e., the slight cast, introduces her to camellia and marabout, as

though they had never met before. This introduction is evidently

disagreeable, for they instantly retire, and then rush past each other,

as furiously as they can, to their respective places.

LA TRENISE is evidently intended to “trot out” the dancers. Freckles and

black satin shake hands as they did in la Pantalon, and then freckles

trots tip out [pg 147]twice, and crosses over to the opposite side to

have a good look at him; having satisfied her curiosity, she then, in

company with black satin, crosses over to have a stare at the violent

wristbands, in contrast with tip who wriggles over, and join him, and

then, without saying a word to each other, bob, and are twirled as in

l’Eté.

LA PASTORALE seems to be an inversion of la Trenise, except that in

nineteen cases out of twenty, the waistcoat, tip, camellia and

wristbands, seem to undergo intense mental torture; for if there be such

a thing as “poetry of motion,” pastorale must be the “Inferno of

Dancing.”

LA FINALE commences with a circular riot, which leads to l’Eté. The

ladies then join hands, and endeavour to imitate the graceful evolutions

of a windmill, occasionally grinding the corns of their partners, who

frantically rush in with the quixotic intention of stopping them. A

general shuffling about then takes place, which terminates in a bow, a

bob, and “allow me to offer you some refreshment.”

Malheureux! we have devoted so much space to the quadrille, that we have

left none for the supper, which being a cold one, will keep till next

week.

THE GENTLEMAN’S OWN BOOK. We are ashamed to ask our readers to refer to

our last article under the title of the “Gentleman’s Own Book,” for the

length of time which has elapsed almost accuses us of disinclination for

our task, or weariness in catering for the amusement of our subscribers.

But September—September, with all its allurements of flood and field—its

gathering of honest old friends—its tales of by-gone seasons, and its

glorious promises of the present—must plead our apology for abandoning

our pen and rushing back to old associations, which haunt us like

A woman with a bundle of sticks and two contrite-looking children. THE

SPELLS OF CHILDHOOD.

We know that we are forgiven, so shall proceed at once to the

consideration of the ornaments and pathology of coats.

THE ORNAMENTS are those parts of the external decorations which are

intended either to embellish the person or garment, or to notify the

pecuniary superiority of the wearer. Amongst the former are to be

included buttons, braids, and mustachios; amongst the latter, chains,

rings, studs, canes, watches, and above all, those pocket talismans,

purses. There are also riding-whips and spurs, which may be considered

as implying the possession of quadrupedal property.

Of Buttons.—In these days of innovation—when Brummagem button-makers

affect a taste and elaboration of design—a true gentleman should be most

careful in the selection of this dulce et utile contrivance. Buttons

which resemble gilt acidulated drops, or ratafia cakes, or those which

are illustrative of the national emblems—the rose, shamrock, and thistle

tied together like a bunch of faded watercresses, or those which are

commemorative of coronations, royal marriages, births, and christenings,

chartist liberations, the success of liberal measures, and such like

occasions, or those which would serve for vignettes for the Sporting

Magazine, or those which at a distance bear some resemblance to the

royal arms, but which, upon closer inspection, prove to be bunches of

endive, surmounted by a crown which the Herald’s College does not

recognise, or those which have certain letters upon them, as the

initials of clubs which are never heard of in St. James’s, as the

U.S.C.—the Universal Shopmen’s Club; T.Y.C.—the Young Tailors’ Club;

L.S.D.—the Linen Drapers’ Society—and the like. All these are to be

fashionably eschewed. The regimental, the various hunts, the yacht

clubs, and the basket pattern, are the only buttons of Birmingham birth

which can be allowed to associate with the button-holes of a gentleman.

The restrictions on silk buttons are confined chiefly to magnitude. They

must not be so large as an opera ticket, nor so small as a silver penny.

Of Braids.—This ornament, when worn in the street, is patronised

exclusively by Polish refugees, theatrical Jews, opera-dancers, and

boarding-house fortune-hunters.

Of Mustachios.—The mustachio depends for its effect entirely upon its

adaptation to the expression of the features of the wearer. The small,

or moustache à la chinoise, should only appear in conjunction with

Tussaud, or waxwork complexions, and then only provided the teeth are

excellent; for should the dental conformation be of the same tint, the

mustachios would only provoke observation. The German, or full hearth-

brush, should be associated with what Mr. Ducrow would designate a

“cream,” and everybody else a drab countenance, and should never be

resorted to, except in conformity with regimental requisitions, or for

the capture of an Irish widow, as they are generally indigenous to

Boulogne and the Bench, and are known amongst tailors and that class of

clothier victims as “bad debts,” or “the insolvency regulation,” and

operate with them as an insuperable bar to

A heron catches a frog. PASSING A BILL.

The perfect, or heart-meshes, are those in which each particular hair

has its particular place, and must be of a silky texture, and not of a

bristly consistency, like a worn-out tooth-brush. Neither must they be

of a bright red, bearing a striking resemblance to two young spring

radishes.

The barbe au bonc, or Muntzian fringe, should only be worn when a

gentleman is desirous of obtaining notoriety, and prefers trusting to

his external embellishments in preference to his intellectual

acquirements.

On Tips.—Tips are an abomination to which no gentleman can lend his

countenance. They are a shabby and mangy compromise for mustachios, and

are principally sported by the genus of clerks, who, having strong

hirsute predilections, small salaries, and sober-minded masters, hang a

tassel on the chin instead of a vallance on the upper lip.

Our space warns us to conclude, and, as a fortnight’s indolence is not

the strongest stimulant to exertion, we willingly drop our pen, and

taking the hint and a cigar, indulge in a voluminous cloud, and a lusty

A horse pulls a carriage with a musical band in it. CARMEN TRIUMPHALE.

“HABIT IS SECOND NATURE.” FEARGUS O’CONNOR always attends public

meetings, dressed in a complete suit of fustian. He could not select a

better emblem of his writings in the Northern Star, than the material he

has chosen for his habiliments.

“THE SUBSTANCE AND THE SHADOW.” We understand that Sir Robert Peel has

sent for the fasting man, with the intention of seeing how far his

system may be acted upon for the relief of the community.

[pg 148] “SAY IT WAS ME.” “Jem! you rascal, get up! get up, and be

hanged to you, sir; don’t you hear somebody hammering and pelting away

at the street-door knocker, like the ghost of a dead postman with a

tertian ague! Open it! see what’s the matter, will you?”

“Yes, sir!” responded the tame tiger of the excited and highly

respectable Adolphus Casay, shiveringly emerging from beneath the bed-

clothes he had diligently wrapped round his aching head, to deaden the

incessant clamour of the iron which was entering into the soul of his

sleep. A hastily-performed toilet, in which the more established method

of encasing the lower man with the front of the garment to the front of

the wearer, was curiously reversed, and the capture of the left slipper,

which, as the weakest goes to the wall, the right foot had thrust itself

into, was scarcely effected, ere another series of knocks at the door,

and batch of invectives from Mr. Adolphus Casay, hurried the partial

sacrificer to the Graces, at a Derby pace, over the cold stone

staircase, to discover the cause of the confounded uproar. The door was

opened—a confused jumble of unintelligible mutterings aggravated the

eager ears of the shivering Adolphus. Losing all patience, he exclaimed,

in a tone of thunder—

“What is it, you villain? Can’t you speak?”

“Yes, sir, in course I can.”

“Then why don’t you, you imp of mischief?”

“I’m a-going to.”

“Do it at once—let me know the worst. Is it fire, murder, or thieves?”

“Neither, sir; it’s A1, with a dark lantern.”

“What, in the name of persecution and the new police, does A1, with a

dark lantern, want with me?”

“Please, sir, Mr. Brown Bunkem has give him half-a-crown.”

“Well, you little ruffian, what’s that to me?”

“Why, sir, he guv it him to come here, and ask you—”

Here policeman A1, with the dark lantern, took up the conversation.

“Jist to step down to the station-’us, and bail him therefrom—”

“For what!”

“Being werry drunk—uncommon overcome, surely—and oudacious

obstropelous.” continued the alphabetically and numerically-

distinguished conservator of the public peace.

“How did he get there?”

“On a werry heavily-laden stretcher.”

“The deuce take the mad fool,” muttered the disturbed housekeeper; then

added, in a louder tone, “Ask the policeman in, and request him to

take—”

“Anything you please, sir; it is rather a cold night, but as we’re all

in a hurry, suppose it’s something short, sir.”

Now the original proposition, commencing with the word “take,” was meant

by its propounder to achieve its climax in “a seat on one of the hall

chairs;” but the liquid inferences of A1, with a dark lantern, had the

desired effect, and induced a command from Mr. Adolphus Casay to the

small essential essence of condensed valetanism in the person of Jim

Pipkin, to produce the case-bottles for the discussion of the said A1,

with the dark lantern, who gained considerably in the good opinion of

Mr. James Pipkin, by requesting the favour of his company in the

bibacious avocation he so much delighted in.

A1 having expressed a decided conviction that, anywhere but on the

collar of his coat, or the date of monthly imprisonments, his

distinguishing number was the most unpleasant and unsocial of the whole

multiplication table, further proceeded to illustrate his remarks by

proposing glasses two and three, to the great delight and inebriation of

the small James Pipkin, who was suddenly aroused from a dreamy

contemplation of two policemen, and increased service of case-bottles

and liquor-glasses, by a sound box on the ear, and a stern command to

retire to his own proper dormitory—the one coming from the hand, the

other from the lips, of his annoyed master, who then and there departed,

under the guidance of A1, with the dark lantern. After passing various

lanes and weary ways, the station was reached, and there, in the full

plenitude of glorious drunkenness, lay his friend, the identical Mr.

Brown Bunkem, who, in the emphatic words of the inspector, was declared

to be “just about as far gone as any gentleman’s son need wish to be.”

“What’s the charge?” commenced Mr. Adolphus Casay.

“Eleven shillings a bottle.—Take it out o’that, and d—n the expense,”

interposed and hiccoughed the overtaken Brown Bunkem.

“Drunk, disorderly, and very abusive,” read the inspector.

“Go to blazes!” shouted Bunkem, and then commenced a very vague edition

of “God save the Queen,” which, by some extraordinary “sliding scale,”

finally developed the last verse of “Nix my Dolly,” which again, at the

mention of the “stone jug,” flew off into a very apocryphal version of

the “Bumper of Burgundy;” the lines “upstanding, uncovered,” appeared at

once to superinduce the opinion that greater effect would be given to

his performance by complying with both propositions. In attempting to

assume the perpendicular, Mr. Brown Bunkem was signally frustrated, as

the result was a more perfect development of his original horizontal

recumbency, assumed at the conclusion of a very vigorous fall. To make

up for this deficiency, the suggestion as to the singer appearing

uncovered, was achieved with more force than propriety, by Mr. Brown

Bunkem’s nearly displacing several of the inspector’s front teeth, by a

blow from his violently-hurled hat at the head of that respectable

functionary.

What would have followed, it is impossible to say; but at this moment

Mr. Adolphus Casay’s bail was accepted, he being duly bound down, in the

sum of twenty pounds, to produce Mr. Brown Bunkem at the magistrate’s

office by eleven o’clock of the following forenoon. This being settled,

in spite of a vigorous opposition, with the assistance of five half-

crowns, four policemen, the driver of, and hackney-coach No. 3141, Mr.

Brown Bunkem was conveyed to his own proper lodgings, and there left,

with one boot and a splitting headache, to do duty for a counterpane, he

vehemently opposing every attempt to make him a deposit between the

sheets.—Seven o’clock on the following morning found Mr. Adolphus Casay

at the bedside of the violently-snoring and stupidly obfuscated Brown

Bunkem. In vain he pinched, shook, shouted, and swore; inarticulate

grunts and apoplectic denunciations against the disturber of his rest

were the only answers to his urgent appeals as to the necessity of Mr.

Brown Bunkem’s getting ready to appear before the magistrate. Visions of

contempt of court, forfeited bail, and consequent disbursements, flitted

before the mind of the agitated Mr. Adolphus Casay. Ten o’clock came;

Bunken seemed to snore the louder and sleep the sounder. What was to be

done? why, nothing but to get up an impromptu influenza, and try his

rhetoric on the presiding magistrates of the bench.

Influenced by this determination, Mr. Adolphus Casay started for that

den of thieves and magistrates in the neighbourhood of Bow-street; but

Mr. Adolphus Casay’s feelings were anything but enviable; though by no

means a straitlaced man, he had an instinctive abhorrence of anything

that appeared a blackguard transaction. Nothing but a kind wish to serve

a friend would have induced him to appear within a mile of such a

wretched place; but the thing was now unavoidable, so he put the best

face he could on the matter, made his way to the clerk of the Court, and

there, in a low whisper, began his explanation, that being “how Mr.

Brown Bunkem”—at this moment the crier shouted—

“Bunkem! Where’s Bunkem?”

“I am here!” said Mr. Adolphus Casay; “here to”—

“Step inside, Bunkem,” shouted a sturdy auxiliary; and with considerable

manual exertion and remarkable agility, he gave the unfortunate Adolphus

a peculiar twist that at once deposited him behind the bar and before

the bench.

“I beg to state,” commenced the agitated and innocent Adolphus.

“Silence, prisoner!” roared the crier.

“Will you allow me to say,”—again commenced Adolphus—

“Hold your tongue!” vociferated P74.

“I must and will be heard.”

“Young man,” said the magistrate, laying down the paper, “you are doing

yourself no good; be quiet. Clerk, read the charge.”

After some piano mumbling, the words

“drunk—abusive—disorderly—incapable—taking care of

self—stretcher—station-house—bail,” were shouted out in the most

fortissimo manner.

At the end of the reading, all eyes were directed to the well-dressed

and gentlemanly-looking Adolphus. He appeared to excite universal

sympathy.

“What have you to say, young man?”

“Why, your worship, the charge is true; but”—

“Oh! never mind your buts. Will you ever appear in the same situation

again?”

“Upon my soul I won’t; but”—

“There, then, that will do; I like your sincerity, but don’t swear. Pay

one shilling, and you are discharged.”

“Will your worship allow me”—

“I have no time, sir. Next case.”

“But I must explain.”

“Next case. Hold your jaw!—this way!”—and the same individual who had

jerked Mr. Adolphus Casay into the dock, rejerked him into the middle of

the court. The shilling was paid, and, amid the laughter of the idlers

at his anti-teetotal habits, he made the best of his way from the scene

of his humiliation. As he rushed round the corner of the street, a peal

of laughter struck upon his ears, and there, in full feather, as sober

as ever, stood Mr. Brown Bunkem, enjoying the joke beyond all measure.

Indignation took possession of Mr. Adolphus Casay’s bosom; he demanded

to know the cause of this strange conduct, stating that his character

was for ever compromised.

“Not at all,” coolly rejoined the unmoved Bunkem; “we are all subject to

accidents. You certainly were in a scrape, but I think none the worse of

you; and, if it’s any satisfaction, you may say it was me.”

“Say it was you! Why it was.”

“Capital, upon my life! do you hear him, Smith, how well he takes a cue?

but stick to it, old fellow, I don’t think you’ll be believed; but—say

it was me.”

Mr. Brown Bunkem was perfectly right. Mr. Adolphus Casay was not

believed; for some time he told the story as it really was, but to no

purpose. The indefatigable Brown was always appealed to by mutual

friends, his answer invariably was—

“Why, Casay’s a steady fellow, I am not; it might injure him. I defy

report; therefore I gave him leave to—say it was me!”

And that was all the thanks Mr. Adolphus Casay ever got for bailing

friend.

FUSBOS

[pg 149] THE POLITICAL EUCLID. WHEREIN ARE CONSIDERED THE RELATIONS OF

PLACE; OR

THE BEST MODE OF GETTING A PLACE FOR YOUR RELATIONS: Being a complete

Guide to the Art of LEGISLATIVE MENSURATION, OR,

How to estimate the value of a Vote upon WHIG AND TORY MEASURES. THE

WHOLE ADAPTED TO THE USE OF HONOURABLE MEMBERS. BY

LORD PALMERSTON, Late Professor of Toryism, but now Lecturer on Whiggery

to the College of St. Stephen’s.