BOOK I.—DEFINITIONS. A point in politics is that which always has place

(in view,) but no particular party.

A line in politics is interest without principle.

The extremities of a line are loaves and fishes.

A right line is that which lies evenly between the Ministerial and

Opposition benches.

A superficies is that which professes to have principle, but has no

consistency.

The extremities of a superficies are expediencies.

A plain superficies is that of which two opposite speeches being taken,

the line between them evidently lies wholly in the direction of Downing-

street.

A plain angle is the evident inclination, and consequent piscation, of a

member for a certain place; or it is the meeting together of two members

who are not in the same line of politics.

When a member sits on the cross benches, and shows no particular

inclination to one side or the other, it is called a right angle.

An obtuse angle is that in which the inclination is evidently to the

Treasury.

An acute angle is that in which the inclination is apparently to the

Opposition benches.

A boundary is the extremity or whipper-in of any party.

A party is that which is kept together by one or more whippers-in.

A circular member is a rum figure, produced by turning round; and is

such that all lines of politics centre in himself, and are the same to

him.

The diameter of a circular member is a line drawn on the Treasury, and

terminating in both pockets.

Trilateral members, or waverers, are those which have three sides.

Of three-sided members an equilateral or independent member is that to

which all sides are the same.

An isosceles or vacillating member is that to which two sides only are

the same.

A scalene or scaly member has no one side which is equal to his own

interest.

Parallel lines of politics are such as are in the same direction—say

Downing-street; but which, being produced ever so far—say to Windsor—do

not meet.

A political problem is a Tory proposition, showing that the country is

to be done.

A theorem is a Whig proposition—the benefit of which to any one but the

Whigs always requires to be demonstrated.

A corollary is the consequent confusion brought about by adopting the

preceding Whig proposition.

A deduction is that which is drawn from the revenue by adopting the

preceding Whig proposition.

MAJOR BENIOWSKY’S NEW ART OF MEMORY A gentleman who boasts one of those

proper names in sky which are naturally enough transmitted “from pole to

pole,” undertakes to teach the art of remembering upon entirely new

principles. We know not what the merit of his invention may be, but we

beg leave to ask the Major a few general questions, and we, therefore,

respectfully inquire whether his system would be capable of effecting

the following miracles:—

1st. Would it be possible to make Sir James Graham remember that he not

long since declared his present colleagues to be men wholly unworthy of

public confidence?

2dly. Would Major Beniowsky’s plan compel a man to remember his tailor’s

bill; and, if so, would it go so far as to remind him to call for the

purpose of paying it?

3dly. Would the new system of memory enable Mr. Wakley to refrain from

forgetting himself?

4thly. Would the Phrenotypics, or brain-printing, as it is called,

succeed in stereotyping a pledge in the recollection of a member of

parliament?

5thly. Is it possible for the new art to cause Sir Robert Peel to

remember from one week to the other his political promises?

We fear these questions must be answered in the negative; but we have a

plan of our own for exercising the memory, which will beat that of

Beniow, or any other sky, who ventures to propose one. Our proposition

is, “Read PUNCH,” and we will be bound that no one will ever forget it

who has once enjoyed the luxury.

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—NO. 9. I wander’d through our native fields,

And one was by my side who seem’d

Fraught with each beauty nature yields,

Whilst from her eye affection beam’d.

It was so like what fairy books,

In painting heaven, are wont to tell,

That fondly I believed those looks,

And found too late—’twas all a sell!

’Twas all a sell!

She vow’d I was her all—her life—

And proved, methought, her words by sighs;

She long’d to hear me call her “wife,”

And fed on hope which love supplies.

Ah! then I felt it had been sin

To doubt that she could e’er belie

Her vows!—I found ’twas only tin

She sought, and love was all my eye!

Was all my eye!

SHIPPING INTELLIGENCE. The Shamrock ran upon a timber-raft on Monday

morning, and was off Deal in ten minutes afterwards.

The storm of Thursday did considerable damage to the shipping in the

Thames. A coal was picked up off Vauxhall, which gave rise to a report

that a barge had gone down in the offing. On making inquiries at

Lloyd’s, we asked what were the advices, when we were advised to mind

our own business, an answer we have too frequently received from the

underlings of that establishment. The Bachelor has been telegraphed on

its way up from Chelsea. It is expected to bring the latest news

relative to the gas-lights on the Kensington-road, which, it is well

known, are expected to enjoy a disgraceful sinecure during the winter.

Captain Snooks, of the Daffydowndilly, committed suicide by jumping down

the chimney of the steamer under his command. The rash act occasioned a

momentary flare up, but did not impede the action of the machinery.

A rudder has been seen floating off Southwark. It has a piece of rope

attached to it. Lloyd’s people have not been down to look at it. This

shameful neglect has occasioned much conversation in fresh-water

circles, and shows an apathy which it is frightful to contemplate.

TO SIR ROBERT. Doctors, they say, are heartless, cannot feel—

Have you no core, or are you naught but Peel?

A PLEASANT ASSURANCE. The Marquis of Normandy, we perceive, has been

making some inquiries relative to the “Drainage Bills,” and has been

assured by Lord Ellenborough, that the subject should meet the attention

of government during the recess. We place full reliance on his

Lordship’s promise—the drainage of the country has been ever a paramount

object with our Whig and Tory rulers.

[pg 150] CHRISTIANITY.—PRICE FIFTEEN SHILLINGS. The English poor have

tender teachers. In the first place, the genius of Money, by a hundred

direct and indirect lessons, preaches to them the infamy of destitution;

thereby softening their hearts to a sweet humility with a strong sense

of their wickedness. Then comes Law, with its whips and bonds, to

chastise and tie up “the offending Adam”—that is, the Adam without a

pocket,—and then the gentle violence of kindly Mother Church leads the

poor man far from the fatal presence of his Gorgon wants, to consort him

with meek-eyed Charity,—to give him glimpses of the Land of Promise,—to

make him hear the rippling waters of Eternal Truth,—to feast his senses

with the odours of Eternal sweets. Happy English poor! Ye are not

scurfed with the vanities of the flesh! Under the affectionate

discipline of the British Magi L.S.D.,—the “three kings” tasking human

muscles, banqueting on human heartstrings,—ye are happily rescued from

any visitation of those worldly comforts that hold the weakness of

humanity to life! Hence, by the benevolence of those who have only solid

acres, ye are permitted to have an unlimited portion of the sky; and

banned by the mundane ones who have wine in their cellars, and venison

in the larder from the gross diet of beer and beef—ye are permitted to

take your bellyful of the savoury food cooked for the Hebrew patriarch.

Once a week, at least, ye are invited to feast with Joseph in the house

of Pharaoh, and yet, stiff-necked generation that ye are, ye stay from

the banquet and then complain of hunger! “Shall there be no punishment

for this obduracy?” asks kindly Mother Church, her eyes red with weeping

for the hard-heartedness of her children. “Shall there be no remedy?”

she sobs, wringing her hands. Whereupon, the spotless maiden Law—that

Amazonian virgin, eldest child of violated Justice—answers, “Fifteen

Shillings!”

We are indebted to Lord BROUGHAM for this new instance of the

stubbornness of the poor—for this new revelation of the pious vengeance

of offended law. A few nights since his lordship, in a motion touching

prison discipline, stated that “a man had been confined for ten weeks,

having been fined a shilling, and fourteen shillings costs, which he did

not pay, because he was absent one Sunday from church!”

Who can doubt, that from the moment John Jones—(the reader may christen

the offender as he pleases)—was discharged, he became a most pious,

church-going Christian? He had been ten Sundays in prison, be it

remembered; and had therefore heard at least ten sermons. He crossed the

prison threshold a new-made man; and wending towards his happy home, had

in his face—so lately smirched with shameless vice—such lustrous glory,

that even his dearest creditors failed to recognise him!

Beautiful is the village church of Phariseefield! Beautiful is its

antiquity—beautiful its porch, thronged with white-headed men and ruddy

little ones! Beautiful the graves, sown with immortal seed, clustering

round the building! Beautiful the vicar’s horses—the vicar himself

preaches to-day,—and very beautiful indeed, the faces, ay, and the

bonnets, too, of the vicar’s daughters! Beautiful the sound of the bell

that summons the lowly Christian to cast aside the pomps and vanities of

the world, and to stand for a time in utter nakedness of heart before

his Maker,—and very beautiful the silk stockings of the Dowager Lady

Canaan’s footman, who carrieth with Sabbath humility his Lady’s books to

Church! Yet all this beauty is as deformity to the new-born loveliness

of John Jones; who, on the furthermost seat—far from the vain

convenience of pew and velvet hassock—sits, and inwardly blesses the one

shilling and fourteen shillings costs, that with more than fifteen-horse

power have drawn him from the iniquities of the Jerry-shop and hustle-

farthing,—to feed upon the manna dropping from the lips of the Reverend

Doctor FAT! There sits John Jones, late drunkard, poacher, reprobate;

but now, fined into Christian goodness—made a very saint, according to

Act of Parliament!

If Mother Church, with the rods of spikenard which the law hath

benevolently placed in her hands, will but whip her truant children to

their Sunday seats,—will only consent to draw them through the bars of a

prison to their Sabbath sittings,—will teach them the real value of

Christianity, it being according to her own estimate—with the

expenses—exactly fifteen shillings,—sure we are, that Radicalism and

Chartism, and all the many foul pustules that, in the conviction of Holy

Church, are at this moment poisoning and enervating the social body,

will disappear beneath the precious ointment always at her touch.

When we consider the many and impartial blessings scattered upon the

poor of England—when in fact we consider the beautiful justice pervading

our whole social intercourse—when we reflect upon the spirit of good-

will and sincerity that operates on the hearts of the powerful few for

the comfort and happiness of the helpless million,—we are almost aghast

at the infidelity of poverty, forgetting in our momentary indignation,

that poverty must necessarily combine within itself every species of

infamy.

Poor men of England, consider not merely the fine and the expenses

attendant upon absence from church, but reflect upon the want of that

beautiful exercise of the spirit which, listening to precepts and

parables in Holy Writ, delights to find for them practical illustrations

in the political and social world about you. We know you would not think

of going to church in masquerade—of reading certain lines and making

certain responses as a bit of Sabbath ceremony, as necessary to a

respectable appearance as a Sabbath shaving. No; you are far away from

the elegances of hypocrisy, and do not time your religion from eleven

till one, making devotion a matter of the church clock. By no means. You

go to hear, it may be, the Bishop of EXETER; and as we have premised,

what a beautiful exercise for the intellect to discover in the political

doings of his Grace—in those acts which ultimately knock at your

cupboard-doors—only a practical illustration of the divine precept of

doing unto all men as ye would they should do unto you! Well, you pray

for your daily bread; and with a profane thought of the price of the

four pound loaf, your feelings are suddenly attuned to gratitude towards

those who regulate the price of British corn. We might run through the

Scriptures from Genesis to Revelation, quoting a thousand benevolences

illustrated by the rich and mighty of this land—illustrated politically,

socially, and morally, in their conduct towards the poor and destitute

of Britain; and yet the stiffnecked pauper will not dispose his Sabbath

to self-enjoyment—will not go to church to be rejoiced! By such

disobedience, one would almost think that the poor were wicked enough to

consider the church discipline of the Sabbath as no more than a

ceremonious mockery of their six days wants and wretchedness.

The magistrates—(would we knew their names, we would hang them up in the

highways like the golden bracelets of yore)—who have made John Jones

religious through his pocket, are men of comprehensive genius. There is

no wickedness that they would not make profitable to the Church. Hence,

it appears from Lord BROUGHAM’S speech that John Jones “was guilty of

other excesses, and had been sent to prison for a violation of that

dormant—he wished he could say of it obsolete—law!” There being “other

excesses” for which, it appears, there is no statute remedy, the

magistrates commit a piece of pious injustice, and lump sundry laical

sins into the one crime against the Church. John Jones,—for who shall

conceive the profanity of man?—may have called one of these magistrates

“goose” or “jackass;” and the offence against the justice is a contempt

of the parson. After this, can the race of John Joneses fail to venerate

Christianity as recommended by the Bench?

We have a great admiration of English Law, yet in the present instance,

we think she shares very unjustly with Mother Church. For instance,

Church in its meekness, says to John Jones, “You come not to my house on

Sunday: pay a shilling.” John Jones refuses. “What!” exclaims

Law—“refuse the modest request of my pious sister? Refuse to give her a

little shilling! Give me fourteen.” Hence, in this Christian country,

law is of fourteen times the consequence of religion.

Applauding as we do the efforts of the magistrates quoted by Lord

BROUGHAM in the cause of Christianity, we yet conscientiously think

their system capable of improvement. When the Rustic Police shall be

properly established, we think they should be empowered to seize upon

all suspected non-church goers every Saturday night, keeping them in the

station-houses until Sunday morning, and then marching them, securely

handcuffed, up the middle aisle of the parish church. ’Twould be a

touching sight for Mr. PLUMPTREE, and such hard-sweating devotees. For

the benefit of old offenders, we would also counsel a little wholesome

private whipping in the vestry.

Q.

[pg 151] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XIII. One man sits at a table, while

another brings 'Cheap Bread' and a third holds a crop over the table.

MR. SANCHO BULL AND HIS STATE PHYSICIAN.

“Though surrounded with luxuries, the Doctor would not allow Sancho to

partake of them, and dismissed each dish as it was brought in by the

servants.”—Vide DON QUIXOTE.

[pg 153] SWEET AUTUMN DAYS. Sweet Autumn days, sweet Autumn days,

When, harvest o’er, the reaper slumbers,

How gratefully I hymn your praise,

In modest but melodious numbers.

But if I’m ask’d why ’tis I make

Autumn the theme of inspiration,

I’ll tell the truth, and no mistake—

With Autumn comes the long vacation.

Of falsehoods I’ll not shield me with a tissue—

Autumn I love—because no writs then issue.

Others may hail the joys of Spring,

When birds and buds alike are growing;

Some the Summer days may sing,

When sowing, mowing, on are going.

Old Winter, with his hoary locks,

His frosty face and visage murky,

May suit some very jolly cocks,

Who like roast-beef, mince-pies, and turkey:

But give me Autumn—yes, I’m Autumn’s child—

For then—no declarations can be filed.

TOM CONNOR’S DILEMMA. A TRUE TALE. SHOWING HOW READY WIT MAY SUPPLY THE

PLACE OF READY MONEY. Tom Connor was a perfect specimen of the happy,

careless, improvident class of Irishmen who think it “time enough to bid

the devil good morrow when they meet him,” and whose chief delight seems

to consist in getting into all manner of scrapes, for the mere purpose

of displaying their ingenuity of getting out of them again. Tom, at the

time I knew him, had passed the meridian of his life; “he had,” as he

used to say himself, “given up battering,” and had luckily a small

annuity fallen to him by the demise of a considerate old aunt who had

kindly popped off in the nick of time. And on this independence Tom had

retired to spend all that remained to him of a merry life at a pleasant

little sea-port town in the West of Ireland, celebrated for its card-

parties and its oyster-clubs. These latter social meetings were held by

rotation at the houses of the members of the club, which was composed of

the choicest spirits of the town. There Doctor McFadd, relaxing the

dignity of professional reserve, condescended to play practical jokes on

Corney Bryan, the bothered exciseman; and Skinner, the attorney,

repeated all Lord Norbury’s best puns, and night after night told how,

at some particular quarter sessions, he had himself said a better thing

than ever Norbury uttered in his life. But the soul of the club was Tom

Connor—who, by his inexhaustible fund of humorous anecdotes and droll

stories, kept the table in a roar till a late hour in the night, or

rather to an early hour in the morning. Tom’s stories usually related to

adventures which had happened to himself in his early days; and as he

had experienced innumerable vicissitudes of fortune, in every part of

the world, and under various characters, his narratives, though not

remarkable for their strict adherence to truth, were always

distinguished by their novelty.

One evening the club had met as usual, and Tom had mixed his first

tumbler of potheen punch, after “the feast of shells” was over, when

somebody happened to mention the name of Edmund Kean, with the remark

that he had once played in a barn in that very town.

“True enough,” said Tom. “I played in the same company with him.”

“You! you!” exclaimed several voices.

“Of course; but that was when I was a strolling actor in Clark’s corps.

We used to go the western circuit, and by that means got the name of

‘the Connaught Rangers.’ There was a queer fellow in the company, called

Ned Davis, an honest-hearted fellow he was, as ever walked in shoe

leather. Ned and I were sworn brothers; we shared the same bed, which

was often only a ‘shake-down’ in the corner of a stable, and the same

dinner, which was at times nothing better than a crust of brown bread

and a draught of Adam’s ale. I’ll trouble you for the bottle, doctor.

Thank you; may I never take worse stuff from your hands. Talking of Ned

Davis, I’ll tell you, if you have no objection of a strange adventure

which befel us once.”

“Bravo! bravo! bravo!” was the unanimous cry from the members.

“Silence, gentlemen!” said the chairman imperatively; “silence for Mr.

Connor’s story.”

“Hem! Well then, some time about the year—never mind the year—Ned and I

were playing with the company at Loughrea; business grew bad, and the

salaries diminished with the houses, until at last, one morning at a

rehearsal, the manager informed us that, in consequence of the depressed

state of the drama in Galway, the treasury would be closed until further

notice, and that he had come to the resolution to depart on the

following morning for Castlebar, whither he requested the company to

follow him without delay. Fancy my consternation at this unexpected

announcement! I mechanically thrust my hands into my pockets, but they

were completely untenanted. I rushed home to our lodgings, where I had

left Ned Davis; he, I knew, had received a guinea the day before, upon

which I rested my hopes of deliverance. I found him fencing with his

walking-stick with an imaginary antagonist, whom he had in his mind

pinned against a closet-door. I related to him the sudden move the

manager had made, and told him, in the most doleful voice conceivable,

that I was not possessed of a single penny. As soon as I had finished,

he dropped into a chair, and burst into a long-continued fit of

laughter, and then looked in my face with the most provoking mock

gravity, and asked—

“What’s to be done then? How are we to get out of this?”

“Why,” said I, “that guinea which you got yesterday!”

“Ho! ho! ho! ho!” he shouted. “The guinea is gone.”

“Gone!” I exclaimed; and I felt my knees began to shake under me.

“Gone—where—how.”

“I gave it to the wife of that poor devil of a scene-shifter who broke

his arm last week; he had four children, and they were starving. What

could I do but give it to them? Had it been ten times as much they

should have had it.”

I don’t know what reply I made, but it had the effect of producing

another fit of uncontrollable laughter.

“Why do you laugh,” said I, rather angrily.

“Who the devil could help it;” he replied; “your woe-begone countenance

would make a cat laugh.”

“Well,” said I, “we are in a pretty dilemma here. We owe our landlady

fifteen shillings.”

“For which she will lay an embargo on our little effects—three black

wigs and a low-comedy pair of breeches—this must be prevented.”

“But how?” I inquired.

“How? never mind; but order dinner directly.”

“Dinner!” said I; “don’t awaken painful recollections.”

“Go and do as I tell you,” he replied. “Order dinner—beef-steak and

oyster-sauce.”

“Beef-steak! Are you mad”—but before I could finish the sentence, he had

put on his hat and disappeared.

“Who knows?” thought I, after he was gone, “he’s a devilish clever

fellow, something may turn up:” so I ordered the beef-steaks. In less

than an hour, my friend returned with exultation in his looks.

“I have done it!” said he, slapping me on the back; “we shall have

plenty of money to-morrow.”

I begged he would explain himself.

“Briefly then,” said he, “I have been to the billiard-room, and every

other lounging-place about town, where I circulated, in the most

mysterious manner, a report that a celebrated German doctor and

philosopher, who had discovered the secret of resuscitating the dead,

had arrived in Loughrea.”

“How ridiculous!” I said.

“Don’t be in a hurry. This philosopher,” he added, “is about to give

positive proof that he can perform what he professes, and it is his

intention to go into the churchyard to-night, and resuscitate a few of

those who have not been buried more than a twelvemonth.”

“Well.” said I, “what does all this nonsense come to?”

“That you must play the philosopher in the churchyard.”

“Me!”

“Certainly, you’re the very figure for the part.”

After some persuasion, and some further development of his plan, I

consented to wrap myself in an ample stage-cloak, and gliding into the

churchyard, I waited in the porch according to the directions I had

received from Ned, until near midnight, when I issued forth, and

proceeded to examine the different tombs attentively. I was bending over

one, which, by the inscription, I perceived had been erected by “an

affectionate and disconsolate wife, to the memory of her beloved

husband,” when I was startled at hearing a rustling noise, and, on

looking round, to see a stout-looking woman standing beside me.

“Doctor,” said she, addressing me, “I know what you’re about here.”

I shook my head solemnly.

“This is my poor late husband’s tomb.”

“I know it,” I answered. “I mean to exercise my art upon him first. He

shall be restored to your arms this very night.”

The widow gave a faint scream—“I’m sure, doctor,” said she, “I’m greatly

obliged to you. Peter was the best of husbands—but he has now been dead

six months—and—I am—married again.”

“Humph!” said I, “the meeting will be rather awkward, but you may induce

your second husband to resign.”

“No, no, doctor; let the poor man rest quietly, and here is a trifle for

your trouble.” So saying, she slipped a weighty purse into my hand.

“This alters the case,” said I, “materially—your late husband shall

never be disturbed by me.”

The widow withdrew with a profusion of acknowledgments; and scarcely had

she gone, when a young fellow, who I learned had lately come into

possession of a handsome property by the death of an uncle, came to

request me not to meddle with the deceased, who he assured me was a

shocking old curmudgeon, who never spent his money like a gentleman. A

douceur from the young chap secured the repose of his uncle.

My next visitor was a weazel-faced man, who had been plagued for twenty

years by a shrew of a wife, who popped off one day from an overdose of

whiskey. He came to beseech me not to bring back his plague to the

world; and, pitying the poor man’s case, I gave him my promise readily,

without accepting a fee.

By this time daylight had begun to appear, and creeping quietly out of

the churchyard, I returned to my lodgings. Ned was waiting up for my

return.

“What luck?” said he, as I entered the room.

I showed him the fees I had received during the night.

“I told you,” said he, “that we should have plenty of rhino to-day.

Never despair, man, there are more ways out of the wood than one: and

recollect, that ready wit is as good as ready money.”

[pg 154] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. II.—THE NEW MAN.

Embryology precedes the treatise on the perfect animal; it is but right,

therefore, that the new man should have our attention before the mature

student.

No sooner do the geese become asphyxiated by torsion of their cervical

vertebrae, in anticipation of Michaelmas-day; no sooner do the pheasants

feel premonitory warnings, that some chemical combinations between

charcoal, nitre, and sulphur, are about to take place, ending in a

precipitation of lead; no sooner do the columns of the newspapers teem

with advertisements of the ensuing courses at the various schools, each

one cheaper, and offering more advantages than any of the others; the

large hospitals vaunting their extended field of practice, and the small

ones ensuring a more minute and careful investigation of disease, than

the new man purchases a large trunk and a hat-box, buys a second-hand

copy of Quain’s Anatomy, abjures the dispensing of his master’s surgery

in the country, and placing himself in one of those rattling boxes

denominated by courtesy second-class carriages, enters on the career of

a hospital pupil in his first season.

The opening lecture introduces the new man to his companions, and he is

easily distinguished at that annual gathering of pupils, practitioners,

professors, and especially old hospital governors, who do a good deal in

the gaiter-line, and applaud the lecturer with their umbrellas, as they

sit in the front row. The new man is known by his clothes, which incline

to the prevalent fashion of the rural districts he has quitted; and he

evinces an affection for cloth-boots, or short Wellingtons with double

soles, and toes shaped like a toad’s mouth, a propensity which sometimes

continues throughout the career of his pupilage. He likewise takes off

his hat when he enters the dissecting-room, and thinks that beautiful

design is shown in the mechanism and structure of the human body—an idea

which gets knocked out of him at the end of the season, when he looks

upon the distribution of the nerves as “a blessed bore to get up, and no

use to him after he has passed.” But at first he perpetually carries a

A man reaches through a window to club a seated man. “DUBLIN DISSECTOR”

under his arm; and whether he is engaged upon a subject or no, delights

to keep on his black apron, pockets, and sleeves (like a barber dipped

in a blacking-bottle), the making of which his sisters have probably

superintended in the country, and which he thinks endows him with an air

of industry and importance.

The new man, at first, is not a great advocate for beer; but this

dislike may possibly arise from his having been compelled to stand two

pots upon the occasion of his first dissection. After a time, however,

he gives way to the indulgence, having received the solemn assurances of

his companions that it is absolutely necessary to preserve his health,

and keep him from getting the collywobbles in his pandenoodles—a

description of which obstinate disease he is told may be found in “Dr.

Copland’s Medical Dictionary,” and “Gregory’s Practice of Physic,” but

as to under what head the informant is uncertain.

The first purchase that a new man makes in London is a gigantic note-

book, a dozen steel pens on a card, and a screw inkstand. Furnished with

these valuable adjuncts to study, he puts down every thing he hears

during the day, both in the theatre of the school and the wards of the

hospital, besides many diverting diagrams and anecdotes which his

fellow-students insert for him, until at night he has a confused dream

that the air-pump in the laboratory is giving a party, at which various

scalpels, bits of gums, wax models, tourniquets, and fœtal skulls, are

assisting as guests—an eccentric and philosophical vision, worthy of the

brain from which it emanates. But the new man is, from his very nature,

a visionary. His breast swells with pride at the introductory lecture,

when he hears the professor descant upon the noble science he and his

companions have embarked upon; the rich reward of watching the gradual

progress of a suffering fellow-creature to convalescence, and the

insignificance of worldly gain compared with the pure treasures of

pathological knowledge; whilst to the riper student all this resolves

itself into the truth, that three draughts, or one mixture, are

respectively worth four-and-sixpence or three shillings: that the

patient should be encouraged to take them as long as possible, and that

the thrilling delight of ushering another mortal into existence, after

being up all night, is considerably increased by the receipt of the tin

for superintending the performance; i.e. if you are lucky enough to get

it.

It is not improbable that, after a short period, the new man will write

a letter home. The substance of it will be as follows: and the reader is

requested to preserve a copy, as it may, perhaps, be compared with

another at a future period.

“MY DEAR PARENTS,—I am happy to inform you that my health is at present

uninjured by the atmosphere of the hospital, and that I find I am making

daily progress in my studies. I have taken a lodging in —— (Gower-place,

University-street, Little Britain, or Lant-street, as the case may be,)

for which I pay twelve shillings a week, including shoes. The mistress

of the house is a pious old lady, and I am very comfortable, with the

exception that two pupils live on the floor above me, who are

continually giving harmonic parties to their friends, and I am sometimes

compelled to request they will allow me to conclude transcribing my

lecture notes in tranquillity—a request, I am sorry to say, not often

complied with. The smoke from their pipes fills the whole house, and the

other night they knocked me up two hours after I had retired to rest,

for the loan of the jug of cold water from my washhand-stand, to make

grog with, and a ‘Little Warbler,’ if I had one, with the words of ‘The

Literary Dustman’ in it.

“Independently of these annoyances, I get on pretty well, and have

already attracted the notice of my professors, who return my salutation

very condescendingly, and tell me to look upon them rather as friends

than teachers. The students here, generally speaking, are a dissipated

and irreligious set of young men; and I can assure you I am often

compelled to listen to language that quite makes my ears tingle. I have

found a very decent washerwoman, who mends for me as well; but,

unfortunately, she washes for the house, and the initials of one of the

students above me are the same as mine, so that I find our things are

gradually changing hands, in which I have the worst, because his shirts

and socks are somewhat dilapidated, or, to speak professionally, their

fibrous texture abounds in organic lesions; and the worst is, he never

finds out the error until the end of the week, when he sends my things

back, with his compliments, and thinks the washerwoman has made a

mistake.

“I have not been to the theatres yet, nor do I feel the least wish to

enter into any of the frivolities of the great metropolis. With kind

regards to all at home, believe me,

“Your’s affectionately, “JOSEPH MUFF.”

“I DO ADJURE YE, ANSWER ME!” A valuable porcelain vase, which stood in

one of the state rooms of Windsor Castle, has been recently broken; it

is suspected by design, as the situation in which it was placed almost

precludes the idea that it could have happened by accident. A

commission, called “The Flunky Inquisition,” has been appointed by Sir

Robert Peel, with Sibthorp at its head, to inquire into the affair. The

gallant Colonel declares that he has personally cross-examined all the

housemaids, but that he has hitherto been unable to obtain a

satisfactory solution of

A group of servants stand around a broken vase. THE GREAT CHINA

QUESTION.

LIKE MASTER LIKE MAN. SIR ROBERT PEEL’S workmen inside the House of

Parliament have determined to follow the example of the masons outside

the House, if Mr. Wakley is to be appointed their foreman.

[pg 155] INQUEST EXTRAORDINARY ON A CORONER. Last night an inquest was

held on the Consistency of Thomas Wakley, Esq., Member for Finsbury, and

Coroner for Middlesex. The deceased had been some time ailing, but his

demise was at length so sudden, that it was deemed necessary to public

justice that an inquest should be taken of the unfortunate remains.

The inquest was held at the Vicar of Bray tap, Palace Yard; and the

jury, considering the neighbourhood, was tolerably respectable. The

remains of the deceased were in a dreadful state of decomposition; and

although chloride of lime and other antiseptic fluids were plentifully

scattered in the room, it was felt to be a service of danger to approach

too closely to the defunct. Many members of Parliament were in

attendance, and all of them, to a man, appeared very visibly shocked by

the appearance of the body. Indeed they all of them seemed to gather a

great moral lesson from the corpse. “We know not whose turn it may be

next,” was printed in the largest physiognomical type in every member’s

countenance.

Thomas Duncombe, Esq., Member for Finsbury, examined—Had known the

deceased for some years. Had the highest notion of the robustness of his

constitution. Would have taken any odds upon it. Deceased, however,

within these last three or four weeks had flighty intervals. Talked very

much about the fine phrenological development of Sir Robert Peel’s

skull. Had suspicions of the deceased from that moment. Deceased had

been carefully watched, but to no avail. Deceased inflicted a mortal

wound upon himself on the first night of Sir Robert’s premiership; and

though he continued to rally for many evenings, he sunk the night before

last, after a dying speech of twenty minutes.

Colonel Sibthorp, Member for Lincoln, examined—Knew the deceased. Since

the accession of Sir Robert Peel to power had had many conversations

with the deceased upon the ministerial bench. Had offered snuff-box to

the deceased. Deceased did not snuff. Deceased had said that he thought

witness a man of high parliamentary genius, and that Sir Robert Peel

ought to have made him (witness) either Lord Chamberlain or Chancellor

of the Exchequer. In every other respect, deceased behaved himself quite

rationally.

There were at least twenty other witnesses—Members of the House of

Commons—in attendance to be examined; but the Coroner put it to the jury

whether they had not heard enough?

The jury assented, and immediately returned a verdict—Felo de se.

N.B. A member for Finsbury wanted next dissolution.

A CURIOUS ERROR. A member of the American legislature, remarkable for

his absence of mind, exhibited a singular instance of this mental

infirmity very lately. Having to present a petition to the house, he

presented himself instead, and did not discover his mistake until he was

A woman presents a pig on a platter to a dining man. ORDERED TO LIE ON

THE TABLE.

SIR ROBERT PEEL (LOQUITUR). When erst the Whigs were in, and I was out,

I knew exactly what to be about;

Then all I had to do, through thick and thin,

Was but to get them out, and Bobby in.

And now that I am in, and they are out,

The only thing that I can be about

Is to do nothing; but, through thick and thin,

Contrive to keep them out, and Bobby in.

SONGS FOR THE SEEDY.—No. 3. Oh! think not all who call thee fair

Are in their honied words sincere;

And if they offer jewels rare,

Lend not too readily thine ear.

The humble ring I lately gave

May be despised by thee—well, let it;

But Mary, when I’m in my grave,

Think that I pawn’d my watch to get it.

Others may talk of feasts of love,

And banqueting upon thy charms;

But did not I devotion prove,

Last Sunday, at the Stanhope Arms?

My rival order’d tea for four,

The waiter at his bidding laid it;

He generously ran the score,

But, Mary, I did more,—I paid it.

I know he’s dashing, bold, and free,

A front of Jove, an eye of fire;

But should he say he loves like me,

I’d, like Apollo, strike the lyre.

He says, he at your feet will throw

His all; and, if his vows are steady,

He cannot equal me—for, oh!

I’ve given you all I had, already.

Mary, I had a second suit

Of clothes, of which the coat was braided;

Mary, they went to buy that flute

With which I thee have serenaded.

Mary, I had a beaver hat,

Than this I wear a great deal better;

Mary, I’ve parted too with that,

For pens, ink, paper—for this letter.

PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE. Dear PUNCH,—Will you inform me whether the

review of the troops noticed in last Saturday’s Times, is to be found in

the “Edinborough,” “Westminster,” or “Quarterly.”

Yours, in all mayoralties, PETER LAURIE.

P.S.—What do they mean by

A man falls flat onto a paved sidewalk. SALUTING A FLAG?

“GO ALONG, BOB.” Sir Bobby Peel, who, before he got into harness,

professed himself able to draw the Government truck “like bricks,” has

changed his note since he has been put to the trial, and he is now

bawling lustily—“Don’t hurry me, please—give me a little time.” Wakley,

seeing the pitiable condition of the unfortunate animal, volunteered his

services to push behind, and the Chartist and Tory may now be seen every

night in St. Stephen’s, working cordially together, and exhibiting an

illustration of the benefits of a

A man pushes a cart being pulled by a donkey. DIVISION OF LABOUR.

CONS BY OUR OWN COLONEL. Why is a loud laugh in the House of Commons

like Napoleon Buonaparte?—Because it’s an M.P. roar (an Emperor).

Why is a person getting rheumatic like one locking a cupboard-

door?—Because he’s turning achy (a key).

Why is one-and-sixpence like an aversion to coppers?—Because it’s hating

pence (eighteen-pence).

[pg 156] PUNCH’S THEATRE. DIE HEXEN AM RHEIN; OR, RUDOLPH OF HAPSBURGH.

Mysterious are thy ways, O Yates! Thou art the only true melodramatist

of the stage and off the stage! When a new demonology is compiled thou

shalt have an honourable place in it. Thou shall be worshipped as the

demon of novelty, even by the “gods” themselves. Thy deeds shall be

recorded in history. It shall not be forgotten that thou wert the

importer of Mademoiselle Djeck, the tame elephant; of Monsieur Bohain,

the gigantic Irishman; and of Signor Hervi o’Nano, the Cockneyan-Italian

dwarf. Never should we have seen the Bayaderes but for you; nor T.P.

Cooke in “The Pilot,” nor the Bedouin Arabs, nor “The Wreck Ashore,” nor

“bathing and sporting” nymphs, nor other dramatic delicacies. Truly,

thou art the luckiest of managers; for all thy efforts succeed, whether

they deserve it or not. Sometimes thou drawest up an army of scene-

painters, mechanists, dancers, monsters, dwarfs, devils, fire-works, and

water-spouts, in terrible array against common sense. Yet lo! thou dost

conquer! Thy pieces never miss fire; they go on well with the public,

and favourable are the press reports. Wert thou a Catholic thou wouldest

be canonised; for evil spirits are thy passion; the Vatican itself

cannot produce a more indefatigable “devils’ advocate!”

The repast now provided by Mr. Yates for those who are fond of “supping

full of horrors” is a devilled drama, interspersed with hydraulics—

consisting, in fact, of spirits and water, sweetened with songs and

spiced with witches. It is, we are informed by the official

announcements, “a romantic burletta of witchcraft, in two acts, and a

prologue, with entirely new scenery, dresses, and peculiar appointments,

imagined by, and introduced under the direction of, Mr. Yates.” Now, any

person, entirely unprejudiced with a taste for devilry and free from

hydrophobia, who sees this production, must have an unbounded opinion of

the manager’s imagination,—what a head he must have for aquatic effects!

In vain we look around for its parallel—nothing but the New River head

suggests itself.

But our preface is detaining us from the “prologue;” the first words in

which stamp the entire production with originality. Assassins, who let

themselves out by the job, have long been pleasantly employed in

melodramas, being mostly enacted by performers in the heavy line; but

the author of “Die Hexen am Rhein” introduces a character hitherto

unknown to the stage; namely, the comic cut-throat. Messieurs Gabor and

Wolfstein, (played by Mr. Wright, and the immortal Geoffery Muffincap,

Mr. Wilkinson), treat us with a dialogue concerning the blowing out of

brains, and the incision of weasands, which is conceived and delivered

with the broadest humour, enlivened by the choicest of jokes. They have,

we learn, been lately commissioned by Ottocar to murder Rudolph, the

exiled Duke of Hapsburgh, who is to pass that way; but he does not come,

because his kind kinsman, Ottocar, must have time to consult the god-

fathers and god-mothers of the piece, or “Witches of the Rhine;” which

he does in the “storm-reft hut of Zabaren.” This Zabaren is a hospitable

gentleman, who sings a good song, sees much company, and is played by

that convivial genius Paul Bedford. Ottocar is introduced amongst other

friends to a “speaking spirit,” who, being personated by Miss Terrey,

utters a terrible prediction. We could not quite make out the purport of

this augury; nor were we much grieved at the loss; feeling assured that

the next two acts would be occupied in fulfilling it. The funny bravoes

present themselves in the next scene, and exit to stab one of two

brothers, who goes off evidently for that purpose, judiciously coming

back to die in the arms of Count Rudolph, for whom he has been mistaken.

Under such circumstances it is but fair that the prince should repay the

obligation he owes his friend for being killed in his stead, by

promising protection to the widow and child. The oath he takes would be

doubly binding (for he promises to become a brother to the wife, and not

content with thus making himself the child’s uncle, swears to be his

father too), if the husband did not die before he has had time to utter

his wife’s name. All these affairs having been settled, the

prologue—which used to be called the first act—ends.

Fifteen years are supposed to elapse before the curtain is again rolled

up; and that this allusion may be rendered the more perfect, the

audience is kept waiting about three times fifteen minutes, to amuse one

another during the entr’acte. We next learn that Rudolph is seated upon

his ducal throne, fortunate in the possession of a paragon-wife, and a

steward of the household not to be equalled—no other than Ottocar—that

particular friend, who, in the prologue, tried to get a finis put to his

mortal career. The jocose ruffians here enliven the scene—one by being

cast into a dungeon for asking Ottocar (evidently the Colburn of his

day), an exorbitant price for the copyright of a certain manuscript; the

other, by calling the courtier a man of genius, and being taken into his

service, as no doubt, “first robber.” To support this character, a

change of apparel is necessary: and no wonder, for Wolfstein has on

precisely the same clothes he wore fifteen years before.

His first job is to steal a casket; but is declined, probably, because

Wolfstein, being a professor of the capital crime, considers mere

larceny infra dig. A “second robber” must therefore be hired, and

Ottocar has one already preserved in the castle dungeons, in the person

of a dumb prisoner. Dummy comes on, and the auditors at once recognise

the “brother” who was not murdered in the prologue. He steals the

casket, and Ottocar steals off.

The duke and duchess next enter into a dialogue, the subject of which is

one Wilhelm, a young standard-bearer, who appears; and having said a few

words exits, that Ida, the duchess, might inform us, in a soliloquy,

what we have already shrewdly suspected, namely—that the ensign is her

son; another presentiment comes into one’s mind, which one don’t think

it fair to the author and his story to entertain till the proper time. A

sort of secret interview between the mother and son now takes place,

which ends by the imprisonment of the latter; why is not explained at

the moment; nor, indeed, till the next scene, when it is quite apparent;

for if one sees an impregnable castle, rigidly guarded by

supernumeraries, with an impassable river, bristling with chevaux-de-

frise it is impossible to get over, and a moat that it would be death to

cross, a prison-escape may be surely calculated upon. In the present

instance, this formulary is not omitted, for Wilhelm jumps into the

river from a bridge which he has contrived to reach. Though several

shots are fired into the tank of water that represents the Rhine, there

is no hissing; on the contrary, the second act ends amidst general

applause; which indeed it deserves, for the scenery is magnificent.

“The Ancient Arch in the Black Forest,” is a sort of house of call for

witches, and it being seen during their merry-making, or holiday, is

rendered more picturesque by the Devil’s “Ha, ha!” The hospitable

Zabaren entertains hundreds of witches, of all sorts and sizes, who

dance all manner of country-dances, and sing a series of songs and

choruses, in which the “Ha! ha!” is again conspicuously introduced. It

seems that German witches not only ride upon brooms, but sweep with

them; and a company of supernatural Jack Rags perform sundry gyrations

peculiarly interesting to housemaids. After about an hour’s dancing, the

witches being naturally “blown,” are just in cue for leaving off with an

airy dance called the “witches’ whirlwind.”

This episode over, the plot goes on. Ottocar accuses Ida of infidelity

with Wilhelm to the duke; she, in explanation, fulfils the presentiment

we had some delicacy in hinting too soon—that she is the wife of the man

who was killed in the prologue; Rudolph having married her in ignorance

of that fact, and by a coincidence which, though intensely melo-

dramatic, every body foresees who has ever been three times to the

Adelphi theatre.

To describe the last scene would be the height of presumption in PUNCH.

Nobody but “Satan” Montgomery, or the Adelphi play-bill, is equal to the

task. We quote, as preferable, the latter authority:—“Grand inauguration

of Wilhelm, the rightful heir. CORAL CAVES and CRYSTAL STREAMS: these

are actually obtained by a HYDRO-SCENIC EFFECT! As the usual area

devoted to illusion becomes a reality!”

Besides all this, which simply means “real water,” there is a Neptune in

a car drawn by three sea or ichthyological horses, having fins and web

feet. There is a devil that is seen through the whole piece, because he

is supposed to be invisible (cleverly played by Mr. Wieland), and who

having dived into the water, is fished out of it, and sent flying into

the flies. This sending a devil upward, is a new way of

An artist paints a portrait of a black man. TAKING OFF THE DARK

GENTLEMAN.

Being dripping wet, the demon in his ascent seriously incommodes

Neptune; who, not being used to the water, looks about in great

distress, evidently for an umbrella. After several glares of several

coloured fires, the curtain falls.

Seriously, the scenic effects of this piece do great credit to Mr.

Yates’s “imagination,” and to the handiwork of his “own peculiar

artists.” It is very proper that they should be immortalised in the

advertisements; by which the public are informed that the scenery is by

Pitt, (where is Tomkins?) and others: the machinery by Mr. Hayley, and

the lightning by the direction of Mr. Outhwaite! Bat will the public be

satisfied with such scanty information? Who, they will ask the manager,

rolls the thunder? who supplies the coloured fires? who flashes the

lightning? who beats the gong? who grinds up the curtain? Let Mr. Yates

be speedy in relieving the breathless curiosity of his patrons on these

points, or look to his benches.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. OCTOBER 16, 1841. [pg 157] TRADE

REPORT. (FROM OUR OWN REPORTER.) A man with a brace of rabbits on a pole

forms a letter T. he market has been in a most extraordinary state all

the morning. Our first advices informed us that feathers were getting

very heavy, and that lead was a great deal brisker than usual. In the

fish-market, flounders were not so flat as they had been, and, to the

surprise of every one, were coming round rapidly.

The deliveries of tallow were very numerous, and gave a smoothness to

the transactions of the day, which had a visible effect on business.

Every species of fats were in high demand, but the glut of mutton gave a

temporary check to the general facility of the ordinary operations.

The milk market is in an unsettled state, the late rains having caused

an unusual abundance. A large order for skim, for the use of a parish

union, gave liveliness to the latter portion of the day, which had been

exceedingly gloomy during the whole morning.

We had a long conversation in the afternoon with a gentleman who is up

to every move in the poultry-market, and his opinion is, that the

flouring system must soon prove the destruction of fair and fowl

commerce. We do not wish to be premature, but our informant is a person

in whom we place the utmost reliance, and, indeed, there is every reason

why we should depend upon so respectable an authority.

Cotton is in a dull state. We saw only one ball in the market, and even

that was not in a dealer’s hands, but was being used by a basket-woman,

who was darning a stocking. After this, who can be surprised at the

stoppage of the factories?

Nothing was done in gloves, and what few sales were effected, seemed to

be merely for the purpose of keeping the hand in, with a view to future

dealings.

THE GEOLOGY OF SOCIETY. The study of Geology, in the narrow acceptation

of the word, is confined to the investigation of the materials which

compose this terrestrial globe;—in its more extended signification, it

relates, also, to the examination of the different layers or strata of

society, as they are to be met with in the world.

Society is divided into three great strata, called High Life—Middle

Life—and Low Life. Each of these strata contains several classes, which

have been ranged in the following order, descending from the highest to

the lowest—that is, from the drawing-room of St. James’s to the cellar

in St. Giles’s.

High Life. Superior Class. ST. JAMES'S SERIES. People wearing coronets.

People related to coronets. People having no coronet, but who expect to

get one. People who talk of their grandfathers, and keep a carriage.

Transition Class. SECONDARY. (Russell-square group.) People who keep a

carriage, but are silent respecting their grandfathers. Middle Life.

People who give dinners to the superior series. People who talk of the

four per cents, and are suspected of being mixed up in a grocery concern

in the City. (Clapham group.) People who “confess the Cape,” and say,

that though Pa amuses himself in the dry-salter line in Fenchurch-

street, he needn’t do it if he didn’t like. People who keep a shop

“concern” and a one-horse shay, and go to Ramsgate for three weeks in

the dog-days. Metamorphic Class. People who keep a “concern,” but no

shay, do the genteel with the light porter in livery on solemn

occasions. People, known as “shabby-genteels,” who prefer walking to

riding, and study Kidd’s “How to live on a hundred a-year.” INFERIOR

SERIES. (Whitechapel group.) Low Life. People who dine at one o’clock,

and drink stout out of the pewter, at the White Conduit Gardens.

Primitive Formation. People who think Bluchers fashionable, and ride in

pleasure “wans” to Richmond on Sundays in summer. (St. Giles’s group.)

Tag-rag and bob-tail in varieties. It will be seen, by a glance at the

above table, that the three great divisions of society, namely, High

Life, Low Life, and Middle Life, are subdivided, or more properly, sub-

classed, into the Superior, Transition, and Metamorphic classes. Lower

still than these in the social scale is the Primitive Formation—which

may be described as the basis and support of all the other classes. The

individuals comprising it may be distinguished by their ragged surface,

and shocking bad hats; they effervesce strongly with gin or Irish

whiskey. This class comprehends the St. Giles’s Group—(which is the

lowest of all the others, and is found only in the great London

basin)—and that portion of the Whitechapel group whose individuals wear

Bluchers and ride in pleasure ‘wans’ to Richmond on Sundays. In man’s

economy the St. Giles’s Group are exceedingly important, being usually

employed in the erection of buildings, where their great durability and

hod-bearing qualities are conspicuous. Next in order is the Metamorphic

class—so called, because of the singular metamorphoses that once a week

takes place amongst its individuals; their common every-day appearance,

which approaches nearly to that of the St. Giles’s Group, being changed,

on Sundays, to a variegated-coloured surface, with bright buttons and a

shining “four-and-nine”—goss. This class includes the upper portion of

the Whitechapel Group, and the two lower strata of the Clapham Group.

The Whitechapel Group is the most elevated layer of the inferior series.

The Shabby Genteel stratum occupies a wide extent on the Surrey side of

the water—it is part of the Clapham Group, and is found in large

quantities in the neighbourhood of Kennington, Vauxhall, and the Old

Kent-road. A large vein of it is also to be met with at Mile-end and

Chelsea. It is the lowest of the secondary formation. This stratum is

characterised by its fossil remains—a great variety of miscellaneous

articles—such as watches, rings, and silk waistcoats and snuff-boxes

being found firmly imbedded in what are technically termed avuncular

depositories. The deposition of these matters has been referred by the

curious to various causes; the most general supposition being, a

peremptory demand for rent, or the like, on some particular occasion,

when they were carried either by the owner, his wife, or daughter, from

their original to their present position, and left amongst an

accumulation of “popped” articles from various districts. The chief

evidence on this point is not derived from the fossils themselves, but

from their duplicates, which afford the most satisfactory proof of the

period at which they were deposited. Articles which appear originally to

have belonged to the neighbourhood of Belgrave-square have been

frequently found in the depositories of the district between Bethnal-

green and Spitalfields. By what social deluge they could have been

conveyed to such a distance, is a question that has long puzzled the

ablest geologists. Immediately above the “shabby genteel” stratum are

found the people who “keep a shop concern, but no shay;” it is the

uppermost layer of the Metamorphic Class, and, in some instances, may be

detected mingling with the supra-genteel Clapham Group. The “shop and no

shay” stratum forms a considerable portion of the London basin. It is

characterised by its coarseness of texture, and a conglomeration of the

parts of speech. Its animal remains usually consist of retired licensed

victuallers and obese tallow-chandlers, who are generally found in beds

of soft formation, separated from superincumbent layers of Marseilles

quilts, by interposing strata of thick double Witneys.

Having proceeded thus far upwards in the social formation, we shall

pause until next week, when we shall commence with the lower portion of

the TRANSITION CLASS—the “shop and shay people”—and, as we hope,

convince our readers of the immense importance of our subject, and the

great advantage of studying the strata of human life

A large man falls onto a child and a desk. UNDER A GREAT MASTER.

COVENTRY’S WISE PRECAUTION. Some person was relating to the Earl of

Coventry the strange fact that the Earl of Devon’s harriers last week

gave chase, in his demesne, to an unhappy donkey, whom they tore to

pieces before they could be called off; upon which his lordship asked

for a piece of chalk and a slate, and composed the following jeu

d’esprit on the circumstance:—

I’m truly shocked that Devon’s hounds

The gentle ass has slain;

For me to shun his lordship’s grounds,

It seems a warning plain.

CONTINUATIONS FROM CHINA. It is generally reported that the usual drill

continuations of the British tars are about to be altered by those

manning the fleet off China, who purpose adopting Nankin as soon as

possible.

THE VERY “NEXT” JONATHAN. There is a Quaker in New Orleans so desperate

upright in all his dealings, that he won’t sit down to eat his meals.

[pg 158] A man carries a girl in a box on his back. A ship sits atop the

box. POOR JACK. A sailor ashore, after a long cruise, is a natural

curiosity. Twenty-four hours’ liberty has made him the happiest dog in

existence; and the only drawback to his perfect felicity, is the

difficulty of getting rid of his prize-money within the allotted time.

It must, however, be confessed, that he displays a vast deal of

ingenuity in devising novel modes of spending his rhino. Watches,

trinkets, fiddlers, coaches, grog, and girls, are the long-established

and legitimate modes of clearing out his lockers; but even these means

are sometimes found inadequate to effect the desired object with

sufficient rapidity. When there happens to be a number of brother-tars

similarly employed, who have engaged all the coaches, fiddlers, and

sweethearts in the town, it is then that Jack is put to his wits’-end;

and it is only by buying cocked-hats and top-boots for the boat’s-crew,

or some such absurdity, that he can get all his cash scattered before he

is obliged to return on board. This is a picture of a sailor ashore, but

a sailor aground is a different being altogether. An unlucky shot may

deprive him of a leg or arm; he may be frost-nipped at the pole, or get

a coup de soleil in the tropics, and then be turned upon the world to

shape his course amongst its rocks and shallows, with the bitter blast

of poverty in his teeth. But Jack is not to be beaten so easily;

although run aground, he refuses to strike his flag, and, with a

cheerful heart, goes forth into the highways and byeways to sing “the

dangers of the sea,” and, to collect from the pitying passers-by, the

coppers that drop, “like angel visits,” into his little oil-skin hat.

These nautical melodists, with voices as rough as their beards, are to

be met with everywhere; but they abound chiefly in the neighbourhood of

Deptford and Wapping, where they seem to be indigenous. The most

remarkable specimen of the class may, however, frequently be seen about

the streets of London, carrying at his back a good-sized box, inside

which, and peeping through a sort of port-hole, a pretty little girl of

some two years old exhibits her chubby face. Surmounting the box, a

small model of a frigate, all a-tant and ship-shape, represents “Her

Majesty’s (God bless her!) frigate Billy-ruffian, on board o’ which the

exhibitor lost his blessed limb.”

Jack—we call him Jack, though we confess we are uncertain of his

baptismal appellation—because Jack is a sort of generic name for his

species—Jack prides himself on his little Poll and his little ship,

which he boasts are the miniature counterparts of their lovely

originals; and with these at his back, trudges merrily along, trusting

that Providence will help him to “keep a southerly wind out of the

bread-bag.” Jack’s songs, as we have remarked, all relate to the sea—he

is a complete repository of Dibdin’s choice old ballads and fok’sl

chaunts. “Tom Bowling,” “Lovely Nan,” “Poor Jack,” and “Lash’d to the

helm,” with “Cease, rude Boreas,” and “Rule Britannia,” are amongst his

favourite pieces, but the “Bay of Biscay” is his crack performance: with

this he always commenced, when he wanted to enlist the sympathies of his

auditors,—mingling with the song sundry interlocutory notes and

comments.

Having chosen a quiet street, where the appearance of mothers with

blessed babbies in the windows prognosticates a plentiful descent of

coppers, Jack commences by pitching his voice uncommonly strong, and

tossing Poll and the Billy-ruffian from side to side, to give an idea of

the way Neptune sarves the navy,—strikes, as one may say, into deep

water, by plunging into “The Bay of Biscay,” in the following manner;—

“Loud roar’d the dreadful thunder—

The rain a deluge pours—

Our sails were split asunder,

By lightning’s vivid pow’rs.

“Do, young gentleman!—toss a copper to poor little Poll. Ah! bless you,

master!—may you never want a shot in your locker. Thank the gentleman,

Polly—

“The night both drear and dark,

Our poor desarted bark,

There she lay—(lay quiet, Poll!)

“There she lay—Noble lady in the window, look with pity on poor Jack,

and his little Polly—till next day,

In the Bay of Biscay O.”

“Pray, kind lady, help the poor shipwrecked sailor—cast away on his

voyage to the West Ingees, in a dreadful storm. Sixteen hands on us took

to the long-boat, my lady, and was thrown on a desart island, three

thousand miles from any land; which island was unfortunately manned by

Cannibals, who roast and eat every blessed one of us, except the cook’s

black boy; and him they potted, my lady, and I’m bless’d but they’d have

potted me, too, if I hadn’t sung out to them savages, in this ‘ere sort

of way, my lady—

“Come all you jolly sailors bold,

Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould,

While British valour I unfold—

Huzza! for the Arethusa!

She was a frigate stout and brave

As ever stemm’d the dashing wave—

“Lord love your honour, and throw the poor sailor who has fought and

bled for his country, a trifle to keep him from foundering. Look, your

honour, how I lost my precious limb in the sarvice. You see we was in

the little Tollymakus frigate, cruising off the banks o’ Newf’land, when

we fell in with a saucy Yankee, twice the size of our craft; but, bless

your honour, that never makes no odds to British sailors, and so we

sarved her out with hot dumpling till she got enough, and forced her to

haul down her stripes to the flag of Old England. But somehow, your

honour, I caught a chance ball that threw me on my beam-ends, and left

me to sing—

“My name d’ye see’s Tom Tough,

And I’ve seen a little sarvice,

Where the mighty billows roll and loud tempests blow,

I’ve sail’d with noble Howe,

And I’ve fought with gallant Jarvis,

And in gallant Duncan’s fleet I’ve sung—yo-heave-oh!”

“A sixpence or a shilling rewards Jack’s loyalty and eloquence. A

violent tossing of Polly and the ship testify his gratitude; and

pocketing the coin he has collected, he puts about, and shapes his

course for some other port, singing lustily as he goes—

“Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!”

Farewell, POOR JACK!

THOSE DIVING BELLES! THOSE DIVING BELLES! Some of our contemporaries

have been dreadfully scandalised at the indelicate scenes which take

place on the sands at Ramsgate, where, it seems, a sort of joint-stock

social bathing company has been formed by the duckers and divers of both

sexes. Situations for obtaining favourable views are anxiously sought

after by elderly gentlemen, by whom opera glasses and pocket telescopes

are much patronised. Greatly as we admire the investigation of nature in

her unadorned simplicity, Ramsgate would be the last place we should

select, if we were

A reading man walks over the edge of a precipice. GOING DOWN TO A

WATERING PLACE.

[pg 159] PROSPECTUS OF A NEW GRAND NATIONAL AND UNIVERSAL STEAM

INSURANCE, RAILROAD ACCIDENT, AND PARTIAL MUTILATION PROVIDENT SOCIETY.

CAPITAL, FIVE HUNDRED MILLIONS, IN ONE HUNDRED MILLION £5 SHARES—HALF

DEPOSIT, THE DIRECTORS To be duly balloted for from amongst the

Consulting Surgeons of the various Metropolitan hospitals.

ACTING SECRETARIES, The County Coroners.

By the constitution of this society, the whole of the profits will be

divided among such of the assured as can come to claim them.

The public are particularly requested to bear in mind the double

advantage (so great a desideratum to all railroad travellers) of being

at one and the same time connected with a “Fire, Life, and Partial

Mutilation Assurance Company.”

The following is offered as a brief synopsis of the general intention of

the directors. Deep attention is requested to the various classes:—

CLASS I. Relating to Railroads newly opened, consequently rated trebly

doubly hazardous. The rate of insurance will be as follows:—

PER CENT. Engineer, first six months, total life 90 Legs, at per each 74

Arms, ditto ditto 60 Ribs, per pair, or dozen, as contracted for 55

Dislocations and contusions, per score 50 N.B.—A reduction of seven-and-

a-half per cent., made after the first six months.

First class passengers will be allowed ten per cent. for the stuffing of

all carriages, except the one immediately next the engine, which will be

charged as above.

STOKERS. Same as engineers, but a very liberal allowance made to such as

the trains have passed over more than once, and a considerable reduction

if scalds are not included.

Exceptions.—All who have five small children, and are only just

appointed.

SECOND CLASS PASSENGERS. In consequence of these travellers being

generally more thickly stowed together, the upper half of them have a

chance of escape while crushing those underneath, so that a fair

reduction, still leaving a living profit to the directors, may be made

in their favour. Thus the terms proposed for effecting their policies

will be ten-and-a-half per cent. under the first class.

To meet the views of all parties, insurances may be effected from

station to station, or on particular limbs. The following are the rates,

the insurers paying down the premium at starting:—

£ s. d. First Class, leg 1 11 6 Second ditto ditto 1 7 9 First class,

arm 1 0 0 Second ditto ditto 0 14 3 First Class, bridge of nose (very

common with cuts from glass) 0 8 9 Second ditto ditto (common with

contusions from wooden frames) 0 6 4 First Class, teeth each 0 0 9 Whole

set 1 1 0 Second Class, ditto 0 0 4¾ Whole set 0 12 2 Necks, where the

parties do not carry engraved cards with name and address, First Class 5

5 0 Second ditto 3 3 4 In all cases where the above sums are received in

advance, the Company pledge themselves to allow a handsome discount for

cuts, scratches, contusions, &c., &c.

All sums insured for to be paid six months after the death or recovery

of the individual.

A contract may be entered into for wooden legs, glass eyes, strapping,

bandages, splints, and sticking-plaister.

Several enterprising young men as guards, stokers, engineers,

experimental tripists, and surgeons, wanted for immediate consumption.

Apply for qualifications and appointments, to the Branch Office, at the

New Highgate Cemetery.

NOTHING NEW. The Tories are, truly, Conservative elves,

For every one knows they take care of themselves.

SCHOOL OF DESIGN. The public will be delighted to learn, there can be no

doubt, as to the elegant acquirements of the various attachés of the new

Tory premier. The peculiar avidity with which they one and all appear

determined to secure the salaries for their various suppositionary

services, must convince the most sceptical that they have carefully

studied the art of drawing.

THE LABOURS OF THE SESSION. None but Ministers know what Ministers go

through for the pure love of their country; no person who has not

reposed in the luxuriously-cushioned chairs of the Treasury or Downing-

street can conceive the amount of business Sir Robert and his colleagues

have transacted during the three months they have been in office. The

people, we know, have been crying for bread—the manufacturers are

starving—but their rebellious appetites will be appeased—their

refractory stomachs will feel comforted, when they are told all that

their friends the Tories have been doing for them. How will they blush

for their ingratitude when they find that the following great measures

have been triumphantly carried through Parliament by Sir Robert’s

exertions—The VENTILATING OF THE HOUSE BILL! Think of that, ye thin-

gutted weavers of Manchester. Drop down on your marrow-bones, and bless

the man who gives your representatives fresh air—though he denies you—a

mouthful of coarse food. Then look at his next immense boon—The ROYAL

KITCHEN-GARDEN BILL! What matters it that the gaunt fiend Famine sits at

your board, when you can console yourselves with the reflection that

cucumbers and asparagus will be abundant in the Royal Kitchen Garden!

But Sir Robert does not stop here. What follows next?—The FOREIGN

BISHOPS’ BILL! See how our spiritual wants are cared for by your tender-

hearted Tories—they shudder at the thoughts of Englishmen being fed on

foreign corn; but they give them instead, a full supply of Foreign

Bishops. After that comes—The REPORT OF THE LUNATICS’ BILL. This

important document has been founded on the proceedings in the Upper

House, and is likely to be of vast service to the nation at large. Next

follows the EXPIRING LAWS’ BILL! We imagine that a slight error has been

made in the title of this bill, and that it should be read “Expiring

Justice Bill!” As to expiring laws—‘tis all a fallacy. One of the

glorious privileges of the English Constitution is, that the laws never

expire—neither do the lawyers—they are everlasting. Justice may die in

this happy land, but law—never!

Again, there is a little grant of some thousands for Prince Albert’s

stables and dog-kennels! Very proper too; these animals must be lodged,

ay, and fed; and the people—the creatures whom God made after his own

image—the poor wretches who want nothing but a little bread, will lie

down hungry and thankful, when they reflect that the royal dogs and

horses are in the best possible condition. But we have not yet mentioned

the great crowning work of Ministers—the Queen’s speech on the

Prorogation of the Parliament last week. What an admirable illustration

it was of that profound logical deduction—that, out of nothing comes

nothing! Yet it was deduction—that, out of nothing comes nothing! Yet it

was not altogether without design, and though some sneering critics have

called the old song—the burthen of it was clearly—

A man drops a slop bucket on a gentleman. DOWN WITH YOUR DUST.

SO MUCH FOR BUCKINGHAM! MR. SILK BUCKINGHAM being unmercifully

reproached by his unhappy publisher upon the dreadful weight of his

recent work on America, fortunately espied the youngest son of the

enraged and disappointed vendor of volumes actually flying a kite formed

of a portion of the first volume. “Heavy,” retorted Silk, “nonsense,

sir. Look there! so volatile and exciting is that masterly production,

that it has even made that youthful scion of an obdurate line, spite my

teetotal feelings,

A windy clothes line with three sheets on it. “THREE SHEETS IN THE

WIND.”

[pg 160] PUNCH’S NEW GENERAL LETTER-WRITER. Perhaps no one operation of

frequent recurrence and absolute necessity involves so much mental pain

and imaginative uneasiness as the reduction of thoughts to paper, for

the furtherance of epistolatory correspondence. Some great key-stone to

this abstruse science—some accurate data from which all sorts and

conditions of people may at once receive instruction and assistance, has

been long wanting.

Letter-writers, in general, may be divided into two great classes, viz.:

those who write to ask favours, and those who write to refuse them.

There is a vague notion extant, that in former days a third genus

existed—though by no means proportionate to the other two—they were

those who wrote “to grant favours;” these were also remarkable for

enclosing remittances and paying the double postage—at least, so we are

assured; of our knowledge, we can advance nothing concerning them and

their (to us) supposititious existence, save our conviction that the

race has been long extinct.

Those who write to ask, may be divided into—

—Creditors. —Constituents. —Sons. —Daughters. —Their offspring.

—Nephews, nieces. —Indistinct cousins, and —Unknown, dear, and intimate

friends. Those who write to refuse, are

—Debtors. —Members of Parliament —Fathers. —Mothers. —Their kin.

—Uncles. —Aunts. —Bilious and distant nabobs, and equally dear friends,

who will do anything but what the askers want. We are confident of

ensuring the everlasting gratitude of the above parties by laying before

them the proper formulæ for their respective purposes; and, therefore,

as all the world is composed of two great classes, which, though they

run into various ramifications, still retain their original

distinguishing characteristics—namely, that of being either “debtors” or

“creditors”—we will give the general information necessary for the

construction of their future effusions.

(Firstly.)

From a wine-merchant, being a creditor, to a right honourable, being a

debtor.

Verjuice-lane, City, January 17, 1841.

MY LORD,—I have done myself the honour of forwarding your lordship a

splendid sample of exquisite Frontignac, trusting it will be approved of

by your lordship. I remain, enclosing your lordship’s small account, the

payment of which will be most acceptable to your lordship’s most

Obedient very humble servant, GILBERT GRIPES.

THE ANSWER TO THE SAME. The sample is tolerable—send in thirty dozen—add

them to your account—and let my steward have them punctually on December

17, 1849.

BOSKEY.

P.S.—I expect you’ll allow discount.

(Secondly.)

From a creditor, being a “victim,” “schneider,” “sufferer,” or “tailor,”

to one who sets off his wares by wearing the same, being consequently a

debtor.

HONOURED SIR,—I can scarcely express my delight at your kind compliments

as to the fit and patterns of the last seventy-three summer waistcoats;

the rest of the order is in hand. I enclose a small account of 490l.

odd, which will just meet a heavy demand. Will you, sir, forward the

same by return of post, to your obliged and devoted

Humble servant, ADOLPHUS JULIO BACKSTITCH.

P. Pink, Esq., &c. &c.

ANSWER TO THE SAME Albany.

You be d—d, Backstitch.

PENTWISTLE PINK.

(Thirdly.)

From a constituent in the country, being a creditor “upon promises,” to

a returned member of Parliament in town.

Bumbleton Butts, April 1, 1841.

DEAR SIR,—The enthusiastic delight myself (an humble individual) and the

immense body of your enraptured constituents felt upon reading your

truly patriotic, statesman-like, learned, straightforward and consistent

speech, may be conceived by a person of your immense parliamentary

imagination, but cannot be expressed by my circumscribed vocabulary. In

stating that my trifling exertions for the return of such a patriot are

more than doubly recompensed by your noble conduct, may I be allowed to

suggest the earnest wish of my eldest son to be in town, for the

pleasure of being near such a representative, which alone induces him to

accept the situation of landing-waiter you so kindly insisted upon his

preparing for. You will, I am sure, be happy to learn, the last baby, as

you desired is christened after:—“the country’s, the people’s, nay, the

world’s member!”

Believe me, with united regards from Mrs. F. and Joseph, ever your

staunch supporter and admirer,

FUNK FLAT.

To Gripe Gammon, Esq., M.P.

(Fourthly.)

ANSWER TO THE SAME, FROM GRIPE GAMMON, M.P. St. Stephen’s.

DEAR AND KIND CONSTITUENT,—I am more than happy. My return for your

borough has satisfied you, my country, and myself! What can I say more?

Pray give both my names to the dear innocent. Be careful in the

spelling, two “M’s” in Gammon, one following the A, the other preceding

the O, and immediately next to the final N. I think I have now answered

every point of your really Junisean letter. Let me hear from you

soon—you cannot TOO SOON—and believe me,

My dear Funk, yours ever, GRIPE GAMMON.

Funk Flat, Esq., &c. &c.

(Fifthly.)

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. (SECOND LETTER). Bumbleton Butts, April 4,

1841.

MY DEAR FRIEND AND PATRON,—All’s right, the two M’s are in their places,

when will Joe be in his? I know your heart; pray excuse my earnestness,

but oblige me with an early answer. Joe is dying to be near so kind, so

dear, so sincere a friend.

More devotedly than ever yours, FUNK FLAT

G. Gammon, Esq., M.P., &c. &c.

(Sixthly.)

ANSWER FROM THE M.P. TO THE ABOVE. St. Stephen’s.

How can I express my feelings? My name, mine engrafted on the innocent

offspring of the thoroughbred Funks, evermore to be by them and their

heirs handed down to posterity! How I rejoice at that circumstance, and

the intelligence I have so happily received about the wretched situation

you speak of. Fancy, Funk, fancy the man, your son, in a moment of

rashness, I meant to succeed, died of a sore-throat! an infallible

disorder attendant upon the duties of those d—d landing-waiterships.

What an escape we have had! The place is given to my butler, so there’s

no fear. Kiss the child, and believe me ever,

Your sincere and much relieved friend, GRIPE GAMMON.

To Funk Flat, Esq., &c. &c.

From this time forward the correspondence, like “Irish reciprocity,” is

“all on one side.” It generally consists of four-and-twenty letters from

the constituent in the country to the returned member in town. As these

are never opened, all that is required is a well-written direction, on a

blank sheet of paper.

(Seventhly.)

FROM SONS TO FATHERS. (Several.)

DEAR FATHER,—Studies continued—(blot)—profession—future

hopes—application—increased expenses—irate landlady—small

remittance—duty—love—say twenty-five pounds—best wishes—sister, mother,

all at home.

Dutiful son, JOHN JOSKIN.

(Eighthly.)

ANSWER TO THE SAME. Delighted—assiduity—future fortune—great

profession!—Increase of family—no cash—best prayers, sister, mother.

Loving father! JOSKIN, SEN.

N.B. By altering the relative positions and sexes, the above is good for

all relations! If writing to nabob, more flattery in letter of asker.

Strong dose of oaths in refuser’s answer.

(Ninthly.)

FROM “DEAR AND INTIMATE” TO A “DITTO DITTO.” Brighton.

MY DEAR TOM,—How are you, old fellow? Here I am, as happy as a prince;

that is, I should be if you were with me. You know when we first met!

what a time it was! do you remember? How the old times come back, and

really almost the same circumstances! Pray do you recollect I wanted one

hundred and fifty then? isn’t it droll I do now? Send me your check, or

bring it yourself.

Ever yours. FITZBROWN SMITH.

T. Tims, Esq.

(Tenthly.)

ANSWER FROM “THE DITTO DITTO” TO “THE DITTO DITTO.” OLD FELLOW,—Glad to

hear you are so fresh! Give you joy—wish I was with you, but can’t come.

Damn the last Derby—regularly stump’d—cleaned out—and done Brown!—not a

feather to fly with! Need I say how sorry I am. Here’s your health in

Burgundy. Must make a raise for my Opera-box and a new tilbury. Just

lost my last fifty at French hazard.

Ever, your most devoted friend, T. TIMS.

F. Smith, Esq.

[pg 161] THE BARBER OF STOCKSBAWLER. A TALE OF THE SUPERNATURAL. At the

little town of Stocksbawler, on the Lower Rhine, in the year of grace

1830, resided one Hans Scrapschins, an industrious and close-shaving

barber. His industry met with due encouragement from the bearded portion

of the community; and the softer sex, whose greatest fault is

fickleness, generally selected Hans for the honour of new-fronting them,

when they had grown tired of the ringlets nature had bestowed and which

time had frosted.

Hans continued to shave and thrive, and all the careful old burghers

foretold of his future well-doing; when he met with a misfortune, which

promised for a time to shut up his shop and leave him a beggar. He fell

in love.

Neighbours warned Hans of the consequences of his folly; but all

remonstrance was vain. Customers became scarce, wearing out their

patience and their wigs together; the shop became dirty, and winter saw

the flies of summer scattered on his show-board.

Agnes Flirtitz was the prettiest girl in Stocksbawler. Her eyes were as

blue as a summer’s sky, her cheeks as rosy as an autumn sunset, and her

teeth as white as winter’s snow. Her hair was a beautiful flaxen—not a

drab—but that peculiar sevenpenny-moist-sugar tint which the poets of

old were wont to call golden. Her voice was melodious; her notes in alt

were equal to Grisi’s: in short, she would have been a very desirable,

loveable young lady, if she had not been a coquette.

Hans met her at a festival given in commemoration of the demise of the

burgomaster’s second wife—I beg pardon, I mean in celebration of his

union with his third bride. From that day Hans was a lost barber.

Sleeping, waking, shaving, curling, weaving, or powdering, he thought of

nothing but Agnes. His love-dreams placed him in all kinds of awkward

predicaments. And Agnes—what thought she of the unhappy barber? Nothing,

except that he was a presumptuous puppy, and wore very unfashionable

garments. Hans received an intimation of this latter opinion; and, after

sundry quailings and misgivings, he resolved to dispose of his remaining

stock in trade, and, for once, dress like a gentleman. The measure had

been taken by the tailor, the garments had been basted and tried on, and

Hans was standing at his door in a state of feverish excitement,

awaiting their arrival in a completed condition (as there was to be fête

on the morrow, at which Agnes was to be present), when a stranger

requested to be shaved. Hans wished him at the —— next barber’s; but

there was something so unpleasantly positive in the visitor’s

appearance, that he had not the power to object, so politely bowed him

into the shop. The stranger removed his cap, and discovered two very

ugly protuberances, one on each side of his head, and of most

unphrenological appearance. Hans commenced operations—the lather dried

as fast as he laid it on, and the razor emitted small sparks as it

encountered the bristles on the stranger’s chin, Hans felt particularly

uncomfortable, and not a word had hitherto passed on either side, when

the stranger broke the ice by asking, rather abruptly, “Have you any

schnapps in the house?” Hans jumped like a parched pea. Without waiting

for a reply, the stranger rose and opened the cupboard. “I never take

anything stronger than water,” said Hans, in reply, to the “pshaw!”

which broke from the stranger’s lips as he smelt at the contents of a

little brown pitcher. “More fool you,” replied his customer. “Here taste

that—some of the richest grape-blood of Rheingau;” and he handed Hans a

small flask, which the sober barber respectfully declined. “Ha! ha! and

yet you hope to thrive with the women,” said the stranger. “No wonder

that Agnes treats you as she does. But drink, man! drink!”

The stranger took a pipe, and coolly seated himself again in his chair,

hung one leg over the back of another, and striking his finger briskly

down his nose, elicited a flame that ignited his tobacco, and then he

puffed, and puffed, till every moth in the shop coughed aloud. The

uneasiness of Hans increased, and he looked towards the door with the

most cowardly intention; and, lo! two laughing, dimpled faces, were

peeping in at them. “Ha! how are you?” said the stranger; “come in! come

in!” and to Hans’ horror, two very equivocal damsels entered the shop.

Hans felt scandalised, and was about to make a most powerful

remonstrance, when he encountered the eye of his impertinent customer;

and, from its sinister expression, he thought it wise to be silent. One

of the damsels seated herself upon the stranger’s knee, whilst the other

looked most coaxingly to the barber; who, however, remained proof to all

her winks and blinks, and “wreathed smiles.”

“’Sblitzen!” exclaimed the lady, “the man’s an icicle!”

“Hans, you’re a fool!” said the stranger; and his enamorata concurred in

the opinion. The flask was again proffered—the eye-artillery again

brought into action, but Hans remained constant to pump-water and Agnes

Flirtitz.

The stranger rubbed the palm of his hand on one of his head ornaments,

as though he were somewhat perplexed at the contumacious conduct of the

barber; then rising, he gracefully led the ladies out. As he stood with

one foot on the step of the door, he turned his head scornfully over his

shoulder, and said, “Hans, you are nothing but—a barber; but before I

eat, you shall repent of your present determination.”

“What security have I that you will keep your word?” replied Hans, who

felt emboldened by the outside situation of his customer, and the shop

poker, of which he had obtained possession.

“The best in the world,” said the stranger. “Here, take these!” and

placing both rows of his teeth in the hands of the astonished Hans, he

quietly walked up the street with the ladies.

The astonishment of Hans had somewhat subsided, when Stitz, the tailor,

entered with the so-much and the so-long-expected garments. The stranger

was forgotten; the door was bolted, the clothes tried on, and they

fitted to a miracle. A small three-cornered piece of looking-glass was

held in every direction by the delighted tailor, who declared this

performance his chef-d’œuvre and Hans felt, for the first time in his

life, that he looked like a gentleman. Without a moment’s hesitation, or

the slightest hint at discount for ready money, he gave the tailor his

last thaler, and his old suit of clothes, as per contract; shook Stitz’s

hand at parting, till every bone of the tailor’s fingers ached for an

hour afterwards, bolted the door, and went to bed the poorest, but

happiest barber in Stocksbawler.

After a restless night, Hans rose the next morning with the oddest

sensation in the world. He fancied that the bed was shorter, the chairs

lower, and the room smaller, than on the preceding day; but attributing

this feeling to the feverish sleep he had had, he proceeded to put on

his pantaloons. With great care he thrust his left leg into its proper

division, when, to his horror and amazement, he found that he had grown

two feet at least during the night; and that the pantaloons which had

fitted so admirably before, were now only knee-breeches. He rushed to

the window with the intention of breaking his neck by a leap into the

street, when his eye fell upon the strange customer of the preceding

day, who was leaning against the gable-end of the house opposite,

quietly smoking his meerschaum. Hans paused; then thought, and then

concluded that having found an appetite, he had repented of his boast at

parting, and had called for his teeth. Being a good-natured lad, Hans

shuffled down stairs, and opening the door, called him to come over. The

stranger obeyed the summons, but honourably refused to accept of his

teeth, except on the conditions of the wager. To Hans’ great surprise he

seemed perfectly acquainted with the phenomenon of the past night, and

good-naturedly offered to go to Stitz, and inform him of the barber’s

dilemma. The stranger departed, and in a few moments the tailor arrived,

and having ascertained by his inch measure the truth of Hans’

conjectures, bade him be of good cheer, as he had a suit of clothes

which would exactly fit him. They had been made for a travelling giant,

who had either forgotten to call for them, or suspected that Stitz would

require the gelt before he gave up the broadcloth.

The tailor was right—they did fit—and in an hour afterwards Hans was on

his way to the fête. When he arrived there many of his old friends stood

agape for a few moments: but as stranger things had occurred in Germany

than a man growing two feet in one night, they soon ceased to notice the

alteration in Hans’ appearance. Agnes was evidently struck with the

improvement of the barber’s figure, and for two whole hours did he enjoy

the extreme felicity of making half-a-dozen other young gentlemen

miserable, by monopolising the arm and conversation of the beauty of

Stocksbawler. But pleasure, like fine weather, lasts not for ever; and,

as Hans and Agnes turned the corner of a path, his eye again encountered

the stranger. Whether it was from fear or dislike he knew not, but his

heart seemed to sink, and so did his body; for to his utter dismay, he

found that he had shrunk to his original proportions, and that the

garment of the giant hung about him in anything but graceful festoons.

He felt that he was a human telescope, that some infernal power could

elongate or shut up at pleasure.

The whole band of jealous rivals set up the “Laughing Chorus,” and

Agnes, in the extremity of her disgust, turned up her nose till she

nearly fractured its bridge, whilst Hans rushed from the scene of his

disgrace, and never stopped running until he opened the door of his

little shop, threw himself into a chair, and laid his head down upon an

old “family Bible” which chanced to be upon the table. In this position

he continued for some time, when, on raising his head, he found his

tormentor and the two ladies, grouped like the Graces, in the centre of

the apartment.

“Well, Scrapshins,” said the gentleman, “I have called for my teeth. You

see I have kept my promise.” Hans sighed deeply, and the ladies giggled.

“Nay, man, never look so glum! Here, take the flask—forget Agnes, and

console yourself with the love of”—

The conclusion of this harangue must for ever remain a mystery; for

Hans, at this moment, took up the family volume which had served him for

a pillow, and dashed it at the heads of the trio. A scream, so loud that

it broke the tympanum of his left ear, seemed to issue from them

simultaneously—a thick vapour filled the room, which gradually cleared

off, and left no traces of Hans’ visitors but three small sticks of

stone brimstone. The truth flashed upon the barber—his visitor was the

far-famed Mephistopheles. Hans packed up his remaining wardrobe, razor,

strop, soap-dish, scissors and combs, and turned his back upon

Stocksbawler forever. Four years passed away, and Hans was again a

thriving man, and Agnes Flirtitz the wife of the doctor of Stocksbawler.

Another year passed on, and Hans was both a husband and a father; but

the coquette who had nearly been his ruin had eloped with the chasseur

of a travelling nobleman.

LAURIE ON GEOGRAPHY. Sir P. Laurie has sent to say that he has looked

into Dr. Farr’s “Medical Guide to Nice,” and is much disappointed. He

hoped to have seen a print of the eternally-talked of “Nice Young Man,”

in the costume of the country. He doubts, moreover, that the Doctor has

ever been there, for his remarks show him not to have been “over Nice.”

COOMBE’S LUNGS AND LEARNING. Dr. Coombe, in his new work upon America,

by some anatomical process, invariably connects large lungs with

expansive intellect. Our and Finsbury’s friend, Tom Duncombe, declares,

in his opinion, this must be the origin of the received expression for

the mighty savans, viz., the “lights of literature.”

[pg 162] PARLIAMENTARY MASONS.—PARLIAMENTARY PICTURES. Was there ever

anything so lucky that the strike of the masons should have happened at

this identical juncture! Parliament is prorogued. Now, deducting Sir

Robert Peel, physician, with his train of apothecaries and pestle-and-

mortar apprentices, who, until February next, are to sit cross-legged

and try to think, there are at least six hundred and thirty unemployed

members of the House of Commons, turned upon the world with nothing,

poor fellows! but grouse before them. Some, to be sure, may pick their

teeth, in the Gardens of the Tuileries—some may even now venture to

exercise their favourite elbow at Baden-Baden,—but with every possible

and probable exception, there will yet be hundreds of unemployed law-

makers, to whom time will be a heavy porter’s burden.

We have a plan which, for its originality, should draw down upon us the

gratitude of the nation. It is no other than this: to make all Members

of Parliament, for once in their lives at least, useful. The masons,

hired to build the new temples of Parliament, have struck. The hard-

handed ingrates,—let them go! We propose that, during the prorogation at

least, Members of Parliament, should, like beavers, build their own

Houses. In a word, every member elected to a seat in Parliament should

be compelled, like Robinson Crusoe, to make his own furniture before he

could sit down upon it.

Have we not a hundred examples of the peculiar fitness of the task, in

the habits of what in our human arrogance we call the lower animals?

There is many a respectable spider who would justly feel himself

calumniated by any comparison between him and any one of twenty

Parliamentary lawyers we could name; yet the spider spins its own web,

and seeks its own nook of refuge from the Reform Broom of Molly the

housemaid. And then, the tiny insect, the ant—that living, silent

monitor to unregarding men—doth it not make its own galleries, build

with toilsome art its own abiding place? Does not the mole scratch its

own chamber—the carrion kite build its own nest! Shall cuckoos and

Members of Parliament alone be lodged at others’ pains?

Consider the wasp, oh, STANLEY! mark its nest of paper.—(it is said, on

wasp’s paper you are wont to write your thoughts on Ireland)—and

resolutely seize a trowel!

Look to the bee, oh, COLONEL SIBTHORP! See how it elaborates its virgin

wax, how it shapes its luscious cone—and though we would not trust you

to place a brick upon a brick, nevertheless you may, under instruction,

mix the mortar!

Ponder on the rat and its doings, most wise BURDETT—see how craftily it

makes its hole—and though you are too age-stricken to carry a hod, you

may at least do this much—sift the lime.

But wherefore thus particular—why should we dwell on individuals? Pole-

cat, weasel, ferret, hedgehog, with all your vermin affinities, come

forth, and staring reproachfully in the faces of all prorogued Members,

bid them imitate your zeal and pains, and—the masons having struck—build

their Houses for themselves.

(We make this proposal in no thoughtless—no bantering spirit. He can see

very little into the most transparent mill-stone who believes that we

pen these essays—essays that will endure and glisten as long, ay as long

as the freshest mackerel—if he think that we sit down to this our weekly

labour in a careless lackadaisical humour. By no means. Like Sir LYTTON

BULWER, when he girds up his loins to write an apocryphal comedy, we

approach our work with graceful solemnity. Like Sir LYTTON, too, we

always dress for the particular work we have in hand. Sir LYTTON wrote

“Richelieu” in a harlequin’s jacket (sticking pirate’s pistols in his

belt, ere he valorously took whole scenes from a French melo-drama): we

penned our last week’s essay in a suit of old canonicals, with a tie-wig

askew upon our beating temples, and are at this moment cased in a court-

suit of cut velvet, with our hair curled, our whiskers crisped, and a

masonic apron decorating our middle man. Having subsided into our

chair—it is in most respects like the porphyry piece of furniture of the

Pope—and our housekeeper having played the Dead March in Saul on our

chamber organ (BULWER wrote “The Sea Captain” to the preludizing of a

Jew’s-harp), we enter on our this week’s labour. We state thus much,

that our readers may know with what pains we prepare ourselves for them.

Besides, when BULWER thinks it right that the world should know that the

idea of “La Vailière” first hit him in the rotonde of a French

diligence, modest as we are, can we suppose that the world will not be

anxious to learn in what coloured coat we think, and whether, when we

scratch our head to assist the thought that sticks by the way, we

displace a velvet cap or a Truefitt’s scalp?)

Reader, the above parenthesis may be skipped or not. Read not a line of

it—the omission will not maim our argument. So to proceed.

If we cast our eyes over the debates of the last six months, we shall

find that hundreds of members of the House of Commons have exhibited the

most extraordinary powers of ill-directed labour. And then their

capacity of endurance! Arguments that would have knocked down any

reasonable elephant have touched them no more than would summer gnats.

Well, why not awake this sleeping strength? Why not divert a mischievous

potency into beneficial action? Why should we confine a body of men to

making laws, when so many of them might be more usefully employed in

wheeling barrows? Now there is Mr. PLUMPTRE, who has done so much to

make English Sundays respectable—would he not be working far more

enduring utility with pickaxe or spade than by labouring at enactments

to stop the flowing of the Thames on the Sabbath? Might not D’ISRAELI be

turned into a very jaunty carpenter, and be set to the light interior

work of both the Houses? His logic, it is confessed, will support

nothing; but we think he would be a very smart hand at a hat-peg.

As for much of the joinery-work, could we have prettier mechanics than

Sir James GRAHAM and Sir Edward KNATCHBULL? When we remember their

opinions on the Corn Laws, and see that they are a part of the cabinet

which has already shown symptoms of some approaching alteration of the

Bread Tax—when we consider their enthusiastic bigotry for everything as

it is, and Sir Robert PEEL’S small, adventurous liberality, his half-

bashful homage to the spirit of the age—sure we are that both GRAHAM and

KNATCHBULL, to remain component members of the Peel Cabinet, must be

masters of the science of dove-tailing; and hence, the men of men for

the joinery-work of the new Houses of Parliament.

Again how many members from their long experience in the small jobbery

of committees—from their profitable knowledge of the mysteries of

private bills and certain other unclean work which may, if he please,

fall to the lot of the English senator—how many of these lights of the

times might build small monuments of their genius in the drains,

sewerage, and certain conveniences required by the deliberative wisdom

of the nation? We have seen the plans of Mr. BARRY, and are bound to

praise the evidence of his taste and genius; but we know that the

structure, however fair and beautiful to the eye, must have its foul

places; and for the dark, dirty, winding ways of Parliament—reader, take

a list of her Majesty’s Commons, and running your finger down their

names, pick us out three hundred able-bodied labourers—three hundred

stalwart night workmen in darkness and corruption. We ask the country,

need it care for the strike of Peto’s men (the said Peto, by the way, is

in no manner descended from Falstaff’s retainer), when there is so much

unemployed labour, hungering only for the country’s good?

We confess to a difficulty in finding among the members of the present

Parliament a sufficient number of stone-squarers. When we know that

there are so few among them who can look upon more than one side of a

question, we own that the completion of the building may be considerably

delayed by employing only members of Parliament as square workmen: the

truth is, having never been accustomed to the operation, they will need

considerable instruction in the art. Those, however, rendered incapable,

by habit and nature, of the task, may cast rubbish and carry a hod.

We put it to the patriotism of members of Parliament, whether they ought

not immediately to throw themselves into the arms of Peto and Grissell,

with an enthusiastic demand for tools. If they be not wholly insensible

of the wants of the nation and of their own dignity, Monday morning’s

sun will shine upon every man of her Majesty’s majority, for once

laudably employed in the nation’s good. How delightful then to saunter

near the works—how charming then to listen to members of Parliament!

What a picture of senatorial industry! For an Irish speech by STANLEY,

have we not the more dulcet music of his stone-cutting saw? Instead of

an oration from GOULBURN, have we not the shrill note of his ungreased

parliamentary barrow? For the “hear, hear” of PLUMPTRE, the more

accordant tapping of the hammer—for the “cheer” from INGLIS, the sweeter

chink of the mason’s chisel?

And then the moral and physical good acquired by the workmen themselves!

After six days’ toil, there is scarcely one of them who will not feel

himself wonderfully enlightened on the wants and feelings of labouring

man. They will learn sympathy in the most efficient manner—by the sweat

of their brow. Pleasant, indeed, ‘twill be to see CASTLEREAGH lean on

his axe, and beg, with Sly, for “a pot of the smallest ale.”

Having, we trust, remedied the evils of the mason’s strike—having shewn

that the fitness of things calls upon the Commons, in the present

dilemma, to build their own house—we should feel it unjust to the

government not to acknowledge the good taste which, as we learn, has

directed that an estimate be taken of the disposable space on the walls

of the new buildings, to be devoted to the exalted work of the

historical painter. Records of the greatness of England are to endure in

undying hues on the walls of Parliament.

This is a praiseworthy object, but to render it important and

instructive, the greatest judgment must be exercised in the selection of

subjects; which, for ourselves, we would have to illustrate the wisdom

and benevolence of Parliament. How beautifully would several of the Duke

of WELLINGTON’S speeches paint! For instance, his portrait of a

famishing Englishman, the drunkard and the idler, no other man

(according to his grace) famishing in England! And then the Duke’s view

of the shops of butchers, and poulterers, and bakers—all in the Dutch

style—by which his grace has lately proved, that if there be distress,

it can certainly not be for want of comestibles! But the theme is too

suggestive to be carried out in a single paper.

We trust that portraits of members will be admitted. BURDETT and GRAHAM,

half-whig, half-tory, in the style of Death and the Lady, will make

pretty companion pictures.

To do full pictorial justice to the wisdom of the senate, Parliament

will want a peculiar artist: that gifted man CAN be no other than the

artist to PUNCH!

Q.

[pg 163] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XIV. A poor family with three small

children. THE IMPROVIDENT; OR, TURNED UPON THE WIDE WORLD.

[pg 165] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. III.—OF HIS

GRADUAL DEVELOPMENT. For the first two months of the first winter

session the fingers of the new man are nothing but ink-stains and

industry. He has duly chronicled every word that has fallen from the

lips of every professor in his leviathan note book; and his desk teems

with reports of all the hospital cases, from the burnt housemaid, all

cotton-wool and white lead, who set herself on fire reading penny

romances in bed, on one side of the hospital, to the tipsy glazier who

bundled off his perch and spiked himself upon the area rails on the

other. He becomes a walking chronicle of pathological statistics, and

after he has passed six weeks in the wards, imagines himself an embryo

Hunter.

To keep up his character, a new man ought perpetually to carry a

stethoscope—a curious instrument, something like a sixpenny toy trumpet

with its top knocked off, and used for the purpose of hearing what

people are thinking about, or something of the kind. In the endeavour to

acquire a perfect knowledge of its use he is indefatigable. There is

scarcely a patient but he knows the exact state of their thoracic

viscera, and he talks of enlarged semilunar valves, and thickened

ventricles with an air of alarming confidence. And yet we rather doubt

his skill upon this point; we never perceived anything more than a sound

and a jog, something similar to what you hear in the cabin of a

fourpenny steam-boat, and especially mistrusted the “metallic tinkling,”

and the noise resembling a blacksmith’s bellows blowing into an empty

quart-pot, which is called the bruit de soufflet. Take our word, when

medicine arrives at such a pitch that the secrets of the human heart can

be probed, it need not go any further, and will have the power of doing

mischief enough.

The new man does not enter much into society. He sometimes asks a few

other juniors to his lodgings, and provides tea and shrimps, with

occasional cold saveloys for their refection, and it is possible he may

add some home-made wine to the banquet. Their conversation is

exceedingly professional; and should they get slightly jocose, they

retail anatomical paradoxes, technical puns, and legendary “catch

questions,” which from time immemorial have been the delight of all new

men in general, and country ones in particular.

But diligent and industrious as the new man may be, he is mortal after

all, and being mortal, is not proof against temptation—at least, after

five or six weeks of his pupilage have passed. The good St. Anthony

resisted all the endeavours of the Evil One to lure him from the proper

path, until the gentleman of the discoloured cutis vera assumed the

shape of a woman. The new man firmly withstands all inducements to

irregularity until his first temptation appears in the form of the

Cyder-cellars—the convivial Rubicon which it is absolutely necessary for

him to pass before he can enrol himself as a member of the quiet, hard-

working, modest fraternity of the Medical Student of our London

Hospitals.

Facilis descensus Averni.—The steps that lead from Maiden-lane to the

Cyder-cellars are easy of descent, although the return is sometimes

attended with slight difficulty. Not that we wish to compare our

favourite souterrain in question to the “Avernus” of the Latin poet; oh,

no! If Æneas had met with roast potatoes and stout during his celebrated

voyage across the Styx to the infernal regions, and listened to songs

and glees in place of the multitude of condemned souls, “horrendum

stridens,” we wager that he would have been in no very great hurry to

return. But we have arrived at an important point in our physiology—the

first launch of the new man into the ocean of his London life, and we

pause upon its shore. He has but definite ideas of three public

establishments at all intimately connected with his professional

career—the Hall, the College, and the Cyder-cellars. There are but three

individuals to whom he looks with feelings of deference—Mr. Sayer of

Blackfriars, Mr. Belfour of Lincoln’s-inn-fields, and Mr. Rhodes of

Maiden-lane. These are the impersonation of the Fates—the arbitrators of

his destinies.

As it is customary that an attendance in the Theatre of Lectures should

precede the student’s determination to “have a shy at the College,” or

“go up to the Hall,” so is it usual for a visit to one of the theatres

to be paid before going down to the Cyder-cellars. The new man has been

beguiled into the excursion by the exciting narratives of his

companions, and beginning to feel that he is behind the other “chaps” (a

new man’s term) in knowledge of the world, he yields to the attraction

held out; not because he at first thinks it will give him pleasure so to

do, as because it will put him on a level with those who have been, on

the same principle as our rambling compatriots go to Switzerland and the

Rhine. His Mentor is ready in the shape of a third-season man, and under

his protecting influence he sallies forth.

The theatres have concluded; every carriage, cab, and “coach ‘nhired” in

their vicinity is in motion; venders of trotters and ham-sandwiches are

in full cry; the bars of the proximate retail establishments are crowded

with thirsty gods; ruddy chops and steaks are temptingly displayed in

the windows of the supper-houses, and the turnips and carrots in the

freshly-arrived market-carts appear astonished at the sudden confusion

by which they are surrounded. Amidst this confusion the new man and his

friends arrive beneath the beacon which illumines the entrance of the

tavern. He descends the stairs in an agony of anticipation, and

feverishly trips up the six or eight succeeding ones to arrive at the

large room. A song has just concluded, and he enters triumphantly amidst

the thunder of applause, the jingling of glasses, the imperious

vociferations of fresh orders, and an atmosphere of smoke that pervades

the whole apartment, like dense clouds of incense burning at the altar

of the genius of conviviality.

The new man is at first so bewildered, that it would take but little

extra excitement to render him perfectly unconscious as to the

probability of his standing upon his occipito-frontalis or plantar

fascia. But as he collects his ideas, he contrives to muster sufficient

presence of mind to order a Welsh rabbit, and in the interim of its

arrival earnestly contemplates the scene around him. There is the room

which, in after life, so vividly recurs to him, with its bygone

souvenirs of mirth, when he is sitting up all night at a bad case in the

mud cottage of a pauper union. There are its blue walls, its wainscot

and its pillars, its lamps and ground-glass shades, within which the gas

jumps and flares so fitfully; its two looking-glasses, that reflect the

room and its occupants from one to the other in an interminable vista.

There also is Mr. Rhodes, bending courteously over the backs of the

visiters’ chairs, and hoping everybody has got everything to their

satisfaction, or bestowing an occasional subdued acknowledgment upon an

habitué who chances to enter; and the professional gentlemen all laying

their heads together at the top of the table to pitch the key of the

next glee; and the waiters bustling up and down with all sorts of

tempting comestibles; and the gentleman in the Chesterfield wrapper

smoking a cigar at the side of the room, while he leans back and

contemplates the ceiling, as if his whole soul was concentrated in its

smoke-discoloured mouldings.

The new man is in ecstasies; he beholds the realization of the Arabian

Nights, and when the harmony commences again, he is fairly entranced. At

first, he is fearful of adding the efforts of his laryngeal “little

muscles with the long names” to swell the chorus; but, after the second

glass of stout and a “go of whiskey,” he becomes emboldened, and when

the gentleman with the bass voice sings about the Monks of Old, what a

jovial race they were, our friend trolls out how “they laughed, ha, ha!”

so lustily, that he gets quite red in the face from obstructed jugulars,

and applauds, when it has concluded, until everything upon the table

performs a curious ballet-dance, which is only terminated by the descent

of the cruets upon the floor.

The precise hour at which the new man arrives at home, after this

eventful evening, has never been correctly ascertained; having a latch-

key, he is the only person that could give any authentic information

upon this point; but, unfortunately, he never knows himself. Some few

things, however, are universally allowed, namely, that in extreme cases

he is found asleep on the rug at the foot of the stairs next morning,

with the rushlight that was left in the passage burnt quite away, and

all the solder of the candlestick melted into little globules. More

frequently he knocks up the people of the neighbouring house, under the

impression that it is his own, but that a new keyhole has been fitted to

the door in his absence; and, in the mildest forms of the disease, he

drinks up all the water in his bed-room during the night, and has a

propensity for retiring to rest in his pea-coat and Bluchers, from the

obstinate tenacity of his buttons and straps. The first lecture the next

morning fails to attract him; he eats no breakfast, and when he enters

the dissecting-room about one o’clock, his fellow-students administer to

him a pint of ale, warmed by the simple process of stirring it with a

hot poker, with some Cayenne pepper thrown into it, which he is assured

will set to rights the irritable mucous lining of his stomach. The

effect of this remedy is, to send him into a sound sleep during the

whole of the two o’clock anatomical lecture; and awakened at its close

by the applause of the students, he thinks he is still at the Cyder-

cellars, and cries out “Encore!”

RECOMMENDATIONS FOR THE PREVENTION OF RAILWAY ACCIDENTS. Having been

particularly struck by the infernal smashes that have recently taken

place on several railroad lines, and having been ourselves forcibly

impressed by a tender, which it must be allowed was rather hard (coming

in collision with ourselves), we have thought over the subject, and have

now the following suggestions to offer:—

Behind each engine let there be second and third class carriages, so

that, in the event of a smash, second and third class lives only would

be sacrificed.

Let there be a van full of stokers before the first class carriages;

for, as the directors appear to be liberal of the stokers’ lives, it is

presumed that every railway company has such a glut of them that they

can be spared easily.

As some of the carriages are said to oscillate, from being too heavy at

the top, let a few copies of “Martinuzzi” be placed as ballast at the

bottom.