“Voice! I’ll holler with him for all he’s worth.”

“Ha’ done, do!”

“I shan’t: Fitzflam’s—an—umbug!”

“Sir!” exclaimed Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitz of “that ilk.”

“And Sir to you!” retorted “the child of earth with the golden hair.”

“I suppose I’m a right to speak my mind of that or any other chap I pays

to laugh at!”

“It’s a tragedy, James.”

“All the funnier when sich as him comes to play in them.”

“Hush! the curtain’s up.”—So it was; and “Bravo! bravo!” shouted the

ladies, and “Hurrah!” shouted the gentlemen. Never had Mr. Hannibal

Fitzflummery Fitzflam seen such wretched acting, or heard such

enthusiastic applause. Round followed round, until, worked up to frenzy

at the libel upon his name, and, as he thought, his art, he vociferously

exclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, that man’s a d—d impostor! (“Turn him

out! throw him over! break his neck!” shouted the gods. “Shame shame!”

called the boxes. “You’re drunk,” exclaimed the pit to a man.) I repeat

that man is—(“Take that!”—an apple in Fitzflam’s eye.) I say he is

another (“There it is!”—in his other eye) person

altogether—a—(“Boxkeeper!”) Nothing of the sort; a—(“Constable!”) I’ll

take—(“Take that fellow out!”) Allow me to be—(“Off! off!”) I am—(“‘Out!

out!”) Let me request.—(“Order! order!—hiss! hiss!—oh! oh!—ah! ah!—phit!

phit!—Booh!—booh!—wooh!—oh!—ah!”)”

Here Mr. Fitzfunk came forward, and commenced bowing like a mandarin,

while the gentleman who had blacked Fitzflam’s eye desisted from forcing

him out of the box, to hear the “great creature” speak. Fitzfunk

commenced, “Ahem—Ladies and gentlemen, surrounded as I am by all sorts

of—(Bravos from all parts of the house.) Friends! Friends in the

boxes!—(“Bravo!” from boxes, with violent waving of handkerchiefs.)

Friends in the pit!—(“Hurrah!” and sundry excited hats performing

extraordinary aerial gyrations.) And last, not least in my dear love,

friends in the gallery!—(Raptures of applause; five minutes’ whistling;

three chandeliers and two heads broken; and the owners of seventeen

corns stamped up to frenzy!) Need I fear the malice of an individual?

(“Never! never!” from all parts of the house.) Could I deceive you, an

enlightened public? (“No! no! impossible! all fudge!”) Would I attempt

such a thing? (“No! no! by no manner of means!”) I am, ladies and

gentlemen—(“Fitzflam! Fitzflam!”) I bow to your judgment. I have

witnesses; shall I produce them?” “No,” said two of his most

enthusiastic supporters, scrambling out of the pit, and getting on the

stage; “Don’t trouble yourself; we know you; (Omnes. “Hurrah!” To

Fitzflam in boxes—“Shame! shame!”) we will swear to you; (Omnes, ”

Fitzflam for ever!”) and—we don’t care who knows it—(Omnes. “Noble

fellows!”) we arrest you at the suit of Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy,

Regent’s-quadrant, tailors. Attorneys, Messrs. Gallowsworthy and

Pickles, of Furnival’s Inn. Plaintiff claims 54l. debt and 65l. costs;

so come along, will you!”

It was an exceedingly fortunate thing for the representatives of the

Sheriff of Middlesex that their exit was marked by more expedition than

elegance; for as soon as their real purpose was known, Fitzflam (as the

audience supposed Fitzfunk to be) would have been rescued vi et armis.

As it was, they hurried him to a back room at the inn, and carefully

double-locked the door. It was also rather singular that from the moment

of the officer’s appearance, the gentleman in the boxes whose doubts had

caused the disturbance immediately owned himself in the wrong,

apologised for his mistake, and withdrew. As the tragedy could not

proceed without Fitzfunk, the manager proposed a hornpipe-in-fetters and

general dance by the characters; instead of the last act which was

accepted, and loudly applauded and encored by the audience.

Seated in his melancholy apartment, well guarded by the bailiff, certain

of being discovered and perhaps punished as an impostor, or compelled to

part with all his earnings to pay for coats and continuations he had

never worn, the luckless Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk gave way to deep

despondency, and various “ahs!” and “ohs!” A tap at the door was

followed by the introduction of a three-cornered note addressed to

himself. The following were its contents:—

“Sir,—It appears from this night’s adventure my name has heretofore been

useful to you, and on the present occasion your impersonation of it has

been useful to me. We are thus far quits. I, as the ‘real Simon Pure,’

will tell you what to do. Protest you are not the man. Get witnesses to

hear you say so; and when taken to London (as you will be) and the men

are undeceived, threaten to bring an action against the Sheriff unless

those harpies, Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, give you 20l. for

yourself, and a receipt in full for the debt and costs. Keep my secret;

I’ll keep yours. Burn this.—H.F.F.”

No sooner read than done; and all came to pass as the note predicted.

Gallowsworthy and Pickles grumbled, but were compelled to pay. Fitzflam

and Fitzfunk became inseparable. Fitzflam was even heard to say, he

thought in time Fitzfunk would make a decent walking gentleman; and

Fitzfunk was always impressed with an opinion that he was the man of

talent, and that Fitzflam would never have been able to succeed in

“starring it” where he had been “The Great Creature.”

FUSBOS.

N.B.—The author of this paper has commenced adapting it for stage

representation.

THE DESIRE OF PLEASING. “May I be married, ma?” said a lovely girl of

fifteen to her mother the other morning. “Married!” exclaimed the

astonished matron; “what put such an idea into your head?” “Little

Emily, here, has never seen a wedding; and I’d like to amuse the child,”

replied the obliging sister, with fascinating naïveté.

[pg 182] THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER VIII. A street sweeper forms a

letter A together with his broom. serious accident to the double-bass

was the extraordinary occurrence alluded to in our last chapter. It

appeared that, contrary to the usual custom of the class of musicians

that attend evening parties, the operator upon the double-bass had early

in the evening shown slight symptoms of inebriety, which were alarmingly

increased during supper-time by a liberal consumption of wine, ale, gin,

and other compounds. The harp, flageolet, and first violin, had

prudently abstained from drinking—at their own expense, and had reserved

their thirstiness for the benefit of the bibicals of the “founder of the

feast,” and, consequently, had only attained that peculiar state of

sapient freshness which invariably characterises quadrille bands after

supper, and had, therefore, overlooked the rapid obfuscation of their

more imprudent companion in their earnest consideration of themselves.

Bacchus has long been acknowledged to be the cicerone of Cupid; and

accordingly the God of Wine introduced the God of Love into the bosom of

the double-bass, who, with a commendable feeling of sociality, instantly

invited the cook to join the party. Now Susan, though a staid woman, and

weighing, moreover, sixteen stone, was fond of a “hinnocent bit of

nonsense,” kindly consented to take just a “sip of red port wine” with

the performer upon catgut cables; and everything was progressing

allegro, when Cupid wickedly stimulated the double-bass to chuck Susan’s

double chin, and then, with the frenzy of a Bacchanal, to attempt the

impossibility of encircling the ample waist of his Dulcinea. This was

carrying the joke a leetle too far, and Susan, equally alarmed for her

reputation and her habit-shirt, struggled to free herself from the

embrace of the votary of Apollo; but the fiddler was not to be so easily

disposed of, and he clung to the object of his admiration with such

pertinacity that Susan was compelled to redouble her exertions, which

were ultimately successful in embedding the double-bass in the body of

his instrument. The crash was frightful, and Susan, having vainly

endeavoured to free herself from the incubus which had fastened upon

her, proceeded to scream most lustily as an overture to a faint. These

sounds reached the supper-room, and occasioned the diversion in John’s

favour; a simultaneous rush was instantly made to the quarter from

whence they proceeded, as the whole range of accidents and offences

flashed across the imaginations of the affrighted revellers.

Mrs. Waddledot decided that the china tea-service was no more. Mrs.

Applebite felt certain that “the heir” had tumbled into the tea-urn, or

had cut another tooth very suddenly. The gentlemen were assured that a

foray had taken place upon the hats and cloaks below, and that cabs

would be at a premium and colds at a discount. The ladies made various

applications of the rest of the catalogue; whilst old John wound up the

matter by the consolatory announcement that he “know’d the fire hadn’t

been put out by the ingines in the morning.”

The general alarm was, however, converted into general laughter when the

real state of affairs was ascertained; and Susan having been recovered

by burning feathers under her nose, and pouring brandy down her throat,

preparations were made for the disinterment of the double-bass. To all

attempts to effect such a laudable purpose, the said double-bass offered

the most violent opposition, declaring he should never be so happy

again, and earnestly entreated Susan to share his heart and temporary

residence.

Her refusal of both seemed to cause him momentary uneasiness, for

hanging his head upon his breast he murmured out—

“Now she has left me her loss to deplore;”

and then burst into a loud huzza that rendered some suggestions about

the police necessary, which Mr. Double-bass treated with a contempt

truly royal. He then seemed to be impressed with an idea that he was the

index to a “Little Warbler;” for at the request of no one he proceeded

to announce the titles of all the popular songs from the time of Shield

downwards. How long he would have continued this vocal category is

uncertain; but as exertion seemed rather to increase than diminish his

boisterous merriment, the suggestions respecting the police were ordered

to be adopted, and accordingly two of the force were requested to remove

him from the domicile where he was creating so much discord in lieu of

harmony.

Double-bass still continued deaf to all entreaties for silence and

progression, and when a stretcher was mentioned grew positively furious,

and insisted that, as he had a conveyance of his own, he should be taken

to whatever destination they chose to select for him on, or rather in,

that vehicle. Accordingly a rattle was sprung, and duly answered by two

or three more of those alphabetical gentlemen who emanate from Scotland-

yard, by whose united efforts the refractory musician was carried out in

triumph, firmly and safely seated in his own ponderous instrument,

loudly insisting that he should be conveyed

A fellow sits on an upturned boat. WITH CARE—THIS SIDE UP.

The interruption occasioned by this interesting occurrence was

productive of a general clearance of 24, Pleasant-place; and the

apartments which were so lately filled with airy sylphs and trussed

Adonises presented a strange jumble of rough coats, dingy silk cloaks,

very passé bonnets, and numerous heads enveloped in faded white

handkerchiefs. Everything began to look miserable; candles were seen in

all directions flickering with their inevitable destiny; bouquets were

thrown carelessly upon the ground; and the very faintest odour of a

cigar found its way from the street-door into the drawing-room. Then

came the hubbub of struggling jarvies; the hoarse, continued inquiries

of those peculiar beings that emerge from some unknown quarter of the

great metropolis, and “live and move and have their being” at the

doorsteps of party-giving people. What tales could those benighted

creatures tell of secret pressures of hands, whispered sentences of

sweet words, which have led in after-days to many a blissful union! What

sighs must have fallen upon their ears as they have rolled up the steps

and slammed to the doors of the vehicle which bore away the idol of the

evening! But they have no romance—no ambition but to call “My lord

duke’s coach.”

Then came the desolate stillness of the “banquet-hall deserted;” the

consciousness that the hour of grandeur had passed away. There was

nothing to break the stillness but Mrs. Applebite counting up the

spoons, and Mrs. Waddledot re-decanting the remainders.

BURKE’S HERALDRY. Our amiable friend and classical correspondent, Deaf

Burke—“mind, yes”—has lately mounted a coat-of-arms, “Dexter and

Sinister;” a Nose gules and Eye sable; three annulets of Ropes in chief,

supported by two Prize-fighters proper. Motto,—

Two men hit at each other. KNOCK AND RING.

A SUGGESTION For the formation of a Society for the relief of foreigners

afflicted with a short pocket and a long beard.

Mr. Muntz to be immediately waited upon by a body of the unhappy

sufferers, and requested to give his countenance and assistance to the

establishment of an INSTITUTION FOR THE GRATUITOUS SHAVING OF DESTITUTE

AND HIRSUTE FOREIGNERS.

[pg 183] THE GOLD SNUFF-BOX. A vine-covered letter M y aunt, Mrs.

Cheeseman, is the very reverse of her husband. He is a plain, honest

creature, such as we read of in full-length descriptions by some folks,

but equally comprehensive, though shortly done by others, under the

simple name of John Bull—as ungarnished in his dress, as in his speech

and action; whereas Mrs. Cheeseman, as I have just told you, is the

counterpart of plainness; she has trinkets out of number, brooches,

backed with every kind of hair, from “the flaxen-headed cow-boy” to the

deep-toned “Jim Crow.” Then her rings—they are the surprise of her

staring acquaintances; she has them from the most delicate Oriental

fabric to the massiveness of dog’s collars.

Uncle Cheeseman says Mrs. C. thinks of nothing else; no sporting

gentleman, handsomely furnished, in the golden days of pugilism, ever

looked upon a ring with more delightful emotions. At going to bed, she

bestows the same affectionate gaze upon them that mothers do upon their

slumbering progeny; nor is that care and affection diminished in the

morning: her very imagination is a ring, seeing that it has neither

beginning nor end—her tender ideas are encircled by the four magical

letters R—I—N—G. Even at church, we are told, she divides her time

between sleeping and secret polishing. It has just occurred to me, that

I might have saved you and myself much trouble had I at once told you

that aunt Cheeseman is a regular Ring-worm.

But, to my uncle—the only finery sported by him (and I hardly think it

deserving that word), besides a silver watch, sound and true as the

owner, and the very prototype of his bulk and serenity, was a gold

snuff-box, a large and handsome one, which he did not esteem for its

intrinsic weight; he had a “lusty pride” in showing that it was a prize

gained in some skilful agricultural contest. I am sorry at not

recollecting what was engraven on it; but being a thorough Cockney, and

knowing nothing more of the plough and harrow than that I have somewhere

observed it as a tavern sign, must plead for my ignorance in out-o’-town

matters.

You can remember, no doubt, the day the Queen went to dine with the City

Nabobs at Guildhall. Cheeseman hurried impatiently to London for the

sole purpose of seeing the sight, and upon finding my liking for the

spectacle as powerful as his own, declared I was the only sensible child

my mother ever had, and adding that as he was well able to push his way

through a Lunnon crowd, if my father and mother were willing, under his

protection I should see this grand affair. Not the slightest objection

was put in opposition to my uncle’s proposal, consequently the next day,

November the 9th, 1837, uncle Cheeseman and I formed integral portions

of the huge mass of spectators which reached from St. James’s to the

City.

After slipping off the pavement a score of times (and in some instances

opportunely enough to be shoulder-grazed by a passing coach-wheel),

stunning numberless persons by explosions of oaths for clumsy collisions

and unintentional performances upon his tenderest corn, we reached the

corner of St. Paul’s churchyard.

Having secured by a two-shilling bargain about three feet of a form,

which, I suppose, upon any other day than a general holiday like the

present was the locus in quo for little dears whose young ideas were

taught to shoot at threepence a week, uncle took breath, and a pinch of

snuff together: he smiled as I observed, that he’d be sure to take a

refresher when her Majesty passed; and though he shook his head and

designated me a sly young rogue, I could clearly perceive that he was

plotting to perform, as if by chance, what I had predicated as a

certainty; and although nineteen persons out of twenty would have marked

(in this instance) his puerility, I doubt not but that the same number

are (at some periods of their existence) innocent victims to the like

weakness, whether it be generated in a snuff-box or a royal diploma.

By-and-by, a murmur from the distance, which succeeded a restless motion

among the crowd (like a leafy agitation of trees coming as a kind of

courier en avant to announce the regular hurricane), broke gradually,

and at last uproariously upon us; straining our necks and eyes in the

attractive direction. Uncle grasped me by the arm, and though he spoke

not a word, he fairly stared, “Here it comes.” Now the thick tide of the

moving portion of the spectators began to sweep past us, as they hedged

in the soldiery and carriages; then came the shouting, accompanied by

various kinds of squeezing, tearing, and stumbling; some screaming

compliments to her Majesty, and in the same breath dispensing more

violent compliments in an opposite direction, and of a decidedly

different tendency. Shoes were trodden off, and bonnets crushed out of

all fashion; coats were curtailed; samples of their quality were either

seen dangling at the heels of the wearer, or were ignominiously trodden

under foot; and many superfine Saxony trousers were double-milled

without mercy.

Whilst we were pluming ourselves upon the snugness of our situations,

and the attendant good fortune of being easy partners in the business of

the day, and thus freed from the vexations and perplexities so largely

distributed in our view, I was hindered from communicating my happiness

upon these points, for at this moment down went my uncle Cheeseman, and

as suddenly up flew his arms above his head, like Boatswain Smith at the

height of exhortation on Tower Hill. I was surprised, and so appeared my

unfortunate relation, who superadded an additional mixture of

indignation as I caught a glimpse or two of his chameleon-like visage;

for at the first sight I could have most honestly sworn it to have been

white—at the second as crimson as the sudden consciousness of helpless

injury could make it. Nevertheless, he sailed away from me in this

extraordinary attitude for a short distance, when suddenly, as he

lowered his arms, I observed sundry hands descend quickly, and, as I

thought, kindly, lest he should lose his hat, upon the crown of it,

until it encased more of his head than could be deemed either

fashionable or comfortable. Presently, however, he was again seen

viciously elbowing and writhing his way back to me, which after immense

exertions he performed, in the full receipt of numerous anathemas and

jocular insults. As he neared me, I inquired what he had been doing; why

he had left me for such a short, difficult, and unprofitable

journey—which queries, innocently playful as they were, appeared to

produce a choking sensation, accompanied by a full-length stare at me;

but his naturally kind heart was not kept long closed against me, and I

gleaned the melancholy fact from his indignation, which was continually

emitted in such short gusts as, “The villains”—“The scoundrels”—“And

done so suddenly”—“The only thing I prized,”—“Well, this is a lesson for

me.” As we returned home, uncle displayed a wish to thrust himself

everywhere into the densest mass; there was a morbid carelessness in his

manner that he had hitherto never shown; he was evidently another man, a

fallen creature; his pride, his existence, the very theme of all his

joys, his gold snuff-box, had departed for ever, and his heart was in

that box: what would Mrs. Cheeseman say? He had been cleaned out to the

very letter—ay, that letter—it perhaps contained matters of moment.

I have since that affair upon several occasions heard the poor fellow

declare that much as he was heart-broken at the loss of his box, his

feelings were lacerated to a greater degree when, in a curtain lecture,

my staid, correct, frosty-hearted, jewel-hugging aunt said, “Cheeseman,

it was a judgment for such conduct to a wife. In that letter, which you

treated with such contumely, I strictly cautioned you not to take that

valuable box about with you, if your madness for sight-seeing should

lead you into a mob. Let this be a warning to you; and be sure that

though woman be the weaker vessel, she is oftentimes the deepest.” We

believe it.

THE PENSIVE PEEL. It is an unfounded calumny of the enemies of Sir

Robert Peel to say that he has gone into the country to amuse

himself—shooting, feasting, eating, and drinking—while the people are

starving in the streets and highways. We know that the heart of the

compassionate old rat bleeds for the distresses of the nation, and that

he is at this moment living upon bread and water, and studying Lord John

Russell’s hints on the Corn-laws, in

A rat in a cage with a book and a desk. THE MONASTERY OF LA TRAPPE.

DOMESTIC ECONOMY. Said Stiggins to his wife one day,

“We’ve nothing left to eat;

If things go on in this queer way,

We shan’t make both ends meet.”

The dame replied, in words discreet,

“We’re not so badly fed,

If we can make but one end meat,

And make the other bread.”

[pg 184] NIGGER PECULIARITIES. Perhaps no race of people on the face of

the habitable globe are so strongly imbued with individual peculiarities

as the free and slave negro population of the United States. Out-

heroding Herod in their monstrous attempts of imitating and exceeding

the fashions of the whites, the emulative “Darkies” may be seen on

Sundays occupying the whole extent of the Broadway pavement, dressed in

fashions carried to the very sublime of the ridiculous. Whatever is the

order of the day, the highest ton among the whites is instantly adopted,

with the most ludicrous exaggeration, by the blacks: if small brims be

worn by the beaus of the former, they degenerate to nothing on the

skulls of the latter; if width be the order of the day, the coloured

gentlemen rush out in unmeasurable umbrellas of felt, straw, and

gossamer. A long-tailed white is, in comparison, but a docked black.

Should muslin trip from a carriage, tucked or flounced to the knee, the

same material, sported by a sable belle, will take its next Sunday out

fur-belowed from hip to heel. Parasols are parachutes; sandals, black

bandages; large bonnets, straw sheds, and small ones, nonentities. So it

is with colours: green becomes more green, blue more blue, orange more

orange, and crimson more flaming, when sported by these ebon slaves of

deep-rooted vanity.

The spirit of imitation manifests itself in all their actions: hence it

is by no means an uncommon occurrence to see a tall, round-shouldered,

woolly-headed, buck-shinned, and inky-complexioned “Free Nigger,”

sauntering out on Sunday, shading his huge weather-proof face from the

rays of the encroaching sun under a carefully-carried silk umbrella! And

again, as in many of the places of worship the whole congregation cannot

be accommodated with seats, many of the members supply their own; so

these sable gentry may be frequently seen progressing to church with a

small stool under their arms: and in one instance, rather than be

disappointed, or obliged to stand,—a solemn-looking specimen of the

species actually provided himself with a strong brick-bat, and having

carefully covered it with his many and bright-coloured bandana,

preserved his gravity, and, still more strange, his balance, with an

irresistible degree of mirth-creating composure.

Their laziness and unequivocal antipathy to work is as true as

proverbial. We know an instance of it in which the master ordered his

sable “help” to carry a small box from the steam pier to the Astor-House

Hotel, where his newly-married wife, an English lady, was waiting for

it; judge of her surprise to see the dark gentleman arrive followed by

an Irish lad bearing the freight intended for himself.

“Dar,” said the domineering conductor; “dar, dat will do; put da box

down dar. Now, Missis, look here, jist give dat chap a shillin.”

“A shilling! What for?”

“Cos he bring up dar plunder from de bay.”

“Why didn’t you bring it yourself?”

“Look here. Somehow I rader guess I should ha let dar box fall and

smashiated de contents, so I jist give dat white trash de job jest to

let de poor crittur arn a shillin.”

Remonstrance was vain, so the money was paid; the lady declaring, for

the future, should he think proper to employ a deputy, it must be at his

own expense. The above term “white trash” is the one commonly employed

to express their supreme contempt for the “low Irish wulgar set.”

Their dissensions among themselves are irresistibly comic. Threatening

each other in the most outrageous manner; pouring out invectives,

anathemas, and denunciations of the most deadly nature; but nine times

in ten letting the strife end without a blow; affording in their

quarrels an apt illustration of

“A tale full of sound and fury, Told by an idiot, signifying nothing.”

Suppose an affront, fancied or real, put by one on another, the common

commencement of ireful expostulations generally runs as follows:—

“Look here! you d—m black nigger; what you do dat for, Sar?”

“Hoo you call black, Sar? D—m, as white as you, Sar; any day, Sar. You

nigger, Sar!”

“Look here agin; don’t you call me a nigger, Sar. Now, don’t you do it.”

“Why not?”

“Neber mind; I’ve told you on it, so don’t you go to do it no more, you

mighty low black, cos if you do put my dander up, and make me wrasey, I

rader guess I’ll smash in your nigger’s head, like a bust-up egg-shell.

Ise a ring-tailed roarer, I tell you!”

“Reckon I’m a Pottomus. Don’t you go to put my steam up; d—d if don’t

bust and scald you out. I’m nothing but a snorter—a pretty considerable

tarnation long team, and a couple of horses to spare; so jest be quiet,

I tell you, or I’ll use you up uncommon sharp.”

“You use me up! Yoo, yoo! D—m! You and your wife and some nigger

children, all ob you, was sold for a hundred and fifty dollars less than

this nigger.”

“Look here, don’t you say dat agin; don’t you do it; I tell you, don’t

you do it, or I’ll jist give you such an almighty everlasting shaking,

dat you shall pray for a cold ague as a holiday. I’m worth considerable

more dollars dan sich a low black man as you is worth cents. Why, didn’t

dey offer to give you away, only you such dam trash no one would take

you, so at last you was knocked down to a blind man.”

“What dat? Here! Stand clear dar behind, and get out ob de way in front,

I’m jist going to take a run and butt dat nigger out of de State. Let me

go, do you hear? Golly, if you hadn’t held me he’d a been werry small

pieces by dis time. D—m, I’ll break him up.”

“Yoo, yoo! Your low buck-shins neber carry your black head fast enough

to catch dis elegant nigger. You jist run; you’ll find I’m nothing but

an alligator. You hab no more chance dan a black slug under de wheels of

a plunder-train carriage. You is unnoticeable by dis gentleman.”

“Dar dat good, gentleman! Golly, dat good! Look here, don’t you neber

speak to me no more.”

“And look here, nigger, don’t you neber speak to me.”

“See you d—m fust, black man.”

“See you scorched fust, nigger.”

“Good day, trash.”

“Good mornin, dirt!”

So generally ends the quarrel; but about half-an-hour afterwards the

Trash and Dirt will generally be found lauding each other to the skies,

and cementing a new six hours’ friendship over some brandy punch or a

mint julep.

SONGS OF THE SEEDY.—No. VI. You bid me rove, Mary,

In the shady grove, Mary,

With you to the close of even;

But I can’t, my dear,

For I must, I swear,

Be off at a quarter to seven.

Nay, do not start, Mary;

Nor let your heart, Mary,

Be disturb’d in its innocent purity;

I’m sure that you

Wouldn’t have me do

My friend—my bail—my security!

That tearful eye, Mary,

Seems to ask me why, Mary,

I can wait till sunset on’y.

Ah! turn not away;

I am out for the day

On a Fleet and fleeting pony.

Your wide open mouth, Mary,

With its breath like the south, Mary,

Seems to ask for an explanation.

Well, though not of the schools,

I live within rules,

And am subject to observation.

But come to my arms, Mary;

Let no dread alarms, Mary,

In our present happiness warp us!

I’ve not the least doubt

Of soon getting out,

By a writ of habeas corpus.

Away with despair, Mary;

Let us cast in the air, Mary,

His dark and gloomy fetters.

Why should we be rack’d,

When we think of the Act

For relieving Insolvent Debtors.

A MAYOR’S NEST. Our friend the Sir Peter Laureate wishes to know whether

the work upon “Horal Surgery” is not a new-invented description of

almanack, as it is announced as

Two men boxing. CURTIS ON THE EAR11. Qy. Year.—Printer’s Devil.

[pg 185] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. 5.—OF HIS

MATURITY, AND LATIN EXAMINATION. The second season arrives, and our

pupil becomes “a medical student” in the fullest sense of the word. He

has an indistinct recollection that there are such things as wards in

the hospital as well as in a key or the city, and a vague wandering,

like the morning’s impression of the dreams of the preceding night, that

in the remote dark ages of his career he took some notes upon the

various lectures, the which have long since been converted into pipe-

lights or small darts, which, twisted up and propelled from between the

forefingers of each hand, fly with unerring aim across the theatre at

the lecturer’s head, the slumbering student, or any other object worth

aiming at—an amusing way of beguiling the hour’s lecture, and only

excelled by the sport produced, if he has the good luck to sit in a

sunbeam, from making a tournament of “Jack-o’-lanthorns” on the ceiling.

His locker in the lobby of the dissecting-room has long since been

devoid of apron, sleeves, scalpels, or forceps; but still it is not

empty. Its contents are composed of three bellpull-handles, a valuable

series of shutter-fastenings, two or three broken pipes, a pewter “go”

(which, if everybody had their own, would in all probability belong to

Mr. Evans, of Covent Garden Piazza), some scraps of biscuit, and a round

knocker, which forcibly recalls a pleasant evening he once spent, with

the accompanying anecdotes of how he “bilked the pike” at Waterloo

Bridge, and poor Jones got “jug’d” by mistake.

It must not, however, be supposed that the student now neglects visiting

the dissecting-room. On the contrary, he is unremitting in his

attendance, and sometimes the first there of a morning, more especially

when he has, to use his own expression, been “going it rather fast than

otherwise” the evening before, and comes to the school very early in the

morning to have a good wash and refresh himself previously to snatching

a little of the slumber he has forgotten to take during the night, which

he enjoys very quietly in the injecting-room down stairs, amidst a

heterogeneous assemblage of pipkins, subjects, deal coffins, sawdust,

inflated stomachs, syringes, macerating tubs, and dried preparations.

The dissecting-room is also his favourite resort for refreshment, and he

broils sprats and red herrings on the fire-shovel with consummate skill,

amusing himself during the process of his culinary arrangements by

sawing the corners off the stone mantel-piece, throwing cinders at the

new man, or seeing how long it takes to bore a hole through one of the

stools with a red-hot poker. Indeed, these luckless pieces of furniture

are always marked out by the student as the fittest objects on which to

wreak his destructive propensities; and he generally discovers that the

readiest way to do them up is to hop steeple-chases upon them from one

end of the room to the other—a sporting amusement which shakes them to

pieces, and irremediably dislocates all their articulations, sooner than

anything else. Of course these pleasantries are only carried on in the

absence of the demonstrator. Should he be present, the industry of the

student is confined to poking the fire in the stove and then shutting

the flue, or keeping down the ball of the cistern by some abdominal

hooks, and then, before the invasion of smoke and water takes place,

quietly joining a knot of new men who are strenuously endeavouring to

dissect the brain and discover the hippocampus major, which they expect

to find in the perfect similitude of a sea-horse, like the web-footed

quadrupeds who paw the “reality” in the “area usually devoted to

illusion,” or tank, at the Adelphi Theatre.

If one of the professors of his medical school chances to be addicted to

making anti-Martin experiments on animals, or the study of comparative

anatomy, the pursuits offer an endless fund of amusement to the jocose

student. He administers poison to the toxicological guinea-pigs; hunts

the rabbit kept for galvanism about the school; lets loose in the

theatre, by accident, the sparrows preserved to show the rapidly fatal

action of choke-damp upon life; turns the bladders, which have been

provided to tie over bottles, into footballs; and makes daily

contributions to the plate of pebbles taken from the stomach of the

ostrich, and preserved in the museum to show the mode in which these

birds assist digestion, until he quadruples the quantity, and has the

quiet satisfaction of seeing exhibited at lecture, as the identical

objects, the heap of small stones which he has collected from time to

time in the garden of the school, or from any excavation for pipes or

paving which he may have passed in his route from his lodgings.

The second or middle course of the three winter sessions which the

medical student is compelled to go through, is the one in which he most

enjoys himself, and indulges in those little outbreaks of eccentric

mirth which eminently qualify him for his future professional career.

During the first course he studies from novelty—during the last from

compulsion; but the middle one passes in unlimited sprees and perpetual

half-and-half. The only grand project he now undertakes is “going up for

his Latin,” provided he had not courage to do so upon first coming to

London. For some weeks before this period he is never seen without an

interlined edition of Celsus and Gregory; not that he debars himself

from joviality during the time of his preparation, but he judiciously

combines study with amusement—never stirring without his translation in

his pocket, and even, if he goes to the theatre, beguiling the time

between the pieces by learning the literal order of a new paragraph.

Every school possesses circulating copies of these works: they have been

originally purchased in some wild moment of industrious extravagance by

a new man; and when he passed, he sold them for five shillings to

another, who, in turn, disposed of them to a third, until they had run

nearly all through the school. The student grinds away at these until he

knows them almost by heart, albeit his translation is not the most

elegant. He reads—“Sanus homo, a sound man; qui, who; et, also; bene

valet, well is in health; et, and; suæ spontis, of his own choice; est,

is,” &c. This, however, is quite sufficient; and, accordingly, one

afternoon, in a rash moment, he makes up his mind to “go up.” Arrived at

Apothecaries’ Hall—a building which he regards with a feeling of awe far

beyond the Bow-street Police Office—he takes his place amongst the

anxious throng, and is at last called into a room, where two examiners

politely request that he will favour them by sitting down at a table

adorned with severe-looking inkstands, long pens, formal sheets of

foolscap, and awfully-sized copies of the light entertaining works

mentioned above. One of the aforesaid examiners then takes a pinch of

snuff, coughs, blows his nose, points out a paragraph for the student to

translate, and leaves him to do it. He has, with a prudent forethought,

stuffed his cribs inside his double-breasted waistcoat, but,

unfortunately, he finds he cannot use them; so when he sticks at a queer

word he writes it on his blotting-paper and shoves it quietly on to the

next man. If his neighbour is a brick, he returns an answer; but if he

is not, our friend is compelled to take shots of the meaning and trust

to chance—a good plan when you are not certain what to do, either at

billiards or Apothecaries’ Hall. Should he be fortunate enough to get

through, his schedule is endorsed with some hieroglyphics explanatory of

the auspicious event; and, in gratitude, he asks a few friends to his

lodgings that night, who have legions of sausages for supper, and drink

gin-and-water until three o’clock in the morning. It is not, however,

absolutely necessary that a man should go up himself to pass his Latin.

We knew a student once who, by a little judicious change of

appearance—first letting his hair grow very long, and then cutting it

quite short—at one time patronizing whiskers, and at another shaving

himself perfectly clean—now wearing spectacles, and now speaking through

his nose—being, withal, an excellent scholar, passed a Latin examination

for half the men in the hospital he belonged to, receiving from them,

when he had succeeded, the fee which, in most cases, they would have

paid a private teacher for preparing them.

The medical student does not like dining alone; he is gregarious, and

attaches himself to some dining-rooms in the vicinity of his school,

where, in addition to the usual journals, they take in the Lancet and

Medical Gazette for his express reading. He is here the customer most

looked up to by the proprietor, and is also on excellent terms with

“Harriet,” who confidentially tells him that the boiled beef is just up;

indeed, he has been seen now and then to put his arm round her waist and

ask her when she meant to marry him, which question Harriet is not very

well prepared to answer, as all the second season men have proposed to

her successively, and each stands equally well in her estimation, which

is kept up at the rate of a penny per diem. But Harriet is not the only

waiting domestic with whom he is upon friendly terms. The Toms,

Charleses, and Henrys of the supper-taverns enjoy equal familiarity; and

when Nancy, at Knight’s, brings him oysters for two and asks him for the

money to get the stout, he throws down the shilling with an expression

of endearment that plainly intimates he does not mean to take back the

fourpence change out of the pot. Should he, however, in the course of

his wanderings, go into a strange eating-house, where he is not known,

and consequently is not paid becoming attention, his revenge is called

into play, and he gratifies it by the simple act of pouring the vinegar

into the pepper-castor, and emptying the contents of the salt-cellar

into the water-bottle before he gets up to walk away.

EXPRESS FROM AMERICA. We are authorised to state there is a man in New

Orleans so exceedingly bright, that he uses the palm of his hand for a

looking-glass.

[pg 186] POLITICS OF THE OUTWARD MAN! Wisdom is to be purchased only of

the tailor. Morality is synonymous with millinery; whilst Truth

herself—pictured by the poetry of the olden day in angelic

nakedness—must now be full-dressed, like a young lady at a royal

drawing-room, to be considered presentable. You may believe that a man

with a gash in his heart may still walk, talk, pay taxes, and perform

all the other duties of a highly civilised citizen; but to believe that

the same man with a hole in his coat can discourse like a reasoning

animal, is to be profoundly ignorant of those sympathetic subtleties

existing between a man’s brain and a man’s broad-cloth. Party politics

have developed this profound truth—the divine reason of the immortal

creature escapes through ragged raiment; a fractured skull is not so

fatal to the powers of ratiocination as a rent in the nether garments.

GOD’S image loses the divine lustre of its origin with its nap of super-

Saxony. The sinful lapse of ADAM has thrown all his unfortunate children

upon the mercies of the tailor; and that mortal shows least of the

original stain who wraps about it the richest purple and the finest

linen. Hence, if you would know the value of a man’s heart, look at his

waistcoat.

Philosophers and anatomists have quarrelled for centuries as to the

residence of the soul. Some have vowed that it lived here—some there;

some that, like a gentleman with several writs in pursuit of him, it

continually changed its lodgings; whilst others have lustily sworn that

the soul was a vagrant, with no claim to any place of settlement

whatever. Nevertheless, a vulgar notion has obtained that the soul dwelt

on a little knob of the brain; and that there, like a vainglorious

bantam-cock on a dunghill, it now claps its wings and crows all sorts of

triumph—and now, silent and scratching, it thinks of nought but wheat

and barley. The first step to knowledge is to confess to a late

ignorance. We avow, then, our late benighted condition. We were of the

number of sciolists who lodged the soul in the head of man: we are now

convinced that the true dwelling place of the soul is in the head’s

antipodes. Let SOLOMON himself return to the earth, and hold forth at a

political meeting; SOLOMON himself would be hooted, laughed at, voted an

ass, a nincompoop, if SOLOMON spoke from the platform with a hole in his

breeches!

PLATO doubtless thought that he had imagined a magnificent theory, when

he averred that every man had within him a spark of the divine flame.

But, silly PLATO! he never considered how easily this spark might be

blown out. At this moment, how many Englishmen are walking about the

land utterly extinguished! Had men been made on the principle of the

safety-lamp, they might have defied the foul breath of the world’s

opinion—but, alas! what a tender, thin-skinned, shivering thing is man!

His covering—the livery of original sin, bought with the pilfered

apples—is worn into a hole, and Opinion, that sour-breathed hag, claps

her blue lips to the broken web, gives a puff, and—out goes man’s

immortal spark! From this moment the creature is but a carcase: he can

eat and drink (when lucky enough to be able to try the experiment),

talk, walk, and no more; yes, we forgot—he can work; he still keeps

precedence of the ape in the scale of creation—for he can work for those

who, thickly clothed, and buttoned to the throat, have no rent in their

purple, no stitch dropped in their superfine, to expose their precious

souls to an annihilating gust, and who therefore keep their immortal

sparks like tapers in burglars’ dark-lanthorns, whereby to rob and spoil

with greater certainty!

Gentle reader, think you this a fantastic chapter on holes? If so, then

of a surety you do not read those instructive annals of your country

penned by many a TACITUS of the daily press—by many a profound historian

who unites to the lighter graces of stenography the enduring loveliness

of philosophy.

Some days since a meeting was held in the parish of Saint Pancras of the

“Young Men’s Anti-Monopoly Association.” The place of gathering, says

the reporter, was “a ruined penny theatre!” It is evident in the brain

of the writer that the small price at which the theatre was ruined made

its infamy: to be blighted for a penny was the shame. Drury Lane and

Covent Garden have been ruined over and over again—but then their ruin,

like PHRYNE’S, has ever been at a large price of admission; hence, like

court harlots, their ruin has been dignified by high remuneration. What,

however, could be expected from a theatre that, with inconceivable

wickedness, suffered itself to be undone for a penny? Let the reporter

answer:—

“—— FORSTER, Esq., advanced, and, assuming a teapot position on the

stage, moved the first resolution, to the effect ‘That the bread-tax was

the cause of all distress, and that they should use their strenuous

efforts to remove it.’ ‘Ladies (there was one old woman in a shocking

bad black and white straw bonnet present) and gentlemen (said he), this

is a public meeting to all intents and purposes.’”

For ourselves we care not for an orator’s standing like a teapot, if

what he pours out be something better than mere hot-water or dead small

beer. If, however, we were to typify orators in delf, there are many

Tory talkers whom we would associate with more ignominious shapes of

crockery than that of a teapot—senators who are taken by the handle, and

by their party used for the dirtiest offices.

We now come to the bad old woman whose excess of iniquity was blazoned

in her “bad black and white straw bonnet.” This woman might have been an

ASPASIA, a DE STAEL, a Mrs. SOMERVILLE,—nay, the SYBILLA CUMEA herself.

What of that? The “bad” bonnet must sink the large souled Grecian to a

cinder-wench, make the Frenchwoman a trapes from the Palais Royal, our

fair astronomer a gipsy of Greenwich Park, and the fate-foretelling

sybil a crone crawled from the worst garret of Battle-bridge. The head

is nothing; the bonnet’s all. Think you that Mrs. Somerville could have

studied herself into reputation, that the moon and stars would have

condescended to smile upon her, if she had not attended their evening

parties in a handsome turban, duly plumed and jewelled?

Come we now to the next recorded atrocity:—

“There jumped now upon the stage a red-haired, laughing-hyena faced,

fustian-coated biped, exclaiming—‘My name is Wall! I have a substantive

amendment to move to the resolution now proposed—(‘Go off, off! ooh,

ooh, ooh! turn him out, out, out!’) We are met in a place where religion

is taught (groans). Well, then, we are met where they “teach the young

idea how to shoot”’—(laughter, groans, and ‘Go on, Wall.’) Turning to

the young gents on the platform, ‘You,’ quoth Mr. Wall, ‘have not read

history: you clerks at 16s. a week, with your gold chains and pins.’”

Red hair was first made infamous by JUDAS ISCARIOT; hence the reporter

not only shows the intensity of his Christianity, but his delicate

knowledge of human character, by the fine contempt cast upon the felon

locks of the speaker. Red hair is doubtless the brand of Providence; the

mark set upon guilty man to give note and warning to his unsuspicious

fellow-creatures. Like the scarlet light at the North Foreland, it

speaks of shoals, and sands, and flats. The emperor Commodus, who had

all his previous life rejoiced in flaxen locks, woke, the morning after

his first contest in the arena, a red-haired man! But then, with a fine

knowledge of the wholesome prejudices of the world, he turned the curse

upon his head into a beauty; for he—powdered it with gold-dust. Could

Mr. WALL, of the penny theatre, induce the Master of the Mint to play

his coiffeur, how would the reporter fall on his knees and worship the

divinity!

Mr. WALL, being of the opposite faction, in addition to the unpowdered

ignominy of his hair, has also the face of a hyena! This fact opens a

question too vast for our one solitary page. We lack at least the

amplitude of a quarto to prove that all men are fashioned, even in the

womb, with features that shall hereafter beautifully harmonise with the

politics of the grown creature. Now WALL, being ordained a poor man and

a Chartist, is endowed with a “laughing hyena” countenance. He even

loses the vantage ground of our common humanity, and is sunk by his

poverty and his politics to the condition of a beast, and of a most

unamiable beast into the bargain. However, the vast enfolding iniquity

is yet to be displayed and duly shuddered at; for WALL, the biped hyena,

wears—a fustian coat!

As journalists, we trust we have our common share—which is no little—of

human vanity. Nevertheless, with the highest private opinion of our own

powers, we feel we can add nothing to the picture drawn by the reporter.

The fustian coat, with a tongue in every button-hole, discourses on its

own inwoven infamy.

We recognise with great pleasure a growing custom on the part of

political reporters to merge the orators and listeners at public

meetings in their several articles of dress. This practice has doubtless

originated in a most philosophical consideration of the sympathies

between the outer and the inner man, and has its source in the earliest

records of human life. The patriarchs rent their garments in token of

the misery that lacerated their souls: then rags and tatters were

ennobled by sorrow—there was a deep sentiment in sackcloth and ashes. We

have, however, improved upon the ignorance of primitive days; and though

we still admit the covering of man to be typical of his condition of

mind, we wisely keep our respect for super-Saxony, and expend contempt

and ridicule on corduroy and fustian. We yet hope to see the day when

certain political meetings will be briefly reported as follow:—

“Faded Blue Coat, with tarnished Brass Buttons, took the chair.

“Velveteen Jacket moved the first resolution, which was seconded by

Check Shirt and Ankle-jacks.

“Brown Great Coat, with holes in elbows, moved the second

resolution—seconded by Greasy Drab Breeches and Dirty Leather Gaiters.

“After thanks to Blue Coat had been moved by Brown Surtout and Crack

under both Arms, the Fustian Jackets departed.”

Would not this be quite sufficient? Knowing the philosophy of appearance

in England, might we not by our imagination supply a truer speech to

every orator than could be taken down by the most faithful reporter?

Q.

[pg 187] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XVI. A group of men in masons garb.

THE NEW PARLIAMENTARY MASONS.

“WE HAVE A PLAN, WHICH, FROM ITS ORIGINALITY, SHOULD DRAW DOWN UPON US

THE GRATITUDE OF THE NATION

. WE PROPOSE THAT, DURING THE PROROGATION,

AT LEAST, MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT, SHOULD, LIKE BEAVERS, BUILD THEIR OWN

HOUSES.”

Vide PUNCH

[pg 189] LIST OF THE PREMIUMS AWARDED BY THE HOOKHAM-CUM-SNIVEY LITERARY

AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETY, FOR THE YEAR 1841. FIRST PREMIUM. MANAGEMENT OF

LANDED PROPERTY. To Count D’Orsay, for the most approved Essay on

Cultivating a Flower Pot, and the Expediency of growing Mignionette in

preference to Sweet Pea on the Window-sills—

The Pasteboard Medal of the Society.

SECOND PREMIUM. METHOD OF GROWING PERMANENT WHISKERS. To Colonel

Sibthorp, for a Report of several successful Experiments in laying down

his own Cheeks for a permanent growth of Whisker, with a description of

the most approved Hair-fence worn on the Chin, and the exact colour

adapted to all seasons—

The Pasteboard Medal and a Bottle of Balm of Columbia.

THIRD PREMIUM. IMPROVING THE CONDITION OF THE POOR, BY INVENTING A

VALUABLE SUBSTITUTE FOR MEAT, BREAD, VEGETABLES, AND OTHER MASTICATORY

ALIMENT. To the Poor-Law Commissioners, for their valuable Essay on

Cheap Feeding, and an Account of several Experiments made in the Unions

throughout the Kingdom; by which they have satisfactorily demonstrated

that a man may exist on stewed chips and sawdust—also for their original

receipt for making light, cheap workhouse soup, with a gallon of water

and a gooseberry—

The Pasteboard Medal and a Mendicity Ticket.

FOURTH PREMIUM. QUANTITY OF BRAINS REQUIRED TO MAKE A MEMBER OF

PARLIAMENT. To Peter Borthwick, for his ingenious Treatise, proving

logically that a Member requires no Brains, instancing his own case,

where the deficiency was supplied by the length of his ears—

The Pewter Medal, and a Copy of Enfield's Speaker.

FIFTH PREMIUM. AMOUNT OF CASH REQUIRED BY A GENTLEMAN TO KEEP A WALKING-

STICK, A PAIR OF MOUSTACHES, AND A CIGAR. To the Society of Law Clerks,

for the best Account of how Fifteen Shillings a week may be managed, to

enable the Possessor to “draw it rather brisk” after office-hours in

Regent-street, including board and lodging for his switch and spurs, and

Warren’s jet for his Wellingtons—

The Tin Medal and a Penny Cuba.

SIXTH PREMIUM. FATTENING ALDERMEN. To Sir Peter Laurie, for a Bill of

Fare of the various viands demolished at the Lord Mayors’ Dinners for

the last ten years—also, for an account of certain experiments made to

ascertain the contents of the Board of Aldermen at City Feasts, by the

application of a new regulating-belt, called the Gastronometer—

A German Silver Medal and a Gravy Spoon.

PUNCH’S REVIEW. THE MEMOIRS OF MADAME LAFFARGE. The title, I think, will

strike. The fashion, you know, now, is to do away with old prejudices,

and to rescue certain characters from the illiberal odium with which

custom has marked them. Thus we have a generous Israelite, an amiable

cynic, and so on. Now, Sir, I call my play—The Humane Footpad.—SYLVESTER

DAGGERWOOD.

Some four or five seasons since, the eccentric Buckstone produced a

three-act farce, which, by dint of its after title—The School for

Sympathy—and of much highly comic woe, exhibited in the acting of Farren

and Nisbett, was presented to uproariously-affected audiences during

some score nights. The hinge of the mirth was made to turn upon the

irresistible drollery of one man’s running away with another man’s wife,

and the outrageous fun of the consequent suicide of the injured husband;

the bons mots being most tragically humorous, and the aphorisms of the

several characters facetiously concatenative of the nouns contained in

the leading name of the piece—“Love and Murder.”

Now this was a magnificent idea—one of those brilliant efforts which

cannot but tend to lift the theatre in the estimation of every man of

delicacy and education. A new source of attraction was at once

discovered,—a vast fund of available fuel was suddenly found to recruit

the cinerulent embers of the drama withal. It became evident that, after

Joe Miller, the ordinary of Newgate was the funniest dog in the world.

Manslaughter, arson, and the more practical jokes in the Calendar, were

already familiar to the stage; it was a refinement of the Haymarket

authors to introduce those livelier sallies of wit—crim. con. and felo-

de-se. The “immense coalitions” of all manner of crimes and vices in the

subsequent “highway school”—the gradual development of every unnatural

tendency in the youthful Jack Sheppard (another immor-t-al work by the

author of the afore-lauded comedy)—the celebration, by a classic chaunt,

of his reaching the pinnacle of depravity; this was the ne plus ultra of

dramatic invention. Robbers and murderers began to be treated, after the

Catholic fashion, with extreme unction; audiences were intoxicated with

the new drop; sympathy became epidemic; everybody was bewildered and

improved; and nobody went and threw themselves off the Monument with a

copy of the baleful drama in his pocket!

But the magnificence of the discovery was too large to be grasped by

even the gluttonous eye of the managers, The Adelphi might overflow—the

Surrey might quake with reiterated “pitsfull”—still there remained over

and above the feast-crumbs sufficient for the battenings of other than

theatrical appetites. Immediately the press-gang—we beg pardon, the

press—arose, and with a mighty throe spawned many monsters. Great drama!

Greater Press! GREATEST PUBLIC!

Now this was all excellent well as far as it went; but still there was

something wanted of more reality than the improvisations of a romancist.

Ainsworth might dip his pen in the grossest epithets; Boz might dabble

in the mysterious dens of Hebrew iniquity; even Bulwer might hash up to

us his recollections of St. Giles’s dialogue; and yet it was evident

that they were all the while only “shamming”—only cooking up some dainty

dish according to a recipe, or, as it is still frequently pronounced, a

receipt,—which last, with such writers, will ever be the guide-post of

their track.

But something more was wanted; and here it is—here, in the Memoirs of

Marie Cappelle.

This lady, perhaps the most remarkable woman of her age, has published a

book—half farce, half novel—in which she treats by turns with the clap-

trap agony of a Bulwer, the quaint sneer of a Dickens, and the

effrontery of an Ainsworth, that serious charge which employed the

careful investigation of the most experienced men in France for many

weeks, and which excited a degree of interest in domestic England almost

unexampled in the history of foreign trials. This work is published by a

gentleman who calls himself “Publisher in ordinary to her Majesty,” and

may be procured at any book-seller’s by all such as have a guinea and a

day’s leisure at the mercy of the literary charlatan who contrived it.

In the strictest confidence we would suggest, that if a treaty could be

ratified with Madame Marie Cappelle Laffarge, we do not doubt that our

nursery—yea, our laundry—maids would learn to spell the precious

sentences, to their own great edification and that of the children

placed under their charge.

OUR TRADE REPORT. Coals are a shade blacker than they were last week,

but not quite so heavy; and turnips are much lighter than they have been

known for a very considerable period.

Great complaints are made of the ticketing system; and persons going to

purchase shawls, as they supposed, at nine-pence three-farthings each,

are disgusted at being referred to a very small one pound sixteen marked

very lightly in pencil immediately before the 9¾d., which is very large

and in very black ink. There were several transactions of this kind

during the whole morning.

The depressed state of the Gossamer-market has long been a subject of

conversation among the four-and-niners who frequent the cheap coffee-

shops in the City; but no one knows the cause of what has taken place,

nor can they exactly state what the occurrence is that they are so

loudly complaining of.

Bones continue to fetch a penny for two pounds; but great murmurs are

heard of the difficulty of making up a pound equal to the very liberal

weights which the marine-store keepers use when making their purchases;

they, however, make up for it by using much lighter weights when they

sell, which is so far fair and satisfactory.

The arrivals in baked potatoes have been very numerous; fifty cans were

entered outwards on Saturday.

RELATIVE GENTILITY. Two ladies of St. Giles’s disputing lately on the

respectability of each other’s family, concluded the debate in the

following way:—“Mrs. Doyle, ma’am, I’d have you know that I’ve an uncle

a bannister of the law.” “Much about your bannister,” retorted Mrs.

Doyle; “haven’t I a first cousin a corridor in the navy?”

KEEPING IT DARK. Jim Bones, a free nigger of New York, has a child so

exceedingly dark that he cannot be seen on the lightest day.

[pg 190] THE GENTLEMAN’S OWN BOOK. REVENONS A NOS MOUTONS—i.e. (for the

benefit of country members) to return to our mutton, or rather the

“trimmings.” The ornaments which notify the pecuniary superiority of the

wearer include chains, rings, studs, canes, watches, and purses. Chains

should be of gold, and cannot be too ostentatiously displayed; for a

proper disposition of these “braveries” is sure to induce the utmost

confidence in the highly useful occupants of Pigot’s and Robson’s

Directory. We have seen some waistcoats so elaborately festooned, that

we would stake our inkstand that the most unbelieving money-lender would

have taken the personal security of the wearer without hesitation. The

perfection to which mosaic-work has arrived may possibly hold out a

strong temptation to the thoughtless to substitute the shadow for the

reality. Do not deceive yourself; an experienced eye will instantly

detect the imposition, though your ornaments may be

A bald man in a frilly shirt applies carmine to his cheeks. FRESH EVERY

DAY;

for, we will defy any true gentleman to preserve an equanimity of

expression under the hint—either visual or verbal—that (to use the

language of the poet) you are “a man of brass.”

We have a faint recollection of a class of gentlemen who used to attach

an heterogeneal collection of massive seals and keys to one end of a

chain, and a small church-clock to the other. The chain then formed a

pendulum in front of their small-clothes, and the dignified oscillation

of the appendages was considered to distinguish the gentleman. They were

also used as auxiliaries in argument; for whenever an hiatus occurred in

the discussion, the speaker, by having resort to his watch-chain, could

frequently confound his adversary by commencing a series of rapid

gyrations. But the fashion has descended to merchants, lawyers, doctors,

et sui generis, who never drive bargains, ruin debtors, kill patients,

et cetera, without having recourse to this imposing decoration.

Rings are the next indicators of superfluous cash. As they are merely

ornamental, they should resemble vipers, tapeworms, snakes, toads,

monkey’s, death’s heads, and similar engaging and pleasing subjects. The

more liberally the fingers are enriched, the greater the assurance that

the hand is never employed in any useful labour, and is consequently

only devoted to the minisitration of indulgences, and the exhibition of

those elegant productions which distinguish the highly-civilised

gentleman from the highly-tattooed savage.

Mourning-rings have an air of extreme respectability; for they are

always suggestive of a legacy, and of the fact that you have been

connected with somebody who was not buried at the expense of the parish.

Studs should be selected with the greatest possible care, and in our

opinion the small gold ones can only be worn by a perfect gentleman; for

whilst they perform their required office, they do not distract the

attention from the quality and whiteness of your linen. Some that we

have seen were evidently intended for cabinet pictures, rifle targets

and breast-plates.

Pins.—These necessary adjuncts to the cravat of a gentleman have

undergone a singular revolution during late years; but we confess we are

admirers of the present fashion, for if it is desirable to indulge in an

ornament, it is equally desirable that everybody should be gratified by

the exhibition thereof. We presume that it is with this commendable

feeling that pins’-heads (whose smallness in former days became a

proverb) should now resemble the apex of a beadle’s staff; and, as

though to make “assurance doubly sure,” a plurality is absolutely

required for the decoration of a gentleman. In these times, when

political partisanship is so exceedingly violent, why not make the pins

indicative of the opinions of the wearer, as the waistcoat was in the

days of Fox. We could suggest some very appropriate designs; for

instance, the heads of Peel and Wakley, connected by a very slight

link—Sibthorp and Peter Borthwick by a series of long-car rings—Muntz

and D’Israeli cut out of very hard wood, and united by a hair-chain; and

many others too numerous to mention.

HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY. PARODIED BY A XX TEETOTALLER. To drink, or not to

drink? That is the question.

Whether ’tis nobler inwardly to suffer

The pangs and twitchings of uneasy stomach,

Or to take brandy-toddy ’gainst the colic,

And by imbibing end it? To drink,—to sleep,—

To snore;—and, by a snooze, to say we end

The head-ache, and the morning’s parching thirst

That drinking’s heir to;—’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d. To drink,—to pay,—

To pay the waiter’s bill?—Ay—there’s the rub;

For in that snipe-like bill, a stop may come,

When we would shuffle off our mortal score,

Must give us pause. There’s the respect

That makes sobriety of so long date;

For who could bear to hear the glasses ring

In concert clear—the chairman’s ready toast—

The pops of out-drawn corks—the “hip hurrah!”

The eloquence of claret—and the songs,

Which often through the noisy revel break,

When a man—might his quietus make

With a full bottle? Who would sober be,

Or sip weak coffee through the live-long night;

But that the dread of being laid upon

That stretcher by policemen borne, on which

The reveller reclines,—puzzles me much,

And makes me rather tipple ginger beer,

Than fly to brandy, or to—

A man with his foot caught in a trap. —HODGE’S SIN?

Thus poverty doth make us Temp’rance men.

“TRY OUR BEST SYMPATHY.” It is a fact, when the deputation of the

distressed manufacturers waited upon Sir Robert Peel to represent to him

their destitute condition, that the Right Honourable Baronet declared he

felt the deepest sympathy for them. This is all very fine—but we fear

greatly, if Sir Robert should be inclined to make a commercial

speculation of his sympathy, that he would go into the market with

A merchant hands stockings to a little girl. A VERY SMALL STOCK-IN(G)

TRADE.

[pg 191] THE MAN OF HABIT. I meet with men of this character very

frequently, and though I believe that the stiff formality of the past

age was more congenial than the present to the formation and growth of

these peculiar beings, there are still a sufficient number of the

species in existence for the philosophical cosmopolite to study and

comment upon.

A true specimen of a man of habit should be an old bachelor,—for

matrimony deranges the whole clock-work system upon which he piques

himself. He could never endure to have his breakfast delayed for one

second to indulge “his soul’s far dearer part” with a prolonged morning

dream; and he dislikes children, because the noisy urchins make a point

of tormenting him wherever he goes. The Man of Habit has a certain hour

for all the occupations of his life; he allows himself twenty minutes

for shaving and dressing; fifteen for breakfasting, in which time he

eats two slices of toast, drinks two cups of coffee, and swallows two

eggs boiled for two and a half minutes by an infallible chronometer.

After breakfast he reads the newspaper, but lays it down in the very

heart and pith of a clever article on his own side of the question, the

moment his time is up. He has even been known to leave the theatre at

the very moment of the dénouement of a deeply-interesting play rather

than exceed his limited hour by five minutes. He will be out of temper

all day, if he does not find his hat on its proper nail and his cane in

its allotted corner. He chooses a particular walk, where he may take his

prescribed number of turns without interruption, for he would prefer

suffering a serious inconvenience rather than be obliged to quicken or

slacken his pace to suit the speed of a friend who might join him. My

uncle Simon was a character of this cast. I could take it on my

conscience to assert that, every night for the forty years preceding his

death, he had one foot in the bed on the first stroke of 11 o’clock, and

just as the last chime had tolled, that he was enveloped in the blankets

to his chin. I have known him discharge a servant because his slippers

were placed by his bed-side for contrary feet; and I have won a wager by

betting that he would turn the corner of a certain street at precisely

three minutes before ten in the morning. My uncle used to frequent a

club in the City, of which he had become the oracle. Precisely at eight

o’clock he entered the room—took his seat in a leather-backed easy chair

in a particular corner—read a certain favourite journal—drank two

glasses of rum toddy—smoked four pipes—and was always in the act of

putting his right arm into the sleeve of his great-coat, to return home,

as the clock struck ten. The cause of my uncle’s death was as singular

as his life was whimsical. He went one night to the club, and was

surprised to find his seat occupied by a tall dark-browed man, who

smoked a meerschaum of prodigious size in solemn silence. Numerous hints

were thrown out to the stranger that the seat had by prescriptive right

and ancient custom become the property of my uncle; he either did not or

would not understand them, and continued to keep his possession of the

leather-backed chair with the most imperturbable sang-froid. My uncle in

despair took another seat, and endeavoured to appear as if nothing had

occurred to disturb him,—but he could not dissimulate. He was pierced to

the heart,—and

A man is eating on a bench. “I SAW THE IRON ENTER HIS SOLE.”

My uncle left the club half-an-hour before his time; he returned

home—went to bed without winding his watch—and the next morning he was

found lifeless in his bed.

PUNCH’S POLITICAL ECONOMY. The subject of political economy is becoming

so general a portion of education, that it will doubtless soon be

introduced at the infant schools among the other eccentric evolutions or

playful whirls of Mr. Wilder-spin. At it is the fashion to comprehend

nothing, but to have a smattering of everything, we beg leave to smatter

our readers with a very thin layer of political economy. In the first

place, “political” means “political,” and “economy” signifies “economy,”

at least when taken separately; but put them together, and they express

all kinds of extravagance. Political economy contemplates the

possibility of labouring without work, eating without food, and living

without the means of subsistence. Social, or individual economy, teaches

to live within our means; political economy calls upon us to live

without them. In the debates, when more than usual time has been wasted

in talking the most extravagant stuff, ten to one that there has been a

good deal of political economy. If you bother a poor devil who is dying

of want, and speak to him about consumption, it is probably “political

economy” that you will have addressed to him. If you talk to a man

sinking with hunger about floating capital, you will no doubt have given

him the benefit of a few hints in “political economy:” while, if to a

wretch in tattered rags you broach the theory of rent, he must be an

ungrateful beast indeed if he does not appreciate the blessings of

“political economy.” That “labour is wealth” forms one of the most

refreshing axioms of this delicious science; and if brought to the

notice of a man breaking stones on the road, he would perhaps wonder

where his wealth might be while thinking of his labour, but he could not

question your proficiency in “political economy.” In fact, it is the

most political and most economical science in the world, if it can only

be made to achieve its object, which is to persuade the hard-working

classes that they are the richest people in the universe, for their

labour gives value, and value gives wealth; but who gets the value and

the wealth is a consideration that does not fall within the province of

“political economy.”

There is another branch of the subject at which we shall merely glance;

but one hint will open up a wide field of observation to the student.

The branch to which we allude is the tremendous extent to which

political economy is carried by those who interfere so much in politics

with so very little political knowledge, and who consequently display a

most surprising share of “political economy,”

As a very little goes a great way, and particularly as the most

diminutive portion of knowledge communicated by ourselves is, like the

“one small pill constituting a dose,” much more efficacious than the 40

Number Ones and 50 Number Twos of the mere quacks, we close for the

present our observations on Political Economy.

ON THE KEY-VIVE. There can be no doubt as to the primâ facie evidence of

the hostile intentions of the destroyed American steamer, with respect

to the disaffected on Navy Island, as, from the acknowledged

inquisitiveness of the gentler sex, there can be no doubt that Caroline

would have a natural predilection for

A maid listens at a door. PRIVATE (H)EERING.

LAST NEW SAYINGS. Come, none of your raillery; as the stage-coach

indignantly said to the steam-engine.

That “strain” again; as the Poor-law Commissioner generously said to the

water-gruel sieve.

I paid very dear for my whistle; as the steam-engine emphatically said

to the railroad.

Peel for ever! as the church bells joyously said to Conservative hearts.

There is at present a man in New York whose temper is so exceedingly hot

that he invariably reduces all his shirts to tinder.

[pg 192] PUNCH’S THEATRE. THE MAID OF HONOUR. The Adelphi “Correspondent

from Paris” has favoured that Theatre with an adaptation of Scribe’s

“Verre d’Eau,” which he has called “The Maid of Honour.”

Everybody must remember that, last year, the trifling affair of the

British Government was settled by the far more momentous consideration

of who should be Ladies of the Bed-chamber. The Parisians, seeing the

dramatic capabilities of this incident, put it into a farce, resting the

whole affair upon the shoulders of a former Queen whose Court was

similarly circumstanced. This is the piece which Mr. Yates has had the

daring to get done into English, and transplanted into Spain, and

interspersed with embroidery, confectionary, and a Spanish sentence; the

last judiciously entrusted to that accomplished linguist, Mr. John

Saunders.

Soon after the rising of the curtain, we behold the figure of Mr. Yates

displayed to great advantage in the dress usually assigned to Noodle and

Doodle in the tragedy of “Tom Thumb.” He represents the Count Ollivarez,

and the head of a political party—the opposition. The Court faction

having for its chief the Duchess of Albafurez, who being Mistress of the

Queen’s robes is of course her favourite; for the millinery department

of the country which can boast of a Queen Regnant is of far higher

importance than foreign or financial affairs, justice, police, or

war—consequently, the chief of the wardrobe is far more exalted and

better beloved than a mere Premier or Secretary of State. The Count is

planning an intrigue, the agents of which are to be Henrico, a Court

page, and Felicia, a court milliner. Not being able to make much of the

page, he turns over a new leaf, and addresses himself to the dress-

maker; so, after a few preliminary hems, he draws out the thread of his

purpose to her, and cuts out an excellent pattern for her guidance,

which if she implicitly follow will assuredly make her a Maid of Honour.

A comedy without mystery is Punch without a joke; Yates without a speech

to the audience on a first night; or Bartley’s pathos without a pocket-

handkerchief. The Court page soon opens the book of imbroglio. He is

made a Captain of the Queen’s Guard by some unknown hand; he has always

been protected by the same unseen benefactor, who, as if to guard him

from every ill that flesh is heir to, showers on him his or her favours

upon condition that he never marries! “Happy man,” exclaims the Count.

“Not at all,” answers the other, “I am in love with Felicia!” Nobody is

surprised at this, for it is a rule amongst dramatists never to forbid

the banns until the banned, poor devil, is on the steps of the altar.

Henrico, now a Captain, goes off to flesh his sword; meets with an

insult, and by the greatest good luck kills his antagonist in the

precincts of the palace; so that if he be not hanged for murder, his

fortune is made. The victim is the Count’s cousin, to whom he is next of

kin. “Good Heavens!” ejaculates Ollivarez, “You have made yourself a

criminal, and me—a Duke! Horrible!”

By the way, this same Henrico, as performed by that excellent swimmer

(in the water-piece), Mr. Spencer Forde, forms a very entertaining

character. His imperturbable calmness while uttering the heart-stirring

words, assigned by the author to his own description of the late affair-

of-honourable assassination, was highly edifying to the philosophic

mind. The pleasing and amiable tones in which he stated how

irretrievably he was ruined, the dulcet sweetness of the farewell to his

heart’s adored, the mathematical exactitude of his position while

embracing her, the cool deliberation which marked his exit—offered a

picture of calm stoicism just on the point of tumbling over the

precipice of destruction not to be equalled—not, at least, since those

halcyon dramatic days when Osbaldiston leased Covent Garden, and played

Pierre.

Somehow or other—for one must not be too particular about the wherefores

of stage political intrigues—Felicia is promoted from the office of

making dresses for the Queen to that of putting them on. Behold her a

maid of honour and of all-work; for the Queen takes her into her

confidence, and in that case people at Court have an immense variety of

duties to perform. The Duchess’s place is fast becoming a sinecure, and

she trembles for her influence—perhaps, in case of dismissal, for her

next quarter’s salary to boot—so she shakes in her shoes.

It is at this stage of the plot that we perceive why the part of Henrico

was entrusted to the gentleman who plays it,—the mystery we have alluded

to being by this arrangement very considerably increased; for we now

learn that no fewer than three ladies in the piece are in love with him,

namely, Felicia, the Queen, and the Duchess. Now the most penetrating

auditor would never, until actually informed of the fact, for a moment

suspect a Queen, or even a Duchess, of such bad taste; for, as far as

our experience goes, we have generally found that women do not cast

their affections to men who are sheepish, insensible, cold, ungainly,

with small voices, and not more than five feet high. Surprise artfully

excited and cleverly satisfied is the grand aim of the dramatist. How

completely is it here fulfilled! for when we discover that the

personator of Henrico is meant for an Adonis, we are astonished.

The truth is then, that the secret benefactor of this supposed-to-be

irresistible youth has always been the Duchess Albafurez, who, learning

from Ollivarez that her pet has new claims upon her heart for having

killed her friend the Duke, determines to assist him to escape, which

however is not at all necessary, for Ollivarez is entrusted with the

warrant for apprehending the person or persons unknown who did the

murder. But could he injure the man who has made him a Duke by a lucky

coup-d’épée? No, no. Let him cross the frontier; and, when he is out of

reach, what thundering denunciations will not the possessor of the

dukedom fulminate against the killer of his cousin! It is shocking to

perceive how intimately acquainted old Scribe must be with manners,

customs, and feelings, as they exist at Court.

The necessary passports are placed before the Queen for her signature

(perhaps her Spanish Majesty can’t afford clerks); but when she

perceives whom they threaten to banish from behind her chair, she

declines honouring them with her autograph. The Duchess thus learns her

secret. “She, too, love Henrico? Well I never!” About this time a

tornado of jealousy may be expected; but court etiquette prevents it

from bursting; and the Duchess reserves her revenge, the Queen sits down

to her embroidery frame, and one is puzzled to know what is coming next.

This puzzle was not on Monday night long in being resolved. Ollivarez

entered, and a child in the gallery commenced crying with that

persevering quality of tone which threatens long endurance. Mr. Yates

could not resist the temptation; and Ollivarez, the newly-created Duke

of Medina, promised the baby a free admission for four, any other night,

if it would only vacate the gallery just then. These terms having been

assented to by a final screech, the infant left the gallery. After an

instant’s pause—during which the Manager tapped his forehead, as much as

to say, “Where did I leave off?”—the piece went on.

We had no idea till last night how difficult it was for a Queen to

indulge in a bit of flirtation! A most elaborate intrigue is, it seems,

necessary to procure for her a tender interview with her innamorato. A

plan was invented, whose intricacy would have bothered the inventor of

spinning-jennies, whereby Henrico was to be closeted with her most

Christian Majesty,—its grand accomplishment to take place when the Queen

called for a glass of ice (the original Scribe wrote “water,” but the

Adelphi adapter thought ice would be more natural, for fear the piece

should run till Christmas). The Duchess overhears the entire plot, but

fails in frustrating it. Hence we find Henrico, Felicia, and the Queen

together, going through a well-contrived and charmingly-conducted scene

of equivoque—the Queen questioning Henrico touching the state of his

heart, and he answering her in reference to Felicia, who is leaning over

the embroidery frame behind the Queen, and out of her sight.

This felicitous situation is interrupted by the spiteful Duchess; the

lover escapes behind the window curtains to avoid scandal—is discovered,

and his sovereign’s reputation is only saved by the declaration of

Felicia, that the Captain is there on her account. Ollivarez asserts

that they are married, to clench the fib—the Queen sees her folly—the

Duchess is disgraced—all the characters stand in the well-defined

semicircle which is the stage method of writing the word “finis”—Mrs.

Yates speaks a very neat and pointed “tag”—and that’s all.

For this two-act Comidetta, dear Yates, we pronounce absolution and

remission of thy sins, so wickedly committed in the washy melo-drama,

and cackling vaudeville, thou hast recently affronted common-sense

withal! Thine own acting as the courtier was natural, except when thou

didst interpolate the dialogue with the baby—a crying sin, believe us.

Else, thy bows were graceful; and thy shoulder-shrugs—are they not

chronicled in the mind’s eye of thy most distant admirers? The little

touches of humour that shone forth in the dialogue assigned to thee,

were not exaggerated by the too-oft-indulged-in grimaces—in short,

despite thy too monstrous chapeau-bras—which was big enough for a life-

boat—thou lookedst like a Duke, a gentleman, and what in truth thou

really art—an indefatigable intriguant. Thy favoured help-mate, too,

gave a reality to the scene by her captivating union of queenly dignity

and feminine tenderness. But most especially fortunate art thou in thy

Felicia. Alas for our hunch and our hatchet nose! but O, alas! and alas!

that we have a Judy! for never did we regret all three so deeply as

while Miss Ellen Chaplin was on the stage. In our favourite scene with

the Queen and her lover, how graceful and expressive were her dumb

answers to what ought to have been Henrico’s eloquent declarations,

spoken through the Queen. We charge thee, dear friend, to “call” her on

Monday morning at eleven, and to rehearse unto her what we are going to

say. Tell her that as she is young, a bright career is before her if she

will not fall into the sin of copying some other favourite actress—say,

for instance, Mrs. Yates—instead of our arch-mistress, Nature; say,

moreover, that at the same time, she must be unwearying in acquiring

art; lastly, inform her, that Punch has his eye upon her, and will scold

her if she become a backslider and an imitator of other people’s faults.

As to poor Mr. Spencer Forde, he, too, is young; and you do wrong, O

Yates! in giving him a part he will be unequal to till he grows big

enough for a coat. A smaller part would, we doubt not, suit him

excellently.

Lastly, give our best compliments to Mrs. Fosbroke, to the illustrious

Mr. Freeborn, to Mr. John Saunders, and our especial commendations to

thy scene-painter, thy upholsterer, and the gentleman lamp-lighter thou

art so justly proud of; for each did his and her best to add a charm to

“The Maid of Honour.”

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. NOVEMBER 6, 1841. [pg 193] A

DAY-DREAM AT MY UNCLE’S. The result of a serious conversation between

the authors of my being ended in the resolution that it was high time

for me to begin the world, and do something for myself. The only

difficult problem left for them to solve was, in what way I had better

commence. One would have thought the world had nothing in its whole

construction but futile beginnings and most unsatisfactory methods of

doing for one’s self. Scheme after scheme was discussed and discarded;

new plans were hot-beds for new doubts; and impossibilities seemed to

overwhelm every succeeding though successless suggestion. At the

critical moment when it appeared perfectly clear to me either that I was

fit for nothing or nothing was fit for me, the authoritative “rat-tat”

of the general postman closed the argument, and for a brief space

distracted the intense contemplations of my bewildered parents.

“Good gracious!” “Well, I never!” “Who’d ha’ thought it?” and various

other disjointed mutterings escaped my father, forming a sort of running

commentary upon the document under his perusal. Having duly devoured the

contents, he spread the sheet of paper carefully out, re-wiped his

spectacles, and again commenced the former all-engrossing subject.

“Tom, my boy, you are all right, and this will do for you. Here’s a

letter from your uncle Ticket.”

I nodded in silence.

“Yes, sir,” continued my father, with increasing emphasis and peculiar

dignity, “Ticket—the great Ticket—the greatest”—

“Pawnbroker in London,” said I, finishing the sentence.

“Yes, sir, he is; and what of that?”

“Nothing further; I don’t much like the trade, but”—

“But he’s your uncle, sir. It’s a glorious money-making business. He

offers to take you as an apprentice. Nancy, my love, pack up this lad’s

things, and start him off by the mail to-morrow. Go to bed, Tom.”

So the die was cast! The mail was punctual; and I was duly delivered to

Ticket—the great Ticket—my maternal, and everybody else’s undefinable,

uncle. Duly equipped in glazed calico sleeves, and ditto apron, I took

my place behind the counter. But as it was discovered that I had a

peculiar penchant for giving ten shillings in exchange for gilt

sixpences, and encouraging all sorts of smashing by receiving

counterfeit crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, I received a box on the

ear, and a positive command to confine myself to the up-stairs, or “top-

of-the-spout department” for the future. Here my chief duties were to

deposit such articles as progressed up that wooden shaft in their

respective places, and by the same means transmit the “redeemed” to the

shop below. This was but dull work, and in the long dreary evenings,

when partial darkness (for I was allowed no candle) seemed to invite

sleep, I frequently fell into a foggy sort of mystified somnolency—the

partial prostration of my corporeal powers being amply compensated by

the vague wanderings of indistinct imagination.

In these dozing moods some of the parcels round me would appear not only

imbued with life, but, like the fabled animals of Æsop, blessed with the

gift of tongues. Others, though speechless, would conjure up a vivid

train of breathing tableaux, replete with their sad histories. That tiny

relic, half the size of the small card it is pinned upon, swells like

the imprisoned genie the fisherman released from years of bondage, and

the shadowy vapour takes once more a form. From the small circle of that

wedding ring, the tear-fraught widow and the pallid orphan, closely

dogged by Famine and Disease, spring to my sight. That brilliant tiara

opens the vista of the rich saloon, and shows the humbled pride of the

titled hostess, lying excuses for her absent gems. The flash contents of

that bright yellow handkerchief shade forth the felon’s bar; the daring

burglar eyeing with confidence the counsel learned in the law’s defects,

fee’d by its produce to defend its quondam owner. The effigies of Pride,

Extravagance, honest Distress, and reckless Plunder, all by turns usurp

the scene. In my last waking sleep, just as I had composed myself in

delicious indolence, a parcel fell with more than ordinary force on one

beneath. These were two of my talking friends. I stirred not, but sat

silently to listen to their curious conversation, which I now proceed to

give verbatim.

Parcel fallen upon.—“What the d—l are you?”

Parcel that fell.—“That’s my business.”

“Is it? I rather think its mine, though. Why don’t you look where you’re

going?”

“How can I see through three brown papers and a rusty black silk

handkerchief?”

“Ain’t there a hole in any of ‘em?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity; but when you’ve been here as long as I have, the moths

will help you a bit.”

“Will they?”

“Certainly.”

“I hope not.”

“Hope if you like; but you’ll find I’m right.”

“I trust I didn’t hurt you much.”

“Not very. Bless you, I’m pretty well used to ill-treatment now. You’ve

only rubbed the pile of my collar the wrong way, just as that awkward

black rascal would brush me.”

“Bless me! I think I know your voice.”

“Somehow, I think I know yours.”

“You ain’t Colonel Tomkins, are you?”

“No.”

“Nor Count Castor?”

“No.”

“Then I’m in error.”

“No you’re not. I was the Colonel once; then I became the Count by way

of loan; and then I came here—as he said by mistake.”

“Why, my dear fellow, I’m delighted to speak to you. How did you wear?”

“So-so.”

“When I first saw you, I thought you the handsomest Petersham in town.

Your velvet collar, cuffs, and side-pockets, were superb; and when you

were the Colonel, upon my life you were the sweetest cut thing about the

waist and tails I ever walked with.”

“You flatter me.”

“Upon my honour, no.”

“Well, I can return the compliment; for a blue, with chased buttons and

silk lining, you beat anything I ever had the honour of meeting. But I

suppose, as you are here, you are not the Cornet now?”

“Alas! no.”

“May I ask why?”

“Certainly. His scoundrel of a valet disgraced his master’s cloth and me

at the same time. The villain went to the Lowther Arcade—took me with

him by force. Fancy my agony; literally accessory to handing ices to

milliners’ apprentices and staymakers; and when the wretch commenced

quadrilling it, he dos-a-dos’d me up against a fat soap-boiler’s wife,

in filthy three-turned-and-dyed common satin.”

“Scoundrel!”

“Rascal! But he was discovered—he reeled home drunk. I, that is, as it’s

known, we make the men. The Cornet saw him, and thrashed him soundly

with a three-foot Crowther.”

“That must have been delightful to your feelings.”

“Not very.”

“Why not? revenge is sweet.”

“So it is; but as the Cornet forgot to order him to take me off, I got

the worst of the drubbing. I was dreadfully cut about. Two buttons

fearfully lacerated—nothing but the shanks left.”

“How did it end?”

“The valet mentioned something about wages and assault warrants, so I

was given to him to make the matter up. Between you and I, the Cornet

was very hard up.”

“Indeed!”

“Certain of it. You remember the French-grey trousers we used to walk

out with—those he strapped so tight over the remarkably chatty and

pleasant French-polished boots whose broken English we used to admire so

much?”

“Of course I do; they were the most charming greys I ever met. They beat

the plaids into fits; and the plaids were far from ungentlemanly, only

they would always talk with a sham Scotch accent, and quote the

‘Cotter’s Saturday Night.’”

“Certainly that was a drawback. But to return to our friends, and the

Cornet’s friends, they must have been bad, for those very greys were

seated.”

“Impossible!”

“Fact, I assure you. My tails were pinned over the patch for three

weeks.”

“How did they bear it?”

“Shockingly. A general break up of the constitution—went all to pieces.

First, decay appeared in the brace buttons; then the straps got out of

order. They did say it was owing to the heels of the French-polished

boots going down on one side, but the boots would never admit it.”

“How did you get here?”

“I came from the Bench for eggs and bacon for the Cornet and his Valet’s

breakfast! What brought you?”

“The Count’s landlady, for a week’s rent.”

“What did you fetch?”

“A guinea!”

“Bless me, you must have worn well.”

“No; hold your tongue—I think I shall die with laughing,—ha! ha!—When

they took me in, I returned the compliment. I’ve been—”

“What?”

“Cuffed and collared!”

“Ha! ha! ha! ha!” shouted both coats; and “Ha! ha!” shouted I; “And I’ll

teach you to ‘ha! ha!’ and neglect your business” shouted the Governor;

and the reality of a stunning box on the ear dispelled the illusion of

my “Day-dream at my Uncle’s.”

FUSBOS.

“BLOW GENTLE BREEZE.” The Reverend Henry Snow, M.A., has been inducted

by the Bishop of Gloucester, to the Vicarage of Sherborne cum Windrush.

From Glo’ster see, a windrush came, and lo!

On Sherborne Vicarage it drifted Snow.

[pg 194] THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER VIII. SHOWS WHAT’S AFTER A

PARTY, AND WHAT’S IN A NAME. A sad man's face encircled by a letter U.

ndoubtedly on the following day 24 Pleasant-terrace was the most

uncomfortable place in the universe. Some one has said that wherever

Pleasure is, Pain is certain not to be far off; and the truth of the

allegory is never better exemplified than on the day after “a most

delightful party.” We can only compare it to the morning succeeding a

victory by which the conqueror has gained a great deal of glory at a

very considerable expenditure of matériel. Let us accompany the mistress

of the house as she proceeds from room to room, to ascertain the damage

done by the enemy upon the furniture and decorations. A light damask

curtain is found to have been saturated with port wine; a ditto chair-

cushion has been doing duty as a dripping-pan to a cluster of wax-

lights; a china shepherdess, having been brought into violent collision

with the tail of a raging lion on the mantel-piece, has reduced the

noble beast to the short-cut condition of a Scotch colley. A broken

candle has perversely fallen the only way in which it could have done

any damage, and has thrown the quicksilver on the back of a large

looking-glass into an alarming state of eruption. The return of “cracked

and broken” presents a fearful list of smashage and fracture: the best

tea-set is rendered unfit for active service, being minus two saucers, a

cup-handle, and a milk-jug; the green and gold dessert-plates have been

frightfully reduced in numbers; two fiddle-handle spoons are completely

hors de combat, having been placed under the legs of the supper-table to

keep it steady; seven straw-stemmed wine-glasses awfully shattered

during the “three-times-three” discharge in honour of the toast of the

Heir of Applebites; four cut tumblers injured past recovery in a fit of

“entusymusy” by four young gentlemen who were accidentally left by

themselves in the supper-room; eighteen silver-plated dessert-knives

reduced to the character of saws, by a similar number of “nice fellows”

who were endeavouring to do the agreeable with the champagne, and

consequently could distinguish no difference between wire and grape-

stalks. The destruction in the kitchen had been equally great: the extra

waiter had placed his heel on a ham-sandwich, and, consequently, sat

down rather hurriedly on the floor with a large tray of sundries in his

lap, the result of which was, according to the following

OFFICIAL RETURN, Two decanters starred; One salt-cellar smithereened;

Four tumblers cracked uncommonly; An extra waiter many bruises, and

fractured pantaloons. The day after a party is certain to be a sloppy

day; and as the street-door is constantly being opened and shut, a raw,

rheumatical wind is ever in active operation. Both these miseries were

consequent upon the Applebite festivities, and Agamemnon saw a series of

catarrhs enter the house as the rout-stools made their exit. He was

quite right; for the next fortnight neck-of-mutton broth was the

standard bill of fare, only varied by tea, gruel, and toast-and-water.

There is no evil without its attendant good; and the temporary

imprisonment of the Applebite family induced them to consider the

propriety of naming the infant heir, for hitherto he had been called

“the cherub,” “the sweet one,” “the mother’s duck of the world,” and

“daddy’s darling.” Several names had been suggested by the several

friends and relatives of the family, but nothing decisive had been

agreed to.

Agamemnon wished his heir to be called Isaac, after his grandfather, the

member for Puddingbury, “in the hope,” as he expressed himself, “that he

might in after years be stimulated to emulate the distinguished talents

and virtues of his great ancestor.” (Overruled by Mrs. Waddledot, Mrs.

Applebite, and the rest of the ladies. Isaac declared vulgar, except in

the case of the member for Puddingbury.)

Mrs. Waddledot was anxious that the boy should be christened Roger de

Dickey, after her mother’s great progenitor, who was said to have come

over with William the Conqueror, but whether in the capacity of a

lacquey or a lord-in-waiting was never, and perhaps never will be,

determined. (Opposed by Agamemnon, on the ground that ill-natured people

would be sure to dispense with the De, and his heir would be designated

as Roger Dickey. In this opinion Mrs. Applebite concurred.)

The lady-mother was still more perplexing; she proposed that he should

be called—

ALBERT (we give her own reasons)—because the Queen’s husband was so

named.

AGAMEMNON—because of the alliteration and his papa.

DAVIS—because an old maiden lady who was independent had said that she

thought it a good name for a boy, as her own was Davis.

MONTAGUE—because it was a nice-sounding name, and the one she intended

to address him by in general conversation.

COLLUMPSION—as her papa.

PHIPPS—because she had had a dream in which a number of bags or gold

were marked P.H.I.P.P.S.; and

APPLEBITE—as a matter of course.

(Objected to by Mrs. Waddledot, for—nothing in particular, and by

Agamemnon on the score of economy. The heir being certain to employ a

lawyer, would be certain to pay an enormous interest in that way alone.)

Friends were consulted, but without any satisfactory result; and at

length it was agreed that the names should be written upon strips of

paper and drawn by the nominees. The necessary arrangements being

completed, the three proceeded to the ballot.

Mrs. Waddledot drew Isaac. Agamemnon drew Roger de Dickey. Mrs.

Applebite drew Phipps. As a matter of course everybody was dissatisfied;

but with a “stern virtue” everybody kept it to themselves, and the heir

was accordingly christened Isaac Roger de Dickey Phipps Applebite.

Old John soon realised Agamemnon’s fears of Mrs. Waddledot’s selection,

for, whether the patronym of the Norman invader was more in accordance

with his own ideas of propriety, or was more readily suggestive to his

mind of the infant heir, he was continually speaking of little master

Dicky; and upon being remonstrated with upon the subject promised

amendment for the future. All, however, was of no use, for John jumbled

the Phipps, the Roger, the Dickey, and the De together, but always

contriving most perversely to

A cart with a horse hooked up behind it. “PUT THE CART BEFORE THE

HORSE.”

A SCANDALOUS REPORT. We are requested to contradict, by authority, the

report that Colonel Sibthorp was the Guy Fawkes seen in Parliament-

street. It is true that a deputation waited upon him to solicit him to

take the chair on the 5th of November, but the gallant Colonel modestly

declined, much to the disappointment of the young gentlemen who

presented the requisition; so much so indeed, that, after exhausting

their oratorical powers, they slightly hinted at having recourse to

A woman threatens a boy with a switch. PHYSICAL FORCE.

“ROB ME THE EXCHEQUER, HAL.” No wonder Smith Exchequer Bills,

Should have a taste for gorging,

For since the work the pocket fills,

What Smith’s averse to forging?

[pg 195] THE FIRE AT THE TOWER. This is a sad business, there is no

doubt, and the excitement which prevailed may probably excuse the

eccentricities that occurred, and to which we beg leave to call the

public attention.

In the first place, by way of ensuring the safety of the property,

precautions were taken to shut out every one from the building; and as

military rule knows of no exception, the orders given were executed to

the letter by preventing the ingress of the firemen with their engines

until the general order of exclusion was followed by a countermand. This

of course took time, leaving the fire to devour at its leisure the

enormous meal that fate had prepared for it.

After the admission of the firemen there was the usual mishap of no

water where it could be got at, but an abundant supply where there was

no possibility of reaching it. The tanks which the hose could be got

into were almost dry, while the Thames was in the most provoking way

almost overflowing its banks in the very neighbourhood of the fire; and

yet, if the pipes were laid on to the water, they were laid off too far

from the building to have the least effect upon it.

The next eccentricity consisted in the sudden idea that suggested itself

to somebody, that all energy should be devoted to saving the jewels,

which were not in the smallest danger, and even if they had been, there

was nobody knew how to get at them, the key being some miles off in the

possession of the Lord Chamberlain. It might as well have been at the

bottom of the Thames; and, of course, everybody began tugging at the

iron bars, which were at length forced, and the jewels were, at a great

cost of time and trouble, removed to a place of safety from a position

of the most perfect security!! However, this showed activity if nothing

else, and of course made the subject of paragraphs about “presence of

mind,” “indefatigable exertions,” and “superhuman efforts” on the part

of certain persons who, for the good they were doing, might just as well

have been carrying the piece of artillery in St. James’s Park into the

enclosure opposite.

While the jewels were being hurried from one part of the Tower, where

they were quite safe, to another where they were not more so, it never

occurred to any one to rescue from danger the arms, which were being

quietly consumed, while the crown and regalia were being jolted about

with the most injurious activity.

The treatment of some of the reporters was another curious point of this

melancholy business; and a gentleman from a weekly journal, on applying

at head-quarters, found his own head suddenly quartered by a blow from a

musket. This was rather unceremonious treatment on the part of the

privates of the line to a person who is also

A fish says 'I say old fellow if you want me just drop me a line,' to

which a fisherman replies 'Yes I will with a hook.' ATTACHED TO THE

LINE.

—the penny-a-line we mean; but with a true gusto for accidents, and a

relish for calamities, which nothing could subdue, he still pressed

forward, with blood streaming from his fractured skull, for additional

particulars. The American reporter whose hand was blown off, and had the

good fortune to be upon the spot, is not to be compared with the hero

who had the exclusive advantage of being able to supply practical

information of the ruffianly conduct pursued by the soldiery.

It is not stated whether the fire-escape was on the spot; but as no one

lived in the building that was burnt, it is highly probable that every

effort was made to save the lives of the inhabitants. There is no doubt

that the ladder was strenuously directed towards the clock tower, with

the view, probably, of saving the “jolly cock” who used to adorn the top

of it.

The reporters mark as a miracle the extraordinary fact, that during the

whole time of the fire, the weathercock continued to vary with the wind.

The gentlemen of the press, probably, expected that the awful solemnity

of the scene would have rendered any man, not entirely lost to every

sense of feeling, completely motionless. The apathy of the weathercock

that went on whirling about as if nothing had happened, is in the

highest degree disgusting, and we can scarcely regret the fate of such

an unfeeling animal.

PLEASE TO REMEMBER THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER. November, that month of fires,

fogs, felo de ses, and Fawkes, has been ushered in with becoming

ceremony at the Tower and at various other parts of the metropolis. In

vain has an Act of Parliament been passed for the suppression of

bonfires—November asserts her rights, and will have her modicum of

“flare up” in spite of the law; but with the trickery of an Old Bailey

barrister she has thrown the onus upon October. Nor is this all! Like a

traitorous Eccalobeion she has already hatched several conspiracies, as

though everybody now thought of getting rid of others or themselves.

The Right Hon. Spring-heel Rice Baron Jamescrow, commonly known as the

Lord Monteagle, has, like his historical synonym, been favoured with a

communication which being considerably beyond his own comprehension, he

has in a laudable spirit submitted it to Punch—an evidence of wisdom

which we really did not expect from our friend Baron Jamescrow.

We subjoin the introductory epistle—

DEAR PUNCH,—I hasten to forward you the awful letter enclosed—we are all

abroad here concerning it—by the bye, how are you all at home—to say the

least, it certainly does look very ugly. Mrs. P., I hope, has improved

in appearance. Something terrible is evidently about to happen. I intend

to pay you a visit shortly. I trust we may not have to encounter any

more Guys—you may expect to see me on my Friday. I can only add my

prayers for the nation’s safety and my compliments to Mrs. Punch and the

young P.s.

Yours ever, MONTEAGLE.

P.S. Let me have your advice and your last Number immediately I have

made a few notes, and paid the postage.

The following is the letter referred to by the Baron Jamescrow:—

MY LORD,—Being known to some of your friends I would advise you, as you

tender your peace and quiet, to devise some excuse to shift off your

attendance at your house (clearly the House of Lords—Monteagle), for

fire and brimstone have united to destroy the enemies of man (evidently

gunpowder, lucifer-matches, and the Peers—Monteagle). Think not lightly

of my advertisement (see Dispatch), but retire yourself in the country

(I should think I would—Monteagle), where you may abide in safety; for

though there be no appearance of any punæ; (what the deuce does this

mean? Puny’s little—Monteagle), yet they will receive a terrible blow-up

(By punæ he means members of Parliament, and he is another

Guy!—Monteagle); yet they shall not see who hurts them, though the place

shall be purified and the enemy completely destroyed.

I am, your Lordship’s servant, and destroyer to her Majesty and the two

Houses of Parliament. T.I.F. Fin.

We are surprised at our friend Monteagle troubling us with a matter

evidently as plain as the nose on our own face. It requires neither a

Solon nor a Punch to solve the enigma. It is merely a letter from

Tiffin, the bug destroyer to her Majesty, and refers to his peculiar

plan of persecuting the punæ.

We have no doubt that Lords and Commons will be blown up on the re-

assembling of Parliament; and as an assurance that we do not speak upon

conjecture only, we beg to subjoin a portrait of the delinquent.

A caricature with a downcast head. THE MODERN GUY VAUX.

[pg 196] THE RIVAL CANDIDATES. Be not afraid, gentle reader, that, from

the title of our present article, we are about to prescribe for you any

political draught. No! be assured that we know as little about politics

as pyrotechny—that we are as blissfully ignorant of all that relates to

the science of government as that of gastronomy—and have ever since our

boyhood preferred the solid consistency of gingerbread to the crisp

insipidity of parliament. The candidates of whom we write were no would-

be senators—no sprouting Ciceros or embryo Demosthenes’—they were no

aspirants for the grand honour of representing the honest and

independent stocks and stones of some ancient rotten borough, or, what

is about the same thing, the enlightened ten-pound voters of some modern

reformed one—they were not ambitious of the proud privilege of appending

for seven years two letters to their names, and of franking some half-

dozen others per diem. No! the rivals who form the theme of our present

paper were emulous of obtaining no place in Parliament, but, what is far

more desirable, a place in the affections of a lovely maid. They sought

not for the suffrages of the unwashed, but for the smiles of a fair

one,—they neither desired to be returned as the representative of so

many sordid voters for the term of seven years (a term of transportation

common alike to M.P.s and pickpockets), but for the more permanent

honour of being elected as the partner of a certain lady for life.

Georgiana Gray was the lovely object of the rivalry of the above

candidates; and a damsel more eminently qualified to be the innocent

cause of contention could not be found within the whole catalogue of

those dear destructive little creatures who, from Eve downwards, have

always possessed a peculiar patent for mischief-making. Georgiana was as

handsome as she was rich. She was, in the superlative sense of the word,

a beauty, and—what ought to be written in letters of gold—an heiress.

She had the figure of a sylph, and the purse of a nabob. Her face was

lovely and animated enough to enrapture a Raffaelle, and her fortune

ample enough to captivate a Rothschild. She had a clear rent-roll of

20,000l. per annum,—and a pair of eyes that, independent of her other

attractions, were sufficiently fascinating to seduce Diogenes himself

into matrimony.

Philosophers generally affirm that the only substance capable of

producing a magnetic effect is steel; but had they been witnesses of the

great attraction that the fortune of our fair heroine had for its many

eager pursuers, they would doubtless have agreed with us that the metal

possessing the greatest possible power of magnetism is decidedly—gold.

Innumerable were the butterflies that were drawn towards the lustre of

the lovely Georgiana’s money; and many a suitor, who set a high value

upon his personal qualifications, might be found at her side

endeavouring to persuade its pretty possessor of the eligible investment

that might be made of the property in himself. Report, however, had

invidiously declared that Georgiana looked with a cold and contemptuous

eye upon the addresses of all save two.

Augustus Peacock and Julius Candy (this enviable duo) were two such

young men as may be met with in herds any fine afternoon publishing

their persons to the frequenters of Regent-street. They did credit to

their tailors, who were liberal enough to give them credit in return.

Their coats were guiltless of a wrinkle, their gloves immaculate in

their chastity, and their boots resplendent in their brilliancy. Indeed

they were human annuals—splendidly bound, handsomely embellished—but

replete with nothing but fashionable frivolities. They never ventured

out till such time as they imagined the streets were well-aired, and

were never known to indulge in an Havannah till twelve o’clock P.M. They

were scrupulous in their attentions to the Opera and the figurantes, and

had no objection to wear the chains of matrimony provided the links were

made of gold. In fine, they were of that common genus of gentlemen who

lounge through life, and leave nothing behind them but a tombstone and a

small six-shilling advertisement amongst the Deaths of some morning

newspaper as a record of their having existed.

Such were the persons and the qualifications of the gentlemen to whom

report had assigned the possession of the hand and fortune of the fair

Georgiana Gray. But, happy as they respectively felt to be thus singled

out for the proud distinction, still the knowledge of there being a

rival in the field to dispute the glories of the conquest materially

detracted from that feeling. They had each heard of the pretensions of

the other; and while the peace of the one was repeatedly disturbed by

the panegyrics of Mr. P., the harmony of the other met with an equal

violation from the eulogies of Mr. C.; and although their respective

vanities would not allow them to believe that the lady in question could

be so deficient in taste as to prefer any other person to their precious

selves, still it was but natural that they should neither look upon the

other with any other feeling than that of disgust at the egregious

impudence, and contempt for the superlative conceit, that could lead any

other man to enter the lists as an opponent to themselves. Repeatedly

had Mr. P. been heard to express his desire to lengthen the olfactory

organ of Mr. C.; while the latter had frequently been known to declare

that nothing would confer greater gratification upon him than to endorse

with his cane the person of Mr. P. In fact, they hated each other with

all possible cordiality. Fortunately, however, circumstances had never

brought them into collision.

It was a lovely afternoon in May. All the world were returning to town.

Georgiana Gray had just forsaken Harrowgate and its waters, to

participate in the thickening gaieties of the metropolis. Augustus

Peacock had abandoned the moors of Scotland for the beauties of

Almack’s; and Julius Candy had hastened from the banks of the Wye for

the fascinations of Taglioni and the Opera.

The first object of Augustus on returning to town was to hasten and pay

his devoirs to his intended. With this intent he proceeded to the

mansion of Georgiana, and was ushered into the drawing-room, with the

assurance that the lady would be with him immediately. The servant,

however, had no sooner quitted the apartment than Mr. Candy, actuated by

a similar motive, knocked at the door, and was speedily conducted into

the presence of his rival.

The two gentlemen, being mutually ignorant of the person of the other,

bowed with all the formality usual to a first introduction.

“Fine day, sir,” said Augustus Peacock, after a short pause, little

aware that he was holding communion with his rival.

“It is—very fine, sir,” returned Julius Candy with a smile, which, had

he been conscious of the person he was addressing, would instantly have

been converted into a most contemptuous sneer.

“Have you had the pleasure of seeing Miss Gray, sir, since her return

from Harrowgate?” inquired Augustus, with the soft civility of a man of

fashion.

“No,—I have not yet had that honour, sir; no,”—replied Julius, with a

slight inclination of his body.

“Charming girl, sir,” remarked Mr. Peacock.

“Fascinating creature,” responded Mr. Candy.

“Did you ever see such eyes, sir?” continued Mr. P.

“Never! ’pon my honour! never!”—exclaimed Julius, in a tone of moderate

enthusiasm. “You may call them eyes, sir,” and here he elevated his own.

“And what lips?”

“Positively provoking!”

“Ah, sir!” languishingly remarked Augustus, “he will be a happy may who

gets possession of such a treasure!”

“He will, indeed, sir,” returned his unknown rival, with an air of self-

satisfaction, as if he believed that happiness was likely to be his own.

“You are aware, I suppose, sir,” proceeded the communicative Mr.

Peacock, “that there is a certain party whom Miss Gray looks upon with

particular favour”—and the gentleman, to give peculiar emphasis to the

remark, slightly elevated his cravat.

“I should think I ought to be”—pointedly returned Mr. C.—simpering

somewhat diffidently at the idea that the observation was levelled at

himself.

The two rivals looked at each other, tittered, and bowed.

“Ah! yes—I dare say—observed it, no doubt!” said Augustus, when his

emotion had subsided.

“Why, yes—I should have been blind indeed could I have failed to remark

it,” responded Julius.

“Ah yes—you’re right—yes—Miss Gray’s attentions have been particularly

marked, certainly—yes.”

“They have been, sir, very, very marked—she’s quite taken, poor thing, I

believe!”

“Yes, poor creature!—sadly smitten indeed!—The lady has confessed as

much to you perhaps, sir?”

Mr. Candy looked surprised at the remark of his companion, and replied

“Why really, sir, that is a question which”—

“Ah, yes, I beg pardon, I was wrong—yes, I ought to have considered—but

candidly, sir, what do you think of the match?”

“’Pon my honour, my dear sir,” exclaimed Julius most feelingly,

colouring slightly at the question, which he thought was rather home-

thrust.

“Ah, yes, to be sure, it is rather a delicate question, considering, you

know, that one is in the presence of the party himself, is it not?”

“Very, very delicate, I can assure you,” said Julius, who, “laying the

flattering unction to his soul” that he was the party alluded to,

thought it rather an indelicate one.

Augustus observed the embarrassment of his companion, and could not

refrain from laughter, and turning round to his companion, enquired

significantly, “whether he did not think he was a happy man?”