Julius, who was in a measure similarly affected by the excitement of his

unknown friend, observed, that the gentleman certainly did seem of a

peculiarly gay disposition; and the two rivals, each delighted with the

fancied approval of his suit by the other, indulged a mutual

cachinnation.

“I suppose,” after a slight pause remarked Augustus, with apparently

perfect indifference, “you are aware that there was a rival in the

field?”

“Oh! ah! did hear of a fellow,” responded Julius, with equal

insouciance, “but the idea of any other man carrying off the prize,

perfectly ridiculous!”

“Oh! absolutely ludicrous, ’pon my soul! Ha! ha! ha!”

“It is astonishing the confounded vanity of some people!”

“And their preposterous obtuseness! why, a man with half an eye might

see the folly of such presumption.”

“To be sure, stupid dolt!”

“Impudent puppy!”

“Conceited fool!”

“The fellow must be out of his senses!”

“Yes, a horsewhipping perhaps might bring him to!”

“Ay, or a good kicking might be salutary!”

The unanimity of the rival candidates produced, as might be supposed

from their ignorance of the pretensions of each other, a feeling of

mutual satisfaction and friendship, which, after a volley of anathemas

had been fired by each gentleman against his rival, in absolute

unconsciousness of [pg 197]his presence, ultimately displayed itself by

each of them rising from his chair, and shaking the other most

energetically by the hand.

“Really, my dear sir,” exclaimed Augustus in an inordinate fit of

enthusiasm, at the supposed sympathy of his companion, “I never met with

a gentleman so peculiarly to my fancy as yourself.”

“The feeling is perfectly reciprocal, believe me, my dear sir,” returned

Julius, equally delighted with the imagined friendship of Mr. P.

“I trust that our acquaintance will not end here.”

“I shall be most proud to cultivate it, I can assure you.”

“Will you allow me to present you with a card?”

“I shall be too happy to exchange it for one of my own!” and so saying,

the parties searched for their cases—Mr. P., in the mean time,

protesting his gratification “to meet with a gentleman whose opinions so

thoroughly coincided with his own,”—and Mr. C. as emphatically declaring

“that he should ever consider this the most fortunate occurrence of his

life.”

“Believe me, I shall be most happy to see you at any time,” observed Mr.

Augustus Peacock, smiling as he placed the small oblong of cardboard

which bore his name and address in the hand of his companion.

“I shall feel too proud if you will honour me with a call at your

earliest convenience,” said Mr. Julius Candy bowing, while he presented

to his fancied friend the little pasteboard parallelogram inscribed with

his title and residence.

The eyes of the two gentlemen, however, were no sooner directed to the

cards, which had been placed in their hands, than the smiles which had

previously gladdened their countenances were instantaneously changed

into expressions of the most indignant scorn and surprise.

“Peacock!” shouted Candy.

“Candy!” vociferated Peacock.

“Sir!” exclaimed the furious Mr. P., “had I known that Candy was the

name of the man, sir, whom I was addressing, sir, my conduct you would

have found, sir, of a very different character!”

“And had I been aware,” retorted the exasperated Mr. C., “that Peacock

was the title of the fellow” (and he laid a forty-horse power of

emphasis upon the word) “with whom I have been conversing, my card would

never have been delivered to him but with a different motive.”

“Fellow, sir! I think you said—Fellow, sir!”

“I did, sir,—fellow was the word I used, and I repeat it—fellow—fellow!”

“You do, sir! and I throw back in your teeth, sir, with the addition of

fool, sir!”

“Fool!—no, no—not quite a fool—only near one, sir!”

“You’re a conceited puppy, sir!”

“And you are an impudent scoundrel, sir!”

This brought matters to a crisis. The parties embraced their canes with

more than ordinary ardour, and, by their lowering looks, indicated a

fervent desire to violate the peace of her blessed Majesty, when the

fair cause of their contention suddenly entered the apartment.

It was no difficult matter, in the positions they occupied, for

Georgiana to divine the reason of their animosity; which she effectually

allayed by informing the angry disputants, “that either had no reason to

look upon the other with any degree of jealousy, for she humbly begged

to assure them that her affections were devoted to—neither.”

This, of course, put a full stop to their chivalry: each party seized

his hat, bowing distantly to the insensible Georgiana, and left the

house, vowing certain destruction to the other; but, upon cool

reflection, Messrs. C. and P. doubtless deemed it advisable not to

endanger the small quantum of brains they individually possessed, by

fighting for a lady who was so utterly blind to their manifold merits.

Thus ended the feud of THE RIVAL CANDIDATES.

SIR FRANCIS BURDETT’S VISIT TO THE TOWER. On the news of the fire in the

Tower of London being told to Sir Francis Burdett, he hurried to the

scene of the conflagration, which must have suggested some unpleasing

reminiscences of his lost popularity and faded glory. Some thirty years

ago, those very walls received him like a second Hampden, the undaunted

defender of his country’s rights;—on last Monday he entered them a

broken-down unhonoured parasite. Gazing on the black and smouldering

ruins before him—he perhaps compared them to his own patriotism, for he

was heard to matter audibly—

A man brushes his thinning hair. CAN IT BE THAT THIS IS ALL REMAINS OF

THEE?

REFORM YOUR LAWYERS’ BILLS. It is a well-known and established fact,

that nothing so far conduces to the domestic happiness of all circles as

the golden system of living within one’s income. Luxuries cease to be so

if after-reflection produces vexatious results; comfort flies before an

exorbitant and unprepared-for demand; and the debtor dunned by the

merciless creditor sinks into something worse than a cipher, as

nothingness is denied him, and the one standing before him but

aggravates, and multiplies his painful annoyances. The great secret of

satisfactory existence derives its origin from well-calculated and

moderate expenditure. Ten thousand a year renders pines cheap at 1l.

11s. 6d. per pound; ten hundred is better exemplified by Ribston

pippins!

So in all grades are there various matters of taste which become

extravagance if rushed into by persons unbreeched for the occasion.

Luckily for the present day, the tastes of the gourmand and epicure are

merged in more manly sports; the great class of Corinthian aristocrats

cull sweets from the blackened eyes of policemen—raptures from wrenched-

off knockers—merriment in contusions—and frantic delight in fractured

limbs! These innocent amusements have in their prosecution plunged many

of their thoughtless and high-spirited devotees into pecuniary

difficulties, simply from their ignorance of the costs attendant upon

such exciting, fashionable, and therefore highly proper amusements.

Ever anxious to ameliorate the suffering and persecuted of ail classes,

Messrs. Quibble and Quirk, attorneys-at-law, beg to offer their

professional services at the following fixed and equitable rate,—they,

Messrs. Q. and Q., pledging themselves that on no occasion shall the

charge exceed the sum opposite the particular amusement in the following

list.

N.B. Five per cent, per annum taken off for terms of imprisonment.

? N.B. For prompt payment only.

Messrs. Q. and Q.’s card of charges for defending a Nobleman, Right

Honble., Baronet, Knight, Esquire., Gentleman, Younger Son, Head Clerk,

Junior do., Westminster Boy, Medical Student, Grecian at Christ’s

Church, Monitor, or any other miscellaneous individual aping or

belonging to the aristocracy, from the following prosecutions:—

£ s. To breaking a policeman’s neck 50 0 To producing witnesses to swear

policeman broke same himself 10 0 To choice of situation of house in

street where done, from roof of which policeman fell; fee to landlord

for number and affidavit 10 10 Total for neck, acquittal, witnesses, and

perjury £70 10 For do. leg, ribs, arms, head, nose, or other unimportant

member 15 0 For receipt written by wife of handsome provision 1 0 For

writing and indorsing same 5 5 Extras for alibis, if necessary; hire of

clothes for witnesses to look decent, including loss by their absconding

with the name 10 10 Total £31 15 For knockers by gross in populous

neighbourhoods 20 0 For carpenter proving same never fitted their

respective doors there engaged 3 3 All extras included 1 1 Total £24 4

N.B.—Messrs. Q. and Q. beg to suggest, as the above charges are low, the

old iron may as well be left at their offices.

For railings, per knob or dozen, assaults on police included, if not

amounting to fracture 5 5 For suppressing police reports, or getting

them put in in a sporting manner, the word gentleman substituted for

prisoner, and “seat on the bench” for “place at the bar” 10 10 Total £15

15 And all other legal articles in the above lines at equally low

charges.

Noblemen and gentlemen contracting for seven years allowed a handsome

discount. No connexion with any other house.

“WHEN VULCAN FORGED,” &c. “Bless my soul!” said Sir Peter Laurie,

rushing into the Justice-room the morning the Exchequer Bill affair was

discovered, and seizing Hobler by the button; “This is a dreadful

business. Have you any idea, Hobler, who the delinquent is?” “Why

really, Sir Peter, ’tis difficult to say; but from an inspection of the

forged instruments I should say it was Smith’s work.” Sir Peter felt the

importance of the suggestion, and rushed off to Sir Robert Peel to

recommend the stoppage of all the forges in the kingdom.

[pg 198] PEEL’S PRE-EXISTENCE! “Every man is not only himself,” says Sir

THOMAS BROWNE; “there hath been many Diogenes, and as many Timons,

though but few of that name. Men are lived over again. The world is now

as it was in ages past: there was none then but there hath been some one

since that parallels him, and, as it were, his revived self.” We are

devout believers in the creed.

HERR VON TEUFELSKOPF was a High German doctor, of the first class. He

had taken his diploma of Beelzebub in the Black Forest, and was gifted

with as fine a hand to force a card—with as glib a tongue to harangue a

mob at wakes and fairs, as any professor since the birth of the fourth

grace of life,—swindling. He would talk until his head smoked of his

list of miraculous cures—of his balsams, his anodynes, his elixirs; in

the benevolence of his soul he would, to accommodate the pockets of the

poor, sell a pennyworth of the philosopher’s stone; and, as a further

illustration of his sympathy for suffering man or woman, give, even for

a kreutzer, a mouthful of the Fountain of Youth. As a water-doctor, too,

his Sagacity was inconceivable. A hundred years ago, he told to a

fraction the amount of the national debt, from a single glance at the

specimen sent him by JOHN BULL; and more, for five-and-twenty years

predicted who would be the incoming Lord Mayor of London, from an

inspection of a pint of water presented to him every season from

Aldgate-pump. He could prophesy all the politics of the Court of

Aldermen from a phial filled at Fleet-ditch; and could at any time—no

trifling task—tell the amount of corruption in the House of Commons, by

taking up a handful of water at Westminster-bridge. On his stolen visit

to England—for the honour he has done our country has never been

generally known—he calculated to a nicety how many puppies and kittens

were annually drowned in the Thames, and how many

suicides—particularising the sex and dress of each sufferer—were

committed in the same period, from a bottlefull of Thames water brought

to him wherewith to dilute his brandy at the Ship public house,

Greenwich—a hostelry much frequented by Doctor TEUFELSKOPF. We have seen

the calculation very beautifully illuminated on ass’s skin, and at this

moment deposited in the college of Heligoland. It is not generally known

that the Doctor died in this country; lustily predicting, however, that

after a nap of a score or so of years he would return to this life in an

entirely new character. The Doctor has kept his word. HERR VON

TEUFELSKOPF, as Sir THOMAS BROWNE says, is “lived over again” in Sir

ROBERT PEEL!

It is impossible to reflect upon the enlarged humanity of Sir ROBERT—for

though, indeed, he is no other than the old German quack revived, we

will not refuse to him his new name—toward the sufferers of Paisley,

without feeling that the fine spirit of finesse which made the

reputation of the student of the Black Forest has in no way suffered

from its long sleep; but, on the contrary, has risen very much refreshed

for new practice. The Doctor never compassed so fine a sleight as Sir

ROBERT when lately, playing the philanthropist, he struck his breeches’

pocket with a spasm of benevolence, and pulled therefrom—fifty pounds!

Only a few weeks before, Sir ROBERT had sworn by all his list of former

cures, that he would clothe the naked and feed the hungry, if he were

duly authorised and duly paid for such Christian-like solicitude. He is

called in; he then prorogues Parliament to the tune of “Go to the devil

and shake yourself,” and sits down in the easy chair of salary, and

tries to think! Disturbed in his contemplations by the groans and

screams of the famishing, he addresses the starving multitude from the

windows of Downing-street, telling them he can do nothing for them in a

large way, but—the fee he has received to cure them can afford as

much—graciously throwing them fifty pounds from his private compassion!

As a statesman he is powerless; but he has no objection to subscribe to

the Mendicity Society.

It is an old hacknied abuse of NERO, that when Rome was in flame he

accompanied the crackling of doors and rafters with his very best

fiddle. We grant this showed a want of fine sympathy on the part of

NERO; there was, nevertheless, a boldness, an exhibition of nerve, in

such instrumentation. Any way, it leaves us with a higher respect for

NERO than if he had been found playing on the burning Pantheon with a

penny squirt. His mockery of the Romans, bad as it was, was not the

mockery of compassion.

“I will make bread cheap for you,” says Sir ROBERT PEEL to the Paisley

sufferers; “I will not enable you to buy the quartern loaf at a reduced

rate by your own industry, but I will treat you to a penny roll, at its

present size, from my own purse.” Whereupon the Tories clap their hands

and cry, “What magnanimity!”

What should we say if, on another Pie-lane conflagration of London, the

Minister were to issue an order commanding all the fire-offices to make

no attempt to extinguish the flames, and were then to exclaim to the

sufferers, “My friends, I deeply sympathize with you; but the Phœnix

shall not budge, the Hand-in-Hand mustn’t move a finger, the Eagle must

stay where it is; nevertheless, there is a little private fire-engine of

my own at Tamworth; you are heartily welcome to the use of it, and pray

heaven it may put this terrible fire out, and once more make you snug

and comfortable.”

Quackery is of more ancient birth than many very honest people suspect;

nay, more than, were the register of its nativity laid before their

eyes, they would be willing to admit. We have no space for its

voluminous history; but it is our belief, since quackery first plied its

profitable trade with human incredulity, it never perpetrated so

successful a trick as that exhibited by Sir ROBERT PEEL in his motion of

want of confidence. The first scene of the farce is only begun. We have

seen how Sir ROBERT has snatched the cards out of the hands of the

Whigs, and shall find how he will play the self-same trumps assorted by

his opponents. A change is already coming over the Conservatives; they

are meek and mild, and, with their pocket handkerchiefs at their eyes,

lisp about the distresses of the people. “When the geese gaggle,” says a

rustic saw, “expect a change of weather.” Lord LONDONDERRY has already

begun to talk of an alteration of the Corn-laws.

“Who knows what a minister may be compelled to do?” says Lord

LONDONDERRY. These are new words for the old harridan Toryism. She was

wont, like Falstaff, to blow out her cheeks and defy compulsion. But the

truth is, Toryism has a new host to contend with. Her old reign was

supported by fictitious credit—by seeming prosperity—and, more than all,

by the ignorance of the people. Well, the bills drawn by Toryism (at a

long date we grant) have now to be paid—paper is to be turned into Bank

gold. Arithmetic is a great teacher, and, with the taxman’s ink horn at

his button-hole, gives at every door lessons that sink into the heart of

the scholar. Public opinion, which, in the good old days “when George

the Third was king,” was little more than an abstraction—a thing talked

of, not acknowledged—is now a tangible presence. The said public opinion

is now formed of hundreds of thousands whose existence, save in the

books of the Exchequer, was scarcely admitted by any reigning minister.

Sir ROBERT PEEL has now to give in his reckoning to the hard-heads of

Manchester, of Birmingham, of Leeds—he must pass his books with them,

and tens of thousands of their scholars scattered throughout the

kingdom; or, three months after the next meeting of Parliament, he is

nought.

At this moment, it is said, Sir ROBERT is studying what taxes he can

best lay upon the people. We confess to the difficulty of the case. At

this moment there is scarcely a feather so light, the addition of which

will not crack the camel’s back. No; Sir ROBERT will come to the Whig

measures of relief, having so disguised them as, like Plagiary’s

metaphors, to make them pass for his own. The object of himself and

party is, however, attained. He has juggled himself into place. With the

genius of his former existence, as TEUFELSKOPF, the Premier has shuffled

himself into Downing-street; and there he will leave nothing untried

that he may remain. “If Cato gets drunk, then is drunkenness no

shame”—“If Sir ROBERT PEEL alter the Corn-laws, then is it proper that

the Corn-laws should be changed.” This will be the cry of the

Conservatives; and we shall see men, who before would have vowed

themselves to slow starvation before they would admit an ear of wheat

from Poland or Egypt, vote for a sliding-scale or no scale at all, as

their places and the strength of their party may be best assured.

Doctor VON TEUFELSKOPF for years of his life was wont to eat fire and

swallow a sword. We shall see how once more Sir ROBERT PEEL will eat his

own principles—swallow his own words. When men call this apostacy, the

Doctor will blandly smile, and denominate it a sacrifice to public

opinion. We have no doubt that, as long as he can, the Premier will put

off the remedy; he will try this and that; but at length public opinion

will compel him to cast aside his own nostrums and use RUSSELL’S—bread

pills!

Q.

EPIGRAMS ON A LOUD AND SILLY TALKER. If it be true man’s tongue is like

a steed,

Which bears his mind,—why then, none wonder need,

That Timlin’s tongue can run at such a rate,

Because it only carries—feather weight.

When Timlin speaks, his voice so shrill and loud

Fills with amazement all the list’ning crowd;

But soon the wonder ceases, when ’tis found

That empty vessels make the greatest sound.

PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XVII. [pg 199] A man gives a paper marked

'£200,000' to a man behind a desk marked 'Treasury' SIR ROBERT MACAIRE

ENDEAVOURING TO DO AN EXCHEQUER BILL.

[pg 201] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. 6.—OF THE GRINDER

AND HIS CLASS. Two people kiss through a frame in the shape of the

letter O. ne fine morning, in the October of the third winter session,

the student is suddenly struck by the recollection that at the end of

the course the time will arrive for him to be thinking about undergoing

the ordeals of the Hall and College. Making up his mind, therefore, to

begin studying in earnest, he becomes a pro tempore member of a

temperance society, pledging himself to abstain from immoderate beer for

six months: he also purchases a coffee-pot, a reading-candlestick, and

Steggall’s Manual; and then, contriving to accumulate five guineas to

pay a “grinder,” he routs out his old note-books from the bottom of his

box, and commences to “read for the Hall.”

Aspirants to honours in law, physic, or divinity, each know the value of

private cramming—a process by which their brains are fattened, by

abstinence from liquids and an increase of dry food (some of it very

dry), like the livers of Strasbourg geese. There are grinders in each of

these three professional classes; but the medical teacher is the man of

the most varied and eccentric knowledge. Not only is he intimately

acquainted with the different branches required to be studied, but he is

also master of all their minutiæ. In accordance with the taste of the

examiners, he learns and imparts to his class at what degree of heat

water boils in a balloon—how the article of commerce, Prussian blue, is

more easily and correctly defined as the Ferrosesquicyanuret of the

cyanide of potassium—why the nitrous oxyde, or laughing gas, induces

people to make such asses of themselves; and, especially, all sorts of

individual inquiries, which, if continued at the present rate, will

range from “Who discovered the use of the spleen?” to “Who killed cock

robin?” for aught we know. They ask questions at the Hall quite as vague

as these.

It is twelve o’clock at noon. In a large room, ornamented by shelves of

bottles and preparations, with varnished prints of medical plants and

cases of articulated bones and ligaments, a number of young men are

seated round a long table covered with baize, in the centre of whom an

intellectual-looking man, whose well-developed forehead shows the amount

of knowledge it can contain, is interrogating by turns each of the

students, and endeavouring to impress the points in question on their

memories by various diverting associations. Each of his pupils, as he

passes his examination, furnishes him with a copy of the subjects

touched upon; and by studying these minutely, the private teacher forms

a pretty correct idea of the general run of the “Hall questions.”

“Now, Mr. Muff,” says the gentleman to one of his class, handing him a

bottle of something which appears like specimens of a chestnut colt’s

coat after he had been clipped; “what’s that, sir?”

“That’s cow-itch, sir,” replies Mr. Muff.

“Cow what? You must call it at the Hall by its botanical name—dolichos

pruriens. What is it used for?”

“To strew in people’s beds that you owe a grudge to,” replies Muff;

whereat all the class laugh, except the last comer, who takes it all for

granted, and makes a note of the circumstance in his interleaved manual.

“That answer would floor you,” continues the grinder. “The dolichos is

used to destroy worms. How does it act, Mr. Jones?” going on to the next

pupil—a man in a light cotton cravat and no shirt collar, who looks very

like a butler out of place.

“It tickles them to death, sir,” answers Mr. Jones.

“You would say it acts mechanically,” observes the grinder. “The fine

points stick into the worms and kill them. They say, ‘Is this a dagger

which I see before me?’ and then die. Recollect the dagger, Mr. Jones,

when you go up. Mr. Manhug, what do you consider the best sudorific, if

you wanted to throw a person into a perspiration?”

Mr. Manhug, who is the wag of the class, finishes, in rather an abrupt

manner, a song he was humming, sotto voce, having some allusion to a

peer who was known as Thomas, Lord Noddy, having passed a night at a

house of public entertainment in the Old Bailey previous to an

execution. He then takes a pinch of snuff, winks at the other pupils as

much as to say, “See me tackle him, now;” and replies, “The gallery door

of Covent Garden on Boxing-night.”

“Now, come, be serious for once, Mr. Manhug,” continues the teacher;

“what else is likely to answer the purpose?”

“I think a run up Holborn-hill, with two Ely-place knockers on your arm,

and three policemen on your heels, might have a good effect,” answers

Mr. Manhug.

“Do you ever think you will pass the Hall, if you go on at this rate?”

observes the teacher, in a tone of mild reproach.

“Not a doubt of it, sir,” returns the imperturbable Manhug. “I’ve passed

it twenty times within this last month, and did not find any very great

difficulty about it; neither do I expect to, unless they block up Union-

street and Water-lane.”

The grinder gives Mr. Manhug up as a hopeless case, and goes on to the

next. “Mr. Rapp, they will be very likely to ask you the composition of

the compound gamboge pill: what is it made of?”

Mr. Rapp hasn’t the least idea.

“Remember, then, it is composed of cambogia, aloes, ginger, and soap—C,

A, G, S,—cags. Recollect Cags, Mr. Rapp. What would you do if you were

sent for to a person poisoned by oxalic acid?”

“Give him some chalk,” returns Mr. Rapp.

“But suppose you had not got any chalk, what would you substitute?”

“Oh, anything; pipeclay and soapsuds.”

“Yes, that’s all very right; but we will presume you could not get any

pipeclay and soapsuds; in fact, that there was nothing in the house.

What would you do then?”

Mr. Manhug cries out from the bottom of the table—“Let him die and be

——!”

“Now, Mr. Manhug, I really must entreat of you to be more steady,”

interrupts the professor. “You would scrape the ceiling with the fire-

shovel, would you not? Plaster contains lime, and lime is an antidote.

Recollect that, if you please. They like you to say you would scrape the

ceiling, at the Hall: they think it shows a ready invention in

emergency. Mr. Newcome, you have heard the last question and answer?”

“Yes sir,” says the fresh arrival, as he finishes making a note of it.

“Well; you are sent for, to a man who has hung himself. What would be

your first endeavour?”

“To scrape the ceiling with the fire-shovel,” mildly observes Mr.

Newcome; whereupon the class indulges in a hearty laugh, and Mr. Newcome

blushes as deep as the red bull’s-eye of a New-road doctor’s lamp.

“What would you do, Mr. Manhug? perhaps you can inform Mr. Newcome.”

“Cut him down, sir,” answers the indomitable farceur.

“Well, well,” continues the teacher; “but we will presume he has been

cut down. What would you strive to do next?”

“Cut him up, sir, if the coroner would give an order for a post mortem

examination.”

“We have had no chemistry this morning,” observes one of the pupils.

“Very well, Mr. Rogers; we will go on with it if you wish. How would you

endeavour to detect the presence of gold in any body?”

“By begging the loan of a sovereign, sir,” interrupts Mr. Manhug.

“If he knew you as well as I do, Manhug,” observes Mr. Jones, “he’d be

sure to lend it—oh, yes!—I should rayther think so, certainly,”

whereupon Mr. Jones compresses his nostril with the thumb of his right

hand, and moves his fingers as if he was performing a concerto on an

imaginary one handed flageolet.

“Mr. Rapp, what is the difference between an element and a compound

body?”

Mr. Rapp is again obliged to confess his ignorance.

“A compound body is composed of two or more elements,” says the grinder,

“in various proportions. Give me an example, Mr. Jones.”

“Half-and-half is a compound body, composed of the two elements, ale and

porter, the proportion of the porter increasing in an inverse ratio to

the respectability of the public-house you get it from,” replies Mr.

Jones.

The professor smiles, and taking up a Pharmacopœia, says, “I see here

directions for evaporating certain liquids ‘in a water-bath.’ Mr.

Newcome, what is the most familiar instance of a water-bath you are

acquainted with?”

“In High Holborn, sir; between Little Queen-street and Drury-lane,”

returns Mr. Newcome.

“A water-bath means a vessel placed in boiling-water. Mr. Newcome, to

keep it at a certain temperature. If you are asked at the Hall for the

most familiar instance, they like you to say a carpenter’s glue-pot.”

And in like manner the grinding-class proceeds.

[pg 202] THE LORD MAYORS AND THE QUEEN. By the Correspondent of the

Observer.

The interesting condition of Her Majesty is a source of the most

agonising suspense to the Lord Mayors of London and Dublin, who, if a

Prince of Wales is not born before their period of office expires, will

lose the chance of being created baronets.

According to rumour, the baby—we beg pardon, the scion of the house of

Brunswick—was to have been born—we must apologise again; we should say

was to have been added to the illustrious stock of the reigning family

of Great Britain—some day last month, and of course the present Lord

Mayors had comfortably made up their minds that they should be entitled

to the dignity it is customary to confer on such occasions as that which

the nation now ardently anticipates. But here we are at the beginning of

November, and no Prince of Wales. We have reason to know that the Lord

Mayor of London has not slept a wink since Saturday, and his lady has

not smiled, according to an authority on which we are accustomed to

rely, since Thursday fortnight. Some say it is done on purpose, because

the present official is a Tory; and others insinuate that the Prince of

Wales is postponed in order that there may be an opportunity of making

Daniel O’Connell a baronet. Others suggest that there will be twins

presented to the nation! one on the night of the 8th of November, the

other on the morning of the 9th, so as to conciliate both parties; but

we are not disposed at present to pronounce a decided opinion on this

part of the question. We know that politics have been carried most

indelicately into the very heart of the Royal Household; but we hope,

for the honour of all parties, that the confinement of the Queen is not

to be made a matter of political arrangement. If it is, we can only say

that it will be most indecent, we might almost venture to say

unbecoming; but our dislike to the use of strong language is well known,

or at least it ought to be.

If there are any other particulars, we shall give them in a second

edition; that is to say, if we should have anything to add, and should

think it worth while to publish another impression for the purpose of

stating it.

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—No. 10. You talk of love—I would believe

Thy words were truth;

Nor deem that thou wouldst e’er deceive

My artless youth:

But when we part,

Within my heart

A small voice whispers low—

Beware! Beware!

Fond girl, the snare!

it’s all no go!

You talk of love—yet would betray

The heart you seek,

And smile upon its slow decay,

If ’twould not break.

In vain you swear

That I am fair,

That heaven is on my lip!

I know each vow

Is worthless now;

A couple embraces; the man points angrily at his lips. YOU’VE MISS’D

YOUR TIP.

THE TWO NEW EQUITY JUDGES. “Between the two new Equity Courts, the

suitors in Chancery will be much better off than formerly”—said Fitzroy

Kelly, lately, to an intimate. “Undoubtedly,” replied the friend, “they

may now choose between the frying-pan and the fire.”

MR. PUNCH, ARTIST IN PHILOSOPHY AND FIREWORKS11. Baylis., BEGS TO INFORM

THE HOBBEDEHOYITY AND INFANTRY OF THE METROPOLIS AND THE WORLD IN

GENERAL, That, for the proper commemoration of the anniversary of the

5th of November, he had engaged the services of the following

EMINENT THAMESIAN INCENDIARIES. SIR PETER LAURIE, to furnish materials

for squibs.

MR. ROEBUCK, for flower-pots, containing the beautiful figure of a

genealogical tree.

COLONEL SIBTHORP, for sky-rockets being constructed after his own plan;

warranted to flare up at starting, and to come down—a stick.

DANIEL O’CONNELL, Esq., for the importation of Roman candles,

MR. WAKLEY, SIR JAMES GRAHAM, LORD STANLEY, and SIR FRANCIS BURDETT, for

Catherine-wheels, which are guaranteed to turn round with great

celerity, and to exhibit curious designs.

LORD MINTO, for Chinese fire, prepared from the recipes of his gallant

relative, the Honourable Captain Elliot, which have been procured at an

immense outlay.—(See next year’s “Budget.”)

The MARQUIS OF WATERFORD, the celebrated Purveyor to the Police Force in

general, for the supply of crackers.

MR. CHARLES PEARSON, for port-fires.

SIR ROBERT PEEL, assisted by his CABINET, for a golden rain.

*** A large supply of these articles always on hand. Apply at Mr. P.’s

Office every Saturday.

AN EXTRACT FROM THE SPECTATOR. Carter, the lion-tamer, previous to his

late exhibition, when the tiger broke loose, had given an order to an

old acquaintance to come and witness his performance; by great good

luck, he and the rest of the affrighted spectators effected their

escape; but he was heard vehemently declaring he had been deceived in

the most beastly manner, as he would not have come but that he supposed

he was

A man looks through a window at another man holding a woman on his lap.

LOOKING IN UPON A FRIEND.

SHIP NEWS. Off Battersea Mills, in the reeds, La Gitana (wherry Z.9),

Execution Dock, with loss of sculls; deserted. On nearing her,

discovered the Master with his wooden leg in the mud, to which he had

made fast the head-line, with his left leg over his right shoulder, high

and dry.

A boat, supposed to belong to the Union Aquatic Sons of Shop Walkers,

was washed ashore on Hungerford Muds, with an old ribbon-box, apparently

used for a sea-chest, containing wearing apparel, 1s. 8d. in fourpenny

pieces, and sundry small pieces of paper, with “Dry,” sign of the “Three

Balls,” printed thereon, and endorsed, “Shawl, 3s. 6d., 30 remnants of

ribbon 7s. 6d., waistcoat satin, 1 yard 3s. 6d.,” &c. &c. The crew

supposed to have abandoned her off the “Swan,” where they were seen in a

state of beer.

CAUSE AND EFFECT. A great fall of chalk occurred at Mertsham on the

Brighton Railway on last Thursday morning; a corresponding fall in milk

took place in London on the following day.

[pg 203] SHOULD THIS MEET THE EYE— A man pushes a barrel marked 'Garden

Engine' which is pouring liquid into a nearby woman's mouth. of Sir

ROBERT PEEL, LORD STANLEY, or any of Her Majesty’s Ministers, in want of

an active cad, or light porter; the advertiser, a young man at present

out of place, would be anxious to make himself generally useful, and is

not particular in what capacity. Respectability not so great an object

as a good salary. Application to be made to T. WAKLEY, at the Rad’s

Arms, Turn’em Green.

HARD AND FAST. That very slow coach, and would be “faster,” the licensed

to-carry-no-thing-inside “Bernard Cavannah,” has been recently confined

in a room, wherein he has lived upon the “cameleon’s dish,” eating the

air—“jugged,” we presume. Wakley declares he is an impostor; but as he

has an interest in an inquest, and Bernard survives, this may be

attributed to professional disappointment. Dr. Elliotson declares, from

his own experience, any man can live upon nothing. The whole medical

profession are getting to very high words; Anglice,—indulging in very

low language. The fraternity of physicians, apothecaries, and surgeons,

are growing so warm upon the living subject, that we may shortly expect

to witness a beautiful tableau vivant of

A man hits another man with a pail on his head. SURGERE IN ARMIS.

PUNCH’S THEATRE. MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE. Let every amateur, professor, and

enthusiastic raver concerning “native talent” go down on his knees, and,

after the manner of the ancient heathen, return thanksgiving unto Apollo

for having at last sent us a singer who knows her business! One who can

sing as if she had a soul; who can act as if she were not acting, but

existing amidst reality; who is, in short, a performer entirely new to

the British stage; to whom we have not a parallel example to produce,—a

heroine of the lyric drama.

Such, in the most exalted sense of the term, is Miss Adelaide Kemble.

Unlike nearly every other English singer, she has not set up with the

small stock-in-trade of a good voice, and learned singing on the stage;

making the public pay for her tuition. On the contrary, nature has

manifestly not been bountiful to her in this respect. Her voice—the mere

organ—may have been in her earlier years exceeded in quality by many

other vocalists. But what is it now? Perfect in intonation; its lower

tones forcible; the middle voice firm and full; the upper interval sweet

and rich beyond comparison.

But how comes this? How has this moderately-good organ been brought to

such perfection? By a process not very prevalent amongst English

singers—practice the most constant, study the most unwearied. Punch will

bet a wager with any sporting dilettante that Miss Kemble has sung more

while learning her art, than many old stagers while professing and

practising it.

She seems, then,—as far as one may judge of that kind of perfection—a

perfect mistress of her voice; she can do what she likes with it, she

can sustain a note in any part of the soprano compass—swell, diminish,

and keep it exactly to the same pitch for an incredible space of time.

She can burst forth a torrent of sound expressive of our strongest

passions, without losing an atom of tone, and she can diminish it to a

whisper, in sotto voce, as distinct as it is thrilling and true

intonation.

Having obtained this vocal mastery, she has unfettered energies to

devote to her acting; which, in Norma, has all the elements of tragic

dignity—all the tenderness of natural feeling. In one word, Miss Kemble

is a mistress of every branch of her art; and we can now say, what we

have so seldom had an opportunity to boast of, that our English stage

possesses a singer who is also an actress and musician!

The opera is excellently put upon the stage. Miss Kemble, or somebody

else, electrified the choruses; for, wonderful to relate, they

condescended to act—to perform—to pretend to be what they are meant for!

Never was so efficient, so well-disciplined, so unanimous a chorus heard

or seen before on the English stage. The chorus-master deserves

everybody’s, and has our own, especial commendations.

NINA SFORZA. A new melo-drama in five acts, by a gentleman who rejoices

in exactly the same number of titles—namely, “R. Zouch S. Troughton,

Esquire”—made its appearance for Miss H. Fancit’s benefit on Monday

last, at the Haymarket.

The old-fashioned recipe for cooking up a melo-dramatic hero has been

strictly followed in “Nina Sforza.” Raphael Doria, the heir-apparent to

the dukedom of Genoa, is a man about town in Venice—is accompanied, on

most occasions, by a faithful friend and a false one—saves the heroine

from drowning, and, of course, falls in love with her on the spot, or

rather on the water. She, of course, returns the passion; but is, as

usual, loved by the villain—a regular thorough-paced Mephistopheles of

the Surrey or Sadler’s Wells genus. These ingredients, having been

carefully compounded in the first act, are—quite selon les

règles—allowed to simmer till the end of the fourth, and to boil over in

the fifth. Thus we have a tragedy after the manner of those lively

productions that flourished in the time of Garrick; when Young, Murphy,

and Francklin were Melpomene’s head-cooks.

Modern innovation has, however, added a sprinkle of spice to the hashes

of the above-named school. This is most commonly thrown in, by giving to

the stock-villain a dash of humour or sarcasm, so as to bring out his

savagery in bolder relief. He is also invested with an unaccountable

influence over the hero, who can on no account be made to see his bare

and open treachery till about the middle of the fifth act, when the

dupe’s eyes must be opened in time for the catastrophe.

These improvements have been carefully introduced into the present old

new tragedy. Ugone Spinola is the presiding genius of Doria’s woes: and

dogs him about for the pleasure of making him miserable. He is a

finished epicure in revenge; picking little tit-bits of it with the most

savage gôut all through; but particularly towards the end of the play.

This taste was, it seems, first acquired in consequence of a feud that

formerly existed between Doria’s family and his own, in which his side

came off so decidedly second-best, that he only remains of his race; all

the rest having been murdered by Doria and his father’s faction. From

such deadly foes, it may be observed, that tragic heroes always select

their most trusted friends.

Doria’s father dies, and Nina’s consents to his marriage; so that we see

them, at the opening of the third act, the picture of connubial bliss,

in a garden belonging to the Duke’s palace at Genoa, exchanging

sentiments which would be doubtless extremely tender if they were quite

intelligible. A great deal is said about genius being like love; which

gives rise to a simile touching a rose-bud in a poor poet’s window, and

other incoherencies quite natural for persons to utter who are supposed

to be in love. This peaceful scene is interrupted by an alarm of war;

and the Prince goes to fight the Florentines.

The battle takes place between the acts; and we next see the Genoese

halting near their city after a victory. Doria, who in the first act has

been represented to us as an exceedingly gay young fellow, is here

described as indulging, in his tent, his old propensities; having

brought away, with other trophies, a fair Florentine, who is diverting

him with her guitar at that moment. This is excellent news for Spinola;

the more so as we are soon made to understand that Nina, being impatient

of her husband’s return, has fled to his tent to meet him, and discovers

the fair Florentine in the very act of guitar-playing, and her spouse in

the midst of his raptures thereat.

A scene follows, in which Spinola, as a new edition of Iago, and Nina,

in the form of a female Othello, get scope for a great variety of that

kind of acting which performers call “effective.” The wife—in this scene

really well-drawn—will not believe Doria’s falsehood, in spite of strong

[pg 204]circumstantial evidence. Spinola offers to strengthen it; and

the last scene of this act—the fourth—presents a highly melo-dramatic

situation. It is a street scene; and Spinola has brought Nina to watch

her husband into her rival’s house. She sees him approach it—he

wavers—she hopes he will pass the door. Alas, he does not, and actually

goes in! Of course she swoons and falls. So does the act drop.

The entire business of the last act is to bring about the catastrophe;

and, as not one step towards it has been previously taken, there is no

time to lose. Spinola, therefore, is made not to mince the matter, but

to come boldly on at once, with a bottle of poison! This he blandly

insinuates to Nina might be used with great effect upon her husband, so

as effectually to put a stop to future intrigues with any forthcoming

fair Florentines. She, however, declines putting the poison to any such

use; but, nevertheless, honours Spinola’s draught, by accepting it. The

villain expresses himself extremely grateful for her condescension, and

exits, to make way for Doria.

Directly he appears, you at once perceive that he has done something

exceedingly naughty, for his countenance is covered with remorse and a

certain white powder which is the stage specific for pallor. The lady

complains of being unwell, and her husband kindly advises her to go to

bed. She replies, that she has a cordial within which will soon restore

her, and entreats her beloved lord to administer the potion with his own

dear hand; he consents—and they both retire, and the audience shudders,

because they pretty well guess that she is going to toss off the dose,

of which Spinola has been the dispensing chemist.

And here we may be forgiven for a short digression on the subject of the

dramatic Materia Medica, and poison-ology. The sleeping draughts of the

stage are, for example, generally speaking, uncommon specimens of

chemical perfection. When taken—even if the patient be ever so well

shaken—nothing on earth, or on the stage, can wake him after the cue for

his going to sleep, and before the cue for his getting up, have been

given; while it never allows him to dose an instant longer than the plot

of the piece requires. Then as to poisons; there are some which kill the

taker dead on the spot, like a fly in a bottle of prussic acid; others,

which—swallowed with a sort of time-bargain—are warranted to do the

business within a few seconds of so many hours hence; others again there

are (particularly adapted for villains) that cause the most incessant

torment, which nothing can relieve but death; a fourth compound (always

administered to such characters as Nina Sforza) are peculiarly mild in

their operation—no stomach-ache—no contortions—but still effectual.

The contents of the phial given to Nina by Spinola are compounded of the

second and fourth of these formulæ. The drink, though deadly, is

guaranteed to be a mild, rather-pleasant-than-otherwise poison,

warranted to operate at a given hour; one calculated to allow the

heroine plenty of time to die, and to make her go off in great physical

comfort.

Nina has taken the poison; but, having a peculiar desire to die at home,

orders a “trusty page” to provide horses for herself and attendant

secretly, at the northern gate, that she may return to her native

Venice. With this determination we lose sight of her.

Doria is aroused by a hunting-party who have risen so early that they

seem to have forgotten to take off their nightcaps, to which the Italian

hood, as worn by the Haymarket hunters, bears an obstinate resemblance.

The Prince discovers his wife has fled, and orders his chasseurs to

divert their attention from the game they had purposed to ride to cover

for, and to hunt up the missing Nina.

“In the deep recesses of a wood” Spinola and Doria meet, the latter

having, by some instinct, found out his pseudo-friend’s treachery; of

course they fight: Doria falls; but Spinola is too great a glutton in

revenge to kill him till he knows of his wife’s death, so, after

gloating over his prostrate enemy, and poking him about with his rapier

for several minutes, all he does is to steal his sword; this being found

upon him by some of the hunters, who meet him quite by accident, they

suppose he has killed Doria, and so kill him. Thus, Spinola being

disposed of, there are only two more that are left to die.

In her flight Nina has been taken unwell—with the poison—just in that

part of the forest where her spouse is left, by his enemy, in a swoon.

They meet, and she dies in his arms. Two being now defunct, only one

remains; but there is some difficulty in getting rid of Doria, for he is

(as is always the case when a stage felo-de-se impends) unprovided with

a weapon. Going up to his trusty friend D’Estala, he engages him in

talk, and, with the dexterity of a footpad, steals his dagger, and stabs

himself. All the principal characters being now dead, the piece cannot

go on, and the curtain drops.

A word or two on the merits of Nina Sforza. There are two classes of

dramatists who are just now contending for fame—those who cannot get

their plays acted because they are not dramatic, and those who can,

because their pieces are merely dramatic. Mr.—we beg pardon, R. Zouch S.

Troughton, Esquire,—belongs to the latter class. He is evidently well

acquainted with the mechanics of the stage; he knows all about

“situation”—that is, sacrificing nature to startling effect. His

language is essentially dramatic, and only fails where it aims at being

poetical. His characters, too, are not drawn from life, from nature, but

are copied—and cleverly copied—from other characters that strut about in

the “stock” tragedies of Rowe et hoc genus. The fable, or plot, is

deficient, from the absence of one sustaining, pervading incident to

excite, and keep up a progressive interest. With every new act a new

circumstance arises, which, though it is in some instances (especially

in the fourth act) conducted with great skill, yet the interest it

produces is not sustained, being made to give place to the author’s

succeeding effort to get up a new “situation” by a new incident. Though

the tragedy possesses little originality, it will, from its melo-

dramatic and exciting character, be most likely a very successful one.

Besides, it is very well acted, by Miss Faucit, Wallack, and Macready,

as Spinola; which, being a most unnatural character, is well calculated

for so conventional an actor as Macready.

The author will doubtless become a successful dramatist, because he has

taken the trouble to learn what is proper for, and effective on, the

stage. Having gained that acquirement, if he will now study nature, and

put men and women upon the stage that act and speak like real mortals,

we may safely predict an honourable dramatic career for Mr. ——; but our

space is limited, and we can’t afford enough of it to print his names a

third time.

THE QUADROON SLAVE. A new discussion of the Slave question seems to have

been much wanted on the stage. It is, alas, the black truth that “The

Slave” par excellence, in spite of the brothers Sharpset and Bishop’s

music, ceases to interest. The woes of “Gambia” have been turned into

ridicule by the capers of “Jim Crow,” and the twin pleasantries of “Jim

along Josey.” Since the moral British public gave away twenty millions

to emancipate the black population, and to raise the price of brown

sugars, they are not nearly so sweet upon the niggers as formerly; for

they discover that, now Cæsar being “massa-pated, him no work—dam if he

do!”

To meet this dramatic exigency, the “Quadroon Slave” has been produced.

It may be classed as an argumentative drama; carried on with that stage

logic which always makes the heroine get the best of it. The

emancipation side of the question is supported by Julie, ably backed by

Vincent St. George, but opposed by Alfred Pelham; and the lingual

combatants rush in medias res at the very rising of the curtain—the

“house,” immediately taking sides, vehemently applauding the arguments

of their respective favourites. Vincent St. George—ably entrusted to

that interesting advocate Mr. J. Webster—opened the discussion by

protesting against the flogging system, especially as applied to

females. Alfred Pelham answered him; the reply being taken up by the

heroine Julie in broken French, because she is personated by Madlle.

Celeste. The state of parties as here developed turns out to be curious.

The heroine, a quadroon, is on the point of matrimonial union with her

antagonist, and openly resents the tender advances of her ally. “Call ye

this backing of your friends?” Vincent St. George, disgusted at such

gross tergiversation, flies entirely away from the point at issue, and

applies those remarks to Julie which all disappointed lovers seem to be

bound to utter in such cases. Indeed, on the re-appearance of his rival,

he challenges him—unblushingly forsaking every branch of the main point,

by engaging in a long and not very lively discourse on the subject of

duelling; amidst, however, impatient cries of “question!” “question!”

from the audience.

This brings Vincent back to the point, and with a vengeance! Like a

great many other orators on the liberal side of the black question, he

is a slave-owner himself, having—as his “attorney” Vipper is careful to

tell us—no fewer than two hundred and eight of those animals. Now,

before he took upon himself to become an emancipationist, he might—one

cannot help thinking—have had the decency—like Saint Fowell Buxton—to

sell his slaves to somebody else, and to come into court with clean

hands. But so far from doing so, Vipper having discovered that Julie is

a run-away slave from Vincent’s estate, just as she is ending the first

act by going to be married, the latter takes the whole of the second act

to claim her!

Though the argufiers change sides on account of the change of

affairs—Vincent insisting, as liberals so often do, upon his vested

rights in Julie as opposed to Pelham’s matrimonial ones—though the

heroine renders her pathetics affecting by a prostration or two before

the rivals—though she rushes upon a parapet to commit suicide—though she

is saved, and at length succeeds by force of mere argument to get her

new-found master to give her up to her husband; yet this second act was

somewhat dull; insomuch that the audience did not seem to regret when

the curtain dropped the subject, and announced their own emancipation

from the theatre.

Besides the parts we have named, Webster the elder played a Telemachus

Hearty, who, further than skipping about the stage, talking very fast,

and making himself not altogether disagreeable, had no more to do with

the piece than his namesake, or Fénélon Archbishop of Cambray himself.

This attempt to discuss moot points upon the stage—to turn as it were

the theatre into a debating society—will certainly not succeed.

Audiences—especially Haymarket ones—have a taste for being amused rather

than reasoned with; besides, those on that side of the question which

the author chooses shall be the weaker, do not like to see the stage-

orators get the upper hand, without having a chance of answering them.

Even dancing is preferred by them to didactics, though it be

A minstrel conducts a dog's barking. A PAS SEUL TO A BARK-AROLE.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. NOVEMBER 13, 1841. [pg 205] THE

BIRTH OF THE PRINCE OF WALES. (By the Observer’s own Correspondent.)

It will be seen that we were not premature in announcing the probability

of the birth of a Prince of Wales; and though it was impossible that any

one should be able to speak with certainty, our positive tone upon the

occasion serves to show the exclusive nature of all our intelligence. We

are enabled now to state that the Prince will immediately take, indeed

he has already taken, the title of Prince of Wales, which it is

generally understood he will enjoy—at least if a child so young can be

said to enjoy anything of the kind—until an event shall happen which we

hope will be postponed for a very protracted period. The Prince of

Wales, should he survive his mother, will ascend the throne; but whether

he will be George the Fifth, Albert the First, Henry the Ninth, Charles

the Third, or Anything the Nothingth, depends upon circumstances we are

not at liberty to allude to—at present; nor do we think we shall be

enabled to do so in a second edition.

Our suggestion last week, that the royal birth should take place on Lord

Mayor’s Day, has, we are happy to see, been partially attended to; but

we regret that the whole hog has not been gone, by twins having been

presented to the anxious nation, so that there might have been a

baronetcy each for the outgoing and incoming Lord Mayors of Dublin and

London. Perhaps, however, it might have been attended with difficulty to

follow our advice to the very letter; but we nevertheless think it might

have been arranged; though if others think otherwise, we, of course,

have nothing further to say upon the matter alluded to.

We very much regret to make an announcement, and are glad at being the

first to do so, though we are sorry to advert to the subject, touching

an alarming symptom in the Princess Royal. Her Royal Highness, ever

since the birth of the Prince, whom we think we may now venture to call

her brother, has suffered from an affection of the nose, which is said

to be quite out of joint since the royal stranger (for we hope we may

take the liberty of alluding to the Prince of Wales as a stranger, for

he is a stranger to us, at least we have never seen him) came into

existence.

We hear it on good authority that when the Princess was taken to see her

brother, Her Royal Highness, who begins to articulate a few sounds,

exclaimed, “Tar!” with unusual emphasis. It is supposed, from this

simple but affecting circumstance, that the Prince of Wales will

eventually become a Tar, and perhaps regain for his country the

undisputed dominion of the seas, which, by-the-bye, has not been

questioned, and probably will not be, in which case the naval attributes

of His Royal Highness will not be brought into activity.

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. Master Smith took an airing on the 5th,

accompanied by a Guy Fawkes and a very numerous suite. In the evening

there was a select circle, and a bonfire.

Mr. Baron Nathan and family are still at Kennington. The Baron danced

the college hornpipe, last Wednesday, on one leg, before a party of

private friends; and the Honourable Miss Nathan went through the

Cracovienne, amidst twenty-four coffee-cups and an inverted pitcher,

surmounted by a very long champagne-glass. Upon inspecting the cups

after the graceful performance was concluded, there was not a chip upon

one of them. The champagne glass, though it frequently rattled in its

perilous position, retained it through the whole of the dance, and was

carefully picked up at its conclusion by the Baroness, who we were happy

to find looking in more than her usual health, and enjoying her

accustomed spirits.

Bill Bunks has a new feline provisional equipage ready to launch. The

body is a dark black, and the wheels are of the same rich colour,

slightly picked out here and there with a chalk stripe. The effect

altogether is very light and pretty, particularly as the skewers to be

used are all new, and the board upon which the ha’porths are cut has

been recently planed with much nicety.

The travelling menagerie at the foot of Waterloo-bridge was visited

yesterday by several loungers. Amongst the noses poked through the wires

of the cage, we remarked several belonging to children of the mobility.

The spirited proprietor has added another mouse to his collection, which

may now be pronounced the first—speaking, of course, Surreysideically—in

(entering) London.

SONGS FOR CATARRHS. “The variable climate of our native land,” as

Rowland the Minstrel of Macassar has elegantly expressed it, like a

Roman epicure, deprives our nightingales of their tongues, and the

melodious denizens of our drawing-rooms of their “sweet voices.”

Vainly has Crevelli raised a bulwark of lozenges against the Demon of

Catarrh! Soreness will invade the throat, and noses run in every family,

seeming to be infected with a sentimental furor for blooming—we presume

from being so newly blown. We have seen noses chiseled, as it were, from

an alabaster block, grow in one short day scarlet as our own, as though

they blushed for the continual trouble they were giving their

proprietors; whilst the peculiar intonation produced by the conversion

of the nasals into liquids, and then of the liquids ultimately into

mutes, leads to the inference that there must be a stoppage about the

bridge, and should be placarded, like that of Westminster, “No

thoroughfare.”

It has been generally supposed that St. Cecilia with a cold in her head

would be incompetent to “Nix my Dolly;” and this erroneous and popular

prejudice is continually made the excuse for vocal inability during the

winter months. Now the effect which we have before described upon the

articulation of the catarrhed would be, in our opinion, so far from

displeasing, that we feel it would amply compensate for any

imperfections of tune. For instance, what can be finer than the

alteration it would produce in the well-known ballad of “Oh no, we never

mention her!”—a ballad which has almost become wearisome from its

sweetness and repetition. With a catarrh the words would run thus:—

“O lo, we lever beltiol her,

Her labe is lever heard.”

Struck with this modification of sound, PUNCH, anxious to cater even for

the catarrhs of his subscribers, begs to furnish them with a “calzolet,”

which he trusts will be of more service to harmonic meetings than

pectoral lozenges and paregoric, as we have anticipated the cold by

converting every m into b, and every n into l.

A SONG FOR A CATARRH. By Bary Alle is like the sul,

Whel at the dawl it flilgs

Its goldel sbiles of light upol

Earth’s greel and lolely thilgs.

Il vail I sue, I olly wil

Frob her a scorlful frowl;

But sool as I by prayers begil,

She cries O lo! begole.

Yes! yes! the burthel of her solg

Is lo! lo! lo! begole!

By Bary Alle is like the mool,

Whel first her silver sheel,

Awakes the lightilgale’s soft tule,

That else had silelt beel.

But Bary Alle, like darkest light,

Ol be, alas! looks dowl;

Her sbiles ol others beab their light,

Her frowls are all by owl.

I’ve but ole burthel to by solg—

Her frowls are all by owl.

“POSSUM UP A GUM TREE!” A grand gladiatorial tongue-threshing took place

lately in a field near Paisley, between the two great Chartist

champions—Feargus O’Connor and the Rev. Mr. Brewster. The subject

debated was, Whether is moral or physical force the fitter instrument

for obtaining the Charter? The Doctor espoused the moral hocussing

system, and Feargus took up the bludgeon for physical force. After a

pretty considerable deal of fireworks had been let off on both sides, it

was agreed to divide the field, when Feargus, waving his hat, ascended

into a tree, and called upon his friends to follow him. But, alas! few

answered to the summons,—he was left in a miserable minority; and the

Doctor, as the Yankees say, decidedly “put the critter up a tree.”

Feargus, being a Radical, should have kept to the root instead of

venturing into the higher branches of political economy. At all events

the Doctor, as the Yankees say, “put the critter up a tree,” where we

calculate he must have looked tarnation ugly. The position was

peculiarly ill-chosen—for when a fire-and-faggot orator begins to speak

trees-on, it is only natural that his hearers should all take their

leaves!

AN UNDIVIDED MOIETY. The Herald gives an account of two persons who were

carried off suddenly at Lancaster by a paralytic attack each. We should

have been curious to know the result if, instead of an attack each, they

had had one between them.

[pg 206] THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER IX. SHOWS THAT DOCTORS DIFFER. A

large letter H with flowering vines twining it. aving christened his

child, Agamemnon felt it to be his bounden duty to have him vaccinated;

but his wife’s mother, with a perversity strongly characteristic of the

genus, strenuously opposed Dr. Jenner’s plan of repealing the small

pox11. Baylis., and insisted upon having him inoculated. Poor Mrs.

Applebite was sorely perplexed between her habitual reverence for the

opinions of her mama and the dread which she naturally felt of

converting the face of the infant heir into a plum-pudding. Agamemnon

had evidently determined to be positive upon this point, and all that

could be extracted from him was the one word—vaccination!

To which Mrs. Waddledot replied,

“Vaccination, indeed!—as though the child were a calf! I’m sure and

certain that the extreme dulness of young people of the present day is

entirely owing to vaccination—it imbues them with a very stupid portion

of the animal economy.”

As Agamemnon could not understand her, he again

ejaculated—“Vaccination!”

“But, my dear,” rejoined Mrs. Applebite, “Mama has had so much

experience that her opinion is worth listening to; I know that you give

the preference to—”

“Vaccination!” interrupted Collumpsion.

“And so do I; but we have heard of grown-up people—who had always

considered themselves secure—taking the small pox, dear.”

“To be sure we have,” chimed in Mrs. Waddledot; “and it’s a very

dreadful thing, after indulgent and tender parents have been at the

expense of nursing, clothing, physicking, teaching music, dancing,

Italian, French, geography, drawing, and the use of the globes, to a

child, to have it carried off because a misguided fondness has insisted

upon—”

“Vaccination!” shouted pater Collumpsion.

“Exactly!” continued the “wife’s mother.” “Now inoculate at once, say I,

before the child’s short-coated.”

Agamemnon rose from his seat, and advancing deliberately and solemnly to

the table at which his wife and his wife’s mother were seated, he slowly

raised his dexter arm above his head, and then, having converted his

hand into a fist, he dashed his contracted digitals upon the rosewood as

though he dared not trust himself with more than one word, and that one

was—“Vaccination!”

Mrs. Waddledot’s first impulse was to jump out of her turban, in which

she would have succeeded had not the mystic rolls of gauze which

constituted that elaborate head-dress been securely attached to the

chestnut “front” with which she had sought for some years to cheat the

world into a forgetfulness of her nativity.

“I was warned of this! I was warned of this!” exclaimed the disarranged

woman, as soon as she obtained breath enough for utterance. “But I

wouldn’t believe it. I was told that the member for Puddingbury had

driven one wife to her grave and the other to drinking.—I was told that

it would run in the family, and that Mr. A.C. Applebite would be no

better than Mr. I. Applebite!”

“Oh! Mama—you really wrong Aggy,” exclaimed Theresa.

“It’s lucky for you that you think so, my dear. If ever there was an

ill-used woman, you are that unhappy individual. Oh, that ever—I—should

live—to see a child of mine—have a child of hers vaccinated against her

wish!” and here Mrs. Waddledot (as it is emphatically styled) burst into

tears; not that we mean to imply that she was converted into an

explosive jet d’eau, but we mean that she—she—what shall we say?—she

blubbered.

It is really surprising how very sympathetic women are on all occasions

of weeping, scolding, and scandalising; and accordingly Mrs. Applebite

“opened the fountains of her eyes,” and roared in concert with her mama.

Agamemnon felt that he was an injured man—injured in the tenderest

point—his character for connubial kindness; and he secretly did what

many husbands have done openly—he consigned Mrs. Waddledot to the

gentleman who is always represented as very black, because where he

resides there is no water to wash with.

At this agonising moment Uncle Peter made his appearance; and as actors

always play best to a good audience, the weeping ladies continued their

lachrymose performance with renewed vigour. Uncle Peter was a plain

man—plain in every meaning of the word; that is to say, he was very ugly

and very simple; and when we tell you that his face resembled nothing

but a half-toasted muffin, you can picture to yourself what it must have

looked like under the influence of surprise; but nevertheless, both

Agamemnon and the ladies simultaneously determined to make him the

arbitrator in this very important matter.

“Uncle Peter,” said Agamemnon.

“Brother Peter,” sobbed Mrs. Waddledot.

“Which are you an advocate for?” hystericised Mrs. Applebite.

“Vaccination or inoculation?” exclaimed everybody ensemble.

Now whether Uncle John did clearly understand the drift of the question

put to him, or whether he conceived that he was solicited to be the

subject of some benevolent experiments for the advantage of future

generations, it is certain that no man ever looked more positively

A man sits hooked on the crescent of the moon and waves at a passing

balloon. ON THE HORN OF A DILEMMA

than Uncle Peter. At length the true state of the case was made apparent

to him; and the conclusion that he arrived at reflects the greatest

possible credit upon his judgment. He decided, that as the child was a

divided property, for the sake of peace and quietness, the heir of

Applebite should be vaccinated in one arm and inoculated in the other.

FALSE ALARM. We were paralysed the other day at seeing a paragraph

headed “Sibthorpe’s conversion.” Our nose grew pale with terror; our

hump heaved with agitation. We thought there existed a greater genius

than ourselves and that some one had discovered that Sibthorp could be

converted into anything but a Member for Lincoln, and buffoon-in-waiting

to the House of Commons. We found, however, that it alluded to a

Reverend, and not to OUR Colonel. Really the newspaper people should be

more careful. Such startling announcements are little better than

A jester cuts the tail off of a dog. SHEE(A)R CRUELTY.

DOING THE STATE SOME SERVICE. During the conflagration of the Tower, it

was apprehended at one time that the portion of it called the White

Tower would have shared the fate of the grand store-house,—this was

however prevented by hanging wet blankets around it, in which capacity

Peter Borthwick, Mr. Plumtre, Col. Percival, and Lord Castlereagh,

kindly offered their personal services and were found admirably adapted

for the purpose.

[pg 207] THE GENTLEMAN’S OWN BOOK. We will now proceed to the

consideration of that indispensable adjunct to a real gentleman—his

purse. This little talisman, though of so much real importance, is very

limited in the materials of its formation, being confined exclusively to

silk. It should generally be of net work, very sparingly powdered with

small beads, and of the most delicate colours, such conveying the idea

that the fairy fingers of some beauteous friend had wove the tiny

treasury. We have seen some of party colours, intended thereby to

distinguish the separate depository of the gold and silver coin with

which it is (presumed) to be stored. This arrangement we repudiate; for

a true gentleman should always appear indifferent to the value of money,

and affect at least an equal contempt for a sovereign as a shilling. We

prefer having the meshes of the purse rather large than otherwise, as

whenever it is necessary—mind, we say necessary—to exhibit it, the

glittering contents shining through the interstices are never an

unpleasing object of contemplation.

The purse should be used at the card-table; but never produced unless

you are called upon as a loser to pay. It may then be resorted to with

an air of nonchalance; and when the demand upon it has been honoured, it

should be thrown carelessly upon the table, as though to indicate your

almost anxiety to make a further sacrifice of its contents. Should you,

however, be a winner, any exhibition of the purse might be construed

into an unseemly desire of “welling,” or securing your gains, which of

course must always be a matter of perfect indifference to you; and

whatever advantages you obtain from chance or skill should be made

obvious to every one are only destined to enrich your valet, or be

beneficially expended in the refreshment of cabmen and ladies of faded

virtue. In order to convey these intentions more conspicuously, should

the result of an evening be in your favour, your winnings should be

consigned to your waistcoat pocket; and if you have any particular

desire to heighten the effect, a piece of moderate value may be left on

the table.

A horse throws a man into the roof of a house. A GENTLEMAN TAKING A

FIRST FLOOR

cannot do better than find an excuse for a recurrence to his purse; and

then the partial exhibition of the coin alluded to above will be found

to be productive of a feeling most decidedly confirmatory in the mind of

the landlady that you are a true gentleman.

The same cause will produce the same effect with a tradesman whose

album—we beg pardon, whose ledger—you intend honouring with your name.

You should never display your purse to a poor friend or dependant, or

the sight of it might not only stimulate their cupidity, or raise their

expectations to an inordinate height, but prevent you from escaping with

a moderate douceur by “the kind manner in which you slipped a sovereign

into their hand at parting.”

A servant should never be rewarded from a purse; it makes the fellows

discontented; for if they see gold, they are never satisfied with a

shilling and “I must see what can be done for you, James.”

Should you be fortunate enough to break a policeman’s head, or drive

over an old woman, you will find that your purse will not only add to

the éclat of the transaction, but most materially assist the magistrate

before whom you may be taken in determining that the case is very

trifling, and that a fine of 5s. will amply excuse you from the effects

of that polite epidemic known vulgo as drunkenness. There cannot be a

greater proof of the advantages of a purse than the preceding instance,

for we have known numerous cases in which the symptoms have been

precisely the same, but the treatment diametrically opposite, owing to

the absence of that incontrovertible evidence to character—the purse.

None but a parvenu would carry his money loose; and we know of nothing

more certain to ensure an early delivery of your small account than

being detected by a creditor in the act of hunting a sovereign into the

corner of your pocket.

We have known tailors, bootmakers, hatters, hosiers, livery-stable-

keepers, &c., grow remarkably noisy when refused assistance to meet

heavy payments, which are continually coming due at most inconvenient

seasons; and when repeated denials have failed to silence them, the

exhibition only of the purse has procured the desired effect,—we

presume, by inspiring the idea that you have the means to pay, but are

eccentric in your views of credit—thus producing with the most

importunate dun

A gentleman's queue is burning. A BRILLIANT TERMINATION.

TREMENDOUS FAILURE. The Editors present their compliments to their

innumerable subscribers, and beg to say that, being particularly hard up

for a joke, they trust that they will accept of the following as an

evidence of

Girls stand under a sign 'Curds and Whey Sold Here' while a bowl pours

onto them. GETTING UNDER WHEY.

A THOROUGH DRAUGHT. The extreme proficiency displayed by certain parties

in drawing spurious exchequer-bills has induced them to issue proposals

for setting up an opposition exchequer office, where bills may be drawn

on the shortest notice. As this establishment is to be cunningly united

to the Art-Union in Somerset-House, the whole art of forgery may be

there learned in six lessons. The manufacture of exchequer-bills will be

carried on in every department, from printing the forms to imitating the

signatures; in short, the whole art of

A man pulls on a horse drawing a cart full of people. DRAWING TAUGHT.

[pg 208] THE O’CONNELL PAPERS. OUR EXTRAORDINARY AND EXCLUSIVE

CORRESPONDENCE. We have been favoured by the transmission of the

following singular correspondence by the new Mayor of Dublin’s private

secretary. We hasten to lay the interesting documents before our

readers, though we must decline incurring the extreme responsibility of

advising which offer it would be most advantageous for Mr. O’Connell to

accept.

LETTER I. SIR,—I am requested by the management of the Royal Surrey

Theatre to negotiate with you for a few nights’ performance in a local

drama, which shall be written for the occasion, and in which you are

requested to represent the Civic dignitary in the identical robes which

have become immortalised by your wearing. Mr. Dibdin Pitt is of opinion

that something might be done with “Whittington and his Cat,” merely

transferring the scene from London to Dublin; and, as he hears your

county is highly celebrated for the peculiar breed, sending to Ireland

for one of the esteemed “Kilkenny species,” which would give a greater

reality to the dramatis personæ and feline adjunct. This is a mere

suggestion, as any other subject you may prefer—such as the Rebellion of

’98, Donnybrook Fair, the Interior of the Irish Mansion House, or the

House of Commons, can be rendered equally effective. I beg to call your

attention to the fact that you shall have a clear stage and every

advantage, as Mr. N.T. Hicks will be left out of the cast altogether, or

else play a very small dumb villain; so that you need not fear losing

your oratorical reputation by being out-shouted. Should you feel

disposed to accept the terms, one clear half the nightly receipt, pray

forward an answer by return, that we may get out a woodcut of the small-

clothes, and underline the identical stockings.

I have the honour to be, Your obedient servant, BEN. FAIRBROTHER.

D. O’Connell, Esq.

T. R. D. L.

SIR,—The intense interest created in the bosoms of mankind in general by

the graphic account of your splendid appearance and astounding

performance of the arduous character of the Lord Mayor of Dublin,

induces Mr. W.C. Macready to make you an offer of engagement for the

performance of Shakspere’s heroic functionary in the forthcoming revival

of Richard the Third, which is about to be produced under his classic

management at the Theatre Royal Drury-lane, Mr. W.C. Macready offers to

replace the breeches if cracked in stooping; also, to guarantee a

liberal allowance of hair-powder to fall from the wig, and make the

usual effective and dignified huge point while the Mayor is bowing to

the king. An early answer will oblige your obedient servant,

T. J. SERLE.

P.S. Can you bring your own Aldermen, as we are anxious to do it with

the

A silhouette of a man tugging on a horse. MAYOR (MARE) AND CORPORATION.

P.P.S.—Think of the fame and the twelve-sheet posters, and be moderate.

Theatre Royal, Adelphi.

DEAR DAN,—The Adelphi is open to you and your robes. Couldn’t we do

something with a hero from Blarney, and let you be discovered licking

the stone, amid tableaux, blue fire, and myriads of nymph-like Kate

Kearneys? Or would you prefer an allegory, yourself a Merman, or the

Genius of Ireland, distributing real whiskey-and-water from the tank,

which shall be filled with grog for that purpose. Think it over.

Truly yours, F. YATES.

D. O’Connell, Esq. &c. &c. &c.

Theatre Royal, Haymarket.

Mr. Webster presents his compliments to Daniel O’Connell, Esq., Mayor

and M.P., and begs to suggest, as the “Rent Day” was originally produced

at his theatre, it will be an excellent field for any further dramatic

attempt of Mr. D. O’C. A line from Mr. D. O’C. will induce Mr. B.W. to

put the drama in rehearsal.

“D. O’Connell, Esq. &c. &c.”

Royal Victoria.

SIR,—As sole lessee of the Royal Victoria I shall be happy to engage you

to appear in costume, in the Mayor of Garratt, or, for the sake of the

name Mayor, any other Mayor you like. If you think all the old ones too

stupid, we can look upon something new, and preserve the title. You

shall be supported by Miss Vincent and Susan Hopley, with two murders by

Messrs. Dale and Saville in the after-piece. Awaiting your reply, I

remain

Your obedient servant, D.W. OSBALDISTON.

D. O’Connell, Esq.

Royal Pavilion Theatre.

SIR,—If you mean to come on the stage, come to me. I know what suits the

public. If you can’t come yourself, send your cocked hat, and Mrs.

Denvil shall dramatise it. We have a carpenter of your name; we can gag

him and gammon the public, as follows:—

IMMENSE ATTRACTION! SCENERY MOVED BY O’CONNELL; FIRST APPEARANCE OF THE

GREAT AGITATOR!!! “REAL COCKED HAT.” Yours, &c. HY. DENVIL.

Garrick Theatre.

SIR,—We should be proud to avail ourselves of your professional services

to do a little in the domestic and appalling murder line; but our forte

is ballet or pantomime; perhaps, as you have your own silk tights, the

latter department might suit you best. Our artist is considered very

great, and shall convert our “Jim Along Josey” wood-cuts into your

portrait. We will also pledge ourselves to procure an illuminated cocked

hat. An early answer, stating terms, will oblige

Your obedient Servants, GOMERSAL AND CONQUEST.

D. O’Connell, Esq.

T.R. Sadler’s Wells.

SIR,—Understanding you are about to figure publicly and professionally

in London, may I draw your attention to my unique establishment. I can

offer you an excellent engagement as the figure-head of a vessel about

to be produced in a new nautical drama. It is at present called “The

Shark and the Alligator,” but may be altered with equal effect to “The

Mayor and the Agitator.” Begging a reply,

I remain, Sir, Your’s obediently, ROBERT HONNER.

D. O’Connell, Esq.

P.S. Do you do anything in the hornpipe line?

A PÆAN FOR DAN. BY ONE OF THE “FINEST PISANTRY IN THE WORLD.” We have

received the following genuine “Irish version” of a scene from and for

the times, from our own peculiar and poetic correspondent:—

“DEAR PUNCH,—

I beg pardon that yoursilf I’m now troublin,

But I must let you know what I just seen in Dublin;

There Daniel O’Connell,—Mayor and great agitator,—

Has been making a Judy of himself, the poor unhappy cratur.

At his time of life, too! tare and ounds its mighty shocking!

He shoved ach of his big legs into a span bran new silk stocking:

How the divil them calves by any manes was thrust in,

Is a mistery to ev’ry one, without them black silks busting.

And instead of a dacent trousers hanging to his suspenders,

He has button’d-up one-half of him in a pair of short knee-enders.

Now, Punch, on your oath, did you ever hear the likes o’ that?

But oh, houly Paul, if you only seen his big cock’d hat,

Stuck up on the top of his jazy;—a mighty illegant thatch,

With hair like young Deaf Burke’s, all rushing up to the scratch,

You must have been divarted; and, Jewil, then he wore

A thund’ring big Taglioni-cut purple velvet roquelore.

And who but Misther Dan cut it fat in all his pride,

Cover’d over with white favors, like a gentle blushing bride;

And wasn’t he follow’d by all the blackguards for his tail,

Shouting out for their lives, ‘Success to Dan O’Connell and Rapale.’

But the Old Corporation has behaved mighty low and mane,

As they wouldn’t lend him the loan of the ancient raal goold chain,

Nor the collar; as they said they thought (divil burn ’em),

If they’d done so, it was probable Dan never would return ’em.

But, good-bye, I must be off,—he’s gone to take the chair!

So my love to Mrs. Punch, and no more about the Mayor.”

[pg 209] PUNCH’S PÆAN TO THE PRINCELET. Huzza! we’ve a little prince at

last,

A roaring Royal boy;

And all day long the booming bells

Have rung their peals of joy.

And the little park-guns have blazed away,

And made a tremendous noise,

Whilst the air hath been fill’d since eleven o’clock

With the shouts of little boys;

And we have taken our little bell,

And rattled and laugh’d, and sang as well,

Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!

Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

Our little Prince will be daintily swathed,

And laid on a bed of down,

Whilst his cradle will stand ’neath a canopy

That is deck’d with a golden crown.

O, we trust when his Queenly Mother sees

Her Princely boy at rest,

She will think of the helpless pauper babe

That lies at a milkless breast!

And then we will rattle our little bell.

And shout and laugh, and sing as well—

Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!

Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

Our little Prince, we have not a doubt,

Has set up a little cry;

But a dozen sweet voices were there to soothe,

And sing him a lullaby.

We wonder much if a voice so small

Could reach our loved Monarch’s ear;

If so, she said “God bless the poor!

Who cry and have no one near.”

So then we will rattle our little bell,

And shout and laugh, and sing as well—

Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!

Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

Our little Prince (though he heard them not)

Hath been greeted with honied words,

And his cheeks have been fondled to win a smile

By the Privy Council Lords.

Will he trust the “charmer” in after years,

And deem he is more than man?

Or will he feel that he’s but a speck

In creation’s mighty plan?

Let us hope the best, and rattle our bell,

And shout and laugh, and sing as well—

Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!

Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

Our little Prince, when be grows a boy,

Will be taught by men of lore,

From the “dusty tome” of the ancient sage,

As Kings have been taught before.

But will there be one good, true man near,

To tutor the infant heart?

To tell him the world was made for all,

And the poor man claims his part?

We trust there will; so we’ll rattle our bell,

And shout and laugh, and sing as well—

Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella!

Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!

A CON-CONSTITUTIONAL. Why is the little Prince of Wales like the 11th

Hussars?—Because it is Prince Albert’s own.

HARD TO REMEMBER. Lord Monteagle, on being shown one of the Exchequer

Bills, supposed to have been forged, declared that he did not know if

the signature attached to it was his handwriting or not. We do not feel

surprised at this—his Lordship has put his hand to so many jobs that it

would be impossible he could remember every one of them.

THE CROPS. A most unfounded report of the approaching demise of Colonel

Sibthorp reached town early last week. Our Leicester correspondent has,

however, furnished us with the following correct particulars, which will

be read with pleasure by those interested in the luxuriant state of the

gallant orator’s crops. The truth is, he was seen to enter a hair-

dresser’s shop, and it got about amongst the breathless crowd which soon

collected, that the imposing toupée, the enchanting whiskers that are

the pride of the county, were to be cropped! This mistake was unhappily

removed to give place to a more fatal one; for instead of submitting to

the shears, the venerable joker bought a paper of poudre unique, from

which arose the appalling report that he was about to dye!

Our kind friend the indefatigable “correspondent” of the Observer,

informs us from authority upon which every reliance may be placed, that

Mr. Grant, the indefatigable statist and author of “Lights and Shadows

of London Life,” is now patiently engaged in researches of overwhelming

importance to the public. He will, in his next edition of the above-

named work, be enabled to state from personal inquiry, how many ladies

residing within a circuit of ten miles round London wear false fronts,

with the colours respectively of their real and their artificial hair,

together with the number of times per year the latter are dressed.

Besides this, this untiring author has called at every hairdresser’s in

the London Directory, to ascertain the number of times per quarter each

customer has his hair cut, with the quantity and length denuded. From

these materials a result will be drawn up, showing the average duration

of crops; and also how far the hair-cuttings of every day in London

would reach, if each hair were joined together and placed somewhere, so

as to go—when enough is collected—round the world.

The Morning Herald of Monday informs us, that the King of Hanover has

passed a law to regulate the crops not only of the army, but of those in

the civil employ of government. The moustaches of the former are to be,

we hear, exact copies of those sported by Muntz. The hair is to be cut

close, so as to be woven into regulation whiskers for those to whom

nature has denied them. The pattern whisker was lately submitted by Mr.

Truefit, who is to be the army contractor for the same. It curls over

the cheek, and meets the moustaches at the corners of the mouth.

In consequence of this measure, large sales in bear’s grease were made

by the Russian merchants on ‘Change yesterday for the German markets. A

consequent rise in this species of manure took place; this will, it is

feared, have a bad effect upon the British crops, which have already

assumed a dry and languid appearance.

ELIGIBLE INVESTMENTS!—SPLENDID OPPORTUNITY!—UNRIVALLED BARGAINS!

EXTRAORDINARY SALE OF UNREDEEMED PLEDGES. MESSRS. MACHIN and DEBENHAM

respectfully inform the particularly curious, and the public in general,

they have the honor to announce the unreserved sale of the following

particularly and unprecedentedly attractive Unredeemed Pledges.

N.B.—The auction duty to be paid by the purchasers,—if not, the inmates

of St. Luke’s have offered to subscribe for their liquidation.

LOT I. A perfect collection of the original speeches of Sir Francis

Burdett—previous to his visit to the Tower; his fulminations issued from

the same; and a catalogue of the unredeemed pledges made to the electors

of Westminster, and originally taken in by them—a compliment very

handsomely returned by the honourable Baronet, who kindly took his

constituents in in return. Very curious, though much dogs-eared,

thumbed, and as far as the author’s name goes, totally erased.

LOT II. A visionary pedigree and imaginative genealogical account of

Roebuck’s ancestors—commencing in the year 1801, and carefully brought

down to the present time. Very elaborate, but rather doubtful.

LOT III. A full account of Wakley’s parliamentary ratting, or political

felo-de-se; beautifully authenticated by his late Finsbury electors—with

sundry cuts by his former friends.

LOT IV. An extraordinary large batch of uncommonly cheap bread,

manufactured by one John Russell. A beautiful electioneering and

imaginative production, though now rather stale.

LOT V. A future contract for the continuance of the poor-laws, and the

right of pumps for the guardians to concoct the soup.

N.B. Filters used if too strong.

LOT VI. Daniel O’Connell’s opinions upon the repeal of the union, now

that he is Lord Mayor of Dublin: to be sold without reserve to the

highest bidder.

The whole of the above are submitted to the public, in the sincere hope

of their meeting purchasers—as the price is all that is wanting to

ensure a bonâ fide sale. No catalogues—no particulars—no guarantees—no

deductions—and no money returned.

[pg 210] SIR PETER LAURIE ON HUMAN LIFE. Sir PETER LAURIE has set his

awful face against suicide! He will in no way “encourage” felo-de-se.

Fatal as this aldermanic determination may be to the interests of the

shareholders of Waterloo, Vauxhall, and Southwark Bridges, Sir PETER has

resolved that no man—not even in the suicidal season of November—shall

drown, hang, or otherwise destroy himself, under any pretence soever!

Sir PETER, with a very proper admiration of the pleasures of life,

philosophises with a full stomach on the ignorance and wickedness of

empty-bellied humanity; and Mr. HOBLER—albeit in the present case the

word is not reported—doubtless cried “Amen!” to the wisdom of the

alderman. Sir PETER henceforth stands sentinel at the gate of death, and

any hungry pauper who shall recklessly attempt to touch the knocker,

will be sentenced to “the treadmill for a month as a rogue and

vagabond!”

One William Simmons, a starving tailor, in a perishing condition,

attempts to cut his throat. He inflicts upon himself a wound which,

“under the immediate assistance of the surgeon of the Compter,” is soon

healed; and the offender being convalescent, is doomed to undergo the

cutting wisdom of Sir PETER LAURIE. Hear the alderman “Don’t you know

that that sort of murder (suicide) is as bad as any other?” If such be

the case—and we would as soon doubt the testimony of Balaam’s quadruped

as Sir PETER—we can only say, that the law has most shamefully neglected

to provide a sufficing punishment for the enormity. Sir PETER speaks

with the humility of true wisdom, or he would never have valued his own

throat for instance—that throat enriched by rivulets of turtle soup, by

streams of city wine and city gravies—at no more than the throat of a

hungry tailor. There never in our opinion was a greater discrepancy of

windpipe. Sir PETER’S throat is the organ of wisdom—whilst the tailor’s

throat, by the very fact of his utter want of food, is to him an

annoying superfluity. And yet, says Sir PETER by inference, “It is as

bad, William Simmons, to cut your own throat, as to cut mine!” If true

Modesty have left other public bodies, certainly she is to be found in

the court of aldermen.

Sir PETER proceeds to discourse of the mysteries of life and death in a

manner that shows that the executions of his shrievalty were not lost

upon his comprehensive spirit. Suicides, however, have engaged his

special consideration; for he says—

“Suicides and attempts, or apparent attempts, to commit suicide, very

much increase, I regret to say. I know that a morbid humanity exists,

and does much mischief as regards the practice. I shall not encourage

attempts of the kind, but shall punish them; and I sentence you to the

treadmill for a month, as a rogue and vagabond. I shall look very

narrowly at the cases of persons brought before me on such charges.”

Sir PETER has, very justly, no compassion for the famishing wretch stung

and goaded “to jump the life to come.” Why should he? Sir PETER is of

that happy class of men who have found this life too good a thing to

leave. “They call this world a bad world,” says ROTHSCHILD on a certain

occasion; “for my part, I do not know of a better.” And ROTHSCHILD was

even a greater authority than Sir PETER LAURIE on the paradise of £ s.

d.

The vice of the day—“a morbid humanity” towards the would-be suicide—is,

happily, doomed. Sir PETER LAURIE refuses to patronise any effort at

self-slaughter; and, moreover, threatens to “look very narrowly at the

cases” of those despairing fools who may be caught in the attempt. It

would here be well for Sir PETER to inform the suicidal part of the

public what amount of desperation is likely to satisfy him as to the

genuineness of the misery suffered. William Simmons cuts a gash in his

throat; the Alderman is not satisfied with this, but having looked very

narrowly into the wound, declares it to be a proper case for the

treadmill. We can well believe that an impostor trading on the morbid

humanity of the times—and there is a greater stroke of business done in

the article than even the sagacity of a LAURIE can imagine—may, in this

cold weather, venture an immersion in the Thames or Serpentine, making

the plunge with a declaratory scream, the better to extract practical

compassion from the pockets of a morbidly humane society; we can believe

this, Sir PETER, and feel no more for the trickster than if our heart

were made of the best contract saddle-leather; but we confess a cut-

throat staggers us; we fear, with all our caution, we should be

converted to a belief in misery by a gash near the windpipe. Sir PETER,

however, with his enlarged mind, professes himself determined to probe

the wound—to look narrowly into its depth, breadth, and length, and to

prescribe the treadmill, according to the condition of the patient! Had

the cautious Sir PETER been in the kilt of his countryman Macbeth, he

would never have exhibited an “admired disorder” on the appearance of

Banquo with his larynx severed in two; not he—he would have called the

wound a slight scratch, having narrowly looked into it, and immediately

ordered the ghost to the guard-house.

The Duke of WELLINGTON, who has probably seen as many wounds as Sir

PETER LAURIE, judging the case, would, by his own admission, have

inflicted the same sentence upon the tailor Simmons as that fulminated

by the Alderman. ARTHUR and PETER would, doubtless, have been of one

accord, Simmons avowed himself to be starving. Now, in this happy

land—in this better Arcadia—every man who wants food is proved by such

want an idler or a drunkard. The victor of Waterloo—the tutelary wisdom

of England’s counsels—has, in the solemnity of his Parliamentary

authority, declared as much. Therefore it is most right that the lazy,

profligate tailor, with a scar in his throat, should mount the revolving

wheel for one month, to meditate upon the wisdom of Dukes and the

judgments of Aldermen!

We no more thought of dedicating a whole page to one Sir PETER LAURIE,

than the zoological Mr. CROSS would think of devoting an acre of his

gardens to one ass, simply because it happened to be the largest known

specimen of the species. But, without knowing it, Sir PETER has given a

fine illustration of the besetting selfishness of the times. Had LAURIE

been born to hide his ears in a coronet, he could not have more strongly

displayed the social insensibility of the day. The prosperous saddler,

and the wretched, woe-begone tailor, are admirable types of the giant

arrogance that dominates—of the misery that suffers.

There is nothing more talked of with less consideration of its meaning

and relative value than—Life. Has it not a thousand different

definitions? Is it the same thing to two different men?

Ask the man of independent wealth and sound body to paint Life, and what

a very pretty picture he will lay before you. He lives in another

world—has, as Sir Anthony Absolute says, a sun and moon of his own—a

realm of fairies, with attending sprites to perform his every

compassable wish. To him life is a most musical monosyllable; making his

heart dance, and thrilling every nerve with its so-potent harmony.

Life—but especially his life—is, indeed, a sacred thing to him; and loud

and deep are his praises of its miracles. Like the departed ROTHSCHILD,

“he does not know a better;” certain we are, he is in no indecent haste

to seek it.

Demand of the prosperous man of trade—of the man of funds, and houses,

and land, acquired by successful projects—what is Life? He will try to

call up a philosophic look, and passing his chin through his hand—(there

is a brilliant on his little finger worth at least fifty guineas)—he

will answer, “Life, sir—Life has its ups and downs; but taken

altogether, for my part, I think a man a great sinner, a very great

sinner, who doesn’t look upon life as a very pretty thing. But don’t

let’s talk of such dry stuff—take off your glass—hang it!—no heel-taps.”

Ask another, whose whole soul, like a Ready Reckoner, is composed of

figures,—what is Life? He, perhaps, will answer, “Why, sir, Life—if you

insure at our office—is worth more than at any other establishment. We

divide profits, and the rate of insurance decreases in proportion,” &c.

&c.; and thus you will have Life valued, by the man who sees nothing in

it but a privilege to get money, as the merest article of commercial

stock.

Inquire of many an Alderman what is Life? He will tell you that it is a

fine, dignified, full-bellied, purple-faced creature, in a furred and

violet-coloured gown. “Life,” he will say, “always has its pleasures;

but its day of great delight is the Ninth of November. Life, however, is

especially agreeable in swan-hopping season, when white-bait abounds at

Blackwall and Greenwich, and when the Lord Mayor gives his Easter-ball;

and ‘keeps up the hospitalities of his high office.’” Not, however, that

life is without its graver duties—its religious observations. Oh, no! it

is the duty of well-to-do Life to punish starving men for forgetting its

surpassing loveliness—it is a high obligation of Life to go to church in

a carriage, and confess itself a miserable sinner—it is the duty of Life

to read its bible; and then the Alderman, to show that he is well versed

in the volume, quotes a passage—“when the voice of the turtle is heard

in the land.”

Now ask the Paisley weaver what is Life? Bid the famine-stricken

multitudes of Bolton to describe with their white lips the surpassing

beauty of human existence. Can it be possible that the glorious

presence—the beneficent genius that casts its blessings in the paths of

other men—is such an ogre, a fiend, to the poor? Alas! is he not a daily

tyrant, scourging with meanest wants—a creature that, with all its

bounty to others, is to the poor and destitute more terrible than Death?

Let Comfort paint a portrait of Life, and now Penury take the pencil.

“Pooh! pooh!” cry the sage LAURIES of the world, looking at the two

pictures—“that scoundrel Penury has drawn an infamous libel. That Life!

with that withered face, sunken eye, and shrivelled lip; and what is

worse, with a suicidal scar in its throat! That Life! The painter Penury

is committed for a month as a rogue and vagabond. We shall look very

narrowly into these cases.”

We agree with the profound Sir PETER LAURIE that it is a most wicked, a

most foolish act of the poor man to end his misery by suicide. But we

think there is a better remedy for such desperation than the tread-mill.

The surest way for the rich and powerful of the world to make the poor

man more careful of his life is to render it of greater value to him.

Q.

[pg 211] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XVIII. Several men in (female)

theatrical costumes. POLITICAL THEATRICALS EXTRAORDINARY.

NORMA.

NORMA (the Deserted) LORD MELBOURNE. ADALGISA (the Seductive) SIR R.

PEEL. POLLIO (the Faithless) MR. WAKLEY. CHILDREN MASTERS RUSSELL &

MORPETH. [pg 213] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. 7.—OF

VARIOUS OTHER DIVERTING MATTERS CONNECTED WITH GRINDING. A man carrying

a load forms a letter F. rom experience we are aware that the invention

of the useful species of phrenotypics, alluded to in our last chapter,

does not rest with the grinder alone. We once knew a medical student

(and many even now at the London hospitals will recollect his name

without mentioning it), who, when he was grinding for the Hall, being

naturally of a melodious and harmonic disposition, conceived the idea of

learning the whole of his practice of physic by setting a description of

the diseases to music. He had a song of some hundred and twenty verses,

which he called “The Poetry of Steggall’s Manual;” and this he put to

the tune of the “Good Old Days of Adam and Eve.” We deeply lament that

we cannot produce the whole of this lyrical pathological curiosity. Two

verses, however, linger on our memory, and these we have written down,

requesting that they may be said or sung to the air above-mentioned, and

dedicating them to the gentlemen who are going up next Thursday evening.

They relate to the symptoms, treatment, and causes of Hæmoptysis and

Hæmatemesis; which terms respectively imply, for the benefit of the

million unprofessional readers who weekly gasp for our fresh number, a

spitting of blood from the lungs and a vomiting of ditto from the

stomach. The song was composed of stanzas similar to those which follow,

except the portion relating to Diseases of the Brain, which was more

appropriately separated into the old English division of Fyttes.

HÆMOPTYSIS. A sensation of weight and oppression at the chest, sirs;

With tickling at the larynx, which scarcely gives you rest, sirs;

Full hard pulse, salt taste, and tongue very white, sirs;

And blood brought up in coughing, of colour very bright, sirs.

It depends on causes three—the first’s exhalation;

The next a ruptured artery—the third, ulceration.

In treatment we may bleed, keep the patient cool and quiet,

Acid drinks, digitalis, and attend to a mild diet.

Sing hey, sing ho, we do not grieve

When this formidable illness takes its leave.

HÆMATEMESIS. Clotted blood is thrown up, in colour very black, sirs,

And generally sudden, as it comes up in a crack, sirs.

It’s preceded at the stomach by a weighty sensation;

But nothing appears ruptured upon examination.

It differs from the last, by the particles thrown off, sirs,

Being denser, deeper-coloured, and without a bit of cough, sirs.

In plethoric habits bleed, and some acid draughts pour in, gents,

With Oleum Terebinthinæ (small doses) and astringents.

Sing hey, sing ho; if you think the lesion spacious,

The Acetate of Lead is found very efficacious.

Thus, in a few lines a great deal of valuable professional information

is conveyed, at the same time that the tedium of much study is relieved

by the harmony. If poetry is yet to be found in our hospitals—a queer

place certainly for her to dwell, unless in her present feeble state the

frequenters of Parnassus have subscribed to give her an in-patient’s

ticket—we trust that some able hand will continue this subject for the

benefit of medical students generally; for, we repeat, it is much to be

regretted that no more of this valuable production remains to us than

the portion which Punch has just immortalized, and set forth as an apt

example for cheering the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties. The

gifted hand who arranged this might have turned Cooper’s First Lines of

Surgery into a tragedy; Dr. Copeland’s Medical Dictionary into a

domestic melodrama, with long intervals between the acts; and the

Pharmacopoeia into a light one-act farce. It strikes us if the theatres

could enter into an arrangement with the Borough Hospitals to supply an

amputation every evening as the finishing coup to an act, it would draw

immensely when other means failed to attract.

The last time we heard this poem was at an harmonic meeting of medical

students, within twenty shells’ length of the —— School dissecting-room.

It was truly delightful to see these young men snatching a few

Anacreontic hours from their harassing professional occupations. At the

time we heard it, the singer was slightly overcome by excitement and

tight boots; and, at length, being prevailed upon to remove the

obnoxious understandings, they were passed round the table to be

admired, and eventually returned to their owner, filled with half-and-

half, cigar-ashes, broken pipes, bread-crusts, and gin-and-water. This

was a jocular pleasantry, which only the hilarious mind of a medical

student could have conceived.

As the day of examination approaches, the economy of our friend

undergoes a complete transformation, but in an inverse entomological

progression—changing from the butterfly into the chrysalis. He is seldom

seen at the hospitals, dividing the whole of his time between the

grinder and his lodgings; taking innumerable notes at one place, and

endeavouring to decipher them at the other. Those who have called upon

him at this trying period have found him in an old shooting-jacket and

slippers, seated at a table, and surrounded by every book that was ever

written upon every medical subject that was ever discussed, all of which

he appears to be reading at once—with little pieces of paper strewn all

over the room, covered with strange hieroglyphics and extraordinary

diagrams of chemical decompositions. His brain is just as full of

temporary information as a bad egg is of sulphuretted hydrogen; and it

is a fortunate provision of nature that the dura mater is of a tough

fibrous texture—were it not for this safeguard, the whole mass would

undoubtedly go off at once like a too tightly-rammed rocket. He is

conscious of this himself, from the grinding information wherein he has

been taught that the brain has three coverings, in the following

order:—the dura mater, or Chesterfield overall; the tunica arachnoidea,

or “dress coat of fine Saxony cloth;” and, in immediate contact, the pia

mater, or five-and-sixpenny long cloth shirt with linen wristbands and

fronts. This is a brilliant specimen of the helps to memory which the

grinder affords, as splendid in its arrangement as the topographical

methods of calling to mind the course of the large arteries, which

define the abdominal aorta as Cheapside, its two common iliac branches,

as Newgate-street and St. Paul’s Churchyard, and the medio sacralis

given off between them, as Paternoster-row.

Time goes on, bringing the fated hour nearer and nearer; and the

student’s assiduity knows no bounds. He reads his subjects over and over

again, to keep them fresh in his memory, like little boys at school, who

try to catch a last bird’s-eye glance of their book before they give it

into the usher’s hands to say by heart. He now feels a deep interest in

the statistics of the Hall, and is horrified at hearing that “nine men

out of thirteen were sent back last Thursday!” The subjects, too, that

they were rejected upon frighten him just as much. One was plucked upon

his anatomy; another, because he could not tell the difference between a

daisy and a chamomile; and a third, after “being in” three hours and a

quarter, was sent back, for his inability to explain the process of

making malt from barley,—an operation, whose final use he so well

understands, although the preparation somewhat bothered him. And thus,

funking at the rejection of a clever man, or marvelling at the success

of an acknowledged fool—determining to take prussic acid in the event of

being refused—reading fourteen hours a day—and keeping awake by the

combined influence of snuff and coffee—the student finds his first

ordeal approach.

TRUE ECONOMY. Peter Borthwick experienced a sad disappointment lately.

Having applied to the City Chamberlain for the situation of Lord Mayor’s

fool, he was told that the Corporation, in a true spirit of economy, had

decided upon dividing the duties amongst themselves. Peter was—but we

were not—surprised that between the Aldermen and tom-foolery there

should exist

Two men connected with handcuffs. A STRONG ATTACHMENT.

[pg 214] THE LORD MAYOR’S FOOL. We are happy in being able to announce

that it is the intention of the new potentate of Guildhall to revive the

ancient and honourable office of “Lord Mayor’s Fool.” A number of

candidates have already offered themselves, whose qualifications for the

situation are so equally balanced, that it is a matter of no small

difficulty to decide amongst them. The Light of the City has, we

understand, called in Gog and Magog—Sir Peter Laurie and Alderman

Humphrey—to assist him in selecting a fit and proper person upon whom to

bestow the Civic cap and bells.

The following is a list of the individuals whose claims are under

consideration:—

The Marquis of Londonderry, who founds his claims upon the fact of his

always creating immense laughter whenever he opens his mouth.

Lord Brougham, who grounds his pretensions upon the agility displayed by

him in his favourite character of “the Political Harlequin.”

Lord Normanby, upon the peculiar fitness of his physiognomy to play the

Fool in any Court.

Daniel O’Connell, upon his impudence, and his offer to fool it in his

new scarlet gown and cocked-hat.

Peter Borthwick, upon his brilliant wit, which it is intended shall

supersede the Bude Light in the House of Commons.

Colonel Sibthorp, upon his jokes, which have convulsed all the readers

of PUNCH, including himself.

George Stephens, upon the immense success of his tragedy of

“Martinuzzi,” which, to the outrageous merriment of the audience, turned

out to be a farce.

T. Wakley, upon the comical way in which he turns his Cap of Liberty

into a Wellington-Wig and back again at the shortest notice.

Sir Francis Burdett, upon the exceeding complacency with which he wears

his own fool’s-cap.

Ben D’Israeli, upon his unadulterated simplicity, and the unfurnished

state of his attic.

Mr. Muntz, upon the primâ facie evidence that he is a near relative of

Gog and Magog, and therefore the best entitled to the Civic Foolship.

PUNCH’S CATECHISM OF GEOGRAPHY. The astonishing increase of the great

metropolis in every direction—the growing up of Brixton and Clapham—the

discovery of inhabited streets and houses in the terra incognita to the

northward of Pentonville—and the spirit of maritime enterprise which the

late successful voyages made by the Bridegroom steam-boat to the coast

of Chelsea has excited in the public mind—has induced a thirst for

knowledge, and a desire to be acquainted with the exact geographical

position of this habitable world, of which it is admitted Pinnock’s work

does not give the remotest idea. To supply this deficiency, PUNCH begs

leave to offer to his friends and readers his Catechism of Geography,

which, if received with the extraordinary favour it deserves from the

public, may be followed by catechisms on other interesting branches of

knowledge.