CHAPTER I. OF THE WORLD IN GENERAL. Q. What is geography?

A. The looking for places on a map, or in Downing-street, or anywhere

else in the world.

Q. What do you mean by the world?

A. Every place comprehended within the circle of a sixpenny omnibus fare

from the Bank.

Q. Of what is the world composed?

A. Of bricks and mortar, and Thames water.

Q. Into how many parts is the world usually divided?

A. Into four great parts, viz.—London, Westminster, Marylebone, and

Finsbury; to which may be added the Borough, which is over the water. Or

it may be said that Fashion has divided the world into two distinct

parts, viz.—the East-end and the West-end, and a great number of

suburbs.

Q. How are the bricks and mortar subdivided?

A. Into continents, islands, peninsulas, and isthmuses.

Q. What is a continent?

A. Any district containing a number of separate residences and distinct

tenements, as St. James’s, St. Giles’s.

Q. What is an island?

A. An island is anything surrounded by the Thames, as The Eel-Pie

Island, and The Convict Hulk at Deptford.

Q. What is a peninsula?

A. Anything that runs into the Thames, as The Suspension Pier at

Chelsea, and Jack-in-the-Water at the Tower-stairs.

Q. What is an isthmus?

A. A narrow place that joins two continents together, as Temple bar,

which joins Westminster to the City.

Q. How is the Thames water divided?

A. Morally speaking, it is divided into river water, pipe water, and

gin-and-water.

Q. Where is river water found?

A. Anywhere between Vauxhall and London Bridges. It is inhabited

principally by flounders and bargemen.

Q. What is pipe water?

A. An intermitting stream, having its source at some distant basin. It

usually runs into a cistern, until the water-rates get into arrear, when

the supply ceases through the intervention of a turncock.

Q. Where is gin-and-water to be found?

A. All over the world; but especially in the vicinity of a cab-stand.

Q. In what other manner is the Thames water divided?

A. Physically speaking, into oceans, seas, gulfs, bays, straits, lakes

and rivers.

Q. What is an ocean?

A. Any great body of water whose limits it is impossible to describe, as

The Floating Bath at Southwark-bridge, and The Real Tank at the Adelphi

Theatre.

Q. What is a sea?

A. Any small collection of water, as at Chelsea, Battersea.

Q. What is a gulf?

A. A gulf is any place, the greater part of which is surrounded by

lawyers, as Lincoln’s Inn,—The Court of Chancery.

Q. What is a haven?

A. A commodious harbour, where people lie at anchor in perfect security,

as The Queen’s Bench,—The Fleet, the sight of which is

Three men in a boat look at a man who is working strenuously in another

boat. ENOUGH TO TURN ONE’S HEAD.

Q. What is a strait?

A. A strait is a narrow passage which connects two broad principles as

Wakley’s Straits, which join Radicalism and Conservatism.

Q. What is a lake?

A. A lake is any small portion of Honesty, entirely surrounded by Self,

as Peel’s Politics.

Q. What is a river?

A. A river is a Tax-stream which rises from the Treasury, and runs into

the pockets of the Ministerial party. The People are the source of the

stream—the Ministry is the mouth. When the mouth is very wide, it is

called a Tory mouth. The right or left banks of a Tax stream are the

Treasury or Opposition benches, to the right or left of the Speaker when

he has his back to the source.

Q. How are tax streams divided?

A. Into salaries and pensions.

Q. What is a conflux?

A. Any place where two or more salaries or pensions are united, as The

Duke’s breeches-pocket.

Q. Is there any other peculiarity attending a tax stream?

A. Yes. Radicalism is that part of a stream nearest to its source;

Toryism that part nearest to its mouth.

SPARKS FROM THE FIRE. ALL IS NOT LOST. Colonel Sibthorp begs to inform

the Editor of Punch that the loss of the wooden gun named “Policy,”

which was destroyed by the late fire at the Tower, is not irreparable.

He has himself been for a long time employed by the Tories for a similar

purpose as that for which the “Policy” had been successfully used,

namely, to make the enemy believe they were well provided with real

artillery; and being now the greatest wooden gun in the world, he will,

immediately on the Lower Armoury being rebuilt, be happy to take the

place of the gun which has been unfortunately consumed.

[pg 215] DISTRESS OF THE COUNTRY. BY THE AUTHOR OF “LIGHTS AND SHADOWS

OF LONDON LIFE.” Merciful Heaven! we shudder as we write! The state of

destitution to which the civic authorities are reduced is appalling.

Will our readers believe it—there were only five hundred tureens of

turtle, or two thousand five hundred pints, or five thousand basins,

amongst not quite fifteen hundred guests,—only two basins and a half a

man,—for the first course! But we print the bill of fare; it will be

read with intense interest by the manufacturers of Paisley, inhabitants

of poor-law unions, but more especially by the literary community.

“GENERAL BILL OF FARE.—250 tureens of real turtle, containing five pints

each; 200 bottles of sherbet; 6 dishes of fish; 30 entrées; 4 boiled

turkeys and oysters; 60 roast pullets; 60 dishes of fowls; 46 ditto of

capons; 50 French pies; 60 pigeon pies; 53 hams (ornamented); 43

tongues; 2 quarters of house lamb; 2 barons of beef; 3 rounds of beef; 2

stewed rumps of beef; 13 sirloins, rumps, and ribs of beef; 6 dishes of

asparagus; 60 ditto of mashed and other potatoes; 44 ditto of shell-

fish; 4 ditto of prawns; 140 jellies; 50 blancmanges; 40 dishes of tarts

(creamed); 30 ditto of orange and other tourtes; 40 ditto of almond

pastry; 20 Chantilly baskets; 60 dishes of mince pies; 56 salads; peas

and asparagus. The Removes:—30 roast turkeys; 6 leverets; 80 pheasants;

24 geese; 40 dishes of partridges; 15 dishes of wild fowl; 2 pea-fowls.

Dessert:—100 pineapples, from 2 lb. to 3 lb. each; 200 dishes of hot-

house grapes; 250 ice creams; 50 dishes of apples; 100 ditto of pears;

60 ornamented Savoy cakes; 75 plates of walnuts; 80 ditto of dried fruit

and preserves; 50 ditto of preserved ginger; 60 ditto of rout cakes and

chips; 46 ditto of brandy cherries.

“THE PRINCIPAL TABLE (at which the Right Hon. the Lord Mayor

presides).—10 tureens of turtle, 10 bottles of sherbet, 6 dishes of

fish, 30 entrées, 1 boiled turkey and oysters, 2 roast pullets, 2 dishes

of fowls, 2 ditto of capons, 2 French pies, 2 pigeon pies, 2 hams

(ornamented), 2 tongues, 1 quarter of house-lamb, 1 stewed rump of beef,

1 sirloin of beef, 6 dishes of asparagus, 2 dishes of mashed and other

potatoes, 3 ditto of shell-fish, 1 dish of prawns, 3 jellies, 3

blancmanges, 2 dishes of tarts (creamed), 2 dishes of orange and other

tourtes, 2 dishes of almond pastry, 4 Chantilly baskets, 2 dishes of

mince pies, 4 salads. Removes:—3 roast turkeys, 1 leveret, 3 pheasants,

2 geese, 2 dishes of partridges, 1 dish of wild fowl, 2 peafowls.

Dessert:—6 pine-apples, 12 dishes of grapes, 10 ice creams, 2 dishes of

apples, 4 dishes of pears, 2 ornamented Savoy cakes, 3 plates of

walnuts, 4 plates of dried fruit and preserves, 3 plates of preserved

ginger, 3 plates of rout cakes and chips, 3 plates of brandy cherries.

“THE FIVE UPPER TABLES.—80 tureens of turtle, 60 bottles of sherbet, 3

boiled turkeys and oysters, 16 roast pullets, 20 dishes of fowls, 15

ditto of capons, 16 French pies, 16 pigeon pies, 16 hams (ornamented),

13 tongues, 1 quarter of house-lamb, 1 round of beef, 1 stewed rump of

beef, 4 sirloins, rumps and ribs of beef, 20 dishes of mashed and other

potatoes, 12 ditto of shell-fish, 1 dish of prawns, 40 jellies, 16

blancmanges, 13 dishes of tarts (creamed), 9 ditto of orange and other

tourtes, 13 ditto of almond pastry, 16 Chantilly baskets, 20 dishes of

mince pies, 17 salads. Removes: 23 roast turkeys, 5 leverets, 23

pheasants, 7 geese, 13 dishes of partridges, 5 ditto of wild fowl.

Dessert:—32 pine-apples, 64 dishes of grapes, 80 ice creams, 15 dishes

of apples, 30 ditto of pears, 18 ornamented Savoy cakes, 24 plates of

walnuts, 26 ditto of dried fruit and preserves, 15 ditto of preserved

ginger, 18 ditto of rout cakes and chips, 14 ditto of brandy cherries.

“THE FIVE SHORT TABLES NEXT THE UPPER TABLES.—26 tureens of turtle, 22

bottles of sherbet, 3 roast pullets, 6 dishes of fowls, 5 dishes of

capons, 5 French pies, 7 pigeon pies, 6 hams (ornamented), 5 tongues, 1

sirloin of beef, 6 dishes of mashed and other potatoes, 5 ditto of

shell-fish, 1 dish of prawns, 16 jellies, 5 blancmanges, 4 dishes of

tarts (creamed), 3 dishes of orange and other tourtes, 4 dishes of

almond pastry, 6 dishes of mince pies, 6 salads. Removes:—10 roast

turkeys, 10 pheasants, 3 geese, 4 dishes of partridges. Dessert:—10

pine-apples, 20 dishes of grapes, 26 ice creams, 5 dishes of apples, 12

ditto of pears, 7 ornamented Savoy cakes, 8 plates of walnuts, 8 ditto

of dried fruit and preserves, 5 ditto of preserved ginger, 7 ditto of

rout cakes and chips, 5 ditto of brandy cherries.

“THE FOUR LONG TABLES IN THE BODY OF THE HALL.—80 tureens of turtle, 60

bottles of sherbet, 17 roast pullets, 20 dishes of fowls, 15 dishes of

capons, 16 French pies, 20 pigeon pies, 16 hams (ornamented), 13

tongues, 1 round of beef, 1 stewed rump of beef, 4 sirloins, rumps, and

ribs of beef, 20 dishes of mashed and other potatoes, 13 dishes of

shell-fish, 40 jellies, 16 blancmanges, 13 dishes of tarts (creamed), 10

ditto of orange and other tourtes, 13 ditto of almond pastry, 20 ditto

of mince pies, 17 salads. Removes:—23 roast turkeys, 23 pheasants, 7

geese, 13 dishes of partridges, 5 ditto of wild fowl. Dessert:—32 pine-

apples, 64 dishes of grapes, 80 ice creams, 16 dishes of apples, 30

ditto of pears, 20 ornamented Savoy cakes, 24 plates of walnuts. 26

ditto of dried fruit and preserves, 16 ditto of preserved ginger, 20

ditto of rout cakes and chips, 15 ditto of brandy cherries.

“THE SEVEN SIDE TABLES.—24 tureens of turtle, 20 bottles of sherbet, 7

roast pullets, 5 dishes of fowls, 4 ditto of capons, 5 French pies, 5

pigeon pies, 6 hams (ornamented), 4 tongues, 1 sirloin of beef, 5 dishes

of mashed and other potatoes, 4 ditto of shell-fish, 1 dish of prawns,

15 jellies, 4 blancmanges, 3 dishes of tarts (creamed), 2 ditto of

orange and other tourtes, 3 ditto of almond pastry, 5 ditto of mince

pies, 5 salads. Removes—9 roast turkeys, 9 pheasants, 2 geese, 20 dishes

of partridges. Dessert:—8 pine-apples, 16 dishes of grapes, 24 ice

creams, 5 dishes of apples, 16 ditto of pears, 6 ornamented Savoy cakes,

7 plates of walnuts, 7 ditto of dried fruit and preserves, 5 ditto of

preserved ginger, 6 ditto of rout cakes and chips, 4 ditto of brandy

cherries.

“THE THREE TABLES IN THE OLD COURT OF QUEEN’S BENCH.—30 tureens of

turtle, 28 bottles of sherbet, 10 roast pullets, 7 dishes of fowls. 6

ditto of capons, 5 French pies, 10 pigeon pies, 7 hams (ornamented), 6

tongues, 1 round of beef, 2 sirloins and ribs of beef, 7 dishes of

mashed and other potatoes, 6 ditto of shell-fish, 21 jellies, 6

blancmanges, 5 dishes of tarts (creamed), 4 ditto of orange and other

tourtes, 5 ditto of almond pastry, 7 ditto of mince pies, 7 salads.

Removes:—12 roast turkeys, 12 pheasants, 3 geese, 5 dishes of

partridges, 4 ditto of wild fowl. Dessert:—12 pine-apples, 24 dishes of

grapes, 30 ice creams, 7 dishes of apples, 14 ditto of pears, 7

ornamented Savoy cakes, 9 plates of walnuts, 9 ditto of dried fruit and

preserves, 6 ditto of preserved ginger, 7 ditto of rout cakes and chips,

5 ditto of brandy cherries.

“WINES:—Champagne, Hock, Claret, Madeira, Port, and Sherry.”

THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ALDERMEN. A MANSION-HOUSE MELODY. Apoplexia came

down on the Alderman fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming with jaundice like gold,

And the sheen of the spectres that own’d his behest

Glimmer’d bright as the gas at a new Lord May’r’s feast.

Every fiend that humanity shrinks from was there—

Hepatitis, Lumbago, with hollow-eyed Care,

Hypochondria, and Gout grinning ghastly with pain,

And of Incubi phantoms a horrible train.

And onwards they gallop’d in brotherly pairs;

Their pennons pale yellow, their steeds were night mares;

And their leader’s grim visage a darksome smile wore

As he gave the word “Halt” at the Mansion-house door.

The vision dismounted, and peering within,

’Midst a rattle of glasses and knife and fork din,

His victims beheld, tucking in calipash,

While they hob-nobb’d and toasted in Burgundy wash.

Then he straightway amongst them his grisly form cast,

And breathed on each puffing red face as he pass’d;

And the eyes of the feasters wax’d deadly and chill,

And their stomachs once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And the turtle devourers were stretched on the floor—

Each cheek changed to purple—so crimson before!

Their dewlaps all dabbled with red wine and ale,

And extremities cold as a live fish’s tail!

And there lay the Liv’ryman, breathless and lorn,

With waistcoat and new inexpressibles torn;

And the Hall was all silent, the band having flown,

And the waiters stared wildly on, sweating and blown!

And Cripplegate widows are loud in their wail!

And Mary-Axe orphans all trembling and pale!

For the Alderman glory has melted away,

As mists are dispersed by the glad dawn of day.

HARMER VIRUMQUE CANO. In the list of guests at the Lord Mayor’s dinner

we did not perceive the name of “Harmer” among those who met to

“despatch” the viands. On inquiry we learn that since the fire at the

Tower he has secluded himself in his own Harmer-y, and has not egressed

from “Ingress Abbey,” for fear of incendiaries. The ex-alderman having

however always shown a decided predilection for Gravesend, it is not

wonderful that during the wet season he should be

A man forces a horse through a pond. STOPPING AT A WATERING-PLACE.

[pg 216] A CHAPTER ON POLITICS. WHEREIN “PUNCH” HINTETH AT A STARTLING

CHANGE IN THE MODUS OPERANDI OF LEGISLATION.—HE ALSO EXHIBITETH A

PROFOUND KNOWLEDGE OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS; AND SHOWETH HOW AT HOME WE ARE

ALL ABROAD.

At a period when every Englishman, from the Minister to the Quack Doctor

(and extremes very often meet), is laying down his pseudo-political

principles, PUNCH desires to expound his practical and scientific plan

for increasing prosperity and preserving peace. Yes, at a moment like

this, when the party difference “’twixt Tweedledum and Tweedledee” has

produced a total stand-still; when Whigs cannot move, and when Tories

will not,—PUNCH steps forward to prescribe (without a fee) for the

sinking Constitution.

PUNCH loquitur.—A very great genius—one almost equal to myself—has

declared that of the great mass of mankind, ninety-nine out of every

hundred are lost in error. Every day proves the fact.—From the Peer, who

mistakes exclusiveness for dignity, and a power to injure for a right to

oppress, to the Peasant, who confounds aggression and insolence with

justice and independence, it is all error! error!! error!!!

Upon this fact rests the basis of my wonderful improvements. If the

majority be wrong, the inference is obvious—the minority must be right.

Then, in future, let everything be conducted by the minority—the

sensible few. Behold the consequences!

In those days we shall have Mr. Samuel Carter Hall, who polled three

days and got—one vote, declared County Member elect. Sibthorp shall be a

man of weight and influence, “giving to (h)airy nothing a local

habitation and a name.” Roebuck shall be believed to have had ancestors;

and shall wring the nose of some small boy attached to The Times

newspaper; and the Whigs—yes, the Whigs—shall be declared both wise and

honest: though Parliament has pronounced them fools, and the country has

believed them to be knaves.

Pupil of Punch, respondet.—That would be a change, Punch! Rather. Cast

your eye around and see the workings of this grand principle; the

labours of the many compassed by the few—steam and slavery.

Punch.—Very true! Let me now draw your attention to the real difference

between the English and some foreign governments:—

The Turkish minister generally loses his power and his head at the same

time; the English minister carries on his business without a head at

all. For the performance of his duty the former is decapitated—the

latter is incapacitated.

The Japanese legislator when disgraced invariably rips up his bowels;

the English legislator is invariably in disgrace, but has no bowels to

rip up. With some other nations the unsuccessful leader gets bow-

stringed and comfortably sown up in a sack; our great man is satisfied

with getting the sack, having previously bagged as much as lay in his

power.

(Next week I may probably continue the lecture and the parallels.)

THE PRINCE’S EXTRA. At Gray’s Inn the loyalty of that society was

manifested in a very gratifying manner: the treasurer and benchers

having ordered extra wine to be served to the barristers and students,

the health of her Majesty and the infant Prince was drunk with

enthusiastic rapture.

Long live the Prince! For many a year

To wet each student’s throttle;

He well deserves an extra cheer,

Who brings an extra bottle.

PUNCH’S THEATRE. THE WRONG MAN. The author of this farce hath placed

himself in the first section of the second chapter of that treatise on

“Dramatic Casualties” which hath helped to make “Punch” the oracle of

wit and of wisdom he has become to the entire intelligence of the land,

from the aristocracy upwards22. Punch, No. 11 page 131.. In this

instance he is truly one who “writeth a farce or comedy and neglecteth

to introduce jokes in the same.” But this we hope will prove a solitary

instance of such neglect; for when he next inditeth, may he show that he

is not the “Wrong Man” to write a good piece; although alas, he appeared

on Saturday last to be exactly the right man for penning a bad one.

When a playwright produces a plot whose incidents are just within the

possibilities, and far beyond the probabilities, of this life, it is

said to be “ingenious,” because of the crowd of circumstances that are

huddled into each scene. According to this acceptation, the “Wrong Man”

would be a highly ingenious farce; if that may be called a farce from

which the remotest semblance of facetiæ is scrupulously excluded.

Proceed we, therefore, to an analysis of the fable with becoming

gravity.

At the outset we are introduced to a maiden lady in (horresco referens!)

her private apartment; but to save scandal, the introduction is not made

without company—there is also her maid. Patty Smart, although not a new

servant, has chosen that precise moment to inform her mistress

concerning the exact situation of her private circumstances, and the

precise state of her heart. She is in love: it is for Simon Tack that

the flame is kept alive; he, a dapper upholder, upholds her affections.

At this point, a triangular note is produced, which plainly foretells a

dishonourable rival. You are not deceived; it proposes an assignation in

that elysium of bachelors and precipice of destruction for young ladies,

the Albany. Wonderful to relate, it is from Miss Thomasina Fringe’s

nephew, Sir Bryan Beausex. The maiden dame is inconceivably shocked; and

to show her detestation of this indelicate proposal, agrees to personate

Patty and keep the appointment herself, for the pleasure of inflicting

on her nephew a heap of mortification and a moral lecture. Mr. Tack is

the next appearance: being an upholsterer, of course he has the run of

the house, so it is not at all odd to find him in a maiden lady’s

boudoir; the more especially as he enters from behind his natural

element—the window curtains.

It is astonishing with what pertinacity the characters in most farces

will bore one with their private affairs when they first appear! In this

respect Sir Bryan Beausex, in the next scene, is quite as bad as Patty

was in the former one. He seems to have invited four unoffending victims

to dine at his chambers in the Albany, on purpose to inform them that in

his youth he was betrothed to a girl whom he has never since seen; but

what that has to do with telling his guests to be off, because he

expects a charming little lady’s-maid at six, his companions are

doubtless puzzled to understand. One of them, however, is Beechwood—a

very considerably diluted edition of Jerry Bumps in “Turning the

Tables”—who determines to revenge this early turn-out by a trick upon

the inhospitable host, and goes off to develop it—to commence, in fact,

the farce.

Sir Bryan Beausex is waiting with impatience the arrival of Patty, when

his servant enters with a letter, which he says has been just delivered

by a servant, who galloped up to the door on a horse—an extraordinary

clever hack, we should say; for, to perform this feat, he must have

broken through a porter’s lodge, galloped over a smooth pavement, and

under a roof so low, that Lord Burghersh can only traverse it with his

hat off. We should like to see a horse-race in the Albany avenue! The

letter thus so cavalierly brought, contains news of an accident that has

happened to Miss Fringe, and summons Beausex’s immediate presence. Off

he goes, and on comes Beechwood with a “Ha! ha! ha!, fairly hoaxed,” and

all that; which is usually laughed and said by hoaxers of hoaxees.

It has happened that Mr. Tack, the upholsterer, having had a peep at the

contents of the cocked-hat billet, addressed to Mistress Smart,

conceives a violent fit of jealousy, and having also Beausex’s custom,

has the range of his house as well as that of Miss Fringe. So by this

time we naturally find him behind Sir Bryan’s window-curtains, to

witness the interview between him and the future Mrs. Tack; that is to

say, if she prove not false.

Things approach to a crisis. Miss Fringe enters, but brings with her

Alice, the young lady whose infant heart was betrothed to Beausex. She,

taking the place of Patty Smart, goes through a dialogue with Beechwood

instead of Beausex; and we now learn that the former christens the

farce, he being the “Wrong Man.” Somewhere near this point of the story

the first act ends.

The second act is occupied in clearing up the mistakes which the

audience know all about already; but those among them who had, up to

about the middle of it, been waiting with exemplary patience for the

jokes, began to get tired of having nothing to laugh at, and hissed.

Despite these noisy drawbacks, however, we were able to find out that

Beausex loses his cousin Alice and her fortune (a regular farce

fortune—some five or six hundred thousand pounds or so); for she falls

in love with Beechwood, and vice versa. Tack and Patty Smart are

rendered happy; but what really becomes of Beausex and his aunt the

sibilants forbad our knowing. We suppose, by Mr. Bartley’s pantomime,

that Sir Bryan puts up with his hoax and his lady-loss with a good

grace; for he flourished about his never-absent pocket-handkerchief with

one hand, shook hands with Miss Fringe with the other, stepped forward,

did some more dumb show to the dissentients, and, with the rest of the

actors, bowed down the curtain.

We perceive by the Times that the author of the “Wrong Man” is not so

very culpable after all. He is guiltless of the plot; that being taken

from a French piece called “Le Tapissier.”

THE MASONS AND THE STONE JUG. Mr. Wakley feelingly remarked at the late

meeting of the union masons that the “man who would lock up a pump was

unfit to hold any situation of trust.” On the strength of this opinion

the Earl of Waklegrave and Captain Duff intend to proceed against the

Marshal of the Queen’s Bench for having locked them up for these last

six months.

“THE FORCE OF FANCY COULD NO FURTHER GO.” The Times gives an extract

from the Norwich Aurora, an American paper, descriptive of a newly

discovered cavern. The writer, with a power of imagination almost

marvellous, remarks, “The air in the cavern had a peculiar smell,

resembling—NOTHING.” We believe that is the identical flavour of “Leg of

Nothing and no turnips.”

CONUNDRUM BY THE LORD MAYOR. Why does a drunken milkmaid resemble a

celebrated French diplomatist?—Because she is like to tally-

wrong—(Talleyrand.)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. NOVEMBER 20, 1841. [pg 217]

MYSELF, PUNCH, AND THE KEELEYS. I dined with my old friend and

schoolfellow, Jack Withers, one day last September. On the previous

morning, on my way to the India House, I had run up against a stout

individual on Cornhill, and on looking in his face as I stopped for a

moment to apologise, an abrupt “This is surely Jack Withers,” burst from

my lips, followed by—“God bless me! Will Bayfield!” from his. After a

hurried question or two, we shook hands warmly and parted, with the

understanding that I was to cut my mutton with him next day.

Seventeen years had elapsed since Withers and I had seen or heard of

each other. Having a good mercantile connexion, he had pitched upon

commerce as his calling, and entered a counting-house in Idollane in the

same year that I, a raw young surgeon, embarked for India to seek my

fortune in the medical service of the East India Company.

Things had gone well with honest Jack; from a long, thin, weazel of a

youngster, he had become a burly ruddy-faced gentleman, with an

aldermanic rotundity of paunch, which gave the world assurance that his

ordinary fare by no means consisted of deaf nuts; he had already, as he

told me, accumulated a very pretty independence, which was yearly

increasing, and was, moreover, a snug bachelor, with a well-arranged

residence in Finsbury-square; in short, it was evident that Jack was “a

fellow with two coats and everything handsome about him.”

As for me, I was a verification of the adage about the rolling stone;

having gathered a very small quantity of “moss,” in the shape of worldly

goods. I had spent sixteen years in marching and countermarching over

the thirsty plains of the Carnatic, in medical charge of a native

regiment—salivating Sepoys and blowing out with blue pills the

officers—until the effects of a stiff jungle-fever, that nearly made me

proprietor of a landed property measuring six feet by two, sent me back

to England almost as poor as I had left it, and with an atrabilarious

visage which took a two-months’ course of Cheltenham water to scour into

anything like a decent colour.

Withers’ dinner was in the best taste: viands excellent—wine superb;

never did I sip racier Madeira, and the Champagne trickled down one’s

throat with the same facility that man is inclined to sin.

The cloth drawn, we fell to discoursing about old times, things,

persons, and places. Jack then told me how from junior clerk he had

risen to become second partner in the firm to which he belonged; and I,

in my turn, enlightened his mind with respect to Asiatic Cholera,

Runjeet Sing, Ghuzni, tiger-shooting, and Shah Soojah.

In this manner the evening slid pleasantly on. An array of six bottles,

that before dinner had contained the juice of Oporto, stood empty on the

sideboard. Jack wanted to draw another cork, which, however, I

positively forbad, as I have through life made it a rule to avoid the

slightest approach towards excess in tippling; so, after a modest brace

of glasses of brandy-and-water, I shook hands with and left my friend

about half-past nine, for I am an old-fashioned fellow, and love early

hours, my usual time for turning in being ten.

When I got into the street an unaccustomed spirit of gaiety at once took

possession of me; my general feelings of benevolence and goodwill

towards all mankind appeared to have received a sudden and marvellous

increase. I seemed to tread on eider-down, and, cigar in mouth, strolled

along Fleet-street and the Strand, towards my domicile in Half-Moon

street—“nescio quid meditans nugarum”—sometimes humming the fag end of

an Irish melody; anon stopping to stare in a print-shop window; and then

I would trudge on, chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy as I conned

over the various ups and downs that had chequered my life since Jack

Withers and I were thoughtless lads together “a long time ago.”

In this mood I found myself standing before the New Strand Theatre, my

attention having been arrested by the word PUNCH blazoned in large

letters on a play-bill.

“What can this mean?” quoth I to myself. “I know a publication called

Punch very well, but I never heard of a performance so named. I’ll go in

and see it. Who knows but it may be an avatar11. The Avatar we do not

allow—the illustrious periodical we do.—ED. OF PUNCH. of the Editor of

that illustrious periodical, who condescends to discard his dread

incognito for the nonce, in order to exhibit himself, for one night

only, to the eyes and understandings of admiring London.”

In another minute I was seated in the boxes, and found a crowded

audience in full enjoyment of the quiet waggery of Keeley, who was

fooling them to the top of their bent, accoutred from top to toe as

Mynheer Punch the Great, while his clever little wife—who, by the way,

possesses, I think, more of the “vis comica” than any actress of the

day—caused sides to shake and eyes to water by her naïve and humorous

delineation of Mrs. Snozzle.

The curtain had hardly fallen more than a couple of minutes, when a door

behind me opened hastily, and a box-keeper thrusting in his head, called

out—“Is there a medical man here?” “I am one,” said I, getting up;

“anything the matter?” “Come with me then, sir, if you please,” said he;

“a severe accident has just happened to Mrs. Keeley; a falling scene has

struck her head, sir, and hurt her dreadfully.”

“Good heavens!” said I, much shocked; “I will come immediately.”

I followed the man to the stage door, and was ushered into a dressing-

room with several people in it, where, extended on a sofa, lay the

unfortunate lady, whom I had but a few minutes before seen full of life

and spirits, delighting hundreds with her unrivalled humour and

espièglerie,—there she lay, in the same fantastic dress she had worn on

the stage, pale as death—a quantity of blood flowing from a fearful

wound on her head, and uttering those low quick moans which are

indicative of extreme suffering.

Poor little Keeley stood beside the couch, holding her hand; he was

still in full fig as Polichinel; and the grotesqueness of his attire

contrasted strangely with the anguish depicted on his countenance. As I

came forward, he slowly made way for me—looked in my face imploringly,

as if to gather from its expression some gleam of hope, and then stood

aside, in an attitude of profound dejection.

Having felt the sufferer’s pulse, I was about to turn her head gently,

in order to examine the nature of the wound, when a hustling noise

behind me causing me to turn round, to my infinite dismay, I perceived

Mr. Keeley, having pushed the bystanders on one side, in the act of

performing a kind of Punchean dance upon the floor, accompanying himself

with the vigorous chuckling and crowing peculiar to the hero whose

habiliments he wore. I was horror-stricken—conceiving that grief had

suddenly turned his brain.

All at once, he made a spring towards me, and, seizing my arm, thrust me

into a corner of the room, where he held me fast, exclaiming—

“Wretch! villain! restore me my wife—that talented woman your infernal

arts have destroyed! You did for her!”

“Mr. Keeley,” said I, struggling to release myself from his grasp—“my

dear sir, pray compose yourself.”

“Unhappy traitor!” he shouted, giving me an unmerciful tweak by the

nose; “Look at her silver skin laced with her golden blood!—see, see!

Oh, see!”

This was rather too much, even from a man whose wits were astray. I

began to lose patience, and was preparing to rid myself somewhat roughly

of the madman’s grasp, when a new phenomenon occurred.

The patient on the sofa, whom I had judged well nigh moribund, and

consequently incapable of any effort whatever, all at once sat up with a

sudden jerk, and gave vent to a series of the most ear-piercing shrieks

that ever assailed human tympanum.

“Oh! oh! Mon Dieu! je suis étouffée! levez-vous donc, monsieur—n’avez-

vous pas honte!”

I started up—O misery!—I had fallen asleep, and my head, resting against

a pillar, had slipped down, depositing itself upon the expansive bosom

of a portly French dame in the next box, who seemed, by her vehement

exclamations, to be quite shaken from the balance of her propriety by

the unlooked-for burthen I had imposed upon her; whilst a petit monsieur

poured forth a string of sacres and sapristies upon my devoted head with

a volubility of utterance truly astonishing.

I gazed about me with troubled and lack-lustre eye. Every lorgnette in

the boxes was levelled at my miserable countenance; a sea of upturned

and derisive faces grinned at me from the pit, and the gods in Olympus

thundered from on high—“Turn him out; he’s drunk!”

This was the unkindest cut of all—thus publicly to be accused of

intoxication, a vice of all others I have ever detested and eschewed.

I cast one indignant glance around me, and left the theatre, lamenting

the depravity of our nature, which is, alas! always ready to put the

worst construction upon actions in themselves most innocent; for if I

had gone to sleep in my own arm-chair, pray who would have accused me of

inebriety?

How I got home I know not. As I hurried through the streets, a legion of

voices, in every variety of intonation, yelled in my ears—“Turn him

out—he’s drunk!” and when I woke in the middle of the night, tormented

by a raging thirst (produced, I suppose, by the flurry of spirits I had

undergone), I seemed to hear screams, groans, and hisses, above all

which predominated loud and clear the malignant denunciation—“Turn him

out—he’s drunk!”

Upon my subsequently mentioning the above adventure to Jack Withers, it

will hardly be credited that this villain without shame at once roundly

asserted that, when I left him on the afore-mentioned night, I was at

least three sheets and three quarters in the wind; adding with

praiseworthy candour, that he himself was so far gone as to be obliged,

to the infinite scandal of his staid old housekeeper, to creep up stairs

à quatre pieds, in order to gain his bedroom.

Now this latter may be true enough, for it is probable that friend Jack

[pg 218]freshened his nip a trifle after my departure, seeing that he

was always something of a drunken knave. As for his calumnious and

scandalous declaration, that I was in the least degree tipsy, it is too

ridiculous to be noticed. I scorn it with my heels—I was sober—sober,

cool, and steady as the north star; and he that is inclined to question

this solemn asseveration, let him send me his card; and if I don’t drill

a hole in his doublet before he’s forty-eight hours older, then, as

honest Slender has it, “I would I might never come in mine own great

chamber again else.”

“ARE YE SURE THE NEWS IS TRUE?” We learn from good authority that Lord

TAMBOFF STANLEY, in answer to a deputation from Scotland, assured the

gentlemen who waited upon him that “the subject of emigration was under

the serious consideration of Her Majesty’s Ministers.” We hope that

those respectable gentlemen may soon resolve upon their departure—we

care not “what clime they wander to, so not again to this;” or, as

Shakspeare says, let them “stand not upon the order of their going, but

GO.” The country, we take it upon ourselves to say, will remember them

when they are gone; they have left the nation too many weighty proofs of

their regard to be forgotten in a hurry—Corruption, Starvation, and

Taxation, and the National Debt by way of

A dancer shows her shapely calves. A HANDSOME LEG—I SEE (LEGACY).

A DOSE OF CASTOR. Peter Borthwick, late of the Royal Surrey Nautical,

having had the honour of “deep damnation” conferred upon his “taking

off” the character of Prince Henry, upon that occasion, to appear in

unison with the text of the Immortal Bard, “dressed” the part in a most

elaborate “neck-or-nothing tile.” Upon being expostulated with by the

manager, he triumphantly referred to the description of the chivalrous

Prince in which the narrator particularly states—

A little fellow wears a big hat. I SAW YOUNG HARRY WITH HIS BEAVER ON.

CUTTING AT THE ROOT OF THE EVIL. “Good heavens, Sir Peter,” said Hobler,

confidentially, to our dearly beloved Alderman, “How could you have

passed such a ridiculous sentence upon Jones, as to direct his hair to

be cut off?” “All right, my dear Hobby,” replied the sapient justice;

“the fellow was found fighting in the streets, and I wanted to hinder

him, at least for some time, from again

Two cats fight. COMING TO THE SCRATCH.”

TO PUNCH. We have received the following choice bit of poetic pathology

from our old friend and jolly dog Toby, who, it seems, has taken to

medicine. The dog, however, always had a great propensity to bark, owing

doubtlessly to the strong tincture of canine there was in his

constitution:—

MY DEAR PUNCH,

Nothing convinces me more of my treacherous memory than my not

recollecting you at the memorable “New-boot Supper;” for I certainly

must have been as long in that society as yourself. Be that as it may,

you have induced me to scrape together a few reminiscences in an

imperfect way, leaving to you, from your better recollection, to correct

and flavour the specimen to the palate of your readers, who have, most

deservedly, every reliance upon your good taste and moral tendency. I

have in vain tried to meet with the music of “the good old days of Adam

and Eve,” consequently have lost the enjoyment of the chorus—“Sing hey,

sing ho!” It would be too much to ask you to sing it, but perhaps you

may too-te-too it in your next. May your good intentions to the would-be

Æsculapius be attended with success.—I remain, dear Punch, your old

friend,

TOBY.

ASCITES. Abdomen swell’d, which fluctuates when struck upon the side,

sirs;

Face pale and puff’d, and worse than that, with thirst and cough beside,

sirs;

Skin dry, and breathing difficult, and pains in epigastrium,

And watchfulness or partial sleep, with dreams would strike the bravest

dumb.

To cure—restore the balance of exhalants and absorbents,

With squill, blue-pill, and other means to soothe the patient’s

torments.

GRINDER. Sure this is not your climax, sir, to save from Davy’s locker!

STUDENT. Way, no,—I’d then with caution tap—when first I’d tied the

knocker.

Sing hey! sing ho! if you cannot find a new plan,

In Puseyistic days like these, you’d better try a New-man.

TYMPANITIS. The swelling here is different—sonorous, tense, elastic;

On it you might a tattoo beat, with fingers or with a stick.

There’s costiveness and atrophy, with features Hippocratic;

When these appear, there’s much to fear, all safety is erratic.

Although a cordial laxative, mix’d up with some carminative,

Might be prescribed, with morphia, or hops, to keep the man alive;

Take care his diet’s nutritive, avoiding food that’s flatulent,

And each week let him have a dose of Punch from Mr. Bryant sent.

Sing hey! sing ho! &c.

ALARMING PROSPECTS FOR THE COUNTRY. It appears that no less than one

hundred and sixty-four Attorneys have given notice of their intention to

practise in the Court of Queen’s Bench; and eleven of the fraternity

have applied to be re-admitted Attorneys of the Court. We had no idea

that such an alarming extension was about taking place in

Three men force another to turn out his pockets. THE RIFLE CORPS.

“ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER.” A poor man went to hang himself,

But treasure chanced to find;

He pocketed the miser’s pelf

And left the rope behind.

His money gone, the miser hung

Himself in sheer despair:

Thus each the other’s wants supplied,

And that was surely fair.

We understand that Mr. Webster has solicited Sir Peter Laurie to make an

early début at the Haymarket Theatre in the Heir (hair) at Law.

Madame Vestris has also endeavoured to prevail upon the civic mercy.

Andrew to appear in the afterpiece of the Rape of the Lock.

[pg 219] THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER X. WHEREIN THE READER WILL FIND

GREAT CAUSE FOR REJOICING. A letter C with flowers trailing from it and

an heron in its bowl. onducive as Uncle Peter’s suggestion might have

been to the restoration of peace in the family of our hero, it was

decided to be impracticable by several medical gentlemen, who were

consulted upon the matter. After sundry scenes of maternal and

grandmaternal distress, Agamemnon succeeded in obtaining the victory,

and the heir was vaccinated accordingly with the most favourable result.

The pustule rose, budded, blossomed, and disappeared, exactly as it

ought to have done, and a few days saw the health of the infant

Applebite insured in the office of Dr. Jenner.

Scarcely had the anxious parents been relieved by this auspicious

termination, when that painful disorder which renders pork unwholesome

and children fractious, made its appearance. Had we the plague-pen of

the romancist of Rookwood, we would revel in the detail of this

domesticated pestilence—we would picture the little sufferer in the hour

of its agony—and be as minute as Mr. Hume in our calculations of its

feverish pulsations; but our quill was moulted by the dove, not plucked

from the wing of the carrion raven.

And now, gentle reader, we come to a point of this history which we are

assured has been anxiously looked forward to by you—a point at which the

reader, already breathless with expectation, has fondly anticipated

being suffocated with excitement. We may, without vanity, lay claim to

originality, for we have introduced a new hero into the world of

fiction—a baby three months old—we have traced his happy parents from

the ball-room to St. George’s church; from St. George’s church to the

ball-room; thence to the doctor’s; and from thence to

THE END. Reproach us not, mamas?—Discard us not, ye blushing divinities

who have, with your sex’s softness, dandled the heir of Applebite in

your imaginations!—Wait!—Wait till we have explained! We have a motive;

but as we are novices in this style of literature, we will avail

ourselves, at our leave-taking, of the valedictory address of one who is

more “up to the swindle.”

To the Readers of the Heir of Applebite.

DEAR FRIENDS,—Having finished the infanto-biography upon which we have

been engaged, it is our design to cut off our heir, and bring our tale

to a close. You may want to know why—or if you don’t, we will tell you.

We should not regard the anxiety, the close confinement, or the constant

attention inseparable from a nursery, did we feel that the result was

agreeable to you. But we have not done so. We have been strongly tempted

to think, that after waiting from week to week, you have never arrived

at anything interesting. We could not bear this jerking of our

conscience, which was no sooner ended than begun again.

Most “passages in a tale of any length depend materially for the

interest on the intimate relation they bear to what has gone before, or

what is to follow.” We sometimes found it difficult to accomplish this.

Considerations of immediate profit ought, in such cases, to be of

secondary importance; but, for the reasons we have just mentioned, we

have (after some pains to resist the temptation) determined to abandon

this scheme of publication.

Taking advantage of the respite which the close of this work will afford

us, we have decided in January next to rent a second floor at Kentish

Town.

The pleasure we anticipate from the realisation of a wish we have long

entertained and long hoped to gratify, is subdued by the reflection that

we shall find it somewhat difficult to emancipate our moveables from the

thraldom of Mrs. Gibbons, our respected but over-particular landlady.

To console the numerous readers of PUNCH, we have it in command to

announce, that on Saturday, Nov. 27th, the first chapter of a series

under the title of the “Puff Papers,” appropriately illustrated, will be

commenced, with a desire to supply the hiatus in periodical fiction,

occasioned by the temporary seclusion of one of the most popular

novelists of the day.

Dear friends, farewell! Should we again desire to resume the pen, we

trust at your hands we shall not have to encounter a

A child tries to force his way through a fence. DISPUTED RETURN.

THE LAMBETH DEMOSTHENES. We are happy to find that Dr. Tully Cicero

Burke Sheridan Grattan Charles Phillips Hobler Bedford has not been

deterred by the late unsatisfactory termination to the “public meeting”

called by him to address the Queen, from prosecuting his patriotic views

for his own personal advantage. Dr. &c. Bedford has kindly furnished us

with the report of a meeting called by himself, which consisted of

himself, for the purpose of considering the propriety of petitioning the

Throne to appoint himself to be medical-adviser-in-general to her

Majesty, and vaccinator-in-particular to his little Highness the Prince

of Wales.

At 10 o’clock precisely Dr. &c. Bedford entered the little back parlour

of his surgery, and advancing to the looking-glass over the mantel-

piece, made a polite bow to the reflection of himself. After a few

complimentary gestures had passed between them, Dr &c. Bedford hemmed

twice, and in a very elegant speech proposed that “Doctor &c. Bedford

shoold take the cheer.”

Dr. &c. Bedford rose to second the proposition. Dr. &c. Bedford said,

“Dr. &c. Bedford is a gentleman what I have had the honour of knowing on

for many long ears. His medikel requirement are sich as ris a Narvey and

a Nunter to the summut of the temples of Fame. His political

requisitions are summarily extinguished. It is, therefore, with no

common pride that I second this abomination.”

Dr. &c. Bedford then bowed to his reflection in the glass, and proceeded

to take his seat in his easy chair, thumping the table with one hand,

and placing the other gracefully upon his breast, as though in token of

gratitude for the honour conferred upon him.

Order being restored, Dr. &c. Bedford rose and said,—

“I never kotched myself in sich a sitchuation in my life—I mean not that

I hasn’t taken a cheer afore, perhaps carried one—but it never has been

my proud extinction to preside over such a meeting—so numerous in its

numbers and suspectable in its appearance. My friend, Dr. &c. Bedford,

(Hear, hear! from. Dr. &c. Bedford,) his the hornament of natur in this

19th cemetary. His prodigious outlays”—

Voice without.—“Here they are, only a penny!”

Dr. &c. Bedford.—“Order, order! His—his—you know what I mean that shoold

distinguish the fisishun and the orator. I may say the Solus of

orators,—renders him the most fittest and the most properest person to

take care of the Royal health, and the Royal Infant Babby of these

regions,” (Hear, hear! from Dr. &c. Bedford.)

The Doctor then proceeded to embody the foregoing observations into a

resolution, which was proposed by Dr. &c. Bedford, and seconded by Dr.

&c. Bedford, who having held up both his hands, declared it to be

carried nem. con.

Dr. &c. Bedford then proposed a vote of thanks to Dr, &c. Bedford for

his conduct in the chair. The meeting then dispersed, after Dr. &c.

Bedford had returned thanks, and bowed to his own reflection in the

looking-glass.

[pg 220] A LEGEND OF THE TOWER (NOT LONDON). In the immediate vicinity

of the pretty little town of Kells stands one of those peculiar high

round towers, the origin of which has so long puzzled the brains of

antiquaries. It is invariably pointed out to the curious, as a fit

subject for their contemplation, and may, in fact, be looked upon as the

great local lion of the place. It appears almost inaccessible. But there

is a story extant, and told in very choice Irish, how two small dare-

devil urchins did succeed in reaching its lofty summit; and this is the

way the legend was done into English by one Barney Riley, the narrator,

to whom I am indebted for its knowledge:—

“You see Masther Robert, sir,—though its murduring high, and almost

entirely quite aqual in stapeness to the ould ancient Tower of Babel,

yet, sir, there is them living now as have been at the top of that same;

be the same token I knew both o’ the spalpeens myself. It’s grown up

they are now; but whin they wint daws’-nesting to the top there, the

little blackguards weren’t above knee-high, if so much.”

“But how did they arrive at the summit?”

“That’s the wonder of it! but sure nobody knows but themselves; but the

scamps managed somehow or other to insart themselves in through one of

them small loopholes—whin little Danny Carroll gave Tom Sheeney a leg up

and a back, and Tom Sheeney hauled little Danny up after him by the

scruff o’ the neck; and so they wint squeedging and scrummaging on till,

by dad, they was up at the tip-top in something less than no time; and

the trouble was all they had a chance o’ gettin for their pains; for, by

the hokey, the daws’ nest they had been bruising their shins, breaking

their necks, and tearing their frieze breeches to tatters to reach, was

on the outside o’ the building, and about as hard to get at as truth, or

marcy from a thafe of a tythe proctor.

“‘Hubbabboo,’ says little Danny; ‘we are on the wrong side now, as Pat

Murphy’s carroty wig was whin it came through his hat; what will we do,

at all, at all?’

“‘Divil a know I know. It would make a parson swear after takin’ tythe.

Do you hear the vagabones? Oh, then musha, bad luck to your cawings; its

impedence, and nothing but it, to be shouting out in defiance of us, you

dirty bastes. Danny, lad, you’re but a little thrifle of a gossoon;

couldn’t you squeedge yourself through one o’ them holes?’

“‘What will I stand—or, for the matter o’ that, as I’m by no manes

particular,—sit upon, whin I git out—that is, if I can?’

“‘Look here, lad, hear a dacent word—it will be just the dandy thing for

yes entirely; go to it with a will, and make yourself as small as a

little cock elven, and thin we’ll have our revenge upon them aggravation

thaves.’ How the puck he done it nobody knows; but by dad there was his

little, ragged, red poll, followed by the whole of his small body, seen

coming out o’ that trap-loop there, that doesn’t look much bigger than a

button-hole—and thin sitting astride the ould bit of rotten timbers, and

laffing like mad, was the tiny Masther Danny, robbing the nests, and

shouting with joy as he pulled bird after bird from their nate little

feather-beds. ‘This is elegant,’ says he; ‘here’s lashins of ’em.’

“‘How many have you,’ says Tom Sheeney.

“‘Seven big uns—full fledged, wid feathers as black as the priest’s

breeches on a Good Friday’s fast.’

“‘Seven is it?’

“‘It is.’

“‘Well, then, hand them in.’

“‘By no manes.’

“‘Why not?’

“‘Seein they’re as well wid me as you.

“‘Give me my half then—that’s your’—

“‘Aisy wid you; who’s had the trouble and the chance of breaking his

good-looking neck but me, Mr. Tim Sheeney.’

“‘Devil a care I care; I’ll have four, or I’ll know why.’

“‘That you’ll soon do: I won’t give ’em you.’

“‘Aint I holding the wood?’

“‘By coorse you are; but aint I sitting outside upon it, and by the same

token unseating my best breeches.’

“‘I bid you take care; give me four.’

“‘Ha, ha! what a buck your granny was, Mistet Tim Sheeney; it’s three

you’ll have, or none.’

“‘Then by the puck I’ll let you go.’

“‘I defy you to do it, you murdering robber.’

“‘Do you! by dad; once more, give me four.’

“‘To blazes wid you; three or none.’

“‘Then there you go!’

“And, worse luck, sure enough he did, and that at the devil’s own pace.

“At this moment I turned my eyes in horror to the Tower, and the height

was awful.”

“Poor child,—of course he was killed upon the spot?”

“There’s the wonder; not a ha’porth o’ harm did the vagabone take at all

at all. He held on by the birds’ legs like a little nagur; he was but a

shimpeen of a chap, and what with the flapping of their wings and the

soft place he fell upon, barring a little thrifle of stunning, and it

may be a small matter of fright, he was as comfortable as any one could

expect under the circumstances; but it would have done your heart good

to see the little gossoon jump up, shake his feathers, and shout out at

the top of his small voice, ‘Tim Sheeney, you thief, you’d better have

taken the three,—for d—n the daw do you get now!’” And so ends the

Legend of the Round Tower.

IRISH INTELLIGENCE. AWFUL STATE OF THE COUNTRY! (From our own

Correspondent.)

We are at length enabled to inform the Public that we have, at a vast

expense, completed our arrangements for the transmission of the earliest

news from Ireland. We have just received the Over-bog Mail, which

contains facts of a most interesting nature. We hasten to lay our

sagacious correspondent’s remarks before our readers:—

Bally-ha-ghadera, Tuesday Night.

PUNCH will appreciate my unwillingness to furnish him with intelligence

which might in any way disturb the commercial relations between this and

the sister island, more particularly at the present crisis, when the

interests of that prosperous class, the London Baked Potatoe vendors,

are so intimately connected, with the preservation of good feeling among

the Tipperary growers. However, my duty to PUNCH and the public compel

me to speak.—I do feel that we are on the eve of a great popular

commotion. Every day’s occurrences strengthen my conviction. Bally-ha-

ghadera was this morning at sunrise disturbed by noises of the most

appalling kind, forming a wild chorus, in which screams and bellowings

seemed to vie for supremacy; indeed words cannot adequately describe

this terrific disturbance. As I expected, the depraved Whig Journalist,

with characteristic mental tortuosity, has asserted that the sounds

proceeded from a rookery in the adjoining wood, aided by the braying of

the turf-man’s donkey. But an enlightened public will see through this

paltry subterfuge. Rooks and donkeys! Pooh! There cannot be a doubt but

that the noises were the preparatory war-whoops of this ferocious and

sanguinary people. We believe the Whig editor to be the only donkey in

the case; that he may have been a ravin(g) at the time is also very

probable.

No later than yesterday the Cloonakilty Express was stopped by a band of

young men, who savagely ill-treated our courier, a youth of tender age,

having attempted to stone him to death. Our courier is ready to swear

that at the time of the attack the young men were busily engaged

counting a vast store of ammunition, consisting of round white clay

balls baked to the hardness of bullets, and evidently intended for

shooting with.

I have to call particular attention to the fact that a countryman was

this day observed to buy a threepenny loaf, and on leaving the baker’s

to tear it asunder and distribute the fragments with three

confederates!!! an act which I need not say was evidently symbolical of

their desire to rend asunder the Corn Laws, and to divide the landed

property amongst themselves. The action also appears analogous to the

custom of breaking bread and swearing alliance on it, a practice still

observed by the inhabitants of some remote regions of the Caucasus. I

must again solemnly express my conviction that we are standing on a

slumbering VOLCANO; the thoughtless and unobservant may suppose not;

probably because in the present tee-total state of society they see

nothing of the CRATER.

TAKING A SIGHT AT THE FIRE. A man bearing the very inapplicable name of

Virtue was brought up at Lambeth-street last week, on the charge of

having stolen a telescope from the Ordnance-office in the Tower on the

morning of the fire. The prisoner pleaded that, being short-sighted, he

took the glass to have a sight of the fire. The magistrate, however, saw

through this excuse very clearly; and as it was apparent that Virtue had

taken a glass too much on the occasion, he was fully committed.

[pg 221] JOE HUME’S FORTHCOMING WORK. We have received the following

note from an old and esteemed correspondent, who, we are rejoiced to

find, has returned from a tour in Switzerland, where he has been engaged

in a prodigious work connected with the statistics of that country.

Reform Club-house.

DEAR PUNCH,

Knowing the interest you take in anything relating to the advancement of

science, I beg to apprise you that I am about publishing a statistical

work, in which I have made it perfectly clear that an immense saving in

the article of ice alone might be made in England by importing that

which lies waste upon Mont Blanc. I have also calculated to a fraction

the number of pints of milk produced in the canton of Berne,

distinguishing the quantity used in the making of cheese from that which

has been consumed in the manufacture of butter—and specifying in every

instance whether the milk has been yielded by cows or goats. There will

be also a valuable appendix to the work, containing a correct list of

all the inns on the road between Frankfort and Geneva, with a copy of

the bill of fare at each, and the prices charged; together with the

colour of the postilion’s jacket, the age of the landlord and the weight

of his wife, and the height in inches of the cook and chambermaid. To

which will be added, “Ten Minutes’ Advice” upon making one shilling go

as far as two. If you can give me a three-halfpenny puff in your admired

publication, you will confer a favour on

Your sincere friend, JOE HUME.

THE ROMANCE OF A TEACUP. SIP THE FIRST. In England one man’s mated to

one woman,

To spend their days in holy matrimony—

In fact, I have heard from one or two men,

That one wife in a house is one too many—

But, be this as it may, in China no man

Who can afford it shuts himself to any

Fix’d number, but is variously encumber’d

With better halves, from twenty to a hundred.

These to provide for in a pleasant way,

And, maybe, to avoid their chat and worry,

He shuts up in a harem night and day—

With them contriving all his cares to bury—

A point of policy which, I should say,

Sweetens the dose to men about to marry;

For, though a wife’s a charming thing enough,

Yet, like all other blessings, quantum suff.

So to my tale: Te-pott the Multifarious

Was, once upon a time, a mandarin—

In personal appearance but precarious,

Being incorrigibly bald and thin—

But then so rich, through jobs and pensions various,

Obtain’d by voting with the party “in,”

That he maintain’d, in grace and honour too,

Sixty-five years, and spouses fifty-two.

Fifty-two wives! and still he went about

Peering below the maiden ladies’ veils—

Indeed, it was said (but there hangs a doubt

Of scandal on such gossip-whisper’d tales),

He had a good one still to single out—

For all his wives had tongues, and some had nails—

And still he hoped, though fifty-twice deferr’d,

To find an angel in his fifty-third.

In China, mind, and such outlandish places,

A gentleman who wishes to be wed

Looks round about among the pretty faces,

Nor for a moment doubts they may be had

For asking; and if any of them “nay” says,

He has his remedy as soon as said—

For, when the bridegrooms disapprove what they do,

They teach them manners with the bastinado.

Near Te-pott’s palace lived an old Chinese—

About as poor a man as could be known

In lands where guardians leave them to their ease,

Nor pen the poor up in bastilles of stone:

He got a livelihood by picking teas;

And of possessions worldly had but one—

But one—the which, the reader must be told,

Was a fair daughter seventeen years old.

She was a lovely little girl, and one

To charm the wits of both the high and the low;

And Te-pott’s ancient heart was lost and won

In less time than ’twould take my pen to tell how:

So, as he was quite an experienced son-

In-law, and, too, a very wily fellow,

To make Hy-son his friend was no hard matter, I

Ween, with that specific for parents—flattery.

But, when they two had settled all between

Themselves, and Te-pott thought that he had caught her,

He found how premature his hopes had been

Without the approbation of the daughter—

Who talk’d with voice so loud and wit so keen,

That he thought all his Mrs. T’s had taught her;

And, finding he was in the way there rather,

He left her to be lectured by her father.

“Pray, what were women made for” (so she said,

Though Heaven forbid I join such tender saying),

“If they to be accounted are as dead,

And strangled if they ever are caught straying?

Tis well to give us diamonds for the head,

And silken gauds for festival arraying;

But where of dress or diamonds is the use

If we mayn’t go and show them? that’s the deuce!”

The father answer’d, much as fathers do

In cases of like nature here in Britain,

Where fathers seldom let fortunes slip through

Their fingers, when they think that they can get one;

He said a many things extremely true—

Proving that girls are fine things to be quit on,

And that, could she accommodate her views to it,

She would find marriage very nice when used to it.

Now, ’tis no task to talk a woman into

Love, or a dance, or into dressing fine—

No task, I’ve heard, to talk her into sin too;

But, somehow, reason don’t seem in her line.

And so Miss Hy-son, spite of kith and kin too,

Persisting such a husband to decline—

The eager mandarin issued a warrant,

And got her apprehended by her parent.

Thus the poor girl was caught, for there was no

Appeal against so wealthy lover’s fiat:

She must e’en be a wife of his, and so

She yielded him her hand demure and quiet;

For ladies seldom cry unless they know

There’s somebody convenient to cry at—

And; though it is consoling, on reflection

Such fierce emotions ruin the complexion.

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. Yesterday Paddy Green honoured that great

artist William Hogarth Teniers Raphael Bunks, Esq., with a sitting for a

likeness. The portrait, which will doubtless be an admirable one, is

stated to be destined to adorn one of Mr. Catnach’s ballads, namely,

“The Monks of Old!” which Mr. P. Green, in most obliging manner, has

allowed to appear.

William Paul took a walk yesterday as far as Houndsditch, in company

with Jeremiah Donovan. A pair of left-off unmentionables is confidently

reported to be the cause of their visit in the “far East.”

The lady of Paddy Green, Esquire, on Wednesday last, with that kindness

which has always distinguished her, caused to be distributed a

platterful of trotter bones amongst the starving dogs of the

neighbourhood.

From information exclusively our own, and for whose correctness we would

stake our hump, we learn that James Burke, the honoured member of the

P.R., was seen to walk home on the night of Tuesday last with three

fresh herrings on a twig. After supper, he consoled himself with a pint

of fourpenny ale.

Charles Mears yesterday took a ride in a Whitechapel omnibus. He

alighted at Aldgate Pump, at which he took a draught of water from the

ladle. He afterwards regaled on a couple of polonies and a penny loaf.

THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL. Jones, the journeyman tailor who was charged

before Sir Peter Laurie with being drunk and disorderly in Fleet-street,

escaped the penalty of his frolic by an extraordinary whim of justice.

The young schneider, it appears, sported a luxuriant crop of hair, the

fashion of which not pleasing the fancy of the city Rhadamanthus, he

remitted the fine on condition that the delinquent should instantly cut

off the offending hairs. A barber being sent for, the operation was

instantly performed; and Sir Peter, with a spirit of generosity only to

be equalled by his cutting humour, actually put his hand in his

breeches-pocket and handed over to the official Figaro his fee of one

shilling. The shorn tailor left the office protesting that Sir Peter had

not treated him handsomely, as he had only consented to sacrifice his

flowing locks, but that the Alderman had cabbaged his whiskers as well.

A CELESTIAL CON. Why is wit like a Chinese lady’s foot?—Because brevity

is the sole of it!

[pg 222] THE PRINCE OF WALES.—HIS FUTURE TIMES. A private letter from

Hanover states that, precisely at twelve minutes to eleven in the

morning on the ninth of the present November, his Majesty King ERNEST

was suddenly attacked by a violent fit of blue devils. All the court

doctors were immediately summoned, and as immediately dismissed, by his

Majesty, who sent for the Wizard of the North (recently appointed royal

astrologer), to divine the mysterious cause of this so sudden

melancholy. In a trice the mystery was solved—Queen Victoria “was

happily delivered of a Prince!” His Majesty was immediately assisted to

his chamber—put to bed—the curtains drawn—all the royal household

ordered to wear list slippers—the one knocker to the palace was

carefully tied up—and (on the departure of our courier) half a load of

straw was already deposited beneath the window of the royal chamber. The

sentinels on duty were prohibited from even sneezing, under pain of

death, and all things in and about the palace, to use a bran new simile,

were silent as the grave!

“Whilst there was only the Princess Royal there were many hopes. There

was hope from severe teething—hope from measles—hope from hooping-

cough—but with the addition of a Prince of Wales, the hopes of Hanover

are below par.” But we pause. We will no further invade the sanctity of

the sorrows of a king; merely observing, that what makes his Majesty

very savage, makes hundreds of thousands of Englishmen mighty glad.

There are now two cradles between the Crown of England and the White

Horse of Hanover.

We have a Prince of Wales! Whilst, however, England is throwing up its

million caps in rapture at the advent, let it not be forgotten to whom

we owe the royal baby. In the clamourousness of our joy the fact would

have escaped us, had we not received a letter from Colonel SIBTHORP, who

assures us that we owe a Prince of Wales entirely to the present

cabinet; had the Whigs remained in office, the infant would inevitably

have been a girl.

For our own part—but we confess we are sometimes apt to look too soberly

at things—we think her Majesty (may all good angels make her caudle!)

is, inadvertently no doubt, treated in a questionable spirit of

compliment by these uproarious rejoicings at the sex of the illustrious

little boy, who has cast, if possible, a new dignity upon Lord Mayor’s

day, and made the very giants of Guildhall shoot up an inch taller at

the compliment he has paid them of visiting the world on the ninth of

November. In our playful enthusiasm, we have—that is, the public

We—declared we must have a Prince of Wales—we should be dreadfully in

the dumps if the child were not a Prince—the Queen must have a Prince—a

bouncing Prince—and nothing but a Prince. Now might not an ill-natured

Philosopher (but all philosophers are ill-natured) interpret these

yearnings for masculine royalty as something like pensive regrets that

the throne should ever be filled by the feminine sex? For own part we

are perfectly satisfied that the Queen (may she live to see the Prince

of Wales wrinkled and white-headed!) is a Queen, and think VICTORIA THE

FIRST sounds quite as musically—has in it as full a note of promise—as

if the regal name had run—GEORGE THE FIFTH! We think there is a positive

want of gallantry at this unequivocally shouted preference of a Prince

of Wales. Nevertheless, we are happy to say, the pretty, good-tempered

Princess Royal (she is not blind, as the Tories once averred; but then

the Whigs were in) still laughs and chirrups as if nothing had happened.

Nay, as a proof of the happy nature of the infant (we beg to say that

the fact is copyright, as we purchased it of the reporter of The

Observer), whilst, on the ninth instant, the chimes of St. Martin’s were

sounding merrily for the birth of the Prince, the Princess magnanimously

shook her coral-bells in welcome of her dispossessing brother!

Independently of the sensation made in the City by the new glory that

has fallen upon the ninth of November (it is said that Sir PETER LAURIE

has been so rapt by the auspicious coincidence, that he has done nothing

since but talk and think of “the Prince of Wales”—that on Wednesday last

he rebuked an infant beggar with, “I’ve nothing for you, Prince of

Wales”)—independently of the lustre flung upon the new Lord Mayor and

the Lord Mayor just out—who will, it is said, both be caudle-cup

baronets, the occasion has given birth to much deep philosophy on the

part of our contemporaries—so deep, that there is no getting to the end

of it, and has also revived much black-letter learning connected with

the birth of every Prince of Wales, from the first to the last—and,

therefore, certainly not least—new-comer.

An hour or so after George the Fourth was born, we are told that the

waggons containing the treasure of the Hermione, a Spanish galleon,

captured off St. Vincent by three English frigates, entered St. James’s

street, escorted by cavalry and infantry, with trumpets sounding, the

enemy’s flags waving over the waggons, and the whole surrounded by an

immense multitude of spectators. Now here, to the vulgar mind, was a

happy augury of the future golden reign of the Royal baby. He comes upon

the earth amid a shower of gold! The melodious chink of doubloons and

pieces of eight echo his first infant wailings! What a theme for the

gipsies of the press—the fortune-tellers of the time! At the present

hour that baby sleeps the last sleep in St. George’s chapel; and we have

his public and his social history before us. What does experience—the

experience bought and paid for by hard, hard cash—now read in the

“waggons of treasure,” groaning musically to the rocking-cradle of the

callow infant? Simply, the babe of Queen Charlotte would be a very

expensive babe indeed; and that the wealth of a Spanish galleon was all

insufficient for the youngling’s future wants.

We have been favoured, among a series of pictures, with the following of

George the Fourth, exhibited in his babyhood. We are told that “all

persons of fashion were admitted to see the Prince, under the following

restrictions, viz.—that in passing through the apartment they stepped

with the greatest caution, and did not offer to touch his Royal

Highness. For the greater security in this respect, a part of the

apartment was latticed off in the Chinese manner, to prevent curious

persons from approaching too nearly.”

That lattice “in the Chinese manner” was a small yet fatal fore-

shadowing of the Chinese Pavilion at Brighton—of that temple, worthy of

Pekin, wherein the Royal infant of threescore was wont to enshrine

himself, not from the desecrating touch of the world, but even from the

eyes of a curious people, who, having paid some millions toward

manufacturing the most finished gentleman in Europe, had now and then a

wish—an unregarded wish—to look at their expensive handiwork.

What different prognostics have we in the natal day of our present

Prince of Wales! What rational hopes from many circumstances that beset

him. The Royal infant, we are told, is suckled by a person “named

Brough, formerly a housemaid at Esher.” From this very fact, will not

the Royal child grow up with the consciousness that he owes his

nourishment even to the very humblest of the people? Will he not suck in

the humanising truth with his very milk?

And then for the Spanish treasure—“hard food for Midas”—that threw its

jaundiced glory about the cradle of George the Fourth; what is that to

the promise of plenty, augured by the natal day of our present Prince?

Comes he not on the ninth of November? Is not his advent glorified by

the aromatic clouds of the Lord Mayor’s kitchen?—Let every man, woman,

and child possess themselves of a Times newspaper of the 10th ult.; for

there, in genial companionship with the chronicle of the birth of the

Prince, is the luscious history of the Lord Mayor’s dinner. We quit

Buckingham Palace, our mind full of our dear little Queen, the Royal

baby, Prince Albert—(who, as The Standard informs us subsequently, bows

“bare-headed” to the populace,)—the Archbishop of Canterbury, Doctor

Locock, the Duke of Wellington, and the monthly nurse, and immediately

fall upon the civic “general bill of fare,”—the real turtle at the City

board.

Oh, men of Paisley—good folks of Bolton—what promise for ye is here!

Turkeys, capons, sirloins, asparagus, pheasants, pine-apples, Savoy

cakes, Chantilly baskets, mince pies, preserved ginger, brandy cherries,

a thousand luscious cakes that “the sense aches at!” What are all these

gifts of plenty, but a glad promise that in the time of the “sweetest

young Prince,” that on the birth-day of that Prince just vouchsafed to

us, all England will be a large Lord Mayor’s table! Will it be possible

for Englishmen to dissassociate in their minds the Prince of Wales and

the Prince of good Fellows? And whereas the reigns of other potentates

are signalised by bloodshed and war, the time of the Prince will be

glorified by cooking and good cheer. His drum-sticks will be the drum-

sticks of turkeys—his cannon, the popping of corks. In his day, even

weavers shall know the taste of geese, and factory-children smack their

lips at the gravy of the great sirloin. Join your glasses! brandish your

carving-knives! cry welcome to the Prince of Wales! for he comes

garnished with all the world’s good things. He shall live in the hearts,

and (what is more) in the stomachs of his people!

Q.

PROPER PRECAUTION. Everybody is talking of the great impropriety that

has been practised in keeping gunpowder within the Tower; and the papers

are blowing up the authorities with astounding violence for their

alleged laxity. “Gunpowder,” say the angry journalists, “ought only to

be kept where there is no possibility of a spark getting to it.”—We

suggest the bottom of the Thames, as the only place where, in future,

this precious preparation can be securely deposited.

[pg 223] Polictians reenact a scene from 'The Vicar of Wakefield'.

OLIVIA’S RETURN TO HER FRIENDS.

“I ENTREAT, WOMAN, THAT MY WORDS MAY BE NOW MARKED, ONCE FOR ALL; I HAVE

HERE BROUGHT YOU BACK A POOR DELUDED WANDERER; HER RETURN TO DUTY

DEMANDS THE REVIVAL OF OUR TENDERNESS. THE KINDNESS OF HEAVEN IS

PROMISED TO THE PENITENT, AND LET OURS BE DIRECTED BY THE EXAMPLE.”

Vicar of Wakefield, Chap. XXII.

[pg 225] THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. 8.—OF THE

EXAMINATION AT APOTHECARIES’ HALL. Two Chinese men face each other with

their queues standing out to form a letter T. The last task that

devolves upon our student before he goes up to the Hall is to hunt up

his testimonials of attendance to lectures and good moral conduct in his

apprenticeship, together with his parochial certificate of age and

baptism. The first of these is the chief point to obtain; the two last

he generally writes himself, in the style best consonant with his own

feelings and the date of his indenture. His “morality ticket” is as

follows:—

(Copy.)

“I hereby certify, that during the period Mr. Joseph Muff served his

time with me he especially recommended himself to my notice by his

studious and attentive habits, highly moral and gentlemanly conduct, and

excellent disposition. He always availed himself of every opportunity to

improve his professional knowledge.”

(Signed)

According to the name on the indenture.

The certificate of attendance upon lectures is only obtained in its most

approved state by much clever manoeuvring. It is important to bear in

mind that a lecturer should never be asked whilst he is loitering about

the school for his signature of the student’s diligence. He may then

have time to recollect his ignorance of his pupil’s face at his

discourses. He should always be caught flying—either immediately before

or after his lecture—in order that the whole business may be too hurried

to admit of investigation. In the space left for the degree of attention

which the student has shown, it is better that he subscribes nothing at

all than an indifferent report; because, in the former case, the student

can fill it up to his own satisfaction. He usually prefers the

phrase—“with unremitting diligence.”

And having arrived at this important section of our Physiology, it

behoves us to publish, for the benefit of medical students in general,

and those about to go up in particular, the following

CODE OF INSTRUCTIONS TO BE OBSERVED BY THOSE PREPARING FOR EXAMINATION

AT THE HALL. Previously to going up, take some pills and get your hair

cut. This not only clears your faculties, but improves your appearance.

The Court of Examiners dislike long hair.

Do not drink too much stout before you go in, with the idea that it will

give you pluck. It renders you very valiant for half an hour and then

muddles your notions with indescribable confusion.

Having arrived at the Hall, put your rings and chains in your pocket,

and, if practicable, publish a pair of spectacles. This will endow you

with a grave look.

On taking your place at the table, if you wish to gain time, feign to be

intensely frightened. One of the examiners will then rise to give you a

tumbler of water, which you may, with good effect, rattle tremulously

against your teeth when drinking. This may possibly lead them to excuse

bad answers on the score of extreme nervous trepidation.

Should things appear to be going against you, get up a hectic cough,

which is easily imitated, and look acutely miserable, which you will

probably do without trying.

Endeavour to assume an off-hand manner of answering; and when you have

stated any pathological fact—right or wrong—stick to it; if they want a

case for example, invent one, “that happened when you were an apprentice

in the country.” This assumed confidence will sometimes bother them. We

knew a student who once swore at the Hall, that he gave opium in a case

of concussion of the brain, and that the patient never required anything

else. It was true—he never did.

Should you be fortunate enough to pass, go to your hospital next day and

report your examination, describing it as the most extraordinary ordeal

of deep-searching questions ever undergone. This will make the

professors think well of you, and the new men deem yon little less than

a mental Colossus. Say, also, “you were complimented by the Court.” This

advice is, however, scarcely necessary, as we never know a student pass

who was not thus honoured—according to his own account.

All things being arranged to his satisfaction, he deposits his papers

under the care of Mr. Sayer, and passes the interval before the fatal

day much in the same state of mind as a condemned criminal. At last

Thursday arrives, and at a quarter to four, any person who takes the

trouble to station himself at the corner of Union-street will see

various groups of three and four young men wending their way towards the

portals of Apothecaries’ Hall, consisting of students about to be

examined, accompanied by friends who come down with them to keep up

their spirits. They approach the door, and shake hands as they give and

receive wishes of success. The wicket closes on the candidates, and

their friends adjourn to the “Retail Establishment” opposite, to go the

odd man and pledge their anxious companions in dissector’s diet-

drink—vulgo, half-and-half.

Leaving them to their libations, we follow our old friend Mr. Joseph

Muff. He crosses the paved court-yard with the air of a man who had lost

half-a-crown and found a halfpenny; and through the windows sees the

assistants dispensing plums, pepper, and prescriptions, with provoking

indifference. Turning to the left, he ascends a solemn-looking

staircase, adorned with severe black figures in niches, who support

lamps. On the top of the staircase he enters a room, wherein the

partners of his misery are collected. It is a long narrow apartment,

commonly known as “the funking-room,” ornamented with a savage-looking

fireplace at one end, and a huge surly chest at the other; with gloomy

presses against the walls, containing dry mouldy books in harsh,

repulsive bindings. The windows look into the court; and the glass is

scored by diamond rings, and the shutters pencilled with names and

sentences, which Mr. Muff regards with feelings similar to those he

would experience in contemplating the inscriptions on the walls of a

condemned cell. The very chairs in the room look overbearing and

unpleasant; and the whole locality is invested with an overallishness of

unanswerable questions and intricate botheration. Some of the students

are marching up and down the room in feverish restlessness; others, arm

in arm, are worrying each other to death with questions; and the rest

are grinding away to the last minute at a manual, or trying to write

minute atomic numbers on their thumb-nail.

The clock strikes five, and Mr. Sayer enters the room, exclaiming—“Mr.

Manhug, Mr. Jones, Mr. Saxby, and Mr. Collins.” The four depart to the

chamber of examination, where the medical inquisition awaits them, with

every species of mental torture to screw their brains instead of their

thumbs, and rack their intellects instead of their limbs,—the chair on

which the unfortunate student is placed being far more uneasy than the

tightest fitting “Scavenger’s daughter” in the Tower of London. After an

anxious hour, Mr. Jones returns, with a light bounding step to a joyous

extempore air of his own composing: he has passed. In another twenty

minutes Mr. Saxby walks fiercely in, calls for his hat, condemns the

examiners ad inferos, swears he shall cut the profession, and marches

away. He has been plucked; and Mr. Muff, who stands sixth on the list,

is called on to make his appearance before the awful tribunal.

REGULARLY CALLED IN—AND BOWLED OUT. Dr. Demosthenes &c. &c. &c. &c.

Bedford, who has lately broken out in a new place, has been accused by

the lieges of the Borough of having acted in a most unprofessional

manner; in short, with having lost his patience. He, Dr. Demosthenes &c.

begs to state, the only surgical operation he ever attempted was most

successful, notwithstanding it was the difficult one of amputating his

“mahogany;” and he further adds, the only case he ever had is still in

his hand, it being a most obstinate

Two men appear angry with each other -- and there are cards strewn

about. CARD CASE.

[pg 226] THE PRINCE OF WALES. (By the Observer’s Own Correspondent.)

Knowing the anxiety that will be felt on this subject, though we doubt

if the future King can be called a subject at all, we have collected the

following exclusive particulars:—

THE PRINCE’S TITLE. His Royal Highness will for the present go by the

title of “Poppet,” affectionately conferred upon him by Mrs. Lilly at

the moment of his birth. Poppet is a title of very great antiquity, and

has from time immemorial been used as a mark of endearment towards a

newly-born child in all genteel families. Lovey-Dovey has been spoken

of; but it is not likely that His Royal Highness will assume the style

and dignity of Lovey-Dovey for a considerable period.

THE PRINCE’S INCOME. Considerable mistakes have been fallen into by some

of our contemporaries on this important subject. What may be the present

wishes of His Royal Highness it is impossible for any one to ascertain,

for he is able to articulate nothing on this point with his little pipe;

but the piper, we know, must be eventually paid. He becomes immediately

entitled to all the loose halfpence in his mother’s reticule, and

sixpence a-week will be at once payable out of his father’s estates at

Saxe Gotha. The whole of the revenues attached to the Duchy of Cornwall

are also his by the mere fact of his birth: but there is a difficulty as

to his giving a receipt for the money, if it should be paid to him. It

is believed, that on the meeting of Parliament a Bill will pass for

granting peg-top money to His Royal Highness, and a lollipop allowance

will be among the earliest estimates.

THE PRINCE’S MILITARY RANK. The Prince of Wales is by birth at the head

of all the Infantry in the kingdom, and is Colonel in his own right of a

regiment of tin soldiers.

THE PRINCE’S WARDROBE. The Prince falls at once into all the long frocks

that are required, and has an estate tail in six dozen napkins.

THE PRINCE’S EDUCATION. This important matter will be confined at

present to teaching His Royal Highness how to take his pap without

spilling it. A professor from the pap-al states will, it is expected, be

entrusted with this branch of the royal economy.

THE PRINCE’S WET-NURSE. Our contemporaries are wrong in stating that the

individual to whom the post of wet-nurse has been assigned is nothing

but a housemaid. We have full authority to state that she is no maid at

all, but a respectable married woman.

THE PRINCE’S HONOURS. His Royal Highness has not yet been created a

Knight of the Garter, though Sir James Clark insisted on his being

admitted to the Bath, against which ceremony the infant Prince entered a

vociferous protest.

The whole of the above particulars may be relied on as having been

furnished from the very highest authority.

A BARROWKNIGHT. SIR WILLOUGHBY COTTON, during his visit to the Mansion-

House Feast, in a moment of forgetfulness after the song of “Hurrah for

the Road,” being asked to take wine with the new Lord Mayor, declined

the honour in the genuine long-stage phraseology, declaring he had

already whacked his fare, and was quite

One man pushes another in a wheelbarrow. FULL INSIDE.

MAGISTERIAL AXIOMS. VIDE POLICE REPORTS. An Irishman will swear

anything.—Mr. Grove.

A man who wears long hair is capable of anything.—Sir Peter Laurie.

THE ROYAL BULLETINS. The documents lately shown at Buckingham Palace are

spurious, and the real ones have been suppressed from party motives,

which we shall not allude to. The following are genuine; they relate

only to the Prince, the convalescence of Her Majesty being, we are glad

to say, so rapid as to require no official notice.

Half-past Twelve.

The Prince has sneezed, and it is believed has smiled, though the nurses

are unable to pronounce whether the expression of pleasure arose from

satisfaction or cholic.

Quarter past One.

The Prince has passed a comfortable minute, and is much easier.

Two O’Clock.

The Prince is fast asleep, and is more quiet.

Half-past Two.

The Prince has been shown to Sir Robert Peel, and was very fretful.

Three O’Clock.

Sir Robert Peel has left the Palace, and the Prince is again perfectly

composed.

DEVILLED DRUMSTICKS. Our own Sir Peter Laurie, upon witnessing the

extraordinary performance of little Wieland in Die Hexen am Rhein, at

the Adelphi Theatre, was so transported with his diabolic agility, that

he determined upon endeavouring to arrive at the same perfection of

pliability. As a guide for his undertaking, he instantly despatched old

Hobler for a folio edition of

A devilish-looking chimera stands on its hands. IMPEY’S PRACTICE.

BRANDY AND WATERFORD. (A GO!) The Marquis of Waterford, upon his recent

visit to Devonshire, was much struck with the peculiar notice upon the

County Stretchers. Being overtaken by some of their extra-bottled apple-

juice, he tested the truth of the statement, and found them literally

“licensed to carry one in cyder” (one insider).

THE WHEELS OF FORTUNE. SIR WYNDHAM ANSTRUTHER, whose “Young Rapid”

connexion with the Stage is pretty generally known, boasts that his stud

was unrivalled for speed, as he managed with his four to “run through”

his whole estates in six months, which he thinks a pretty decent proof

that his might well be considered

A carriage marked 'Bath' crosses through a river since the bridge is

broken. A FAST COACH.

SEEING NOTHING COMMISSIONER HARVEY and his old crony, Joe Hume, were

talking lately of the wonders which the latter had seen in his

travels—“You have been on Mont Blanc,” said Whittle. “Certainly,”

replied the other. “And what did you see there?” “Why really,” said Joe,

“it is always so wrapped up in a double-milled fog, that there is

nothing to be seen from it.” “Nothing!” echoed he of the Blues; “I never

knew till now why it was called Mount Blank.” As this was the

Commissioner’s first attempt at a witticism, we forgive him.

[pg 227] MORE FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. (FROM OUR OWN ONE.)

A marriage is on the tapis between Mr. John Smith, the distinguished

toll-collector at the Marsh Gate, and Miss Julia Belinda Snooks, the

lovely and accomplished daughter of the gallant out-pensioner of

Greenwich Hospital. Should the wedding take place, the bridegroom will

be given away by Mr. Levy, the great toll-contractor; while the blushing

bride will be attended to the altar by her mother-in-law, the well-known

laundress of Tash-street. The trousseau, consisting of a selection from

a bankrupt’s stock of damaged de laines, has been purchased at Lambeth

House; and a parasol carefully chosen from a lot of 500, all at one-and-

ninepence, will be presented by the happy bridegroom on the morning of

the marriage. A cabman has already been spoken to, and a shilling fare

has been sketched out for the eventful morning, which is so arranged as

to terminate at the toll-house, from which Mr. Smith can only be absent

for about an hour, during which time the toll will be taken by an

amateur of celebrity.

Among the fashionables at the Bower Saloon, we observed Messrs. Jones

and Brown, Mr. J. Jones, Mr. H. Jones, Mr. M. Brown, Mr. K. Brown, and

several other distinguished leaders of the ton in Stangate.

There is no truth in the report that Tom Timkins intends resigning his

seat at the apple-stall in the New Cut; and the rumours of a successor

are therefore premature and indelicate.

The vacant crossing opposite the Victoria has not been offered to Bill

Swivel, nor is it intended that any one shall be appointed to the post

in the Circus.

CONS. WORTH CONNING. Why is the making a mem. of the number of a

person’s residence like a general election?—Because it’s done to re-

member the house.

Why is Count D’Orsay a capital piece of furniture for a kitchen?—Because

he’s a good dresser.

MORBID SYMPATHY FOR CRIMINALS. Our contemporary, the Times, for the last

few days has been very justly deprecating the existing morbid sympathy

for criminals. The moment that a man sins against the conventionalities

of society he ought certainly to be excluded from all claims upon the

sympathy of his fellows. It is very true that even the felon has

kindred, parents, wife, children—for whom, and in whom, God has

implanted an instinctive love. It is true that the criminal may have

been led by the example of aristocratic sinners to disregard the

injunctions of revealed religion against the adulterer, the gamester,

and the drunkard; and having imitated the “pleasant follies” of the

great without possessing the requisite means for such enjoyments, the

man of pleasure has degenerated into the man of crime. It is true that

the poor and ignorant may have claims upon the wealth and the

intelligence of the rich and learned; but are we to pause to inquire

whether want may have driven the destitute to theft, or the absence of

early instruction have left the physical desires of the offender’s

nature superior to its moral restrictions.—Certainly not, whilst we have

a gallows. There is, however, one difficulty which seems to interfere

with a liberal exercise of the rope and the beam. Where are we to find

executioners? for if “whoso sheddeth man’s blood” be amenable to man,

surely Jack Ketch is not to be exempted.

The Times condemns the late Lord Chamberlain for allowing the

representation of “Jack Sheppard” and “Madame Laffarge” at the Adelphi;

so do we. The Times intimates, that “the newspapers teem with details

about everything which such criminals ‘as Dick Turpin and Jack Sheppard’

say or do; that complete biographies of them are presented to the

public; that report after report expatiates upon every refinement and

peculiarity in their wickedness,” for “the good purpose” of warning the

embryo highwayman. We are something more than duberous of this. We can

see no difference between the exhibition of the stage and the gloating

of the broadsheet; they are both “the agents by which the exploits of

the gay highwayman are realised before his eyes, amid a brilliant and

evidently sympathising” public. We deprecate both, as tending to excite

the weak-minded to gratify “the ambition of this kind of notoriety;”—and

yet we say, with the Times, there should be “no sympathy for criminals.”

THE MALE DALILAH. Sir Peter Laurie’s aversion to long locks is accounted

for by his change of political opinions, he having some time since cut

the W(h)igs.