A “PUNCH” TESTIMONIAL. We are virtuously happy to announce that a

meeting has been held at the Hum-mums Hotel, Colonel Sibthorp in the

chair, for the purpose of presenting to PUNCH some testimonial of public

esteem for his exertions in the detection and exposure of fraudulent

wits and would-be distinguished characters.

COLONEL SIBTHORP thanked the meeting for the honour they had conferred

upon him in electing him their chairman upon this occasion. None knew

better than himself the service that PUNCH had rendered to the public.

But for that fun fed individual his (Col. Sibthorp’s) own brilliant

effusions would have been left to have smouldered in his brain, or have

hung like cobwebs about the House of Commons. (Hear, hear!) But PUNCH

had stepped in to the rescue; he had not only preserved some of the

brilliant things that he (Col. Sibthorp) had said, but had also reported

many of the extremely original witticisms that he had intended to have

uttered. (Hear!) There were many honourable gentlemen—(he begged

pardon—gentlemen, he meant, without the honourable; but he had been so

long a member of parliament that he had acquired a habit of calling men

and things out of their proper names). Apologising for so lengthy a

parenthesis, he would say that there were many gentlemen who were

equally indebted (hear! from Sir Peter Laurie, Peter Borthwick, and Pre-

Adam Roebuck) to this jocular benefactor. “It was PUNCH,” said the

gallant gentleman, with much feeling, “who first convinced me that the

popular opinion of my asinine capabilities was erroneous. It was PUNCH

who discovered that there was as much in my head as on it(loud cheers,

produced doubtlessly by the aptness of the simile, the gallant Colonel

being perfectly bald). I should, therefore, be the most ungrateful of

Members for Lincoln, did I not entreat of this meeting to mark their

high sense of Mr. PUNCH’S exertions by a liberal subscription” (cheers).

SIR PETER LAURIE acknowledged himself equally in debt with their gallant

Chairman to the object of the present meeting. He (Sir Peter) had tried

all schemes to obtain popularity—he had made speeches without number or

meaning—he had done double duty at the Mansion-house, and had made Mr.

Hobler laugh more heartily than any Lord Mayor or Alderman since the

days of Whittington (during whose mayoralty the venerable Chief Clerk

first took office)—he (Sir P. Laurie) had, after much difficulty and

four years’ practice, received the Queen on horseback (much cheering);

but (continued cheering)—but it was left for PUNCH to achieve his

immortality (immense cheering—several squares of glass in the

conservatory opposite broken by the explosion). He (Sir P. Laurie) had

done all in his power to deserve the notice of that illustrious wooden

individual. He had endeavoured to be much more ass—(loud cheers)—iduous

than ever. PUNCH had rewarded him; and he therefore felt it his bounden

duty to reward PUNCH. (Hear! hear!)

MR. ROEBUCK fully concurred in the preceding eulogies. What had not

PUNCH done for him? Had not PUNCH extinguished the Times by the honest

way in which he had advocated his (Roebuck’s) injured genealogy? Had

PUNCH not proved that he (Mr. Roebuck) had a father, which the

“mendacious journal” had asserted was impossible? Had not PUNCH traced

the Roebuck family as far back as 1801?—that was something! But he (Mr.

Roebuck) believed that he had been injured by an error of the press, and

that PUNCH had written the numerals 1081. Be that as it might, he (Mr.

Roebuck) was anxious to discharge the overwhelming debt of gratitude

which he owed to MR. PUNCH, and intended to subscribe very largely

(cheers).

MR. PETER BORTHWICK had been in former years a Shaksperian actor. He had

for many seasons, at the “Royal Rugby Barn,” had the honour of bearing

the principal banners in all the imposing processions, “got up at an

immense expense” in that unique establishment. (Hear!) He was,

therefore, better qualified than any gentleman present to form an

opinion of the services which Punch had rendered to the British Drama

(loud and continued cheers, during which Mr. Yates rushed on to the

platform, and bowed several times to the assembled multitude).

Therefore, as a devoted admirer of that art which he (Peter) trusted HE

and Shakspere had adorned (cheers), he fondly hoped that the meeting

would at once take tickets, when he announced that the performance was

for the benefit of Mr. PUNCH.

LORD MORPETH next presented himself; but our reporter, having promised

to take tea with his grandmother, left before the Noble Lord opened his

mouth.

We hope next week to furnish the remainder of the speeches, and a very

long list of subscriptions.

[pg 228] THE RAPE OF THE LOCK-UP; OR, SIR PETER LAURIE ON CRIME AND THE

CROPS. We believe no longing was ever more firmly planted in the human

heart, than that of discovering some short cut to the high road of

mental acquirement. The toilsome learner’s “Progress” through the barren

outset of the alphabet; the slough of despond of seven syllables,

endangered as they both are by the frequent appearance of the compulsive

birch of the Mr. Worldly-wisemen who teach the young idea how to shoot,

must ever be looked upon as a probation, the power of avoiding which is

“a consummation devoutly to be wished.” Imbued with this feeling, the

more speculative of past ages have frequently attempted to arrive, by

external means, at the immediate possession of results otherwise

requiring a long course of intense study and anxious inquiry. From these

defunct illuminati originated the suppositionary virtues of the

magically-endowed divining wand. The simple bending of a forked hazel

twig, being the received sign of the deep-buried well, suited admirably

with their notions of immediate information, and precluded the

unpleasant and toilsome necessity for delving on speculation for the

discovery of their desired object. But, alas, divining rods, like dogs,

have had their day. The want of faith in the operators, or the growth of

a new and obstinate assortment of hazel twigs, threw discredit on the

mummery and the mummers. Still the passion existed; and in no case was

it more observable than in that of the celebrated witch-finder. An

actual presence at the demoniacal rites of the broom-riding sisterhood

would have been attended with much danger and considerable difficulty;

indeed, it has been asserted that the visitors, like those at Almack’s,

were expected to be balloted for, ticketed, and dressed in a manner

suiting the occasion. Any infringement of these rules must have been at

the proper peril of the contumacious infringer; and as it is more than

probable some of the brooms carried double, there was a very decent

chance of the intruder’s discovering himself across one of the heavy-

tailed and strong-backed breed, taking a trip to some distant bourne,

from whence that compulsory aerial traveller would doubtless never have

returned. Still witches were evils; and proof of evil is what the law

seeks to enable evil’s suppression. Now and again one of these short-cut

gentry, by some railroad system of mental calculation, discovered

certain external marks or moles that at a glance betrayed “the secret,

dark, and midnight hags;” and the witch-finding process was

instantaneously established. The outward and visible sign of their

misdeeds authorised the further proceeding necessary for the clear proof

of their delinquencies: thus the pinchings, beatings, starvings, trials,

hangings, and burnings were made the goal of the shortest of all

imaginable short cuts; and old women who had established pin

manufactories in the stomachs of thousands, instead of receiving patents

for their inventions, divided the honour of illuminating the land with

the blazing tar-barrels provided for their peculiar use and benefit.

Whether it was that aerial gambols on unsaddled and rough-backed

broomsticks grew tiresome, or the small profit attending the vocation

became smaller, or that all the elderly ladies with moles, and without

anything else, were burnt up, we can’t pretend to say; but certain it

is, the art of witchcraft fell into disrepute. Corking, minikin, and all

description of pins, were obliged to be made in the regular way; and

cows even departed this world without the honour of the human

immolations formerly considered the necessary sacrifice for the loss of

their inestimable lives. Since the abovetimes Animal Magnetism and

Mesmerism have followed in the wake of what has been; and now, just as

despair, already poised upon its outstretched sable wings, was hovering

for a brief moment previous to making its final swoop upon the External

Doctrine, Peter—our Peter—Peter Laurie—the great, the glorious, the

aldermanic Laurie—makes despair, like the Indian Juggler who swallowed

himself, become the victim of its own insatiate maw.

Our quill trembles as we proceed; it is unequal to the task. Oh, that we

could write with the whole goose upon the wondrous merits of the

wondrous Peter!

We are better. That bumper has restored our nerve.

Reader, fancy the gifted Peter seated in the dull dignity of civic

magistracy: the court is thronged—a young delinquent blinks like an owl

in sunshine ’neath the mighty flashing of his bench-lit eye. His crime,

ay, what’s his crime? it can’t be much—so pale, so thin, so woe-begone!

look, too, so tremulous of knee, and redolent of hair! what has he done?

Here Roe interprets—“Please your worship, this young man, or tailor, has

been assaulting several females with a blue bag and a pair of breeches.”

Sir Peter.—“I don’t wonder at it; that man would do anything, I see it

in his face, or rather in the back of his head, that’s where the

expression lies—look at his hair!”

The whole court becomes a Cyclops—it has but one eye, and that is fixed

upon the tailor’s locks.

“I say,” resumes our Peter, “a man with that head of hair would do

anything—pray, sir, do you wish to be taken for a German sausage, or a

German student?—they’re all the same, sir—speak at once.”

The faltering fraction denies the student, and repudiates the sausage.

Sir Peter, still looking at the hair, from which external sign he

evidently derived all his information—“You were drunk, sir.”

“I was,” faltered the Samsonian schneider.

“I know it, sir—you are fined five shillings, sir—but if you choose to

submit to the deprivation of that iniquitous hair, which has brought you

here, and which, I repeat, will make you do anything, I will remit the

fine.”

A sigh, fine-drawn as the accidental rent in an unfinished skirt,

escaped the hirsute stitcher: a melancholy reflection upon the infinite

deal of nothing in his various pockets, and the slow revolving of the

Brixton wheel in stern perspective, wrung from the quodded wretch a slow

assent: Sir Peter sent a City officer with his warrant to secure the

nearest barber: a few sharp clickings of the envious shears—and all was

over! Crime fell from the shoulders of the quondam culprit, and the

tonsorial innocent stood forth confessed!

Sir Peter was entranced. That was his doing! He gazed with pride upon

the new absolved from sin. He asked, “Are you not more comfortable?”

All vice had gone, save one—the young man answered “Yes,” and lied.

“Then, sir, go home.”

“The barber,” muttered “soft Roe” in as soft a voice.

“What of him?”

“Wants a shillin’.”

“There it is,” exclaimed the Augustine Peter, “there, from my own

pocket, paid with pleasure to preserve that youth from the evil

influence of too much hair—I’ll pay for all the City if they like—and

banished suicide, and I’ll pretty soon see if I can’t settle all the

City crops. Prisoner, you are discharged.”

The young man lost his hair, the Queen five shillings, and Sir Peter

one; but then he gained his end,—and docking must henceforth be looked

upon as the treadmill’s antidote, and young man’s fines’ best friend. We

therefore say, should the iniquity of your long locks, gentle reader,

take you to the station (for, remember, Sir Peter says, Long hair will

do anything), if you can’t find bail, secure a barber, and command your

liberation. We have been speculating of these externally-illustrated

grades of crime; we think the following nearly correct:—

The long and lank indicates larceny (petty and otherwise).

The bushy and bountiful—burglary.

The full and flowing—felony.

The magnificent and mysterious—murder.

And, for aught we know, pigtails—polygamy.

For the future, a thinking man’s motto will be, not to mind “his own

eye,” but everybody else’s hair.

P.S. We have just received the following horrifying communication which

establishes Sir Peter’s opinion, “that a man with such hair would do

anything,” but unfortunately disproves the remedy, as those atrocities

have been committed when he was without.

Indignant at the loss of his head’s glory, the evil-minded tailor,

immediately upon leaving the court, sent for counsel’s opinion as to

whether he couldn’t proceed against Sir Peter, under the act for

“cutting and maiming, with intent to do him some grievous bodily harm.”

This, it appears he cannot do, inasmuch as these very learned gentlemen

at the bar have decided, “the head” from which the hair was cut, and

which, if any, is consequently the injured part, is not included in the

meaning of the word bodily, as &c. &c. Foiled in this attempt, the

monster, for the brutal gratification of his burning revenge, hit upon a

scheme the most diabolical that human hair could conceive. He actually

applied to the Society for the Suppression of Cruelty to Animals; and

they, upon inspecting a portion of the dissevered locks, immediately

took up the case, and are about to indict Sir Peter, Roe, and the

barber, under one of the clauses of that tremendous act. If they proceed

for penalties in individual cases, they must be immense, as the killed

and wounded are beyond calculation,—not to mention all that the process

has left homeless, foodless, and destitute.

BARBER-OUS ANNOUNCEMENT. We beg to inform our readers that Mr. Tanner,

of Temple-bar and Shire-lane, whose salon extends from the city of

London to the liberties of Westminster, has this day been appointed

Hair-cutter Extraordinary to Sir Peter Laurie.

A NEW MILKY WAY. KIRCHOFF, a Prussian chemist, is reported to have

discovered a process by which milk may be preserved for an indefinite

period. Fresh milk is evaporated by a very gentle heat till it is

reduced to a dry powder, which is to be kept perfectly dry in a bottle.

When required for use it need only be diluted with a sufficient quantity

of water. Mr. James Jones, who keeps a red cow—over his door—claims the

original idea of making milk from a white powder, which, he states, may

be done without the tedious process of evaporation, by using an article

entirely known to London milk-vendors—namely chalk.

OH GEMINI! At the close of the Civic Festival last week, Sir William

Follett inquired of the Recorder if he had seen his Castor. “No,”

replied Law (holding up the Attorney-General’s fifty-seven penn’orth),

“but here is your brother Pollock’s” (Pollux.)

“Well,” said Sir Peter Hobler the other morning, “I should think you

will be denied the entrée to the Palace after your decision of

Saturday.” “Why so?” inquired the knight of leather. “For fear you

should cut off the heir to the Throne!” screamed Hobler, and vanished.

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. NOVEMBER 27, 1841. [pg 229] THE

PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. 9.—OF THE SEQUEL TO THE HALL

EXAMINATION. Three men stand facing away from each other form a letter W

with their overcoats. hilst Mr. Muff follows the beadle from the

funking-room to the Council Chamber, he scarcely knows whether he is

walking upon his head or his heels; if anything, he believes that he is

adopting the former mode of locomotion; nor does he recover a sense of

his true position until he finds himself seated at one end of a square

table, the other three sides whereof are occupied by the same number of

gentlemen of grave and austere bearing, with all the candles in the room

apparently endeavouring to imitate that species of eccentric dance which

he has only seen the gas-lamps attempt occasionally as he has returned

home from his harmonic society. The table before him is invitingly

spread with pharmacopoeias, books of prescriptions, trays of drugs, and

half-dead plants; and upon these subjects, for an hour and a half, he is

compelled to answer questions.

We will not follow his examination: nobody was ever able to see the

least joke in it; and therefore it is unfitted for our columns. We can

but state that after having been puzzled, bullied, “caught,” quibbled

with, and abused, for the above space of time, his good genius prevails,

and he is told he may retire. Oh! the pleasure with which he re-enters

the funking-room—that nice, long, pleasant room, with its cheerful

fireplace and good substantial book-cases, and valuable books, and

excellent old-fashioned furniture; and the capital tea which the

worshipful company allows him—never was meal so exquisitely relished. He

has passed the Hall! won’t he have a flare-up to-night!—that’s all.

As soon as all the candidates have passed, their certificates are given

them, upon payment of various sovereigns, and they are let out. The

first great rush takes place to the “retail establishment” over the way,

where all their friends are assembled—Messrs. Jones, Rapp, Manhug, &c. A

pot of “Hospital Medoc” is consumed by each of the thirsty candidates,

and off they go, jumping Jim Crow down Union-street, and swaggering

along the pavement six abreast, as they sing several extempore

variations of their own upon a glee which details divers peculiarities

in the economy of certain small pigs, pleasantly enlivened by grunts and

whistles, and the occasional asseveration of the singers that their

paternal parent was a man of less than ordinary stature. This insensibly

changes into “Willy brewed a Peck of Malt,” and finally settles down

into “Nix my Dolly,” appropriately danced and chorussed, until a

policeman, who has no music in his soul, stops their harmony, but

threatens to take them into charge if they do not bring their promenade

concert to a close.

Arrived at their lodgings, the party throw off all restraint. The table

is soon covered with beer, spirits, screws, hot water, and pipes; and

the company take off their coats, unbutton their stocks, and proceed to

conviviality. Mr. Muff, who is in the chair, sings the first song, which

informs his friends that the glasses sparkle on the board and the wine

is ruby bright, in allusion to the pewter-pots and half-and half. Having

finished, Mr. Muff calls upon Mr. Jones, who sings a ballad, not

altogether perhaps of the same class you would hear at an evening party

in Belgrave-square, but still of infinite humour, which is applauded

upon the table to a degree that flirps all the beer out of the pots,

with which Mr. Rapp draws portraits and humorous conceits upon the table

with his finger. Mr. Manhug is then called upon, and sings

THE STUDENT’S ALPHABET. Oh; A was an Artery, fill’d with injection;

And B was a Brick, never caught at dissection.

C were some Chemicals—lithium and borax;

And D was a Diaphragm, flooring the thorax.

Chorus (taken in short-hand with minute accuracy).

Fol de rol lol,

Tol de rol lay,

Fol de rol, tol de rol, tol de rol, lay.

E was an Embryo in a glass case;

And F a Foramen, that pierced the skull’s base.

G was a Grinder, who sharpen’d the fools;

And H means the Half-and-half drunk at the schools.

Fol de rol lol, &c.

I was some Iodine, made of sea-weed;

J was a Jolly Cock, not used to read.

K was some Kreosote, much over-rated;

And L were the Lies which about it were stated.

Fol de rol lol, &c.

M was a muscle—cold, flabby, and red;

And N was a Nerve, like a bit of white thread.

O was some Opium, a fool chose to take;

And P were the Pins used to keep him awake.

Fol de rol lol, &c.

Q were the Quacks, who cure stammer and squint,

R was a Raw from a burn, wrapp’d in lint.

S was a Scalpel, to eat bread and cheese;

And T was a Tourniquet, vessels to squeeze.

Fol de rol lol, &c.

U was the Unciform bone of the wrist.

V was the Vein which a blunt lancet miss’d.

W was Wax, from a syringe that flow’d.

X, the Xaminers, who may be blow’d!

Fol de rol lol, &c.

Y stands for You all, with best wishes sincere;

And Z for the Zanies who never touch beer.

So we’ve got to the end, not forgetting a letter;

And those who don’t like it may grind up a better.

Fol de rol lol, &c.

This song is vociferously cheered, except by Mr. Rapp, who during its

execution has been engaged in making an elaborate piece of basket-work

out of wooden pipe-lights, which having arranged to his satisfaction, he

sends scudding at the chairman’s head. The harmony proceeds, and with it

the desire to assist in it, until they all sing different airs at once;

and the lodger above, who has vainly endeavoured to get to sleep for the

last three hours, gives up the attempt as hopeless, when he hears Mr.

Manhug called upon for the sixth time to do the cat and dog, saw the bit

of wood, imitate Macready, sing his own version of “Lur-li-e-ty,” and

accompany it with his elbows on the table.

The first symptom of approaching cerebral excitement from the action of

liquid stimulants is perceived in Mr. Muff himself, who tries to cut

some cold meat with the snuffers. Mr. Simpson also, a new man, who is

looking very pale, rather overcome with the effects of his elementary

screw in a first essay to perpetrate a pipe, petitions for the window to

be let down, that the smoke, which you might divide with a knife, may

escape more readily. This proposition is unanimously negatived, until

Mr. Jones, who is tilting his chair back, produces the desired effect by

overbalancing himself in the middle of a comic medley, and causing a

compound, comminuted, and irreducible fracture of three panes of glass

by tumbling through them. Hereat, the harmony experiencing a temporary

check, and all the half-and half having disappeared, Mr. Muff finds

there is no great probability of getting any more, as the servant who

attends upon the seven different lodgers has long since retired to rest

in the turn-down bedstead of the back kitchen. An adjournment is

therefore determined upon; and, collecting their hats and coats as they

best may, the whole party tumble out into the streets at two o’clock in

the morning.

“Whiz-z-z-z-z-t!” shouts Mr. Manhug, as they emerge into the cool air,

in accents which only Wieland could excel; “there goes a cat!” Upon the

information a volley of hats follow the scared animal, none of which go

within ten yards of it, except Mr. Rapp’s, who, taking a bold aim,

flings his own gossamer down the area, over the railings, as the cat

jumps between them on to the water-butt, which is always her first leap

in a hurried retreat. Whereupon Mr. Rapp goes and rings the house-bell,

that the domestics may return his property; but not receiving an answer,

and being assured of the absence of a policeman, he pulls the handle out

as far as it will come, breaks it off, and puts it in his pocket. After

this they run about the streets, indulging in the usual buoyant

recreations that innocent and happy minds so situated delight to follow,

and are eventually separated by their flight from the police, from the

safe plan they have adopted of all running different ways when pursued,

to bother the crushers. What this leads to we shall probably hear next

week, when they are once more réunis in the dissecting-room to recount

their adventures.

It is said that the Duke of Wellington declined the invitation to the

Lord Mayor’s civic dinner in the following laconic speech:—“Pray

remember the 9th November, 1830.”—“Ah!” said Sir Peter Laurie, on

hearing the Duke’s reply, “I remember it. They said that the people

intended on that day to set fire to Guildhall, and meant to roast the

Mayor and Board of Aldermen.”—“On the old system, I suppose, of every

man cooking his own goose,” observed Hobler drily.

[pg 230] THE “PUFF PAPERS.” A man lies back and sees smokers in his

puffs of smoke. INTRODUCTION. I cannot recollect the precise day, but it

was some time in the month of November 1839, that I took one of my usual

rambles without design or destination. I detest a premeditated route—I

always grow tired at the first mile; but with a free course, either in

town or country, I can saunter about for hours, and feel no other

fatigue but what a tumbler of toddy and a pipe can remove. It was this

disposition that made me acquainted with the fraternity of the “Puffs.”

I would premise, gentle reader, that as in my peregrinations I turn down

any green lane or dark alley that may excite my admiration or my

curiosity—hurry through glittering saloons or crowded streets—pause at

the cottage door or shop window, as it best suits my humour, so, in my

intercourse with you, I shall digress, speculate, compress, and dilate,

as my fancy or my convenience wills it. This is a blunt acknowledgment

of my intentions; but as travellers are never sociable till they have

cast aside the formalities of compliment, I wished to start with you at

the first stage as an old acquaintance. The course is not usual, and,

therefore, I adopt it; and it was by thus stepping out of a common

street into a common hostel that I became possessed of the matériel of

those papers, which I trust will hereafter tend to cheat many into a

momentary forgetfulness of some care. I have no other ambition; there

are philosophers enough to mystify or enlighten the world without my

“nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips” being thrust into the cauldron, whose

—“Charms of powerful trouble,

Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble.”

I had buttoned myself snugly in my Petersham (may the tailor who

invented that garment “sleep well” whenever he “wears the churchyard

livery, grass-green turned up with brown!”) The snow—the beautiful

snow—fell pure and noiselessly on the dirty pavement. Ragged, blue-faced

urchins were scrambling the pearly particles together, and, with all the

joyous recklessness of healthier childhood, carrying on a war less fatal

but more glorious than many that have made countless widows and orphans,

and, perhaps, one hero. Little round doll-like things, in lace and

ribbons, were thumping second-door windows with their tiny hands, and

crowing with ecstasy at the sight of the flaky shower. “Baked-tater”

cans and “roasted-apple” saucepan lids were sputtering and frizzing in

impotent rage as they waged puny war with the congealed element. Hackney

charioteers sat on their boxes warped and whitened; whilst those strange

amalgams of past and never-to-come fashions—the clerks of London—hurried

about with the horrid consciousness of exposing their costliest garments

to the “pelting of the pitiless storm.” Evening stole on. A London

twilight has nothing of the pale grey comfort that is diffused by that

gradual change from day to night which I have experienced when seated by

the hearth or the open window of a rural home. There it seems like the

very happiness of nature—a pause between the burning passions of

meridian day and the dark, sorrowing loneliness of night; but in London

on it comes, or rather down it comes, like the mystic medium in a

pantomime—it is a thing that you will not gaze on for long; and you rush

instinctively from daylight to candle-light. I stopped in front of an

old-fashioned public-house, and soon (being a connoisseur in these

matters) satisfied myself that if comfort were the desideratum, “The

heart that was humble might hope for it here.” I shook the snow from my

“Petersham,” and seeing the word “parlour” painted in white letters on a

black door, bent my steps towards it. I was on the point of opening the

door, when a slim young man, with a remarkable small quantity of hair,

stopped my onward coarse by gurgling rather than ejaculating—for the

sentence seemed a continuous word—

“Can’t-go-in-there-Sir.”

“Why not?” said I.”

“Puffs-Sir.”

“Puffs!”

“Yes-Sir,—Tues’y night—Puffs-meets-on-Tues’y,” and then addressing a

young girl in the bar, delivered an order for “One-rum-one-bran’y-one

gin-no-whisky-all-’ot,” which I afterwards found to signify one glass of

each of the liqueurs.

I was about to remonstrate against the exclusiveness of the “Puffs,”

when recollecting the proverbial obduracy of waiters, I contented myself

with buttoning my coat. My annoyance was not diminished by hearing the

hearty burst of merriment called forth by some jocular member of this

terra incognita, but rendered still more distressing by the appearance

of the landlord, who emerged from the room, his eyes streaming with

those tears that nature sheds over an expiring laugh.

“You have a merry party concealed there, Master Host,” said I.

“Ye-ye-s-Sir, very,” replied he, and tittered again, as though he were

galvanizing his defunct merriment.

“Quite exclusive?”

“Quite, Sir, un-unless you are introduced—Oh dear!” and having mixed a

small tumbler of toddy, he disappeared into that inner region of smoke

from which I was separated by the black door endorsed “Parlour.”

I had determined to seek elsewhere for a more social party, when the

thumping of tables and gingle of glasses induced me to abide the issue.

After a momentary pause, a firm and not unmusical voice was heard,

pealing forth the words of a song which I had written when a boy, and

had procured insertion for in a country newspaper. At the conclusion the

thumping was repeated, and the waiter having given another of his

stenographical orders, I could not resist desiring him to inform the

vocal gentleman that I craved a few words with him.

“Yes-Sir—don’t-think-’ll come—’cos he-’s-in-a-corner.”

“Perhaps you will try the experiment,” said I.

“Certainly-Sir-two-gins-please-ma’am.” And having been supplied with the

required beverage, he also made his exit in fumo.

In a few minutes a man of about fifty made his appearance; his face

indicated the absence of vulgarity, though a few purply tints delicately

hinted that he had assisted at many an orgie of the rosy offspring of

Jupiter and Semele. His dark vestments and white cravat induced me to

set him down as a “professional gentleman”—nor was I far wrong in my

conjecture. As I shall have, I trust, frequent occasion to speak of him,

I will for the sake of convenience, designate him Mr. Bonus.

I briefly stated my reason for disturbing him—that as he had honoured my

muse by forming so intimate an acquaintance with her, I was anxious to

trespass on his politeness to introduce me into that room which had now

become a sort of “Blue-beard blue-chamber” to my thirsty curiosity.

Having handed him my card, he readily complied, and in another minute I

was an inhabitant of an elysium of sociality and tobacco-smoke.

“Faugh!” cries Aunt Charlotte Amelia, whilst pretty little Cousin

Emmeline turns up her round hazel eyes and ejaculates, “Tobacco-smoke!

horrid!”

Ladies! you treat with scorn that which God hath given as a blessing! It

has never been your lot to thread the streets of mighty London, when the

first springs of her untiring commerce are set in motion. Long, dear

aunt, before thy venerable nose peeps from beneath the quilted coverlid

[pg 231]to scent an atmosphere made odorous by cosmetics—long, dear

Emmeline, ere those bright orbs that one day will fire the hearts of

thousands are unclosed, the artizan has blessed his sleeping children,

and closed the door upon his household gods. The murky fog, the

drizzling shower, welcome him back to toil. Labour runs before him, and

with ready hand unlocks the doors of dreary cellars or towering and

chilly edifices; mind hath not yet promulgated or received the noble

doctrine that toil is dignity; and you, yes, even you, dear, gentle

hearts! would feel the artizan a slave, if some clever limner showed you

the toiling wretch sooted or japanned. Would you then rob him of one

means of happiness? No—not even of his pipe! Ladies, you tread on

carpets or on marble floors—I will tell you where my foot has been. I

have walked where the air was circumscribed—where man was manacled by

space, for no other crimes but those of poverty and misfortune. I’ve

seen the broken merchant seated round a hearth that had not one

endearment—they looked about for faces that were wont to smile upon

them, and they saw but mirrors of their own sad lineaments—some laughed

in mockery of their sorrows, as though they thought that mirth would

come for asking; others, grown brutal by being caged, made up in noise

what they lacked in peace. How comfortless they seemed! The only solace

that the eye could trace was the odious herb, tobacco!

I have climbed the dark and narrow stairway that led to a modern

Helicon; there I have seen the gentle creature that loved nature for her

beauty—beauty that was to him apparent, although he sat hemmed in by

bare and tattered walls; yet there he had seen bright fountains sparkle

and the earth robe herself with life, and where the cunning spider

spread her filmy toils above his head, he has seen a world of light, a

galaxy of wonders. The din of wheels and the harsh discordant cries of

busy life have died within his ear, and the tiny voices of choral birds

have hymned him into peace; or the lettered eloquence of dread sages has

become sound again, and he has communed in the grove and temple, as they

of older time did in the eternal cities, with those whose names are

immortal—and there I have seen the humble pipe! the sole evidence of

luxury or enjoyment; when his daily task was suspended, it can never

end, for he must weave and weave the fibres of his brain into the clue

that leads him to the means of sustaining life.

I have wandered through lanes and fields when the autumn was on and the

world golden, and my journey has ended at a yeoman’s door. My welcome

has been a hand-grasp, that needed bones and muscles to bear it

unflinchingly—my fare the homeliest, but the sweetest; and when the meal

was ended, how has the night wore on and then away over a cup of brown

October—the last autumn’s legacy—and, forgive me, Emmeline, a pipe of

tobacco! Glorious herb! that hath oft-times stayed the progress of

sorrow and contagion; a king once consigned thee to the devil, but many

a humble, honest heart hath hailed thee as a blessing from the Creator.

I was introduced by my new acquaintance without much ceremony, and was

pleased to see that little was expected. “We meet here thrice a week,”

said Bonus, “just to wile away an hour or two after the worry and

fatigue of business. Most of us have been acquainted with each other

since boyhood—and we have some curious characters amongst us; and should

you wish to enrol your name, you have only to prove your qualification

for this (holding up his pipe), and we shall be happy to recognise you

as a ‘Puff.’”

THE STAR SYSTEM. SIR PETER LAURIE having observed a notice in one of the

journals that the superior planets, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, are now

to be seen every evening in the west, despatched a messenger to them

with an invitation to the late Polish Ball, sagely remarking that “three

such stars must prove an attraction.” Upon Sir Peter mentioning the

circumstance to Hobler, the latter cunningly advised Alderman Figaro (in

order to prevent accidents) to solicit them to come by water, and

accordingly Sir Peter’s carriage was in waiting for the fiery stranger

at the

A tower with a face on it glares out. TOWER STARES.

THE LIMERICK MARES. The borough of Limerick at present enjoys the

singular advantage of having two civic heads to the city. The new mare,

Martin Honan, Esq., after being duly elected, civilly requested the old

mare, C. S. Vereker, Esq., to turn out; to which he as civilly replied

that he would see him blessed first, and as he was himself the only

genuine and original donkey, he was resolved not to yield his place at

the corporate manger to the new animal. Thus matters remain at

present—the old Mare resolutely refusing to take his head out of the

halter until he is compelled to do so.

MORE SKETCHES OF LONDON LIFE. By the Author of the “Great Metropolis.”

It is a remarkable fact that, in spite of the recent Act, there are no

less than three hundred sweeps who still continue to cry “sweep,” in the

very teeth of the legislative measure alluded to. I have been in the

habit of meeting many of these sweeps at the house I use for my

breakfast; and in the course of conversation with them, I have generally

found that they know they are breaking the law in calling out “sweep,”

but they do not raise the cry for the mere purpose of law-breaking. I am

sure it would be found on inquiry that it is only with the view of

getting business that they call out at all; and this shows the impolicy

of making a law which is not enforced; for they all know that it is very

seldom acted upon.

The same argument will apply to the punishment of death; and my friend

Jack Ketch, whom I meet at the Frog and Frying-pan, tells me that he has

hanged a great many who never expected it. If I were to be asked to make

all the laws for this country, I certainly should manage things in a

very different manner; and I am glad to say that I have legal authority

on my side, for the lad who opens the door at Mr. Adolphus’s

chambers—with whom I am on terms of the closest intimacy—thinks as I do

upon every great question of legal and constitutional policy. But this

is “neither here nor there,” as my publisher told me when I asked him

for the profits of my last book, and I shall therefore drop the subject.

In speaking of eminent publishers, I must not forget to mention Mr.

Catnach, to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for having been the first to

introduce me to the literary career I have since so successfully

followed. I believe I was the first who carried into effect Mr.

Catnach’s admirable idea of having the last dying speeches all struck

off on the night before an execution, so as to get them into the hands

of the public as early as possible. It was, moreover, my own suggestion

to stereotype one speech, to be used on all occasions; and I also must

claim the merit of having recommended the fixing a man’s head at the top

of the document as “a portrait of the murderer.” Catnach and I have

always been on the best of terms, but he is naturally rather angry that

I have not always published with him, which he thinks—and many others

tell me the same thing—I always should have done. At all events, Catnach

has not much right to complain, for he has on two occasions wholly

repainted his shop-shutters from effusions of mine; and I know that he

has greatly extended his toy and marble business through the profits of

a poetical version of the fate of Fauntleroy, which was very popular in

its day, and which I wrote for him.

I have never until lately had much to do with Pitts, of Seven Dials; but

I have found him an intelligent tradesman, and a very spirited

publisher. He undertook to get out in five days a new edition of the

celebrated pennyworth of poetry, known some time back, and still

occasionally met with, as the “Three Yards of Popular Songs,” which were

all selected by me, and for which I chose every one of the vignettes

that were prefixed to them. I have had extensive dealings both with

Pitts and Catnach; and in comparing the two men, I should say one was

the Napoleon of literature, the other the Mrs. Fry. Catnach is all for

dying speeches and executions, while Pitts is peculiarly partial to

poetry. Pitts, for instance, has printed thousands of “My Pretty Jane,”

while Catnach had the execution of Frost all in type for many months

before his trial. It is true that Frost never was hanged, but Blakesley

was; and the public, to whom the document was issued when the latter

event occurred, had nothing to do but to bear in mind the difference of

the names, and the account would do as well for one as for the other.

Catnach has been blamed for this; but it will not be expected that I

shall censure any one for the grossest literary quackery.

ACTIVE BENEVOLENCE. The success of the Polish Ball has induced some

humane individuals to propose that a similar festival should take place

for the relief of the distressed Spitalfields weavers. We like the

notion of a charitable quadrille—or a benevolent waltz; and it delights

us to see a philanthropic design set on foot, through the medium of a

gallopade. A dance which has for its object the putting of bread in the

mouths of our fellow-creatures, may be truly called

Three buns with arms and legs do a dance. A-BUN-DANCE.

[pg 232] PUNCH’S STOMACHOLOGY. LECTURE I. A medieval man walks through a

letter D towards a god-like figure. octors Spurzheim and Gall have

acquired immense renown for their ingenious and plausible system of

phrenology. These eminent philosophers have by a novel and wonderful

process divided that which is indivisible, and parcelled out the human

mind into several small lots, which they call “organs,” numbering and

labelling them like the drawers or bottles in a chemist’s shop; so that,

should any individual acquainted with the science of phrenology chance

to get into what is vulgarly termed “a row,” and being withal of a meek

and lamb like disposition, which prompts him rather to trust to his

heels than to his fists, he has only to excite his organ of

combativeness by scratching vigorously behind his ear, and he will

forthwith become bold as a lion, valiant as a game-cock—in short, a very

lad of whacks, ready to fight the devil if he dared him. In like manner,

a constant irritation of the organ of veneration on the top of his head

will make him an accomplished courtier, and imbue him with a profound

respect for stars and coronets. Now if it be possible—and that it is, no

one will now attempt to deny—to divide the brain into distinct

faculties, why may not the stomach, which, it has been admitted by the

Lord Mayor and the Board of Aldermen, is a far nobler organ than the

brain,—why may it not also possess several faculties? As we know that a

particular part of the brain is appropriated for the faculty of time,

another for that of wit, and so on, is it not reasonable to suppose that

there is a certain portion of the stomach appropriated to the faculty of

roast beef, another for that of devilled kidney and so forth?

It may be said that the stomach is a single organ, and therefore

incapable of performing more than one function. As well might it be

asserted that it was a steam-engine, with a single furnace consuming

Whitehaven, Scotch, or Newcastle coals indiscriminately. The fact is,

the stomach is not a single organ, but in reality a congeries of organs,

each receiving its own proper kind of aliment, and developing itself by

outward bumps and prominences, which indicate with amazing accuracy the

existence of the particular faculty to which it has been assigned.

It is upon these facts that I have founded my system of Stomachology;

and contemplating what has been done, what is doing, and what is likely

to be done, in the analogous science of phrenology, I do not despair of

seeing the human body mapped out, and marked all over with faculties,

feelings, propensities, and powers, like a tattooed New Zealander. The

study of anatomy will then be entirely superseded, and the scientific

world would be guided, as the fashionable world is now, entirely by

externals.

The circumstances which led me to the discovery of this important

constitution of the stomach were partly accidental, and partly owing to

my own intuitive sagacity. I had long observed that Judy, “my soul’s far

dearer part,” entertained a decided partiality for a leg of pork and

pease-pudding—to which I have a positive dislike. On extending my

observations, I found that different individuals were characterised by

different tastes in food, and that one man liked mint sauce with his

roast lamb, while others detested it. I discovered also that in most

persons there is a predominance of some particular organ over the

surrounding ones, in which case a corresponding external protuberance

may be looked for, which indicates the gastronomic character of the

individual. This rule, however, is not absolute, as the prominence of

one faculty may be modified by the influence of another; thus the

faculty of ham may be modified by that of roast veal, or the desire to

indulge in a sentiment for an omelette may be counteracted by a

propensity for a fricandeau, or by the regulating power of a Strasbourg

pie. The activity of the omelette emotion is here not abated; the result

to which it would lead, is merely modified.

It would be tedious to detail the successive steps of my inquiries,

until I had at last ascertained distinctly that the power of the eating

faculties is, cæteris paribus, in proportion to the size of those

compartments in the stomach by which they are manifested. I propose at a

future time to explain my system more fully, and shall conclude my

present lecture by giving a list of the organs into which I have

classified the stomach, according to my most careful observations.

CLASS I.—SUSTAINING FACULTIES. —Bread (French rolls). —Water (doubtful).

—Beef (including rump-steaks). —Mutton (legs thereof). —Veal (stuffed

fillet of the same). —Bacon (including pork-chops and sausages). CLASS

II.—SENTIMENTS OR AFFECTIONS. —Fowl. —Fish. —Game. —Soup. —Plum-pudding.

—Pastry. CLASS III.—SUPERIOR SENTIMENTS. —Sauces. —Fruit. CLASS

IV.—INTELLECTUAL TASTES. —Olives. —Caviare. —Turtle. —Curries. —Gruyère

Cheese. —French Wines. —Italian Salads. — —— Of the last organ I have

not been able to discover the function; it is probably miscellaneous,

and disposes of all that is not included in the others.

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. (By the Reporter of the Court Journal.)

Yesterday Paddy Green, Esq. gave a grand déjeuner à la fourchette to a

distinguished party of friends, at his house in Vere-street. Amongst the

guests we noticed Charles Mears, J.M., Mister Jim Connell, Bill Paul,

Deaf Burke, Esq., Jerry Donovan, M.P.R., Herr Von Joel, &c. &c. Mister

Jim Connell and Jerry Donovan went the “odd man” who should stand

glasses round. The favourite game of shove-halfpenny was kept up till a

late hour, when the party broke up highly delighted.

A great party mustered on Friday last, in the New Cut, to hear Mr.

Briggles chant a new song, written on the occasion of the birth of the

young Prince. He was accompanied by his friend Mr. Handel Purcell Mozart

Muggins on the drum and mouth-organ, who afterwards went round with his

hat.

On Friday the lady of Paddy Green paid a morning call to Clare Market,

at the celebrated tripe shop; she purchased two slices of canine

comestibles which she carried home on a skewer.

Mrs. Paddy Green on Wednesday visited Mrs. Joel, to take tea. She

indulged in two crumpets and a dash of rum in the congou. It is

confidently reported that on Wednesday next Mrs. Joel will pay a visit

to Mrs. G. at her residence in Vere-street, to supper; after which Mr.

Paddy Green will leave for his seat in Maiden-lane.

Jeremiah Donovan, it is stated, is negotiating for the three-pair back

room in Surrey, late the residence of Charles Mears, J.M.

FROM THE LONDON GAZETTE, Nov. 16th. PROMOTIONS.—POST OFFICE. 1st Body of

General Postmen—Timothy Sneak, to Broad-street bell and bag, vice Jabez

Broadfoot, who retires into the chandlery line. 1st Body of General

Postmen—Horatio Squint to Lincoln’s-Inn bell and bag, vice Timothy

Sneak. 1st Body of General Postmen—Felix Armstrong to Bedford-square

bell and bag, vice Horatio Squint. 1st Body of General Postmen—Josiah

Claypole (from the body of letter-sorters) to Tottenham-Court-road bell

and bag, vice Felix Armstrong. N.B. This deserving young man is indebted

to his promotion for detecting a brother letter-sorter appropriating the

contents of a penny letter to his own uses, at the precise time that the

said Josiah Claypole had his eye on it, for reasons best known to

himself. The twopenny-postmen are highly incensed at this unheard-of and

unprecedented passing them over; and great fears are entertained of

their resignation. FRENCH LIVING. “Pa,” said an interesting little

Polyglot, down in the West, with his French Rudiments before him, “why

should one egg be sufficient for a dozen men’s breakfasts?”—“Can’t say,

child.”—“Because un œuf—is as good as a feast.”—“Stop that boy’s grub,

mother, and save it at once; he’s too clever to live much longer.”

[pg 233] HINTS ON POPPING THE QUESTION. To the bashful, the hesitating,

and the ignorant, the following hints may prove useful.

If you call on the “loved one,” and observe that she blushes when you

approach, give her hand a gentle squeeze, and if she returns it,

consider it “all right”—get the parents out of the room, sit down on the

sofa beside the “must adorable of her sex”—talk of the joys of wedded

life. If she appears pleased, rise, seem excited, and at once ask her to

say the important, the life-or-death-deciding, the suicide-or-happiness-

settling question. If she pulls out her cambric, be assured you are

accepted. Call her “My darling Fanny!”—“My own dear creature!”—and a few

such-like names, and this completes the scene. Ask her to name the day,

and fancy yourself already in Heaven.

A good plan is to call on the “object of your affections” in the

forenoon—propose a walk—mamma consents, in the hope you will declare

your intentions. Wander through the green fields—talk of “love in a

cottage,”—“requited attachment”—and “rural felicity.” If a child happens

to pass, of course intimate your fondness for the dear little

creatures—this will be a splendid hit. If the coast is clear, down you

must fall on your knee, right or left (there is no rule as to this), and

swear never to rise until she agrees to take you “for better and for

worse.” If, however, the grass is wet, and you have white ducks on, or

if your unmentionables are tightly made—of course you must pursue

another plan—say, vow you will blow your brains out, or swallow arsenic,

or drown yourself, if she won’t say “yes.”

If you are at a ball, and your charmer is there, captivating all around

her, get her into a corner, and “pop the question.” Some delay until

after supper, but “delays are dangerous”—Round-hand copy.

A young lady’s “tears,” when accepting you, mean “I am too happy to

speak.” The dumb show of staring into each other’s faces, squeezing

fingers, and sighing, originated, we have reason to believe, with the

ancient Romans. It is much practised now-a-days—as saving breath, and

being more lover-like than talking.

We could give many more valuable hints, but Punch has something better

to do than to teach ninnies the art of amorifying.

THE ROMANCE OF A TEACUP. SIP THE SECOND. Now harems being very lonely

places,

Hemm’d in with bolts and bars on every side,

The fifty-two who shared Te-pott’s embraces

Were glad to see a stranger, though a bride—

And so received her with their gentlest graces,

And questions—though the questions are implied,

For ladies, from Great Britain to the Tropics,

Are very orthodox in their choice of topics.

They ask’d her, who was married? who was dead?

What were the newest things in silks and ivories?

And had Y—Y—, who had eloped with Z—,

Been yet forgiven? and had she seen his liveries?

And weren’t they something between grey and red?

And hadn’t Z’s papa refused to give her his?

So Hy-son told them everything she knew

And all was very well a day or two.

But, when the Multifarious forsook

Bo-hea, Pe-koe, and Wiry-leaf’d Gun-pow-der,

To revel in the lip and sunny look

Of the young stranger; spite of all they’d vow’d her,

The ladies each with jealous anger shook,

And rail’d against the simple maid aloud—Ah!

This woman’s pride is a fine thing to tell us of—

But a small matter serves her to be jealous of.

One said she was indecorously florid—

One thought “she only squinted, nothing more—”

A third, convulsively pronounced her “horrid “—

While Bo-hea, who was low (at four-and-four),

Glanced from her fingers up at Hy-son’s forehead,

Who, inkling such a tendency before,

Cared for no rival’s nails—but paid—I own,

Particular attention to her own.

Well, this was bad enough; but worse than this

Were the attentions of our ancient hero,

Whose frequent vow, and frequenter caress,

Unwelcome were for any one to hear, who

Had charms for better pleasure than a kiss

From feeble dotard ten degrees from zero.

So, as one does when circumstances harass one,

Hy-son began to draw up a comparison.

“Was ever maiden so abused as I am?

Teazed into such a marriage—then to be

Dosed with my husband twenty times per diem,

With repetetur haustus after tea!

And, if he should die, what can I get by him?

A jointure’s nothing among fifty-three!

I’m meek enough—but this I can not bear—

I wish: I wish:—I wish a girl might swear!”

In such a mood, she—(stop! I’ll mend my pen;

For now all our preliminaries are done,

And I am come unto the crisis, when

Her fate depends on a kind reader’s pardon)—

Wandering forth beyond the ladies’ ken,

She thought she spied a male face in the garden—

She hasten’d thither—she was not mistaken,

For sure enough, a man was there a-raking.

A man complete he was who own’d the visage,

A man of thirty-three, or may-be longer—

So young, she could not well distinguish his age—

So old, she knew he had one day been younger.

Now thirty-three, although a very nice age,

Is not so nice as twenty, twenty-one, or

So; but of lovers when a lady’s caught one,

She seldom stops to stipulate what sort o’ one.

Now, the first moment Hy-son saw the gardener—

A gardener, by his tools and dress she knew—

She felt her bosom round her heart in a—

A—just as if her heart was breaking through;

And so she blush’d, and hoped that he would pardon her

Intruding on his grounds—“so nice they grew!—

Such roses! what a pink!—and then that peony;

Might she die if she ever look’d to see any!”

The gardener offer’d her a budding rose:

She took it with a smile, and colour’d high;

While, as she gave its fragrance to her nose,

He took the opportunity to sigh.

And Hy-son’s cheek blush’d like the daylight’s close!

She glanced around to see that none were nigh,

Then sigh’d again and thought, “Although a peasant,

His manners are refined, and really pleasant.”

They stood each looking in the other’s eyes,

Till Hy-son dropp’d her gaze, and then—good lack

Love is a cunning chapman: smiles, and sighs.

And tears, the choicest treasures in his pack!

Still barters he such baubles for the prize,

Which all regret when lost, yet can’t get back—

The heart—a useful matter in a bosom—

Though some folks won’t believe it till they lose ’em.

Love can say much, yet not a word be spoken.

Straight, as a wasp careering staid to sip

The dewy rose she held, the gardener’s token,

He, seizing on her hand, with hasty grip,

The stem sway’d earthward with its blossom, broken.

The gardener raised her hand unto his lip,

And kiss’d it—when a rough voice, hoarse with halloas,

Cried, “Harkye’ fellow! I’ll permit no followers!”

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—No. 11 The lists were made—the trumpet’s

blast

Rang pealing through the air.

My ’squire made lace and rivet fast

And brought my tried destrerre.

I rode where sat fair Isidore

Inez Mathilde Borghese;

From spur to crest she scann’d me o’er,

Then said “He’s not the cheese!”

O, Mary mother! how burn’d my cheek!

I proudly rode away;

And vow’d “Woe’s his I who dares to break

A lance with me to-day!”

I won the prize! (Revenge is sweet,

I thought me of a ruse;)

I laid it at her rival’s feet,

And thus I cook’d her goose.

SIBTHORP’S CORNER. What difference is there between a farrier and Dr.

Locock?—Because the one is a horse-shoer, and the other is a-cow-shoer.

(accoucheur).

Why is the Prince of Wales Duke of Cornwall?—Because he is a minor.

“Bar that,” as the Sheriff’s Officer said to his first-floor window.

[pg 234] KINGS AND CARPENTERS.—ROYAL AND VULGAR CONSPIRATORS. In a

manuscript life of Jemmy Twitcher—the work will shortly appear under the

philosophical auspices of SIR LYTTON BULWER—we find a curious

circumstance, curiously paralleled by a recent political event. Jemmy

had managed to pass himself off as a shrewd, cunning, but withal very

honest sort of fellow; he was, nevertheless, in heart and soul, a

housebreaker of the first order. One night, Jemmy quitted his

respectable abode, and, furnished with dark lantern, pistol, crowbar,

and crape, joined half-a-dozen neophyte burglars—his pupils and his

victims. The hostelry chosen for attack was “The Spaniards.” The host

and his servants were, however, on the alert; and, after a smart

struggle in the passage, the housebreakers were worsted; two or three of

them being killed, and the others—save and except the cautious Jemmy,

who had only directed the movement from without—being fast in the

clutches of the constables. Jemmy, flinging away his crape and his

crowbar, ran home to his house—he was then living somewhere in Petty

France—went to bed, and the next morning appeared as snug and as

respectable as ever to his neighbours. Vehement was his disgust at the

knaves killed and caught in the attack on “The Spaniards;” and though

there were not wanting bold speakers, who averred that Twitcher was at

the bottom of the burglary, nevertheless, his grave look, and the

character he had contrived to piece together for honest dealing, secured

him from conviction.

Jemmy Twitcher was what the world calls a warm fellow. He had gold in

his chest, silver tankards on his board, pictures on his walls; and

more, he had a fine family of promising Twitchers. One night, greatly to

his horror at the iniquity of man, miscreants surrounded his dwelling

and fired bullets at his children. The villains were apprehended; and

the hair of Jemmy—who had evidently forgotten all about the affair at

“The Spaniards”—stood on end, as the conspiracy of the villains was

revealed, as it was shown how, in anticipation of a wicked success, they

had shared among them, not only his gold and his tankards, but the money

and plate of all his honest neighbours. Jemmy, still forgetful of “The

Spaniards” cried aloud for justice and the gibbet!

Have we not here the late revolution in Spain—the QUENISSET

conspiracy—and in the prime mover of the first, and the intended victim

of the second rascality, KING LOUIS-PHILIPPE, the JEMMY TWITCHER OF THE

FRENCH?

The commission recently appointed in France for the examination of the

Communists and Equalised Operatives, taken in connexion with the recent

bloodshed under French royal authority, is another of the ten thousand

illustrations of the peculiar morality of crowned heads. Here is a

sawyer, a cabinet-maker, a cobbler, and such sort, all food for the

guillotine for attempting to do no more than has been most treacherously

perpetrated by the present King of the French and the ex-Queen of Spain.

How is it that LOUIS-PHILIPPE feels no touch of sympathy for that

pusillanimous scoundrel—Just? He is naturally his veritable double; but

then Just is only a carpenter, LOUIS-PHILIPPE is King of the French!

The reader has only to read Madrid for Paris—has only to consider the

sawyer Quenisset (the poor tool, trapped by Just), the murdered Don

Leon, or any other of the gallant foolish victims of the French monarchy

in the late atrocity in Spain, to see the moral identity of the

scoundrel carpenter and the rascal king. We quote from the report:—

Quénisset (alias DON LEON) examined.—“Just said to me, pointing to the

body of officers, ‘You must fire into the midst of those;’ I then drew

the pistol from under my shirt, and discharged it with my left hand in

the direction I was desired.”

O’DONNELL, LEON, ORA, BORIA, FULGOSIO, drew their pistols at the order

of LOUIS-PHILIPPE and CHRISTINA, and merely fired in the direction they

were desired!

“Where was this society (the Ouvriers Egalitaires) held?”—“Generally at

the house of Colombier, keeper of a wine-shop, Rue Traversière.”

“What formed the subject of discourse in these meetings, when you were

there?”—“Different crimes. They talked of overthrowing the throne,

assassinating the agents of the government—shedding blood, in fact!”

For the Rue Traversière we have only to read the Rue de Courcelles—for

Colombier the wine seller, CHRISTINA ex-Queen of Spain. As for the

subject of discourse at her Majesty’s hotel, events have bloodily proved

that it was the overthrow of a throne—the murder of the constituted

authorities of Spain—and, in the comprehensive meaning of

Quénisset—“shedding blood, in fact!” At the wine-shop meetings the

French conspirator tells us that there was “an old man, a locksmith,”

who would read revolutionary themes, and “electrify the souls of the

young men about him!” The locksmith of the Rue de Courcelles was the

crafty, sanguinary policy of the monarch of the barricades. We now come

to MADAME COLOMBIER, alias QUEEN CHRISTINA.—

“Do you know whether your comrades had many cartridges?”—“I do not know

exactly what the quantity was, but I heard a man say, and, Madame

Colombier also boasted to another woman, that they had worked very hard,

and for some time past, at making cartridges.”

Madame COLOMBIER, however, must cede in energy and boldness to the

reckless devilry of the Spanish ex-Queen; for the cartridges

manufactured by the wine-seller’s wife were not to be discharged into

the bed-room of her own infant daughters! They were certain not to shed

the blood of her own children. Now the cartridges of the Rue de

Courcelles were made for any service.

One more extract from the confessions of QUENISSET (alias DON LEON):—

“At the corner of the Rue Traversière I saw Just, Auguste, and several

other young men, whom I had seen in the morning receiving cartridges.

Upon my asking whether the attack was to be made, Just answered, Yes. He

felt for his pistols; my comrade got his ready under his blouse. I

seized mine under my shirt. Just called to me, ‘There, there, it is

there you are to fire.’ I fired. I thought that all the others would do

the same; but they made me swallow the hook, and then left me to my

fate, the rascals!”

Poor DON LEON! So far the parallel is complete. The pistol was fired

against Spanish liberty; and the royal Just, finding the object missed,

sneaks off, and leaves his dupe for the executioner. There, however, the

similitude fails. LOUIS-PHILIPPE sleeps in safety—if, indeed, the ghosts

of his Spanish victims let him sleep at all; whilst for Just, the

carpenter, he is marked for the guillotine. Could Justice have her own,

we should see the King of the French at the bar of Spain; were the world

guided by abstract right, one fate would fall to the carpenter and the

King. History, however, will award his Majesty his just deserts. There

is a Newgate Calendar for Kings as well as for meaner culprits.

There are, it is said, at the present moment in France fifty thousand

communists; foolish, vicious men; many of them, doubtless, worthy of the

galleys; and many, for whom the wholesome discipline of the mad-house

would be at once the best remedy and punishment. Fifty thousand men

organised in societies, the object of which is—what young France would

denominate—philosophical plunder; a relief from the canker-eating chains

of matrimony; a total destruction of all objects of art; and the common

enjoyment of stolen goods. It is against this unholy confederacy that

the moral force of LOUIS-PHILIPPE’S Government is opposed. It is to put

down and destroy these bands of social brigands that the King of the

French burns his midnight oil; and then, having extirpated the robber

and the anarchist from France, his Majesty—for the advancement of

political and social freedom—would kidnap the baby-Queen of Spain and

her sister, to hold them as trump cards in the bloody game of

revolution. That LOUIS-PHILIPPE, the Just of Spain, can consign his

fellow-conspirator, the Just of Paris, to the scaffold, is a grave proof

that there is no honour among a certain set of enterprising men, whom

the crude phraseology of the world has denominated thieves.

It is to make the blood boil in our veins to read the account of the

execution of such men as LEON, ORA, and BORIA, the foolish martyrs to a

wicked cause. Never was a great social wrong dignified by higher

courage. Our admiration of the boldness with which these men have faced

their fate is mingled with the deepest regret that the prime

conspirators are safe in Paris; that one sits in derision of justice on

fellow criminals—on men whose crime may have some slight extenuation

from ignorance, want, or fancied cause of revenge; that the other, with

the surpassing meekness of Christianity, goes to mass in her carriage,

distributes her alms to the poor, and, with her soul dyed with the blood

of the young, the chivalrous, and the brave, makes mouths at Heaven in

very mockery of prayer.

We once were sufficiently credulous to believe in the honesty of LOUIS-

PHILIPPE; we sympathised with him as a bold, able, high-principled man

fighting the fight of good government against a faction of smoke-headed

fools and scoundrel desperadoes. He has out-lived our good opinion—the

good opinion of the world. He is, after all, a lump of crowned

vulgarity. Pity it is that men, the trusting and the brave, are made the

puppets, the martyrs, of such regality!

As for Queen CHRISTINA, her path, if she have any touch of conscience,

must be dogged by the spectres of her dupes. She is the Madame LAFFARGE

of royalty; nay, worse—the incarnation of Mrs. BROWNRIGG. Indeed, what

JOHNSON applied to another less criminal person may be justly dealt upon

her:—“Sir, she is not a woman, she is a speaking cat!”

Q.

[pg 235] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XX. A group of men in military dress

(including a fife and drum) have slogans like 'POPULARITY' and 'TAXES'

and 'CORN LAWS' and 'JUST GIVE US TIME' written on them. THE RECRUITING

SERGEANT.

“LIST, WAKLEY! LIST!—”—New Shaksperian Readings.

[pg 237] HIS TURN NOW. “They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.”

“Oh, how the wheel becomes it.”—SHAKSPEARE.

That immense cigar, our mild Cavannah, has at length met with his

deserts, and left the sage savans of the fool’s hotbed, London, the

undisturbed possession of the diligently-achieved fool’s-caps their

extreme absurdity, egregious folly, and lout-like gullibility, have so

splendidly qualified them to support.

This extraordinary and Heaven-gifted faster is at length laid by the

heels. The full blown imposition has exploded—the wretched cheat is

consigned to merited durance; while the trebly-gammoned and unexampled

spoons who were his willing dupes are in full possession of the enviable

notoriety necessarily attendant upon their extreme amount of unmitigated

folly.

This egregious liar and finger-post for thrice inoculated fools set out

upon a provincial “Starring and Starving Expedition,” issuing bills,

announcing his wish to be open to public inspection, and delicately

hinting the absolute necessity of shelling-out the browns, as though he,

Bernard Cavanagh, did not eat, yet he had a brother “as did;”

consequently, ways and means for the establishment and continuance of a

small commissariat for the ungifted fraternal was delicately hinted at

in the various documents containing the pressing invitations to “yokel

population” to honour him with an inspection.

Numerous were the visitors and small the contributions attendant upon

the circulation of these “documents in madness.” Many men are rather

notorious in our great metropolis for “living upon nothing,” that is,

existing without the aid of such hard food as starved the ass-eared

Midas; out these gentlemen of invisible ways and means have a very

decent notion of employing four out of the twenty four hours in

supplying their internal economy with such creature comforts as, in days

of yore, disinherited Esau, and procured a somewhat gastronomic

celebrity for the far-famed Heliogabalus. But a gentleman who could

treat his stomach like a postponed bill in the House of Commons—that is,

adjourn it sine die, or take it into consideration “this day seven

years”—was really a likely person to attract attention and excite

curiosity: accordingly, Bernard Cavanagh was questioned closely by some

of his visitors; but he, like the speculation, appeared to be “one not

likely to answer.”

Apparent efforts at concealment invariably lead to doubt, and, doubt

engendering curiosity, is very like to undergo, especially from one of

the fair sex, a scrutiny of the most searching kind. Eve caused the fall

of Adam—a daughter of Eve has discovered and crushed this heretofore

hidden mystery. This peculiarly empty individual was discovered by the

good lady—despite the disguise of a black patch upon his nose and an

immeasurable outspread of Bandana superficially covering that (as he

asserted) useless orifice, his mouth—sneaking into the far-off premises

of a miscellaneous vendor of ready-dressed eatables; and there Bernard

the faster—the anti-nourishment and terrestrial food-defying wonder—the

certificated of Heaven knows how many deacons, parsons, physicians, and

fools—demanded the very moderate allowance for his breakfast of a

twopenny loaf, a sausage, and a quarter of a pound of ham cut fat:

that’s the beauty of it—cut fat! The astonished witness of this singular

purchase rushed at once to the hotel: Cavanagh might contain the

edibles, she could not: the affair was blown; an investigation very

properly adjudicated upon the case; and three months’ discipline at the

tread-mill is now the reward of this arch-impostor’s merits. So far so

good; but in the name of common sense let some experienced practitioner

in the art of “cutting for the simples” be furnished with a correct list

of the awful asses he has cozened at “hood-man blind;” and pray Heaven

they may each and severally be operated on with all convenient speed!

“SLUMBER, MY DARLING.” During the vacation, the Judges’ bench in each of

the Courts at Westminster Hall has been furnished with luxurious air-

cushions, and heated with the warm-air apparatus. Baron Parke declares

that the Bench is now really a snug berth,—and, during one of Sergeant

Bompas’s long speeches, a most desirable place for taking

A man sits in a chair at a table, where a spider web connects his nose

to a bottle and a cup. A SOUND NAP.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE FROM JOHN STUMP, ESQ., POET LAUREATE TO THE BOROUGH

OF GRUB-CUM-GUZZLE, TO SIMON NIBB, ESQ., COMMON-COUNCIL-MAN OF THE SAID

BOROUGH, Setting forth a notable Plan for the better management of

RAILWAY DIRECTORS. DEAR SIMON, If I were a Parliament man,

I’d make a long speech, and I’d bring in a plan,

And prevail on the House to support a new clause

In the very first chapter of Criminal Laws!

But, to guard against getting too nervous or low

(For my speech you’re aware would be then a no-go),

I’d attack, ere I went, some two bottles of Sherry,

And chaunt all the way Row di-dow di-down-derry!11. The exact tune of

this interesting song it has not been in our power to discover—it is,

however, undoubtedly a truly national melody.

Then having arrived (just to drive down the phlegm),

I’d clear out my throat and pronounce a loud “Hem!”

(So th’ appearance of summer’s preceded by swallows,)

Make my bow to the House, and address it as follows:—

“Mr. Speaker! the state of the Criminal Laws”

(Thus, like Cicero, at once go right into the cause)

Is such as demands our most serious attention,

And strong reprobation, and quick intervention.”

(This rattling of words, which is quite in the fashion,

Shows the depth of my zeal, and the force of my passion.)

“Though the traitor’s obligingly eased of his head—

Though a Wilde22. After due inquiry we have satisfied ourselves that the

individual here mentioned is not H.M.’s late Solicitor-General, but one

Jonathan Wilde, touching whose history vide Jack Sheppard. to the dark-

frowning gallows is led—

Tho’ the robber, when caught, is most kindly sent hence

Beyond the blue wave, at his country’s expense!—

Yet so bad, so disgracefully bad, seems to me

The state of the law in this ‘Land of the free’”—

(Speak these words in a manner most zealous and fervid)—

That there’s no law for those who most richly deserve it!

Yes, Sir, ’tis a fact not less true than astounding—

A fact—to the wise with instruction abounding,

That those who the face of the country destroy,

And hurl o’er the best scenes of Nature alloy—

Who Earth’s brightest portions cut through at a dash—

Who mix beauty and beastliness all in one hash”—

(I don’t dwell upon deaths, since a reason so brittle

Is but worthy of minds unpoetic and little)—

“Base scum of the Earth, and sweet Nature’s dissectors,

Meet with no just reward—these same Railway Directors!”

I’ve not mentioned the “Laughters,” the “Bravos,” the “Hears,”

“Agitations,” “Sensations,” and “Deafening Cheers,”

Which of course would attend a speech so patriotic,

So truly exciting, and anti-narcotic!

In this style I’d proceed, ’till I’d proved to the House

That these railways, in fact, were a national chouse,

And the best thing to do for poor Earth, to protect her,

Would be—to hang daily a Railway Director!

Of course the Hon. Members could ne’er have a thought

Of opposing a motion with kindness so fraught;

But would welcome with fervent and loud acclamation?

A project so teeming with consideration,?

As a model of justice, a boon to the nation!?

Such, Simon, if I were a Parliament man,

The basis would be, and the scope, of my plan!

But my rushlight is drooping—so trusting diurnally,

To hear your opinion—believe me eternally

(Whilst swearing affection, best swear in the lump)

Your obedient,

devoted,

admiring,

JOHN STUMP.

[pg 238] PROSPECTUS FOR A NEW HAND-BOOK OF JESTERS; OR, YOUNG JOKER’S

BEST COMPANION. “All the world’s a joke, and all the men and women

merely jokers.”—Shakspeare. From the text of Joseph Miller.

Messrs. GAG and GAMMON beg most respectfully to call the strict

attention of the reading public to the following brief prospectus of

their forthcoming work “On Jokes for all subjects.” Messrs. GAG and

GAMMON pledge themselves to produce an article at present unmatched for

application and originality, upon such terms as must secure them the

patronage and lasting gratitude of their many admirers. Messrs. GAG and

GAMMON propose dividing their highly-seasoned and warranted-to-keep-in-

any-climate universal facetiæ into the following various heads,

departments, or classes:—

General jokes for all occasions; chiefly applicable to individuals’

names, expressive of peculiar colours.

A very superior article on Browns—if required, bringing in said Browns

in Black and White.

Embarrassed do., very humorous, with Duns; and a choice selection of

unique references to the copper coin of the realm. Worthy the attention

of young beginners, and very safe for small country towns, with one wit

possessed of a good horse-laugh for his own, or rather Messrs. G. and

G.’s jokes.

Do. do. on Greens, very various: bring in Sap superbly, and Pea with

peculiar power; with a short cut to Lettus (Lettuce), and Hanson’s

Patent Safety,—a beautiful allusion to the “Cab-age.” May be tried when

there is an attorney and young doctor, with a perfect certainty of

success.

Do. do. do. On Wiggins; very pungent, suitable to the present political

position; offering a beautiful contrast of Wig-ins and Wig-outs; capable

of great ramifications, and may be done at least twice a-night in a half

whisper in mixed society.

Also some “Delightful Dinner Diversions, or Joke Sauces for all Joints.”

Calves-head.—Brings in fellow-feeling; family likeness; cannibalism;

“tête-à-tête”; while the brain sauce and tongue are never-failing.

Goose.—Same as above, with allusions to the “sage;” two or three that

stick in the gizzard; and a beautiful work up with a “long liver.”

Ducks.—Very military: bring in drill; drumsticks; breastwork; and pair

of ducks for light clothing and summer wear.

Snipes.—Good for lawyers; long bill. Gallantry; “Toast be dear Woman.”

Mercantile; run on banks. And infants; living on suction.

Herring.—Capital for bride: her-ring; petticoats, flannel and otherwise,

herring-boned. Fat people; bloaters; &c. &c. &c.

Venison.—Superior, for offering everybody some of your sauce. Sad

subject, as it ought to be looked upon with a grave eye (gravy). Wish

your friends might always give you such a cut. &c. &c. &c.

Port.—Like well-baked bread, best when crusty; flies out of glass

because of the “bee’s wing.” Always happy to become a porter on such

occasions; object to general breakages, but partial to the cracking of a

bottle; comes from a good “cellar” and a good buyer, though no wish to

be a good-bye-er to it. All the above with beautiful leading cues, and

really with two or three rehearsals the very best things ever done.

Sherry.—“Do you sherry?” “Not just yet.” “Rather unlucky, white whining:

like a bottle of port; but no objection to share he. Hope never to be

out of the Pale of do.; if so, will submit to be done Brown.”

N.B.—After an election dinner, any of the above valued at a six weeks’

invitation from any voter under the influence of his third bottle; and

absolute reversion of the chair, when original chairman disappears under

table.

Champagne.—Real pleasure (quite new—never thought of before)—must be

Wright’s; nothing left about it; intoxicating portion of a bird, getting

drunk with pheasant’s eye. What gender’s wine? Why hen’s feminine. Safe

three rounds; and some others not quite compact.

Hock.—Hic, hec, do.

Hugeous.—Glass by all means (very new); never could decline it, &c. &c.

&c.

Dessert.—Wish every one had it; join hands with ladies’ fingers and

bishops’ thumbs: Prince Albert and Queen very choice “Windsor pairs;”

medlars; unpleasant neighbour: nuts; decidedly lunatic, sure to be

cracked; disbanding Field Officers shelling out the kernels, &c. &c. &c.

The above are but a few samples from the very extensive joke manufactory

of Messrs. Gammon and Gag, sole patentees of the powerful and prolific

steam-joke double-action press. They are all warranted of the very best

quality, and last date.

Old jokes taken in exchange—of course allowing a liberal per-centage.

Gentlemen’s own materials made up in the most superior style, and at the

very shortest notice.

Election squibs going off—a decided sacrifice of splendid talent.

Ideas convertible in cons., puns, and epigrams, always on hand.

Laughs taught in six lessons.

A treatise on leading subjects for experienced jokers just completed.

A large volume of choice sells will be put up by Mr. George Robins on

the 1st of April next, unless previously disposed of by private

contract.

N.B.—Well worthy the attention of sporting and other punsters.

Also a choice cachinatory chronicle, entitled “How to Laugh, and what to

Laugh at.”

For further particulars apply to Messrs. Gag and Gammon, new and second-

hand depôt for gentlemen’s left-off facetiæ, Monmouth-street; and at

their West-end establishment, opposite the Black Doll, and next door to

Mr. Catnach, Seven-dials.

VERSES ON MISS CHAPLIN— AND THE BACK OF AN ADELPHI PLAYBILL. Let Bulwer

and Stephens write epics like mad,

With lofty hexameters grapplin’,

My theme is as good, though my verse be as bad,

For ’tis all about Ellena Chaplin!

As lovely a nymph as the rhapsodist sees

To inspire his romantical nap. Lin

Ne’er saw such a charming celestial Chinese

“Maid of Honour” as Ellena Chaplin.

O Yates! let us give thee due credit for this:—

Thou hast an infallible trap lain—

For mouths cannot hiss, when they long for a kiss;

As thou provest—with Ellena Chaplin.

E’en the water wherein (in “Die Hexen am Rhein”)

She dives (in an elegant wrap-lin-

Sey-woolsey, I guess) seems bewitch’d into wine,

When duck’d in by Ellena Chaplin.

A fortunate blade will be he can persuade

This nymph to some church or some chap’l in,—

And change to a wife the most beautiful Maid

Of the theatre—Ellena Chaplin!

CAUSE AND EFFECT. The active and speculative Alderman Humphrey, being

always ready to turn a penny, has entered into a contract to supply a

tribe of North American Indians with second-hand wearing apparel during

the ensuing winter. In pursuance of this object he applied yesterday at

the Court of Chancery to purchase the “530 suits, including 40 removed

from the ‘Equity Exchequer,’ which occupy the cause list for the present

term.” Upon the discovery of his mistake the Alderman wisely determined

on

A boy walks to school. GOING TO BRIGHTEN.

NEW ANNUALS AND REPUBLICATIONS. ANNUALS. FORGET-ME-NOT Dedicated to the

“Irish Pisantry.” By Mayor Dan O’Connell. FRIENDSHIP’S OFFERING

Dedicated by Mr. Roebuck to the Times. THE BOOK OF BEAUTY Edited by Col.

Sibthorp and Mr. Muntz. THE JUVENILE ANNUAL Edited by the Queen, and

dedicated to Prince Albert REPUBLICATIONS. ON NOSOLOGY By the Duke of

Wellington and Lord Brougham. A TREATISE ON ELOQUENCE By W. Gibson

Craig, M.P. COOPER’S DEAR-SLAYER By Lord Palmerston. DISCOVERY OF

VALUABLE JEWELS. Public curiosity has been a good deal excited lately by

mysterious rumours concerning some valuable jewels, which, it was said,

had been discovered at the Exchequer. The pill-box supposed to enclose

these costly gems being solemnly opened, it was found to contain nothing

but an antique pair of false promises, set in copper, once the property

of Sir Francis Burdett; and a bloodstone amulet, ascertained to have

belonged to the Duke of Wellington. The box was singularly enough tied

with red official tape, and sealed with treasury wax, the motto on the

seal being “Requiscat in Pace.”

[pg 239] SAYINGS & DOINGS IN THE ROYAL NURSERY. We are enabled to assure

our readers that his Royal Highness the Duke of Cornwall has appointed

Lord Glengall pap-spoon in waiting to his Royal Highness.

The Lord Mayor, Lord Londonderry, Sir Peter Laurie, Sir John Key,

Colonel Sibthorp, Mr. Goulburn, Peter Borthwick, Lord Ashburton, and Sir

E.L. Bulwer, were admitted to an interview with his Royal Highness, who

received them in “full cry,” and was graciously pleased to confer on our

Sir Peter extraordinary proofs of his royal condescension. The

distinguished party afterwards had the honour of partaking of caudle

with the nursery-maids.

Sir John Scott Lillie has informed us confidentially, that he is not the

individual of that name who has been appointed monthly nurse in the

Palace. Sir John feels that his qualifications ought to have entitled

him to a preference.

The captain of the Britannia states that he fell in with two large

whales between Dover and Boulogne on last Monday. There is every reason

to believe they were coming up the Thames to offer their congratulations

to the future Prince of Whales.

THE REWARD OF VIRTUE. We understand that Sir Peter Laurie has been

presented with the Freedom of the Barber’s Company, enclosed in a pewter

shaving-box of the value of fourpence-halfpenny. On the lid is a

medallion of

A rabbit sits next to a baby's basket. THE HARE A PARENT.

A difficulty, it is thought, may arise in bestowing the customary honour

upon the chief magistrate of the city, upon the birth of a male heir to

the throne, in consequence of the Prince being born on the day on which

the late Mayor went out and the present one came into office. Sir Peter

Laurie suggests that a petition be presented to the Queen, praying that

her Majesty may (in order to avoid a recurrence of such an awkward

dilemma) be pleased in future to

A shopwoman yells after a boy running with a box marked 'Dates'. MIND

HER DATES.

PUNCH’S THEATRE. COURT AND CITY. The other evening, the public were put

in possession, at Covent Garden Theatre, of a new branch of art in play

concoction, which may be called “dramatic distillation.” By this process

the essence of two or more old comedies is extracted; their characters

and plots amalgamated; and the whole “rectified” by the careful

expunction of equivocal passages. Finally, the drame is offered to the

public in active potions; five of which are a dose.

The forgotten plays put into the still on this occasion were “The

Discovery,” by Mrs. Frances Sheridan, and “The Tender Husband,” by Sir

Richard Steele. From one, that portion which relates to the “City,” is

taken; the “Court” end of the piece belonging to the other. In fact,

even in their modern dress, they are two distinct dramas, only both are

played at once—a wholesome economy being thus exercised over time,

actors, scenery, and decorations: the only profusion required is in the

article of patience, of which the audience must be very liberal.

The courtiers consist of Lord Dangerfield, who although, or—to speak in

a sense more strictly domestic—because, he has got a wife of his own,

falls in love with the young spouse of young Lord Whiffle; then there is

Sir Paladin Scruple, who, having owned to eighteen separate tender

declarations during fourteen years, dangles after Mrs. Charmington, an

enchanting widow, and Louisa Dangerfield, an insipid spinster, the

latter being in love with his son.

The citizens consist of the famille Bearbinder, parents and daughter,

together with Sir Hector Rumbush and a clownish son, who the former

insists shall marry the sentimental Barbara Bearbinder, but who,

accordingly, does no such thing.

The dialogues of these two “sets” go on quite independent of each other,

action there is none, nor plot, nor, indeed, any progression of incident

whatever. Lord Dangerfield tells you, in the first scene, he is trying

to seduce Lady Whiffle, and you know he won’t get her. Directly you hear

that Sir Paladin Scruple has declared in favour of Miss Dangerfield, you

are quite sure she will marry the son; in short, there is not the

glimmer of an incident throughout either department of the play which

you are not scrupulously prepared for—so that the least approach to

expectation is nipped in the bud. The whole fable is carefully developed

after all the characters have once made their introduction; hence, at

least three of the acts consist entirely of events you have been told

are going to happen, and of the fulfilment of intentions already

expressed.

One character our enumeration has omitted—that of Mr. Winnington, who

being a lawyer, stock and marriage broker, is the bosom friend and

confident of every character in the piece, and, consequently, is the

only person who has intercourse with the two sets of characters. This is

a part patched up to be the sticking plaster which holds the two plots

together—-the flux that joins the mettlesome Captain Dangerfield (son of

the Lord) to the sentimental citoyenne Barbara Bearbinder. In fact,

Winnington is the author’s go-between, by which he maketh the twain

comedies one—the Temple Bar of the play—for he joineth the “Court” with

the “City.”

So much for construction: now for detail. The legitimate object of

comedy is the truthful delineation of manners. In life, manners are

displayed by what people do, and by what they say. Comedy, therefore,

ought to consist of action and dialogue. (“Thank you,” exclaims our

reader, “for this wonderful discovery!”) Now we have seen that in “Court

and City” there is little action: hence it may be supposed that the

brilliancy of the dialogue it was that tempted the author to brush away

the well-deserved dust under which the “Discovery” and the “Tender

Husband” have been half-a-century imbedded. But this supposition would

be entirely erroneous. The courtiers and citizens themselves were but

dull company: it was chiefly the acting that kept the audience on the

benches and out of their beds.

Without action or wit, what then renders the comedy endurable? It is

this: all the parts are individualities—they speak, each and every of

them, exactly such words, by which they give utterance to such thoughts,

as are characteristic of him or herself, each after his kind. In this

respect the “Court and City” presents as pure a delineation of manners

as a play without incident can do—a truer one, perhaps, than if it were

studded with brilliancies; for in private life neither the denizens of

St. James’s, nor those of St. Botolph’s, were ever celebrated for the

brilliancy of their wit. Nor are they at present; if we may judge from

the fact of Colonel Sibthorp being the representative of the one class,

and Sir Peter Laurie the oracle of the other.

This nice adaptation of the dialogue to the various characters,

therefore, offers scope for good acting, and gets it. Mr. Farren, in Sir

Paladin Scruple, affords what tradition and social history assure us is

a perfect portraiture of an old gentleman of the last century;—more than

that, of a singular, peculiar old gentleman. And yet this excellent

artist, in portraying the peculiarities of the individual, still

preserves the general features of the class. The part itself is the most

difficult in nature to make tolerable on the stage, its leading

characteristic being wordiness. Sir Paladin, a gentleman (in the ultra

strict sense of that term) seventy years of age, is desirous of the

character of un homme de bonnes fortunes. Cold, precise, and pedantic,

he tells the objects—not of his flame—but of his declarations, that he

is consumed with passion, dying of despair, devoured with love—talking

at the same time in parenthetical apologies, nicely-balanced antitheses,

and behaving himself with the most frigid formality. His bow (that old-

fashioned and elaborate manual exercise called “making a leg”) is in

itself an epitome of the manners and customs of the ancients.

Madame Vestris and Mr. C. Matthews played Lady and Lord Whiffle—two also

exceedingly difficult characters, but by these performers most

delicately handled. They are a very young, inexperienced (almost

childish), and quarrelsome couple. Frivolity so extreme as they were

required to represent demands the utmost nicety of colouring to rescue

it from silliness and inanity. But the actors kept their portraits well

up to a pleasing standard, and made them both quite spirituels (more

French—that Morning Post will be the ruin of us), as well as in a high

degree natural.

All the rest of the players, being always and altogether actors, within

the most literal meaning of the word, were exactly the same in this

comedy as they are in any other. Mr. Diddear had in Lord Dangerfield one

of those [pg 240]parts which is generally confided to gentlemen who

deliver the dialogue with one hand thrust into the bosom of the vest—the

other remaining at liberty, with which to saw the air, or to shake hands

with a friend. Mr. Harley played the part of Mr. Harley (called in the

bills Humphrey Rumbush) precisely in the same style as Mr. Harley ever

did and ever will, whatever dress he has worn or may wear. The rest of

the people we will not mention, not being anxious for a repetition of

the unpleasant fits of yawning which a too vivid recollection of their

dulness might re-produce. The only merit of “Court and City” being in

the dialogue—the only merit of that consisting of minute and subtle

representations of character, and these folks being utterly innocent of

the smallest perception of its meaning or intention—the draughts they

drew upon the patience of the audience were enormous, and but grudgingly

met. But for the acting of Farren and the managers, the whole thing

would have been an unendurable infliction. As it was, it afforded a

capital illustration of

Two men carry a palanquin in opposite directions. ATTRACTION AND

REPULSION.

TEN THOUSAND A-YEAR! The dramatic capabilities of “Ten Thousand a-Year,”

as manifested in the vicissitudes that happen to the Yatton Borough

(appropriately recorded by Mr. Warren in Blackwood’s Magazine), have

been fairly put to the test by a popular and Peake-ante play-wright.

What a subject! With ten thousand a-year a man may do anything. There is

attraction in the very sound of the words. It is well worth the penny

one gives for a bill to con over those rich, euphonious, delicious

syllables—TEN THOUSAND A-YEAR! Why, the magic letters express the

concentrated essence of human felicity—the summum bonum of mortal bliss!

Charles Aubrey, of Yatton, in the county of York, Esquire, possesses ten

thousand a-year in landed property, a lovely sister in yellow satin, a

wife who can sing, and two charming children, who dance the mazourka as

well as they do it at Almack’s, or at Mr. Baron Nathan’s. As is

generally the case with gentlemen of large fortunes, he is the

repository of all the cardinal virtues, and of all the talents. Good

husbands, good fathers, good brothers, and idolised landlords, are

plenty enough; but a man who, like Aubrey, is all these put together, is

indeed a scarce article; the more so, as he is also a profound scholar,

and an honest statesman. In short, though pretty well versed in the

paragons of virtue that belong to the drama, we find this Charles Aubrey

to be the veriest angel that ever wore black trousers and pumps.

The most exalted virtue of the stage is, in the long run, seen in good

circumstances, and vice versa; for, in this country, one of the chief

elements of crime is poverty. Hence the picture is reversed; we behold a

striking contrast—a scene antithetical. We are shown into a miserable

garret, and introduced to a vulgar, illiterate, cockneyfied, dirty,

dandified linendraper’s shopman, in the person of Tittlebat Titmouse. In

the midst of his distresses his attention is directed to a “Next of Kin”

advertisement. It relates to him and to the Yatton property; and if you

be the least conversant with stage effect, you know what is coming:

though the author thinks he is leaving you in a state of agonising

suspense by closing the act.

The next scene is the robing-room of the York Court-house; and the

curtains at the back are afterwards drawn aside to disclose a large

cupboard, meant to represent an assize-court. On one shelf of it is

seated a supposititious Judge, surrounded by some half-dozen pseudo

female spectators; the bottom shelf being occupied by counsel, attorney,

crier of the court, and plaintiff. The special jury are severally called

in to occupy the right-hand shelf; and when the cupboard is quite full,

all the forms of returning a verdict are gone through. This is for the

plaintiff! Mr. Aubrey is ruined; and Mr. Titmouse jumps about, at the

imminent risk of breaking the cupboard to pieces, having already knocked

down a counsel or two, and rolled over his own attorney.

This idea of dramatising proceedings at nisi prius only shows the state

of destitution into which the promoters of stage excitement have fallen.

The Baileys, Old and New, have, from constant use, lost their charms;

the police officers were completely worn out by Tom and Jerry, Oliver

Twist, &c.; so that now, all the courts left to be “done” for the drama

are the Exchequer and Ecclesiastical, Secondaries and Summonsing, Petty

Sessions and Prerogative. But what is to happen when these are

exhausted? The answer is obvious:—Mr. Yates will turn his attention to

the Church! Depend upon it, we shall soon have the potent Paul Bedford,

or the grave and reverend Mr. John Saunders, in solemn sables,

converting the stage into a Baptist meeting, and repentant

supernumeraries with the real water!

Hoping to be forgiven for this, perhaps misplaced, levity, we proceed to