The owl! the owl! the owl! is the bird for me!

Then tempt me not with thy soft guitar,

And thy voice like the sound of a silver bell,

To take a stroll, where the cold ones are

Who in lanes, not of trees but of fetters11. Fetter-lane is clearly

alluded to by the poet. It is believed to be the bailiffs’ quarter.,

dwell.

But wait until night upsets its ink

On the earth, on the sea, and all over the sky,

And then I’ll go to the wide world’s brink

With the girl I love, without feeling shy.

Oh, then, may it night for ever be!

The owl! the owl! the owl! is the bird for me!

But you turn aside! Ah! did you know,

What by searching the office you’d plainly see,

That I’m hunted down, like a (Richard) Roe,

You’d not thus avert your eyes from me.

Oh never did giant look after Thumb

(When the latter was keeping out of the way)

With a more tremendous fee-fo-fum

Than I’m pursued by a dread fi-fa.

Too-whit! too-whit! is the owl’s sad song!

A writ! a writ! a writ! when mid the throng,

Is ringing in my ears the whole day long.

Ah me! night let it be:

The owl! the stately owl! is the bird—yes, the bird for me!

POPISH RED-DRESS. The Examiner states that there is no such fabric as

scarlet cloth made in Ireland. If this be true, the Lady of Babylon, who

is said to reside in that country, and to be addicted to scarlet

clothing, must be in a very destitute condition.

A SPOON CASE. A well-dressed individual has lately been visiting the

lodging-house keepers of the metropolis. He engages lodgings—but being,

as he says, just arrived from a long journey, he begs to have dinner

before he returns to the Coach-Office for his luggage. This request

being usually complied with, the new lodger, while the table is being

laid, watches his opportunity and bolts with the silver spoons. Sir

Peter Laurie says, that since this practice of filching the spoons has

commenced, he does not feel himself safe in his own house. He only hopes

the thief may be brought before him, and he promises to give him his

dessert, by committing him without

Two cats fight over a plate of scraps. STANDING UPON CEREMONY.

A DAB FOR LAURIE. SIR PETER LAURIE, on a recent visit to Billingsgate

for the purpose of making what he calls a pisciatery tour, was much

astonished at the vigorous performance of various of the real “live

fish,” some of which, as he sagely remarked, appeared to be perfect

“Dabs” at jumping, and no doubt legitimate descendants from some

particularly

A satisfied-looking fish smoking a pipe. MERRY OLD SOLE.

SIBTHORPS CORNER. If old Nick were to lose his tail, where should he go

to supply the deficiency?—To a gin-palace, because there they re-tail

bad spirits.

Mr. G., who has a very ugly wife, named Euphemia, was asked lately why

his spouse was the image of himself—and, to his great annoyance,

discovered that it was because she was his Effie-G22. I could make

better than the above myself. E.G.—In what way should Her Majesty stand

upon a Bill in Parliament so as to quash it?—By putting her V-toe (veto)

on it.—PRINTER’S DEVIL..

I floored Ben-beau D’Israeli the other day with the following:—“Ben,”

said I, “if I were going to buy a violin, what method should I take to

get it cheap?” Benjie looked rather more foolish than usual, and gave it

up. “Why, you ninny,” I replied, “I should buy an ounce of castor-oil,

and then I would get a phial in (violin).” I think I had him there.

Why is a female of the canine species suckling her whelps like a

philosophic principle?—Because she is a dogma (dog-ma).

What part of a horse’s foot is like an irate governor?—The pastern (pa-

stern).

Why is the march of a funeral procession like a turnpike?—Because it is

a toll-gait (toll-gate).

Who is the greatest literary star?—The poet-aster.

Why is an Israelite named William Solomons similar to a great public

festival?—Because he is a Jubilee (Jew-Billy).

Why are polished manners like a pea-jacket?—Because they are address (a

dress).

Why are swallows like a leap head-over-heels?—Because they are a summer

set (a somerset).

CUTTING IT RATHER SHORT. The unexpected adjournment of the Court of

Queen’s Bench, by Lord Denman, on last Thursday, has filled the bar with

consternation.—“What is to become of our clients?” said Fitzroy

Kelly.—“And of our fees?” added the Solicitor General.—“I feel deeply

for my clients,” sighed Serjeant Bompas.—“We all compassionate them,

brother,” observed Wilde.—In short, one and all declare it was a most

arbitrary and unprecedented curtailment of their little term—and, to say

the least of it,

A man sweats while playing a trumpet. A MOST DISTRESSING BLOW.

NATIONAL DISTRESS. The Tee-totallers say that the majority of the people

are victims to Bacchus. In the present hard times they are more likely

to be victims to

A man holds up an empty jug. JUG O’ NOUGHT—(JUGGERNAUT.)

[pg 252] SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—No. 12. Away! away! ye hopes which

stray

Like jeering spectres from the tomb!

Ye cannot light the coming night,

And shall not mock its gathering gloom;

Though dark the cloud shall form my shroud—

Though danger league with racking doubt—

Away! away! ye shall not stay

When all my joys are “up the spout!”

I little knew when first ye threw

Your bright’ning beams on coming hours,

That time would see me turn from thee,

And fly your sweet delusive powers.

Now, nerved to woe, no more I’ll know

How hope deferr’d makes mortal sick;

The gathering storm may whelm my form,

But I will suffer “like a brick!”

LAURIE’S RAILLERY. When Sir Peter Laurie had taken his seat the other

morning in that Temple of Momus, the Guildhall Justice Room, he was thus

addressed by Payne, the clerk—“I see, Sir Peter, an advertisement in the

Times, announcing the sale of shares in the railroad from Paris to

ROUEN; would you advise me to invest a little loose cash in that

speculation?” “Certainly not,” replied the Knight, “nor in any other

railway,—depend upon it, they all lead to the same terminus, RUIN.”

Payne, having exclaimed that this was the best thing he had ever heard,

was presented by our own Alderman with a shilling, accompanied with a

request that he would get his hair cropped to the magisterial standard.

A MEETING OF OLD ACQUAINTANCES. At the sale of the library of the late

Theodore Hook, a curious copy of “The Complete Jester” was knocked down

to “our own” Colonel. Delighted with his prize, he ran home, intending

to lay in a fresh stock of bons mots; but what was his amazement on

finding that all the jokes contained in the volume were those with which

he has been in the habit of entertaining the public these last forty

years! Sibby declares that the sight of so many old friends actually

brought the tears into his eyes.

PUNCH’S THEATRE. LOVE EXTEMPORE. As the hero of a romantic play is

obliged to possess all the cardinal virtues and all the intellectual

accomplishments, so the hero of a farce is bound to be a fool. One of

the greatest, and at the same time one of the best fools it has been our

pleasure to be introduced to for some time is Mr. Titus Livingstone, in

the new farce of “Love Extempore.”

Mr. Titus Livingstone possesses an excellent heart, a good fortune, and

an uncommon stock of modesty. His intellects are, however, far from

brilliant; indeed, but for one trait in his character he would pass for

an idiot,—he has had the good sense never as yet to fall in love! In

fact, the farce is founded upon that identical incident of his life

which occasioned him to suppose that he had taken the tender passion

extempore.

Some sort of villany seems absolutely necessary to every species of

play. To continue the parallel we commenced with between tragedy and

farce, we observe that in the former he is usually such a person as

Spinola, in “Nina Sforza,” whilst a farce-villain turns out to be in

most instances an intriguing widow, a lawyer, or a mischievous young

lady. The rogue in “Love Extempore” is Mrs. Courtnay, a widow, who, with

the assistance of Sir Harry Nugent, contrives a plot by which the

hitherto insensible Livingstone shall fall a victim to love and her

friend Prudence Oldstock; with whose mother and sister the widow and her

co-intriguant are staying on a visit.

The moment fatal to Livingstone’s virgin heart and unrestrained liberty

arrives. He calls to pay a morning visit, and instantly the deep design

is put into execution. Sir Harry begins by a most extravagant puff

preliminary of the talents, accomplishments, virtues, beauty,

disposition, endowments, and graces belonging to the enchanting

Prudence. He and the widow exhibit her drawings,—Livingstone is in

raptures, or pretends to be (for he is not an ill-bred man). What a

piercing expression flashes from those studies of eyes (in chalk)! what

an artistical grouping of legs! what a Saracen’s-head-upon-Snow-hill-

like ferocity frowns from that Indian chief!

At this juncture the captivating artist is herself introduced. Mr.

Livingstone’s modesty strikes him into a heap of confusion. “He sighs

and looks, and looks and sighs again,”—he does not know “what to say, or

how to say it; so that the trembling bachelor may become a wise and good

lover.” He stutters and hems in the utmost distress; to increase which,

all his tormentors turn up the stage, leaving him to entertain the lady

alone. The sketches naturally suggest a topic, and, plunging in medias

res at once, he vehemently praises her legs! The lady is astonished, and

the mamma alarmed; but having explained that the allusion was to the

drawings, he is afterwards punished for the blunder by being threatened

with a song. Though at a loss to find out what he has done to deserve

such an infliction, he submits; for he is very sleepy, and sinks into a

chair in an attitude of supposed attention, but really in a posture best

adapted for a nap. When the song is ended the applause of course comes

in; this awakens Livingstone in a fright; he starts, and throws down a

harp in his fall.

After this contretemps, the villany of the widow and her ally takes a

different turn. In a love affair there are generally two parties; and

Miss Prudence has got to be persuaded that she is in love. This it is

not difficult to accomplish, she being no more overburdened with

penetration than the gentleman they are so kind as to say she is in love

with. So far all goes on well: for she is soon convinced that she is

enamoured to the last extremity.

Livingstone having a sort of glimmering that the danger so long averted

at length impends over him—that he is falling into the trap of love,

with every chance of the fall continuing down to the bottomless pit of

matrimony, determines to avert the catastrophe by flight. The pair of

villains, however, set up a cry of “Stop thief,” and he is brought back.

Sir Harry appeals to his feelings. Good gracious! is he so base, so

dishonourable, so heartless, to rob an innocent, unsuspecting, and

accomplished girl of her heart, and then wickedly desert her! Oh, no! In

short, having already persuaded the poor man that he is in love, Sir

Harry convinces him that he would also be a deceiver; and Livingstone

would have returned like a lamb to the slaughter but for a new incident.

He has an uncle who is engaged in a law-suit with some of Mrs.

Courtnay’s family. To bring this litigation to an amicable end it has

been proposed that Livingstone should marry the widow’s sister. Here is

a discovery! So, the deep widow has been unwittingly plotting against

her own sister! Things must be altered; and so they are, in no time, for

she persuades the easy hero that Nugent is in love with Prudence

himself; but, finding she adores her new lover, has magnanimously given

up his claims in his favour. This has the desired effect, for

Livingstone will have no such noble sacrifice made on his account. He

seeks Sir Harry; who, discovering the double design of the profound

widow, talks as immensely magnanimous as they do in classic dramas. In

short, both play at Romans till the end of the piece; the hero and

heroine being at last fully persuaded that they have each really fallen

in “Love Extempore!”

This idea of persuading two persons into the bonds of love—of having all

the courting done at second-hand, is admirably worked out. Livingstone

is a well-drawn character; so well, so naturally painted, that he hardly

deserves to be the hero of a farce. Although exceedingly soft, he is a

well-bred fool—though somewhat fat (for the actor is Mr. David Rees); he

is not altogether inelegant. The gentleman who does the theatrical

metaphysics in the Morning Herald has described him as a capital

specimen of “physical obesity and moral teunity,”33. Sic, actually, in

the dramatic article of that paper, Wednesday, 24th ult. —which we quote

to save ourselves trouble, for the force of description can no further

go. Prudence is also inimitable—a march-of-intellect young lady without

brains, who knows the names of the five large rivers in America, and how

many bones there are in the gills of a turbot. In Miss P. Horton’s hands

her mechanical acquirements were done ample justice to. The cold

unmeaning love scene was rendered mainly by her acting

A man has fallen through ice and stands to his waist in water. A N-ICE

SITUATION.

In fine, the farce is altogether a leaven of the best material most

cleverly worked up.

A PERFECT VACUUM PROVED. MR. HALSE, the gentleman who has during the

last week been lecturing upon Animal Magnetism, having stated that one

of his patients, while under the magnetic influence, could “see her own

inside,” the Marquis of Londonderry, anxious to test the truth of the

assertion, requested the lecturer to operate upon him, and being thrown

into the Mesmeric sleep, looked into the inside of his own head, and

declared he could see nothing in it.

A CON BY O’CONNER. Why ought the Children of a Thief to be

burnt?—Because their Pa steals (they’re pastiles).

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. DECEMBER 11, 1841. [pg 253] THE

PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT. 11.—HOW MR. MUFF CONCLUDES HIS

EVENING. A fellow forms a letter E with a bag and a string. ssential as

sulphuric acid is to the ignition of the platinum in an hydropneumatic

lamp; so is half-and-half to the proper illumination of a Medical

Student’s faculties. The Royal College of Surgeons may thunder and the

lecturers may threaten, but all to no effect; for, like the slippers in

the Eastern story, however often the pots may be ordered away from the

dissecting-room, somehow or other they always find their way back again

with unflinching pertinacity. All the world inclined towards beer knows

that the current price of a pot of half-and-half is fivepence, and by

this standard the Medical Student fixes his expenses. He says he has

given three pots for a pair of Berlin gloves, and speaks of a half-crown

as a six-pot piece.

Mr. Muff takes the goodly measure in his hand, and decapitating its

“spuma” with his pipe, from which he flings it into Mr. Simpson’s face,

indulges in a prolonged drain, and commences his narrative—most probably

in the following manner:—

“You know we should all have got on very well if Rapp hadn’t been such a

fool as to pull away the lanthorns from the place where they are putting

down the wood pavement in the Strand, and swear he was a watchman. I

thought the crusher saw us, and so I got ready for a bolt, when Manhug

said the blocks had no right to obstruct the footpath; and, shoving down

a whole wall of them into the street, voted for stopping to play at duck

with them. Whilst he was trying how many he could pitch across the

Strand against the shutters opposite, down came the pewlice and off we

cut.”

“I had a tight squeak for it,” interrupts Mr. Rapp; “but I beat them at

last, in the dark of the Durham-street arch. That’s a dodge worth being

up to when you get into a row near the Adelphi. Fire away, Muff—where

did you go?”

“Right up a court to Maiden-lane, in the hope of bolting into the Cider-

cellars. But they were all shut up, and the fire out in the kitchen, so

I ran on through a lot of alleys and back-slums, until I got somewhere

in St. Giles’s, and here I took a cab.”

“Why, you hadn’t got an atom of tin when you left us,” says Mr. Manhug.

“Devil a bit did that signify. You know I only took the cab—I’d nothing

at all to do with the driver; he was all right in the gin-shop near the

stand, I suppose. I got on the box, and drove about for my own

diversion—I don’t exactly know where; but I couldn’t leave the cab, as

there was always a crusher in the way when I stopped. At last I found

myself at the large gate of New Square, Lincoln’s Inn, so I knocked

until the porter opened it, and drove in as straight as I could. When I

got to the corner of the square, by No. 7, I pulled up, and, tumbling

off my perch, walked quietly along to the Portugal-street wicket. Here

the other porter let me out, and I found myself in Lincoln’s Inn

Fields.”

“And what became of the cab?” asks Mr. Jones.

“How should I know!—it was no affair of mine. I dare say the horse made

it right; it didn’t matter to him whether he was standing in St. Giles’s

or Lincoln’s Inn, only the last was the most respectable.”

“I don’t see that,” says Mr. Manhug, refilling his pipe.

“Why, all the thieves in London live in St. Giles’s.”

“Well, and who live in Lincoln’s Inn?”

“Pshaw! that’s all worn out,” continues Manhug. “I got to the College of

Surgeons, and had a good mind to scud some oyster shells through the

windows, only there were several people about—fellows coming home to

chambers, and the like; so I pattered on until I found myself in Drury-

lane, close to a coffee-shop that was open. There I saw such a jolly

row!”

Mr. Muff utters this last sentence in the same ecstatic accents of

admiration with which we speak of a lovely woman or a magnificent view.

“What was it about?” eagerly demand the rest of the circle.

“Why, just as I got in, a gentleman of a vivacious turn of mind, who was

taking an early breakfast, had shied a soft-boiled egg at the gas-light,

which didn’t hit it, of course, but flew across the tops of the boxes,

and broke upon a lady’s head.”

“What a mess it must have made?” interposes Mr. Manhug. “Coffee-shop

eggs are always so very albuminous.”

“Once I found some feathers in one, and a fœtal chick,” observes Mr.

Rapp.

“Knock that down for a good one!” says Mr. Jones, taking the poker and

striking three distinct blows on the mantel-piece, the last of which

breaks off the corner. “Well, what did the lady do?”

“Commenced kicking up an extensive shindy, something between crying,

coughing, and abusing, until somebody in a fustian coat, addressing the

assailant, said, ‘he was no gentleman, whoever he was, to throw eggs at

a woman; and that if he’d come out he’d pretty soon butter his crumpets

on both sides for him, and give him pepper for nothing.’ The master of

the coffee shop now came forward and said, ‘he wasn’t a going to have no

uproar in his house, which was very respectable, and always used by the

first of company, and if they wanted to quarrel, they might fight it out

in the streets.’ Whereupon they all began to barge the master at

once,—one saying ‘his coffee was all snuff and duckweed,’ or something

of the kind; whilst the other told him ‘he looked as measly as a mouldy

muffin;’ and then all of a sudden a lot of half-pint cups and pewter

spoons flew up in the air, and the three men began an indiscriminate

battle all to themselves, in one of the boxes, ‘fighting quite

permiscus,’ as the lady properly observed. I think the landlord was

worst off though; he got a very queer wipe across the face from the

handle of his own toasting-fork.”

“And what did you do, Muff?” asks Mr. Manhug.

“Ah, that was the finishing card of all. I put the gas out, and was

walking off as quietly as could be, when some policemen who heard the

row outside met me at the door, and wouldn’t let me pass. I said I

would, and they said I should not, until we came to scuffling, and then

one of them calling to some more, told them to take me to Bow-street,

which they did; but I made them carry me though. When I got into the

office they had not any especial charge to make against me, and the old

bird behind the partition said I might go about my business; but, as ill

luck would have it, another of the unboiled ones recognised me as one of

the party who had upset the wooden blocks—he knew me again by my d—d

Taglioni.”

“And what did they do to you?”

“Marched me across the yard and locked me up; when to my great

consolation in my affliction, I found Simpson, crying and twisting up

his pocket-handkerchief, as if he was wringing it; and hoping his

friends would not hear of his disgrace through the Times.”

“What a love you are, Simpson!” observes Mr. Jones patronisingly. “Why,

how the deuce could they, if you gave a proper name? I hope you called

yourself James Edwards.”

Mr. Simpson blushes, blows his nose, mutters something about his card-

case and telling an untruth, which excites much merriment; and Mr. Muff

proceeds:—

“The beak wasn’t such a bad fellow after all, when we went up in the

morning. I said I was ashamed to confess we were both disgracefully

intoxicated, and that I would take great care nothing of the same

humiliating nature should occur again; whereupon we were fined twelve

pots each, and I tossed sudden death with Simpson which should pay both.

He lost and paid down the dibs. We came away, and here we are.”

The mirth proceeds, and, ere long, gives place to harmony; and when the

cookery is finished, the bird is speedily converted into an anatomical

preparation,—albeit her interarticular cartilages are somewhat tough,

and her lateral ligaments apparently composed of a substance between

leather and caoutchouc. As afternoon advances, the porter of the

dissecting-room finds them performing an incantation dance round Mr.

Muff, who, seated on a stool placed upon two of the tressels, is

rattling some halfpence in a skull, accompanied by Mr. Rapp, who is

performing a difficult concerto on an extempore instrument of his own

invention, composed of the Scotchman’s hat, who is still grinding in the

Museum, and the identical thigh-bone that assisted to hang Mr. Muff’s

patriarchal old hen!

SIGNS OF THE TIMES. “The times are hard,” say the knowing ones. “Hard”

indeed they must be when we find a DOCTOR advertising for a situation as

WET-NURSE. The following appeared in the Times of Wednesday last, under

the head of “Want Places.” “As wet-nurse, a respectable person. Direct

to DOCTOR P——, C—— Common, Surrey.” What next?

[pg 254] THE “PUFF PAPERS.” CHAPTER II. The Giant’s Stairs. (CONTINUED.)

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘you’re a match for me any day; and sooner than be

shut up again in this dismal ould box, I’ll give you what you ask for my

liberty. And the three best gifts I possess are, this brown cap, which

while you wear it will render you invisible to the fairies, while they

are all visible to you; this box of salve, by rubbing some of which to

your lips, you will have the power of commanding every fairy and spirit

in the world to obey your will; and, lastly, this little kippeen11. A

little stick., which at your word may be transformed into any mode of

conveyance you wish. Besides all this, you shall come with me to my

palace, where all the treasures of the earth shall be at your disposal.

But mind, I give you this caution, that if you ever permit the brown cap

or the kippeen to be out of your possession for an instant, you’ll lose

them for ever; and if you suffer any person to touch your lips while you

remain in the underground kingdom, you will instantly become visible,

and your power over the fairies will be at an end.’

“‘Well,’ thinks I, ‘there’s nothing so very difficult in that.’ So

having got the cap, the kippeen, and the box of salve, into my

possession, I opened the box, and out jumped the little fellow.

“‘Now, Felix,’ says he, ‘touch your lips with the salve, for we are just

at the entrance of my dominions.’

“I did as he desired me, and, Dharra Dhie! if the little chap wasn’t

changed into a big black-looking giant, sitting afore my eyes on a great

rock.

“‘Lord save us!’ says I to myself, ‘it’s a marcy and a wondher how he

ever squeezed himself into that weeshy box.’ ‘Why thin, Sir,’ says I to

him, ‘maybe your honour would have the civilitude to tell me your name.’

“‘With the greatest of pleasure, Felix,’ says he smiling; ‘I’m called

Mahoon, the Giant.’

“‘Tare an’ agers! are you though? Well, if I thought’—but he gave me no

time to think; for calling on me to follow him, he began climbing up the

Giant’s Stairs as asy as I’d walk up a ladder to the hay-loft. Well, he

was at the top afore you could cry ‘trapstick,’ and it wasn’t long till

I was at the top too, and there we found a gate opening into the hill,

and a power of lords and ladies waiting to resave Mahoon, who I larned

was their king, and who had been away from his kingdom for twenty years,

by rason of his being shut up in the box by some great fairy-man.

“Well, when we got inside the gates, I found myself in a most beautiful

city, where nobody seemed to mind anything but diversion. The music was

the most illigant thing you ever hard in your born days, and there

wasn’t one less than forty Munster pipers playing before King Mahoon and

his friends, as they marched along through great broad streets,—a

thousand times finer than Great George’s-street, in Cork; for, my dears,

there was nothing to be seen but goold, and jewels, and guineas, lying

like sand under our feet. As I had the little brown cap upon my head, I

knew that none of the fairy people could see me, so I walked up cheek by

jowl with King Mahoon himself, who winked at me to keep my toe in my

brogue, which you may be sure I did, and so we kept on until we came to

the king’s palace. If other places were grand, this was ten times

grander, for the very sight was fairly taken out of my eyes with the

dazzling light that shone round about it. In we went into the palace,

through two rows of most engaging and beautiful young ladies; and then

King Mahoon took his sate upon his throne, and put upon his head a crown

of goold, stuck all over with di’monds, every one of them bigger than a

sheep’s heart. Of coorse there was a dale of compliments past amongst

the lords and ladies till they got tired of them; and then they sat down

to dinner, and, nabocklish! wasn’t there rale givings-out there, with

cead mille phailtagh22. A hundred thousand welcomes.. The whiskey was

sarved out in tubs and buckets, for they’d scorn to drink ale or porter;

and as for the ating, there was laygions of fat bacon and cabbage for

the sarvants, and a throop of legs of mutton for the king and his coort.

Well, after we had all ate till we could hould no more, the king called

out to clear the flure for a dance. No sooner had he said the word, than

the tables were all whipped away,—the pipers began to tune their

chaunters. The king’s son opened the ball with a mighty beautiful young

crather; but the mirinit I laid my eyes upon her I knew her at once for

a neighbour’s daughter, one Anty Dooley, who had died a few months

before, and who, when she was alive, could beat the whole county round

at any sort of reel, jig, or hornpipe. The music struck up ‘Tatter Jack

Walsh,’ and maybe it’s she that didn’t set, and turn, and thrush the

boords, until the young prince hadn’t as much breath left in his body as

would blow out a rushlight, and he was forced to sit down puffing and

panting, and laving his partner standing in the middle of the room. I

couldn’t stand that by no means; so jumping upon the flure with a

shilloo, I flung my cap into the air:—the music stopped of a sudden, and

I then recollected that, by throwing off the cap, I had become visible,

and had lost one of Mahoon’s three gifts.

“Divil may care! as Punch said when he missed mass; I’ll have my dance

out at any rate, so rouse up ‘The Rakes of Mallow,’ my beauties. So to

it we set; and when the cailleen was getting tired well becomes myself,

but I threw my arm around her slindher waist and took such a smack of

her sweet lips, that the hall resounded with the report.

“‘Fetch me a glass of the best,’ says I to a little fellow who was

hopping about with a tray full of all sorts of dhrink.

“‘Fetch it yourself, Felix Donovan. Who’s your sarvant now?’ says the

chap, docking up his chin as impident as a tinker’s dog. I felt my

fingers itching to give the fellow a polthogue33. A thump. in the ear;

but I thought I might as well keep myself paceable in a strange place—so

I only gave him a contemptible look, and turned my back upon him.

“‘Felix jewel!’ whispered Anty in my ear. ‘You’ve lost your power over

the fairies by that misfortunate kiss—’

”’Diaoul!—there’s two of Mahoon’s gifts gone already,’ thinks I,

“‘If you’ll take my advice,’ says Anty, ‘you’ll be off out of this as

fast as you can.”

“‘The sorra foot I’ll stir out of this,’ says I ‘unless you come along

with me ma callieen dhas44. My pretty girl.—’

“I wish you could have seen the deluding look she gave me as leaning her

head upon my shoulder she whispered to me in a voice sweeter than music

of a dream,

“‘Felix dear! I’ll go with you all the world over, and the sooner we

take to the road the better. Steal you out of the door, and I’ll follow

you in a few minutes.’

“Accordingly I sneaked away as quietly as I could; they were all too

busy with their divarsions to mind me—and at the door I met Anty with

her apron full of goold and diamonds.

“‘Now,’ said she, ‘where’s the kippeen Mahoon gave you?’

“‘Here it is safe enough,’ I answered, pulling it out of my breeches

pocket.

“‘Well, now tell it to become a coach-and-four.’

“I did as she desired me—and in a moment there was a grand coach and

four prancing horses before us. You may be sure we did not stand

admiring very long, but both stepped in, and away we drove like the

wind,—until we came to a high wall; so high that it tired me to look to

the top of it.

“‘Step out, now,’ says she, ‘but mind not to let go your held of the

coach, and tell it to change itself into a ladder.’

“I had my lesson now; the coach became a ladder, reaching to the top of

the wall; so up we mounted, and descended on the other side by the same

means. There was then before us a terrible dark gulf over which hung

such a thick fog that a priest couldn’t see to bless himself in it.

“‘Call for a winged horse,’ whispered Anty.

“I did so, and up came a fine black horse, with a pair of great wings

growing out of his back, and ready bridled and saddled to our hand. I

jumped upon his back, and took Anty up before me; when, spreading out

his wings, he flew—flew, without ever stopping until he landed us safe

on the opposite shore. We were now on the banks of a broad river.

“‘This,’ said Anty, ‘is our last difficulty.’

“The horse was changed into a boat, and away we sailed with a fair

breeze for the opposite shore, which, as we approached, appeared more

beautiful than any country I had ever seen. The shore was crowded with

young people dancing, singing, and beckoning us to approach. The boat

touched the land; I thought all my troubles were past, and in the joy of

my heart I leaped ashore, leaving Anty in the boat; but no sooner had my

foot parted from the gunwale than the boat shot like an arrow from the

bank, and drifted down the current. I saw my young bride wringing her

fair hands, weeping at if her heart would break, and crying—

[pg 255] “‘Why did you quit the boat so soon, Felix? Alas, alas! we

shall never meet again!’ and then with a wild and melancholy scream she

vanished from my sight. A dizziness came over my senses, I fell upon the

ground in a dead faint, and when I came to myself—I found myself all

alone in my boat, with three tundhering big conger-eels fast upon my

lines. And now, neighbours, you have all my story about the Giant’s

Stairs.”

DRAW IT GENTLY. Joseph Hume’s attention having been drawn to the great

insecurity of letter envelopes, as they are now constructed, has

submitted to the Post-master-General a specimen of a new safety

envelope. He states that the invention is entirely his own, and that he

has applied the principle with extraordinary success in the case of his

own breeches-pocket, from which he defies the most “artful dodger” in

the world to extract anything. We can add our testimony to the un-for-

giving property of Joe’s monetary receptacle, and we trust that his

excellent plan may be instantly adopted. At present there is immense

risk in sending inclosures through the Post-office; for all the letter-

carriers are aware that there is nothing easier than

Someone reaches through a window to take a sleeper's bedclothes. DRAWING

A COVER.

FASHIONABLE MOVEMENTS. Yesterday Paddy Green, Esquire, called at “The

Great Mogul,” where he played two games at bagatelle, and went

“Yorkshire” for a pot of dog’s nose. He smoked a short pipe home.

On Tuesday Charles Mears, I.M., accompanied by Jeremiah Donovan, called

at the residence of Paddy Green, Esquire, in Vere-street, to inquire

after the health of Master P. Green.

Master James Marc Anthony George Finch has succeeded Bill Jenkins as

errand-boy at the butter-shop in Great Wild-street. This change had long

been expected in the neighbourhood.

On Friday Paddy Green, Esquire, did not rise till the evening. A slight

disposition to the prevailing epidemic, influenza, is stated to be the

cause. He drank copiously of rum-and-water with a piece of butter in it.

On Thursday last the lady of Paddy Green, personally attended to the

laundry; a fortnight’s wash took place, when Mrs. Briggs, the charwoman,

was in waiting. Mrs. P. Green, with her accustomed liberality, sent out

for a quartern of gin and a quarter of an ounce of brown rappee.

Charles Mears, I.M., and Jeremiah Donovan yesterday took a short walk

and a short pipe together.

It is confidently reported that at the close of the present Covent-

Garden season that Mr. Ossian Sniggers will retire from the stage, of

which he has been so long a distinguished ornament. We have it from the

best authority that he purposes going into the retail coal and tater

line.

LINES ON MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE. By Sir Lumley Skeffington, Bart.

Supercelestial is the art she practises,

Transcending far all other living actresses;

Her father’s talent—mother’s grace—compose

This Stephen’s figure, with John’s Roman nose.

PUNCH’S LETTER-WRITER. DEAR PUNCH! VENERABLE NOSEY!

By the bye, was Publius Ovidius Nuso an ancestor of yours? Talking of

ancestors, why do the Ayrshire folks speak of theirs as four bears

(forbears), it sounds very ursine. But to our muttons, as my old French

master used to call it. Do you do anything in the classico-historical

line, for the Charivaresque enlightenment of the British public; if so,

here is a specimen of a work in that style, “done out of the original:”—

THE DEATH OF CÆSAR: A TOUCH OF THE CLASSICAL IN THE VULGAR TONGUE. When

he beheld the hand of him he had so loved raised against him, Cæsar’s

heart was filled with anguish, and uttering the deep reproach—“And thou,

too, Brutus!” he shrouded his face in his mantle, and fell at the foot

of Pompey’s statue, covered with wounds. Thus, in the zenith of his

glory, perished Caius Julius Cæsar, the conqueror of the world, and the

eloquent historian of his own exploits; spiflicatus est (says my

original), he was done for: he got his gruel, and inserted his pewter in

the stucco, B.C. 44.

Perhaps you may not receive the above; but “sticking his spoon in the

wall” reminds me of a hint I have to offer you. Did you ever see any

Apostle spoons—old things with saints carved on their handles, which

used to be presented, at christenings, &c. Now I think you might make

your fortune with His Royal Highness of Cornwall, on the occasion of his

christening, by getting together a set of spoons to present to him; and

I would suggest your selection of the most notorious spoons, such as the

delectable Saddler Knight, Peter Borthwick, Calculating Joey, the

Colonel, Ben D’Israeli, &c. You might even class them, putting Sir

Andrew Agnew in as a grave(y) spoon; a teetotal chief as a tea spoon;

Wakley, being a deserter, as a dessert spoon; D’Israeli, being so

amazingly soft, as a pap spoon, &c. &c. Send them with Punch’s dutiful

congratulations, and you will infallibly get knighted; but don’t take a

baronetcy, my respectable friend, for I hear that, like my friend Sir

Moses, you are inclined to Judyism (Judaism)55. Have I “seen that line

before?”. May the shadow of your nose never be less; and Heaven send

that you may take this up after dinner! Farewell!

POLICHINICULUS.

*** Polichiniculus is a lucky fellow! We opened his letter after the

pleasant discussion of a boiled chicken.—Ed. of “Punch.”

CUPID’S BOW. SIR JAMES GRAHAM was conversing the other day with

D’Israeli on what he designated “the crooked policy of Lord Palmerston.”

“What could you expect but a warped understanding,” replied the Hebrew

Adonis, “from such

A man tips his hat. A PERFECT BEAU—(BOW).”

CERTAINLY NOT “BETTER LATE THAN NEVER.” SIR FIGARO LAURIE was condoling

with Hobler on the loss of the baronetcy by the late Lord Mayor.

Hobler replied that the loss of the title was not by the late Lord Mayor

but by the late Prince of Wales. But, as he sagely added,

An artist sits at a fire while a cat runs away with a fish. THERE’S MANY

A SLIP, &c.

Sir Peter has placed Hobler on Truefitt’s free list.

[pg 256] A SLIGHT CONTRAST! “LOOK ON THIS PICTURE AND ON THIS!” THE

COUNTERFEIT PRESENTMENT OF PRINCE ALBERT’S HOUNDS AND THE POOR IN THE

SEVENOAKS UNION. The sleeping-beds which are occupied by the prince’s

beagles and her Majesty’s dogs are IN FIVE COMPARTMENTS AT THE EXTREMITY

OF THE HOVELS—THE LATTER BEING WELL SUPPLIED WITH WATER AND PAVED WITH

ASPHALTE, THE BOTTOMS HAVING GOOD PALLS, TO ENSURE THEIR DRYNESS AND

CLEANLINESS. The hovels enter into three green yards, roomy and healthy.

In the one at the near end a rustic ornamental seat has been erected,

from which her Majesty and the prince are accustomed to inspect their

favourites.

The boiling and distemper houses are now in course of erection, BUT

DETACHED FROM THE OTHER PORTION OP THE BUILDING!—From the Sporting

Magazine, extracted in the Times of Dec. 3, 1841.

“I KNOW the lying-in ward; there is but ONE, which is small: another

room is used when required. There are two beds in the first. The walls,

I should say, were clean; but at that time they could not he cleansed,

as it was full of women. The room was very smoky and uncomfortable; the

walls were as clean as they could be under the circumstances. I have

always felt dissatisfied with the ward, and many times said it was the

most uncomfortable place in the house; it always looked dirty

.

“There have been six women there at one time: two were confined in one

bed

.

“It was impossible entirely to shut out the infection. I have known

FIFTEEN CHILDREN SLEEP in two beds!”—From the sworn evidence of Mrs.

Elizabeth Gain, late matron, and Mr. Adams, late medical attendant, at

the Sevenoaks Union—extracted from the Times of Dec. 2, 1841.

ON SNUFF, AND THE DIFFERENT WAYS OF TAKING IT. Snuff is a sort of

freemasonry amongst those who partake of it.

Those who do not partake of it cannot possibly understand those who do.

It is just the same as music to the deaf—dancing to the lame—or painting

to the blind.

Snuff-takers will assure you that there are as many different types of

snuff-takers as there are different types of women in a church or in a

theatre, or different species of roses in the flower-bed of an

horticulturist.

But the section of snuff-takers has, in common with all social

categories, its apostates, its false brethren.

For as sure as you carry about with you a snuff-box, of copper, of

tortoise-shell, or of horn (the material matters absolutely nothing),

you cannot fail to have met upon your path the man who carries no snuff-

box, and yet is continually taking snuff.

The man who carries no snuff-box is an intimate nuisance—a hand-in-hand

annoyance—a sort of authorised Jeremy Diddler to all snuff-takers.

He meets you everywhere. The first question he puts is not how “you do?”

he assails you instantly with “Have you such a thing as a pinch of snuff

about you?”

It is absolutely as if he said, “I have no snuff myself, but I know you

have—and you cannot refuse me levying a small contribution upon it.”

If it were only one pinch; but it is two—it is four—it is eight; it is

all the week—all the month—it is all year round. The man who carries no

snuff box is a regular Captain Macheath—a licensed Paul Clifford—to

everyone that does. He meets you on the highway, and summonses you to

stop by demanding “Your snuff-box or your life?”

A man can easily refuse to his most intimate friend his purse, or his

razor, or his wife, or his horse; but with what decency can he refuse

him—or to his coolest acquaintance even—a pinch of snuff? It is in this

that the evil pinches.

The snuff-taker who carries no snuff-box is aware of this—and woe to the

box into which his fingers gain admission to levy the pinch his nose

distrains upon.

There is no man who has the trick so aptly at his fingers’ ends of

absorbing so much in one given pinch, as the man who carries no snuff

box. The quantity he takes proves he is not given to samples.

Properly speaking he is the landlord of all the boxes in the kingdom.

Those who carry snuff-boxes are only his tenants; and hold them merely

by virtue of a rack-rent, under him.

He is a perpetual plunderer—a petty purloiner—a pinching petitioner in

forma pauperis—a contraband dealer in snuff. However, he is in general

noted for his social qualities. He is affable, mild, harmless,

insinuating, yielding, and submissive. He never fails to compliment you

upon your good looks, and wonders in deep interest where you buy such

excellent snuff. He agrees with you that Sir Peter Laurie is the first

statesman of the day, and flies into the highest ecstacies when he

learns that it is some of George the Fourth’s sold-off stock. He even

acknowledges that Universal Suffrage is the only thing that can save the

nation, and affects to be quite astonished that he has left his box

behind him. He will beg to be remembered to your wife, and leaves you

after begging for “the favour of another pinch.” Where is the man whose

nature would not be susceptible of a pinch when invoked in the name of

his wife?

Goldsmith recommends a pair of boots, a silver pencil, or a horse of

small value, as an infallible specific for getting rid of a troublesome

guest. He always had the satisfaction to find he never came back to

return them.

But with the man who carries no snuff-box this specific would lose its

infallibility. It would be folly to lend him your snuff-box, for at this

price snuff would lose all its flavour, all its perfume for him. The

best box to give him would be perhaps a box on the ear.

If he were obliged to buy his own snuff, it would give him no sensation.

The strongest would not make him sneeze, or wring from the sensibility

of his eyes the smallest tribute to its pungency. He would turn up his

nose at it, or, at the best, use it as sand-dust to receipt his

washerwoman’s bills with.

These feelings aside, the man who carries no snuff-box is a good member

of society; that is to say, quite as good a one as the man who does

carry a snuff-box. He is in general a good friend (as long as he has the

entrée of your box), a good parent, a good tenant, a good customer, a

good voter, a good eater, a good talker, and especially a good judge of

snuff. He knows by one touch, by one sniff, by one coup d’œil, the good

from the bad, the old from the new, the fragrant from the filthy, the

colour which is natural from the colour which is coloured. If any one

should want to lay in a stock of snuff, let him take the man who carries

no snuff with him: his ipse dixit may be relied upon with every

certainty. He will choose it as if he were buying it for himself, and in

return will never forget to look upon it as a property he is entitled to

fully as much as you who have paid for it; for, in fact, would you be in

possession of the snuff if he had not chosen it for you?

As for his complaint, it is like hydrophilia; no remedy has as yet been

invented for it; and we can with comfortable consciences predict that,

as long as snuff is taken, and men continue to carry it about with them

in snuff-boxes, they are sure to be subject to the importunities of the

man who carries no snuff box.

BUFFOON’S NATURAL HISTORY. SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, who, like Byron,

(in this one instance only) “wanted a hero,” had the good fortune to lay

his hands upon the history of the celebrated George Barrington of

picking-pocket notoriety. That worthy, describing the progress he made

for the good of his country, related some strange particulars of a

foreign bird, called the Secretary, or Snake-eater, which Sir Edward,

from his knowledge of the natural history of his friend John Wilson

Croker, declares to be the immediate connecting link between the English

Admiralty Secretary, or “Toad-eater.”

“NOT EXACTLY.” “Have you been much at sea?”

“Why no, not exactly; but my brother married an admiral’s daughter!”

“Were you ever abroad?”

“No, not exactly; but my mother’s maiden name was ‘French.’”

[pg 257] FASHIONS FOR DECEMBER. [A letter has found its way into our

box, which was evidently intended for the Parisian Courrier des Dames;

but as the month is so far advanced, we are fearful that the

communication will be too late for the purposes of that fashionable

journal. We have therefore with unparalleled liberality inserted it in

PUNCH, and thus conferred an immortality on an ephemera! It is worthy of

remark that the writer adopts the style of our foreign fashionable

correspondents, who invariably introduce as much English as French into

their communications.]

Rue de Dyotte, Derrière les Slommes à Saint Gilles.

MON JOVIAL ANCIEN COQ.

Les swelles de Londres have now determined upon the winter fashions,

subject only to such modifications as their wardrobes render imperative,

et y vont comme des Briques. Butchers’ trays continue to be worn on the

shoulders; and sprats may be found very generally upon the heads of the

poissonnières-faggeuses de la Porte de Billing. Short pipes are much

patronised by architects’ assistants, and are worn either in the hatband

or the side of the mouth, et point d’erreur. A few black eyes have been

seen dans la Rookerie; but these facial ornaments will not be general

until after boxing-day, quand ils le deviendront bien forts. Highlows

and anklejacks66. For an elaborate description of these elegances, vide

PUNCH. 7. The Fancy, we presume.—Printer's Devil. are still patronised

by les imaginaires7 of both sexes, the only alteration in the fashion

being that the highlow is cut a little more on the instep, and the

anklejack has retrograded a trifle towards the heel, with those qui

veulent le couper gras. A great many muslin caps are seen, frequently

with a hole in the crown, through which the hair protrudes, and gives a

très épiceux et soufflet-haut appearance. They are called les Capoles

des Sept-Dialles.

Others have no opening at the top, but two streamers of the same

material as the cap are allowed to play over the shoulders of les

immenses Cartes. The original colour of these capotes is white; but they

are only worn by les grandes Cigarres when the white has been very much

rubbed off.

Furs are much worn, both by the male and female magnifiques poussières.

The latter usually carry them suspended from their apron-strings, and

appear to give the preference to hare and rabbit mantelets, though

sometimes domestic felines are denuded for the same purpose, que puisse

m’aider, pomme-de-terre. The gentlemen, on the other hand, carry their

furs at the end of a long pole, and towards Saturday-night a great

number de petits pots88. Query mugs—Anglicè faces?—Printer’s Devil. may

be seen enveloped in this costly matériel. The fantails of the chapeaux

d’Adelphi are spread rather broader over the shoulders, and are

sometimes elevated behind, quand ils veulent le faire très soufflément.

Pewter brooches are still in great request, as are also pewter-pots,

which are used in the tap-rooms of some des cribbes particulièrement

flamboyants-haut.

But I must fermer ma trappe de pomme-de-terre, et promener mes crayons;

ainsi, adieu, mon joli tromp.

Votre chummi dévoué, Jusques tout est bleu, ALPHONSE JAMBES D’ARAIGNEE.

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. A juvenile party, among whom we noticed the

two Biggses, attended in Piccadilly to inspect the sewer now being made.

One of the workmen employed threw up a quantity of the soil, intending

no doubt to give an opportunity to the party of inspecting its

properties; but as it hit some of them in the eye, they retreated

rapidly.

The venerable square-keeper in Golden-square took his usual airing round

the railings yesterday, and afterwards partook of the pleasures of the

chase, by pursuing a boy into John-street. He was attended by his usual

suite of children, who cheered him in his progress, following him as he

ran on, and turning back so as to precede him, when he abandoned the

hunt and resumed his promenade, which he did almost immediately.

Bill Bumpus walked for several hours in the suburbs yesterday. In order

to have the advantage of exercise, he carried a basket on his head, and

was understood to intimate in a loud tone that it contained sprats,

which he distributed to the humbler classes at a penny a plateful.

THE HIGH-ROAD TO GENTILITY; OR MRS. WOULD-BE’S ADVICE TO HER DAUGHTER.

Now, Charlotte, dear, attend to me,

You know you’re coming out,

And in the best society

Will shine, beyond a doubt.

Things were not always so with us,—

But let oblivion’s seal

For ever shut out former days—

They were so ungenteel.

And as for country neighbours, child,

You must forget them all;

And never visit any place

That is not Park or Hall.

But if you know a titled name,

That knowledge ne’er conceal;

And mention nothing in the world,

Except it be genteel.

But think no more of Henry, child;

His love is pure, I know;

He writes delightful verses too;

But cannot be your beau.

He never as at Almack’s, sure,—

From that there’s no appeal;

For neither gifts nor graces now

Can make a man genteel.

You know Lord Worthless,—Charlotte, would

Not that be quite a match,

If not so very often in

The keeping of the watch?

He paid some damages last year,

Though slippery as an eel;

But then such vices in a peer

Are perfectly genteel.

And you must cut the Worthies—they’re

No company for you;

Though all of them are lovely girls,

And very clever too.

’Tis true, we found them kind, when all

The world were cold as steel;

’Tis true, they were your early friends;

But, then, they’re not genteel.

There’s Lady Waxwork, who, when dressed,

Has nothing she can say;

Miss Triffle of her lap-dog’s tail

Will chatter half the day.

The Honourable Mr. Trick

At cards can cheat or steal:—

These are the friends that suit us now,

For oh! they’re so genteel!

But, Charlotte, dear, avoid the Blues,

No matter when, or how;

For literature is quite beneath

The higher classes now.

Though Raphael paint, or Homer sing,

Oh! never seem to feel;

Young ladies should not have a soul,—

It’s really ungenteel.

A NEW WINE. SIR PETER LAURIE sent an order to a wine-merchant at the

West End on Tuesday last for “six dozen of the best Ottoman Porte.”

[pg 258] LOYALTY AND INSANITY. “Half the day at least“—says the editor

of the Athenæum—“we are in fancy at the Palace, taking our turn of loyal

watch by the cradle of the heir-apparent; the rest at our own firesides,

in that mood of cheerful thankfulness which makes fun and frolic

welcome!” Half the day, at least!

A stroke of fancy—especially to a heavy man—is sometimes as discomposing

as a stroke of paralysis. Our friend of the Athenæum is not to be

carried away by fancy, cost free: his imaginative watch at the

Palace—for who can doubt that for six hours per diem he is in Buckingham

nursery?—has led him into the perpetration of various eccentricities

which, when we reflect upon the fortune he must have hoarded, and the

innate selfishness of our common nature, may possibly end in a

commission of lunacy. As juries are now-a-days brought together

(especially as Chartists abound), excessive loyalty may be

returned—confirmed insanity. It is, however, our duty as good citizens

and fellow-journalists to protest, in advance, against any such verdict;

declaring that whatever may be adduced by the unreflecting persons in

daily intercourse with the editor—that grave and learned scribe is in

the enjoyment—of all the sense originally vouchsafed to him. We know the

stories that are in the most unfeeling manner told to the disadvantage

of the learned and inoffensive gentleman; we know them, and shall not

shrink from meeting them.

It is said that for one hour a day “at least” since the birth of the

Prince the unfortunate gentleman has been invariably occupied folding

and refolding a copy of the Athenæum—now airing it and smoothing it

down—now unfolding and now folding it up again. Well, What of this? The

truth is, our poor friend has only been “taking his turn,” arranging “in

fancy” the diaper of the royal nursery. That he should have selected a

copy of the Athenæum as a type of the swaddling cloth bespeaks in our

mind the presence of great judgment. It is madness with very

considerable method.

A printer’s devil—sent either for copy or a proof—deposes that our

friend seized him, and laying him in his lap, insisted upon feeding him

with his goose-quill, at the same time dipping that noisome instrument

in his ink-bottle. The said devil declares that with all his experience

of the various qualities of various inks used by gentlemen upon town, he

never met with ink at once so muddy and so sour as the ink of the

Athenæum. We do not deny the statement of the devil as to what he calls

the assault committed upon him; but the fact is, the editor was not in

his own study, but was “taking his turn” at the pap-spoon of the Duke of

CORNWALL!

Betty, the editor’s housemaid, has given warning, declaring that she

cannot live with any gentleman who insists upon taking her in his arms,

and tossing her up and down as if she was no more than a baby; at the

same time making a chirruping noise with his mouth, and calling her

“poppet” and “chickabiddy.” Well, we allow all this, and boldly ask,

What of it? We grant the “poppet;” we concede the “chickabiddy;” and

then sternly inquire if an excess of loyalty is to impugn the reason of

the most ratiocinative editor? Does not the thing speak for itself? If

BETTY were not a fool, she would know that her master—good, regular

man!—meant nothing more than, under the auspices of Mrs. LILLY, to

dandle the Duke of CORNWALL.

A taxgatherer, calling upon the editor for the Queen’s taxes, could get

nothing out of our respected friend, but “Ride a cock-horse to Bamberry

Cross!” If taxgatherers were not at once the most vindictive and the

most stupid of men (it is said Sir ROBERT has ordered them to be very

carnivorous this Christmas), the fellow would never have called in a

broker to alarm our excellent coadjutor, but would at once have seen

that the genius of the Athenæum was taking his turn in Buckingham

Palace, singing a nursery canzonetta to the Duke of CORNWALL!

And is it for these, to us beautiful evidences of an absorbing

loyalty—of a feeling that is true as truth, for if it was a mere

conventional flame we should take no note of it—that the editor of the

Athenæum, a most grave, considerate gentleman, should be cited to

Gray’s-inn Coffee-house, and by an ignorant and unimaginative mob of

jurymen voted incapable of writing reviews upon his own books, or the

books of other people?

The question that we would here open is one of great and social

political importance. There is an end of personal liberty if the

enthusiasm of loyalty is to be visited as madness. For our part, we have

the fullest belief in the avowal of the poor man of the Athenæum, that

for half a day he is—in fancy—watching the little Prince in Buckingham

nursery; and yet we see that men are deprived of enormous fortunes (we

tremble for the copyright of the Athenæum) for indulging in stories,

with equal probability on the face of them. For instance, a few days

since WEEKS, a Greenwich pensioner, (being suddenly rich, the reporters

call him Mister WEEKS,) was fobbed out of 120,000l. for having boasted

(among other things) that he had had children by Queen ELIZABETH (by the

way, the virginity of Royal BETSY has before been questioned)—that he

intended to marry Queen VICTORIA, and that, in fact, not GEORGE THE

THIRD but WEEKS THE FIRST was the father of Queen CHARLOTTE’S offspring.

Now, what is all this, but loyalty in excess? Is it not precisely the

same feeling that takes the editor of the Athenæum half of every day

from his family, spellbinding him at the cradle of the Duke of CORNWALL?

Cannot our readers just as easily believe the pensioner as the editor?

We can.

“He told me he was going to marry the Queen” (thus speaks Sir R. DOBSON,

chief medical officer of Greenwich Hospital, of poor WEEKS), “and I had

him cupped and treated as an insane patient!” Can the editor hope to

escape blood-letting and a shaven head? “He told me he was going to dine

to-day at Buckingham Palace.” Thus spoke WEEKS. “Half the day at least

we are in fancy at the Palace;” thus boasteth the Athenæum. The

pensioner is found “incapable of managing himself or his affairs:” the

editor continues to review books and write articles! “He (WEEKS) also

said he had once horse-whipped a lion until it became afraid of him!”

Where is CARTER—where VAN AMBURGH, if not in Bedlam? Lucky, indeed, is

it for the editor of the Athenæum that his weekly miscellany (wherein he

thinks he sometimes horse-whips lions) is not quite worth 120,000l.

Otherwise, certain would be his summons to Gray’s-inn.

We have rejoiced, as beseemed us, at the birth of the little Prince; it

now becomes our grave moral duty to read a lesson of forbearance to

those enthusiastic people who—especially if they have money—may by an

excess of the principle of loyalty put in peril their personal freedom.

Let them not take confidence from the safety enjoyed by the Athenæum

editor—the poverty of the press may protect him. If, however, he and

other influential wizards of the broad sheet, succeed in making loyalty

not a rational principle, but a mania—if, day by day, and week by week,

they insist upon deifying poor infirm humanity, exalting themselves in

their own conceit, in their very self-abasement—they may escape an

individual accusation in the general folly. When we are all mad

alike—when we all, with the editor of the Athenæum, take our half-day’s

watch at the little Prince’s cradle—when every man and woman throughout

the empire believe themselves making royal pap and airing royal baby-

linen—then, whatever fortune we may have we may be safe from the fate of

poor WEEKS, the Greenwich pensioner, who, we repeat, is most unjustly

confined for his notions of royalty, seeing that many of our

contemporaries are still left at liberty to write and publish. Poor dear

little PRINCE! if fed and nourished from your cradle upwards upon such

stuff as that pressed upon you since your birth, what deep, what

powerful sympathies will be yours with the natures of your fellow-

men—what lofty notions of kingly usefulness, and kingly duty!

It may be that certain writers think they best oppose the advancing

spirit of the time—questioning as it does the “divinity” that hedges the

throne—by adopting the worse than foolish adulation of a by-gone age. In

a silly flippant book just published—a thing called Cecil—the author

speaks of the first appearance of VICTORIA in the House of Lords. He

says—

“An unaccountable feeling of trust rose in my bosom. I speak it not

profanely—[when a writer says this, be sure of it that, as in the

present case, he goes deep as he can in profanation]—when I say that the

idea of the yet unknown Saviour, a child among the Doctors of the

Temple, occurred spontaneously to my mind!”

Now this book has been daubed with honey; the writer has been promised

“an European reputation” (Madame LAFFARGE has a reputation equally

extensive), and he is at this moment to be found upon drawing-tables,

whose owners would scream—or affect to scream—as at an adder, at

SHELLEY. Nay, Shelley’s publisher is found guilty of blasphemy in the

Court of Queen’s Bench; and that within these few months. We should like

to know Lord Denman’s opinions of Mr. BOONE. What would he say of Queen

Victoria being compared to the Redeemer—of Lord LONDONDERRY, et hoc

genus omne, being “Doctors of the Temple?”

A writer in the Almanach des Gourmands says, in praise of a certain

viand, “this is a dish to be eaten on your knees.” There are writers

who, with, goose-quill in hand, never approach royalty, but they—write

upon their knees!

Q.

[pg 259] PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. XXII. A man carves 'Jack Russell' on a

beam. Another beam is marked 'Timber Duties.' JACK CUTTING HIS NAME ON

THE BEAM.

[pg 261] PUNCH’S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE. INTERNATIONAL GEOGRAPHY.

The Fleet is a very peculiar isolated kingdom, bounded on the north by

the wall to the north or north wall; on the south, by the wall to the

south or south wall; on the east, by the wall to the east or east wall;

and on the west, by the wall to the west or west wall. The manners and

habits of the natives are marked with many extraordinary peculiarities;

and some of the local customs are of an exceedingly interesting

character.

The derivation of the word “Fleet” has caused many controversies, and we

believe is even now involved in much mystery, and subject to much

dispute.

Some commentators have endeavoured to establish an analogy between the

words “fleet” and “fast,” with the view of showing that these being

nearly synonymous terms, “the fleet is a corruption from the fast, or

keep fast.” Others again contend the origin to be purely nautical,

inasmuch as this country, like the ships in war time, is mostly peopled

with pressed men. While a third class argue that the name was originally

one of warning, traditionally handed down from father to son by the

inhabitants of the surrounding countries (with whom this land has never

been in high favour), and that the addition of the letter T renders the

phrase perfect, leaving the caution thus, Flee-it—now contracted and

perverted into the commonly used term of Fleet.

As we are only the showmen about to exhibit “the lions and the dogs,” we

merely put forward these deductions, and tell our readers they are

welcome to choose “whichhever they please, hour little dears!” while we

will at once proceed to describe the manners and habits of the natives.

One great peculiarity in connexion with this strange people is, that the

inhabitants are, from the first moment of their appearance, invariably

adults; and we can positively assert the almost incredible fact, that no

bonâ fide occupant of these realms was ever seen in any part of their

domain in the hands of a nurse, enveloped in the long clothes worn by

many of the infants of the surrounding nations. Like the Spartan youths,

all these people undergo a long course of training, and exceed the age

of one-and-twenty before they are deemed worthy of admission into the

ranks of these singular hordes. They have no actual sovereign, but

merely two traditionary beings, to whom they bow with most abject

servility. These imaginary potentates are always alluded to under the

fearful names of “John Doe and Richard Roe;” though they are never seen,

still their edicts are all-powerful, their commands extending to the

most distant regions, and carrying captivity and caption-fees wherever

they go. These firmans are entrusted to the charge of a peculiar race of

beings, commonly called officers to the sheriff. There is something

exceedingly interesting in the ceremonious attendant upon the execution

of one of these potent fiats: the manner is as follows. Having received

the orders of “John Doe and Richard Roe,” they proceed to the residence

of their intended captive, and with consummate skill, like the Eastern

tellers of tales, commence their business by the repetition of some

ingenious story (called in the language of the captured, lie), wherein

the Bumme Bayllyffe (such is their title) artfully represents himself

“as a cousin from the country,” an “uncle from town,” or some near and

dear long expected and anxiously-looked-for returned-from-abroad friend.

Should their endeavours fail in procuring the desired interview, they

frequently have resort to the following practice. With the right-hand

finger and thumb they open a small aperture in the side of a species of

garment, generally manufactured from drab broadcloth, in which they

encase their lower extremities, and having thrust their hand to the very

bottom of the said opening, they produce a peculiarly musical sound by

jingling various round pieces of white money, which so entrances the

feelings of the domestic with whom they are discoursing, that his eyes

become fixed upon the hand of the operater the moment the sound ceases

and it is withdrawn. The Bumme Bayllyffe then winketh his right eye, and

with great rapidity depositeth a curious-looking coin, of the value of

five shillings, in the hand of the domestic, who thereupon pointeth with

his dexter thumb over his left shoulder to a small china closet, in

which the enemy of John Doe and Richard Roe is found, his Wellington

boots sticking out of the hamper, under the straw in which the rest of

his person is deposited.

The Bumme Bayllyffe having called him loudly by his name, showeth his

writ, steppeth up, and tappeth him once gently upon the shoulder,

whereupon the ceremony is completed, and the future inmate of the Fleet

departeth with the Bumme Bayllyffe.

The first thing that attracts the attention of the captured of John Doe

and Richard Roe is the great care with which the entrance to his new

country is guarded. Four officials of the warden or minister of the said

John and Richard alternately remain in actual possession of that

interesting pass, to each of whom the new-comer submits his face and

figure for actual and earnest inspection, for the reason that should the

said new arrival by any means pass their boundary, they themselves would

suffer much disgrace and obliquy; having undergone this inspection, he

then proceeds to the interior of these strange domains.

Walls! walls!! walls!!! meet him on every side; and by some strange

manner of judging the new-comer is immediately known as such.

The costume of the natives differs widely from the usually sported

habiliments of more extended nations; caps worn by small boys in other

climes here decorated the heads of the most venerable elders, and

peculiarly-cut dressing-gowns do duty for the discarded broadcloth of a

Stultz, a Nugee, or a Willis.

The new man’s conformity with the various customs of the inmates is one

of the most curious facts on record. We have been favoured with the

following table or scale by which time regulates the gradual advancement

to perfection of a genuine “Fleety”:—

First Week.—Ring; union-pin; watch; straps; clean boots; ditto shirt;

shave; and light waistcoat.

Second Week.—Slippers in passage; no straps to boots; rub on toe; dirty

hall; fresh dickey; black vest; two days’ beard.—[Exit ring.]

Third Week.—Full-bosomed stock; one bracer; indication of white chalk on

seat of duck trousers; blue striped shirt; no vest; shooting jacket;

small imperial.—[Exeunt union-pin and watch.]

Fourth Week.—White collar; blue shirt; slippers various; boots a little

over at heel; incipient moustache; silk pocket-handkerchief round neck;

and a fortnight’s splashes on trousers.

Fifth Week.—Red ochre outline of increased whiskers, flourishing

imperial, and chevaux-de-frise moustache; dirty shirt; French cap;

Jersey over-all; one slipper and a boot; meerschaum; dressing-gown; and

principal seat at the free and easy.

Sixth.—Everything in the “worser line;” called by christian name by

their bed-maker; hold their tongues, in consideration of three weeks’

arrears, at four shillings a week; and then all’s done, and the

inhabitant is complete.

ELEGANT PHRASES. There are people now-a-days who peruse with pleasure

the works of Homer, Juvenal, and other poets and satirists of the old

school; and it is not unlikely that centuries hence persons will be

found turning back to the pages of the writers of the present day

(especially PUNCH), and we rather just imagine they will be not a little

puzzled and flabbergasted to discover the meaning, or wit, of some of

those elegant phrases and figures of speech so generally used by this

enlightened and reformed age! The following brief elucidation of a few

of these may serve for present ignoramuses, and also for future

inquirers.

That’s the Ticket for Soup.—Is one of the commonest, and originated

several years ago, we have discovered, after much study and research,

when a portion of the inhabitants of this wicked lower globe were

suffering under a malady, called by learned and scientific men

“poverty,” and were supplied by the rich and benevolent with a mixture

of hot water, turnips, and a spice of beef, under the name of soup.

There are two kinds of tickets for soups in existence in London at

present—

The Ticket for Turtle Soup, or a ticket to a Lord Mayor’s Feast. It is

only necessary to add, these are in much request.

The Ticket for Mendicity Society Soup. Beggars and such-like members of

society monopolize these tickets; and it has lately been discovered by a

celebrated philanthropist that no respectable person was ever known to

make use of one of them. This is a remarkable fact, and worthy the

attention of the anti-monopolists. These tickets are bought and sold

like merchandise, and their average value in the market is about one

halfpenny.

How’s your Mother.—This affectionate inquiry is generally coupled with

Has she Sold her Mangle.—“Mangling done here” is an announcement which

meets the eye in several quarters of this metropolis; and when the last

census was taken by the author of the “Lights and Shadows of London

Life,” the important discovery was made that this branch of business is

commonly carried on by old ladies. The importance (especially to the

landlord) of the answer to this query is at once perceivable.

We scarcely expect a monument to be raised to PUNCH for these

discoveries; though if we had our deserts—but verbum sap.

[pg 262] SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—No. 13. Yes! we have said the word

adieu!

A blight has fallen on my soul!

And bliss, that angels never knew,

Is torn from me, by fate’s control!

And yet the tear I shed at parting,

Was “all my eye and Betty Martin!”

And thou hast sworn that never more

Thy heart shall bow to passion’s spell;

But ever sadly ponder o’er

The anguish of our last farewell!

Yet, as you still are in your teens—

I say, “tell that to the Marines!”

And still perchance thy faithful heart

May pine, and break, when I am gone!

While bitter tears, unbidden, start,

As oft thou musest—sad and lone!

I’ve read such things in many a tale—

But yet it’s “very like a whale!”

PEN AND PALETTE PORTRAITS. (TAKEN FROM THE FRENCH.) BY ALPHONSE LECOURT.

Paris, Passage de l’Opéra, Escalier B. au 3ème.

MY DEAR PUNCH,

I salute you with reverence—I embrace you with affection—I thank you

with devout gratitude, for the many delightful moments I have enjoyed in

your society. I regularly read your “London Charivari:” it is

magnificent—superb! What wit—what agacerie—what exquisite badinage is

contained in every line of it! You are the veritable monarch of English

humour. Hail, then, great fun-ambule, PUNCH THE FIRST! Long may you

live, to flourish your invincible baton, and to increase the number of

your laughing subjects. Your “Physiology of the Medical Student” has

been translated, and the avidity with which it is read here has

suggested to me the idea that sketches of French character might be

equally popular amongst English readers. With this hope I send yon the

commencement of a Physiological and Pictorial Portrait of “THE LOVER.” I

have chosen him for my leading character, because his madness will be

understood by the whole world. Love, mon cher ami, is not a local

passion, it grows everywhere like—but I am anticipating my subject,

which I now commit to your hands.

With sentiments of the profoundest respect and esteem, ALPHONSE LECOURT.

A despondent man sits on the ground. PORTRAIT OF THE LOVER.