‘A Member wished to know how many thousand additional lamps the royal

property would be illuminated with, on the night after the descent.

‘Mr. Wigsby replied that the point was not yet finally decided; but he

believed it was proposed, over and above the ordinary illuminations, to

exhibit in various devices eight millions and a-half of additional

lamps.

‘The Member expressed himself much gratified with this announcement.

‘Mr. Blunderum delighted the section with a most interesting and

valuable paper “on the last moments of the learned pig,” which produced

a very strong impression on the assembly, the account being compiled

from the personal recollections of his favourite attendant. The account

stated in the most emphatic terms that the animal’s name was not Toby,

but Solomon; and distinctly proved that he could have no near relatives

in the profession, as many designing persons had falsely stated,

inasmuch as his father, mother, brothers and sisters, had all fallen

victims to the butcher at different times. An uncle of his indeed, had

with very great labour been traced to a sty in Somers Town; but as he

was in a very infirm state at the time, being afflicted with measles,

and shortly afterwards disappeared, there appeared too much reason to

conjecture that he had been converted into sausages. The disorder of

the learned pig was originally a severe cold, which, being aggravated

by excessive trough indulgence, finally settled upon the lungs, and

terminated in a general decay of the constitution. A melancholy

instance of a presentiment entertained by the animal of his approaching

dissolution, was recorded. After gratifying a numerous and fashionable

company with his performances, in which no falling off whatever was

visible, he fixed his eyes on the biographer, and, turning to the watch

which lay on the floor, and on which he was accustomed to point out the

hour, deliberately passed his snout twice round the dial. In precisely

four-and-twenty hours from that time he had ceased to exist!

‘Professor Wheezy inquired whether, previous to his demise, the animal

had expressed, by signs or otherwise, any wishes regarding the disposal

of his little property.

‘Mr. Blunderum replied, that, when the biographer took up the pack of

cards at the conclusion of the performance, the animal grunted several

times in a significant manner, and nodding his head as he was

accustomed to do, when gratified. From these gestures it was understood

that he wished the attendant to keep the cards, which he had ever since

done. He had not expressed any wish relative to his watch, which had

accordingly been pawned by the same individual.

‘The President wished to know whether any Member of the section had

ever seen or conversed with the pig-faced lady, who was reported to

have worn a black velvet mask, and to have taken her meals from a

golden trough.

‘After some hesitation a Member replied that the pig-faced lady was his

mother-in-law, and that he trusted the President would not violate the

sanctity of private life.

‘The President begged pardon. He had considered the pig-faced lady a

public character. Would the honourable member object to state, with a

view to the advancement of science, whether she was in any way

connected with the learned pig?

‘The Member replied in the same low tone, that, as the question

appeared to involve a suspicion that the learned pig might be his

half-brother, he must decline answering it.

‘SECTION B.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE.

COACH-HOUSE, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.

_President_—Dr. Toorell. _Vice-Presidents_—Professors Muff and Nogo.

Dr. Kutankumagen (of Moscow) read to the section a report of a case

which had occurred within his own practice, strikingly illustrative of

the power of medicine, as exemplified in his successful treatment of a

virulent disorder. He had been called in to visit the patient on the

1st of April, 1837. He was then labouring under symptoms peculiarly

alarming to any medical man. His frame was stout and muscular, his step

firm and elastic, his cheeks plump and red, his voice loud, his

appetite good, his pulse full and round. He was in the constant habit

of eating three meals _per diem_, and of drinking at least one bottle

of wine, and one glass of spirituous liquors diluted with water, in the

course of the four-and-twenty hours. He laughed constantly, and in so

hearty a manner that it was terrible to hear him. By dint of powerful

medicine, low diet, and bleeding, the symptoms in the course of three

days perceptibly decreased. A rigid perseverance in the same course of

treatment for only one week, accompanied with small doses of

water-gruel, weak broth, and barley-water, led to their entire

disappearance. In the course of a month he was sufficiently recovered

to be carried down-stairs by two nurses, and to enjoy an airing in a

close carriage, supported by soft pillows. At the present moment he was

restored so far as to walk about, with the slight assistance of a

crutch and a boy. It would perhaps be gratifying to the section to

learn that he ate little, drank little, slept little, and was never

heard to laugh by any accident whatever.

‘Dr. W. R. Fee, in complimenting the honourable member upon the

triumphant cure he had effected, begged to ask whether the patient

still bled freely?

‘Dr. Kutankumagen replied in the affirmative.

‘Dr. W. R. Fee.—And you found that he bled freely during the whole

course of the disorder?

‘Dr. Kutankumagen.—Oh dear, yes; most freely.

‘Dr. Neeshawts supposed, that if the patient had not submitted to be

bled with great readiness and perseverance, so extraordinary a cure

could never, in fact, have been accomplished. Dr. Kutankumagen

rejoined, certainly not.

‘Mr. Knight Bell (M.R.C.S.) exhibited a wax preparation of the interior

of a gentleman who in early life had inadvertently swallowed a

door-key. It was a curious fact that a medical student of dissipated

habits, being present at the _post mortem_ examination, found means to

escape unobserved from the room, with that portion of the coats of the

stomach upon which an exact model of the instrument was distinctly

impressed, with which he hastened to a locksmith of doubtful character,

who made a new key from the pattern so shown to him. With this key the

medical student entered the house of the deceased gentleman, and

committed a burglary to a large amount, for which he was subsequently

tried and executed.

‘The President wished to know what became of the original key after the

lapse of years. Mr. Knight Bell replied that the gentleman was always

much accustomed to punch, and it was supposed the acid had gradually

devoured it.

‘Dr. Neeshawts and several of the members were of opinion that the key

must have lain very cold and heavy upon the gentleman’s stomach.

‘Mr. Knight Bell believed it did at first. It was worthy of remark,

perhaps, that for some years the gentleman was troubled with a

night-mare, under the influence of which he always imagined himself a

wine-cellar door.

‘Professor Muff related a very extraordinary and convincing proof of

the wonderful efficacy of the system of infinitesimal doses, which the

section were doubtless aware was based upon the theory that the very

minutest amount of any given drug, properly dispersed through the human

frame, would be productive of precisely the same result as a very large

dose administered in the usual manner. Thus, the fortieth part of a

grain of calomel was supposed to be equal to a five-grain calomel pill,

and so on in proportion throughout the whole range of medicine. He had

tried the experiment in a curious manner upon a publican who had been

brought into the hospital with a broken head, and was cured upon the

infinitesimal system in the incredibly short space of three months.

This man was a hard drinker. He (Professor Muff) had dispersed three

drops of rum through a bucket of water, and requested the man to drink

the whole. What was the result? Before he had drunk a quart, he was in

a state of beastly intoxication; and five other men were made dead

drunk with the remainder.

‘The President wished to know whether an infinitesimal dose of

soda-water would have recovered them? Professor Muff replied that the

twenty-fifth part of a teaspoonful, properly administered to each

patient, would have sobered him immediately. The President remarked

that this was a most important discovery, and he hoped the Lord Mayor

and Court of Aldermen would patronize it immediately.

‘A Member begged to be informed whether it would be possible to

administer—say, the twentieth part of a grain of bread and cheese to

all grown-up paupers, and the fortieth part to children, with the same

satisfying effect as their present allowance.

‘Professor Muff was willing to stake his professional reputation on the

perfect adequacy of such a quantity of food to the support of human

life—in workhouses; the addition of the fifteenth part of a grain of

pudding twice a week would render it a high diet.

‘Professor Nogo called the attention of the section to a very

extraordinary case of animal magnetism. A private watchman, being

merely looked at by the operator from the opposite side of a wide

street, was at once observed to be in a very drowsy and languid state.

He was followed to his box, and being once slightly rubbed on the palms

of the hands, fell into a sound sleep, in which he continued without

intermission for ten hours.

‘SECTION C.—STATISTICS.

HAY-LOFT, ORIGINAL PIG.

_President_—Mr. Woodensconce. _Vice-Presidents_—Mr. Ledbrain and Mr.

Timbered.

‘Mr. Slug stated to the section the result of some calculations he had

made with great difficulty and labour, regarding the state of infant

education among the middle classes of London. He found that, within a

circle of three miles from the Elephant and Castle, the following were

the names and numbers of children’s books principally in circulation:—

‘Jack the Giant-killer

7,943

Ditto and Bean-stalk

8,621

Ditto and Eleven Brothers

2,845

Ditto and Jill

1,998

Total

21,407

‘He found that the proportion of Robinson Crusoes to Philip Quarlls was

as four and a half to one; and that the preponderance of Valentine and

Orsons over Goody Two Shoeses was as three and an eighth of the former

to half a one of the latter; a comparison of Seven Champions with

Simple Simons gave the same result. The ignorance that prevailed, was

lamentable. One child, on being asked whether he would rather be Saint

George of England or a respectable tallow-chandler, instantly replied,

“Taint George of Ingling.” Another, a little boy of eight years old,

was found to be firmly impressed with a belief in the existence of

dragons, and openly stated that it was his intention when he grew up,

to rush forth sword in hand for the deliverance of captive princesses,

and the promiscuous slaughter of giants. Not one child among the number

interrogated had ever heard of Mungo Park,—some inquiring whether he

was at all connected with the black man that swept the crossing; and

others whether he was in any way related to the Regent’s Park. They had

not the slightest conception of the commonest principles of

mathematics, and considered Sindbad the Sailor the most enterprising

voyager that the world had ever produced.

‘A Member strongly deprecating the use of all the other books

mentioned, suggested that Jack and Jill might perhaps be exempted from

the general censure, inasmuch as the hero and heroine, in the very

outset of the tale, were depicted as going _up_ a hill to fetch a pail

of water, which was a laborious and useful occupation,—supposing the

family linen was being washed, for instance.

‘Mr. Slug feared that the moral effect of this passage was more than

counterbalanced by another in a subsequent part of the poem, in which

very gross allusion was made to the mode in which the heroine was

personally chastised by her mother

“‘For laughing at Jack’s disaster;”

besides, the whole work had this one great fault, _it was not true_.

‘The President complimented the honourable member on the excellent

distinction he had drawn. Several other Members, too, dwelt upon the

immense and urgent necessity of storing the minds of children with

nothing but facts and figures; which process the President very

forcibly remarked, had made them (the section) the men they were.

‘Mr. Slug then stated some curious calculations respecting the

dogs’-meat barrows of London. He found that the total number of small

carts and barrows engaged in dispensing provision to the cats and dogs

of the metropolis was, one thousand seven hundred and forty-three. The

average number of skewers delivered daily with the provender, by each

dogs’-meat cart or barrow, was thirty-six. Now, multiplying the number

of skewers so delivered by the number of barrows, a total of sixty-two

thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers daily would be obtained.

Allowing that, of these sixty-two thousand seven hundred and

forty-eight skewers, the odd two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight

were accidentally devoured with the meat, by the most voracious of the

animals supplied, it followed that sixty thousand skewers per day, or

the enormous number of twenty-one millions nine hundred thousand

skewers annually, were wasted in the kennels and dustholes of London;

which, if collected and warehoused, would in ten years’ time afford a

mass of timber more than sufficient for the construction of a

first-rate vessel of war for the use of her Majesty’s navy, to be

called “The Royal Skewer,” and to become under that name the terror of

all the enemies of this island.

‘Mr. X. Ledbrain read a very ingenious communication, from which it

appeared that the total number of legs belonging to the manufacturing

population of one great town in Yorkshire was, in round numbers, forty

thousand, while the total number of chair and stool legs in their

houses was only thirty thousand, which, upon the very favourable

average of three legs to a seat, yielded only ten thousand seats in

all. From this calculation it would appear,—not taking wooden or cork

legs into the account, but allowing two legs to every person,—that ten

thousand individuals (one-half of the whole population) were either

destitute of any rest for their legs at all, or passed the whole of

their leisure time in sitting upon boxes.

‘SECTION D.—MECHANICAL SCIENCE.

COACH-HOUSE, ORIGINAL PIG.

_President_—Mr. Carter. _Vice-Presidents_—Mr. Truck and Mr. Waghorn.

‘Professor Queerspeck exhibited an elegant model of a portable railway,

neatly mounted in a green case, for the waistcoat pocket. By attaching

this beautiful instrument to his boots, any Bank or public-office clerk

could transport himself from his place of residence to his place of

business, at the easy rate of sixty-five miles an hour, which, to

gentlemen of sedentary pursuits, would be an incalculable advantage.

‘The President was desirous of knowing whether it was necessary to have

a level surface on which the gentleman was to run.

‘Professor Queerspeck explained that City gentlemen would run in

trains, being handcuffed together to prevent confusion or

unpleasantness. For instance, trains would start every morning at

eight, nine, and ten o’clock, from Camden Town, Islington, Camberwell,

Hackney, and various other places in which City gentlemen are

accustomed to reside. It would be necessary to have a level, but he had

provided for this difficulty by proposing that the best line that the

circumstances would admit of, should be taken through the sewers which

undermine the streets of the metropolis, and which, well lighted by

jets from the gas pipes which run immediately above them, would form a

pleasant and commodious arcade, especially in winter-time, when the

inconvenient custom of carrying umbrellas, now so general, could be

wholly dispensed with. In reply to another question, Professor

Queerspeck stated that no substitute for the purposes to which these

arcades were at present devoted had yet occurred to him, but that he

hoped no fanciful objection on this head would be allowed to interfere

with so great an undertaking.

‘Mr. Jobba produced a forcing-machine on a novel plan, for bringing

joint-stock railway shares prematurely to a premium. The instrument was

in the form of an elegant gilt weather-glass, of most dazzling

appearance, and was worked behind, by strings, after the manner of a

pantomime trick, the strings being always pulled by the directors of

the company to which the machine belonged. The quicksilver was so

ingeniously placed, that when the acting directors held shares in their

pockets, figures denoting very small expenses and very large returns

appeared upon the glass; but the moment the directors parted with these

pieces of paper, the estimate of needful expenditure suddenly increased

itself to an immense extent, while the statements of certain profits

became reduced in the same proportion. Mr. Jobba stated that the

machine had been in constant requisition for some months past, and he

had never once known it to fail.

‘A Member expressed his opinion that it was extremely neat and pretty.

He wished to know whether it was not liable to accidental derangement?

Mr. Jobba said that the whole machine was undoubtedly liable to be

blown up, but that was the only objection to it.

‘Professor Nogo arrived from the anatomical section to exhibit a model

of a safety fire-escape, which could be fixed at any time, in less than

half an hour, and by means of which, the youngest or most infirm

persons (successfully resisting the progress of the flames until it was

quite ready) could be preserved if they merely balanced themselves for

a few minutes on the sill of their bedroom window, and got into the

escape without falling into the street. The Professor stated that the

number of boys who had been rescued in the daytime by this machine from

houses which were not on fire, was almost incredible. Not a

conflagration had occurred in the whole of London for many months past

to which the escape had not been carried on the very next day, and put

in action before a concourse of persons.

‘The President inquired whether there was not some difficulty in

ascertaining which was the top of the machine, and which the bottom, in

cases of pressing emergency.

‘Professor Nogo explained that of course it could not be expected to

act quite as well when there was a fire, as when there was not a fire;

but in the former case he thought it would be of equal service whether

the top were up or down.’

With the last section our correspondent concludes his most able and

faithful Report, which will never cease to reflect credit upon him for

his scientific attainments, and upon us for our enterprising spirit. It

is needless to take a review of the subjects which have been discussed;

of the mode in which they have been examined; of the great truths which

they have elicited. They are now before the world, and we leave them to

read, to consider, and to profit.

The place of meeting for next year has undergone discussion, and has at

length been decided, regard being had to, and evidence being taken

upon, the goodness of its wines, the supply of its markets, the

hospitality of its inhabitants, and the quality of its hotels. We hope

at this next meeting our correspondent may again be present, and that

we may be once more the means of placing his communications before the

world. Until that period we have been prevailed upon to allow this

number of our Miscellany to be retailed to the public, or wholesaled to

the trade, without any advance upon our usual price.

We have only to add, that the committees are now broken up, and that

Mudfog is once again restored to its accustomed tranquillity,—that

Professors and Members have had balls, and _soirées_, and suppers, and

great mutual complimentations, and have at length dispersed to their

several homes,—whither all good wishes and joys attend them, until next

year!

Signed Boz.

FULL REPORT OF THE SECOND MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION

for the advancement of everything

In October last, we did ourselves the immortal credit of recording, at

an enormous expense, and by dint of exertions unnpralleled in the

history of periodical publication, the proceedings of the Mudfog

Association for the Advancement of Everything, which in that month held

its first great half-yearly meeting, to the wonder and delight of the

whole empire. We announced at the conclusion of that extraordinary and

most remarkable Report, that when the Second Meeting of the Society

should take place, we should be found again at our post, renewing our

gigantic and spirited endeavours, and once more making the world ring

with the accuracy, authenticity, immeasurable superiority, and intense

remarkability of our account of its proceedings. In redemption of this

pledge, we caused to be despatched per steam to Oldcastle (at which

place this second meeting of the Society was held on the 20th instant),

the same superhumanly-endowed gentleman who furnished the former

report, and who,—gifted by nature with transcendent abilities, and

furnished by us with a body of assistants scarcely inferior to

himself,—has forwarded a series of letters, which, for faithfulness of

description, power of language, fervour of thought, happiness of

expression, and importance of subject-matter, have no equal in the

epistolary literature of any age or country. We give this gentleman’s

correspondence entire, and in the order in which it reached our office.

‘_Saloon of Steamer_, _Thursday night_, _half-past eight_.

‘When I left New Burlington Street this evening in the hackney

cabriolet, number four thousand two hundred and eighty-five, I

experienced sensations as novel as they were oppressive. A sense of the

importance of the task I had undertaken, a consciousness that I was

leaving London, and, stranger still, going somewhere else, a feeling of

loneliness and a sensation of jolting, quite bewildered my thoughts,

and for a time rendered me even insensible to the presence of my

carpet-bag and hat-box. I shall ever feel grateful to the driver of a

Blackwall omnibus who, by thrusting the pole of his vehicle through the

small door of the cabriolet, awakened me from a tumult of imaginings

that are wholly indescribable. But of such materials is our imperfect

nature composed!

‘I am happy to say that I am the first passenger on board, and shall

thus be enabled to give you an account of all that happens in the order

of its occurrence. The chimney is smoking a good deal, and so are the

crew; and the captain, I am informed, is very drunk in a little house

upon deck, something like a black turnpike. I should infer from all I

hear that he has got the steam up.

‘You will readily guess with what feelings I have just made the

discovery that my berth is in the same closet with those engaged by

Professor Woodensconce, Mr. Slug, and Professor Grime. Professor

Woodensconce has taken the shelf above me, and Mr. Slug and Professor

Grime the two shelves opposite. Their luggage has already arrived. On

Mr. Slug’s bed is a long tin tube of about three inches in diameter,

carefully closed at both ends. What can this contain? Some powerful

instrument of a new construction, doubtless.’

‘_Ten minutes past nine_.

‘Nobody has yet arrived, nor has anything fresh come in my way except

several joints of beef and mutton, from which I conclude that a good

plain dinner has been provided for to-morrow. There is a singular smell

below, which gave me some uneasiness at first; but as the steward says

it is always there, and never goes away, I am quite comfortable again.

I learn from this man that the different sections will be distributed

at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache, and the Boot-jack and Countenance.

If this intelligence be true (and I have no reason to doubt it), your

readers will draw such conclusions as their different opinions may

suggest.

‘I write down these remarks as they occur to me, or as the facts come

to my knowledge, in order that my first impressions may lose nothing of

their original vividness. I shall despatch them in small packets as

opportunities arise.’

‘_Half past nine_.

‘Some dark object has just appeared upon the wharf. I think it is a

travelling carriage.’

‘_A quarter to ten_.

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘_Half-past ten_.

The passengers are pouring in every instant. Four omnibuses full have

just arrived upon the wharf, and all is bustle and activity. The noise

and confusion are very great. Cloths are laid in the cabins, and the

steward is placing blue plates—full of knobs of cheese at equal

distances down the centre of the tables. He drops a great many knobs;

but, being used to it, picks them up again with great dexterity, and,

after wiping them on his sleeve, throws them back into the plates. He

is a young man of exceedingly prepossessing appearance—either dirty or

a mulatto, but I think the former.

‘An interesting old gentleman, who came to the wharf in an omnibus, has

just quarrelled violently with the porters, and is staggering towards

the vessel with a large trunk in his arms. I trust and hope that he may

reach it in safety; but the board he has to cross is narrow and

slippery. Was that a splash? Gracious powers!

‘I have just returned from the deck. The trunk is standing upon the

extreme brink of the wharf, but the old gentleman is nowhere to be

seen. The watchman is not sure whether he went down or not, but

promises to drag for him the first thing to-morrow morning. May his

humane efforts prove successful!

‘Professor Nogo has this moment arrived with his nightcap on under his

hat. He has ordered a glass of cold brandy and water, with a hard

biscuit and a basin, and has gone straight to bed. What can this mean?

‘The three other scientific gentlemen to whom I have already alluded

have come on board, and have all tried their beds, with the exception

of Professor Woodensconce, who sleeps in one of the top ones, and can’t

get into it. Mr. Slug, who sleeps in the other top one, is unable to

get out of his, and is to have his supper handed up by a boy. I have

had the honour to introduce myself to these gentlemen, and we have

amicably arranged the order in which we shall retire to rest; which it

is necessary to agree upon, because, although the cabin is very

comfortable, there is not room for more than one gentleman to be out of

bed at a time, and even he must take his boots off in the passage.

‘As I anticipated, the knobs of cheese were provided for the

passengers’ supper, and are now in course of consumption. Your readers

will be surprised to hear that Professor Woodensconce has abstained

from cheese for eight years, although he takes butter in considerable

quantities. Professor Grime having lost several teeth, is unable, I

observe, to eat his crusts without previously soaking them in his

bottled porter. How interesting are these peculiarities!’

‘_Half-past eleven_.

‘Professors Woodensconce and Grime, with a degree of good humour that

delights us all, have just arranged to toss for a bottle of mulled

port. There has been some discussion whether the payment should be

decided by the first toss or the best out of three. Eventually the

latter course has been determined on. Deeply do I wish that both

gentlemen could win; but that being impossible, I own that my personal

aspirations (I speak as an individual, and do not compromise either you

or your readers by this expression of feeling) are with Professor

Woodensconce. I have backed that gentleman to the amount of

eighteenpence.’

‘_Twenty minutes to twelve_.

‘Professor Grime has inadvertently tossed his half-crown out of one of

the cabin-windows, and it has been arranged that the steward shall toss

for him. Bets are offered on any side to any amount, but there are no

takers.

‘Professor Woodensconce has just called “woman;” but the coin having

lodged in a beam, is a long time coming down again. The interest and

suspense of this one moment are beyond anything that can be imagined.’

‘_Twelve o’clock_.

‘The mulled port is smoking on the table before me, and Professor Grime

has won. Tossing is a game of chance; but on every ground, whether of

public or private character, intellectual endowments, or scientific

attainments, I cannot help expressing my opinion that Professor

Woodensconce _ought_ to have come off victorious. There is an

exultation about Professor Grime incompatible, I fear, with true

greatness.’

‘_A quarter past twelve_.

‘Professor Grime continues to exult, and to boast of his victory in no

very measured terms, observing that he always does win, and that he

knew it would be a “head” beforehand, with many other remarks of a

similar nature. Surely this gentleman is not so lost to every feeling

of decency and propriety as not to feel and know the superiority of

Professor Woodensconce? Is Professor Grime insane? or does he wish to

be reminded in plain language of his true position in society, and the

precise level of his acquirements and abilities? Professor Grime will

do well to look to this.’

‘_One o’clock_.

‘I am writing in bed. The small cabin is illuminated by the feeble

light of a flickering lamp suspended from the ceiling; Professor Grime

is lying on the opposite shelf on the broad of his back, with his mouth

wide open. The scene is indescribably solemn. The rippling of the tide,

the noise of the sailors’ feet overhead, the gruff voices on the river,

the dogs on the shore, the snoring of the passengers, and a constant

creaking of every plank in the vessel, are the only sounds that meet

the ear. With these exceptions, all is profound silence.

‘My curiosity has been within the last moment very much excited. Mr.

Slug, who lies above Professor Grime, has cautiously withdrawn the

curtains of his berth, and, after looking anxiously out, as if to

satisfy himself that his companions are asleep, has taken up the tin

tube of which I have before spoken, and is regarding it with great

interest. What rare mechanical combination can be contained in that

mysterious case? It is evidently a profound secret to all.’

‘_A quarter past one_.

‘The behaviour of Mr. Slug grows more and more mysterious. He has

unscrewed the top of the tube, and now renews his observations upon his

companions, evidently to make sure that he is wholly unobserved. He is

clearly on the eve of some great experiment. Pray heaven that it be not

a dangerous one; but the interests of science must be promoted, and I

am prepared for the worst.’

‘_Five minutes later_.

‘He has produced a large pair of scissors, and drawn a roll of some

substance, not unlike parchment in appearance, from the tin case. The

experiment is about to begin. I must strain my eyes to the utmost, in

the attempt to follow its minutest operation.’

‘_Twenty minutes before two_.

‘I have at length been enabled to ascertain that the tin tube contains

a few yards of some celebrated plaster, recommended—as I discover on

regarding the label attentively through my eye-glass—as a preservative

against sea-sickness. Mr. Slug has cut it up into small portions, and

is now sticking it over himself in every direction.’

‘_Three o’clock_.

‘Precisely a quarter of an hour ago we weighed anchor, and the

machinery was suddenly put in motion with a noise so appalling, that

Professor Woodensconce (who had ascended to his berth by means of a

platform of carpet-bags arranged by himself on geometrical principals)

darted from his shelf head foremost, and, gaining his feet with all the

rapidity of extreme terror, ran wildly into the ladies’ cabin, under

the impression that we were sinking, and uttering loud cries for aid. I

am assured that the scene which ensued baffles all description. There

were one hundred and forty-seven ladies in their respective berths at

the time.

‘Mr. Slug has remarked, as an additional instance of the extreme

ingenuity of the steam-engine as applied to purposes of navigation,

that in whatever part of the vessel a passenger’s berth may be

situated, the machinery always appears to be exactly under his pillow.

He intends stating this very beautiful, though simple discovery, to the

association.’

‘_Half-past ten_.

‘We are still in smooth water; that is to say, in as smooth water as a

steam-vessel ever can be, for, as Professor Woodensconce (who has just

woke up) learnedly remarks, another great point of ingenuity about a

steamer is, that it always carries a little storm with it. You can

scarcely conceive how exciting the jerking pulsation of the ship

becomes. It is a matter of positive difficulty to get to sleep.’

‘_Friday afternoon_, _six o’clock_.

‘I regret to inform you that Mr. Slug’s plaster has proved of no avail.

He is in great agony, but has applied several large, additional pieces

notwithstanding. How affecting is this extreme devotion to science and

pursuit of knowledge under the most trying circumstances!

‘We were extremely happy this morning, and the breakfast was one of the

most animated description. Nothing unpleasant occurred until noon, with

the exception of Doctor Foxey’s brown silk umbrella and white hat

becoming entangled in the machinery while he was explaining to a knot

of ladies the construction of the steam-engine. I fear the gravy soup

for lunch was injudicious. We lost a great many passengers almost

immediately afterwards.’

‘_Half-past six_.

‘I am again in bed. Anything so heart-rending as Mr. Slug’s sufferings

it has never yet been my lot to witness.’

‘_Seven o’clock_.

‘A messenger has just come down for a clean pocket-handkerchief from

Professor Woodensconce’s bag, that unfortunate gentleman being quite

unable to leave the deck, and imploring constantly to be thrown

overboard. From this man I understand that Professor Nogo, though in a

state of utter exhaustion, clings feebly to the hard biscuit and cold

brandy and water, under the impression that they will yet restore him.

Such is the triumph of mind over matter.

‘Professor Grime is in bed, to all appearance quite well; but he _will_

eat, and it is disagreeable to see him. Has this gentleman no sympathy

with the sufferings of his fellow-creatures? If he has, on what

principle can he call for mutton-chops—and smile?’

‘_Black Boy and Stomach-ache_,

_Oldcastle_, _Saturday noon_.

‘You will be happy to learn that I have at length arrived here in

safety. The town is excessively crowded, and all the private lodgings

and hotels are filled with _savans_ of both sexes. The tremendous

assemblage of intellect that one encounters in every street is in the

last degree overwhelming.

‘Notwithstanding the throng of people here, I have been fortunate

enough to meet with very comfortable accommodation on very reasonable

terms, having secured a sofa in the first-floor passage at one guinea

per night, which includes permission to take my meals in the bar, on

condition that I walk about the streets at all other times, to make

room for other gentlemen similarly situated. I have been over the

outhouses intended to be devoted to the reception of the various

sections, both here and at the Boot-jack and Countenance, and am much

delighted with the arrangements. Nothing can exceed the fresh

appearance of the saw-dust with which the floors are sprinkled. The

forms are of unplaned deal, and the general effect, as you can well

imagine, is extremely beautiful.’

‘_Half-past nine_.

‘The number and rapidity of the arrivals are quite bewildering. Within

the last ten minutes a stage-coach has driven up to the door, filled

inside and out with distinguished characters, comprising Mr.

Muddlebranes, Mr. Drawley, Professor Muff, Mr. X. Misty, Mr. X. X.

Misty, Mr. Purblind, Professor Rummun, The Honourable and Reverend Mr.

Long Eers, Professor John Ketch, Sir William Joltered, Doctor Buffer,

Mr. Smith (of London), Mr. Brown (of Edinburgh), Sir Hookham Snivey,

and Professor Pumpkinskull. The ten last-named gentlemen were wet

through, and looked extremely intelligent.’

‘_Sunday_, _two o’clock_, _p.m._

‘The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, accompanied by Sir William

Joltered, walked and drove this morning. They accomplished the former

feat in boots, and the latter in a hired fly. This has naturally given

rise to much discussion.

‘I have just learnt that an interview has taken place at the Boot-jack

and Countenance between Sowster, the active and intelligent beadle of

this place, and Professor Pumpkinskull, who, as your readers are

doubtless aware, is an influential member of the council. I forbear to

communicate any of the rumours to which this very extraordinary

proceeding has given rise until I have seen Sowster, and endeavoured to

ascertain the truth from him.’

‘_Half-past six_.

‘I engaged a donkey-chaise shortly after writing the above, and

proceeded at a brisk trot in the direction of Sowster’s residence,

passing through a beautiful expanse of country, with red brick

buildings on either side, and stopping in the marketplace to observe

the spot where Mr. Kwakley’s hat was blown off yesterday. It is an

uneven piece of paving, but has certainly no appearance which would

lead one to suppose that any such event had recently occurred there.

From this point I proceeded—passing the gas-works and

tallow-melter’s—to a lane which had been pointed out to me as the

beadle’s place of residence; and before I had driven a dozen yards

further, I had the good fortune to meet Sowster himself advancing

towards me.

‘Sowster is a fat man, with a more enlarged development of that

peculiar conformation of countenance which is vulgarly termed a double

chin than I remember to have ever seen before. He has also a very red

nose, which he attributes to a habit of early rising—so red, indeed,

that but for this explanation I should have supposed it to proceed from

occasional inebriety. He informed me that he did not feel himself at

liberty to relate what had passed between himself and Professor

Pumpkinskull, but had no objection to state that it was connected with

a matter of police regulation, and added with peculiar significance

“Never wos sitch times!”

‘You will easily believe that this intelligence gave me considerable

surprise, not wholly unmixed with anxiety, and that I lost no time in

waiting on Professor Pumpkinskull, and stating the object of my visit.

After a few moments’ reflection, the Professor, who, I am bound to say,

behaved with the utmost politeness, openly avowed (I mark the passage

in italics) _that he had requested Sowster to attend on the Monday

morning at the Boot-jack and Countenance_, _to keep off the boys_; _and

that he had further desired that the under-beadle might be stationed_,

_with the same object_, _at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache_!

‘Now I leave this unconstitutional proceeding to your comments and the

consideration of your readers. I have yet to learn that a beadle,

without the precincts of a church, churchyard, or work-house, and

acting otherwise than under the express orders of churchwardens and

overseers in council assembled, to enforce the law against people who

come upon the parish, and other offenders, has any lawful authority

whatever over the rising youth of this country. I have yet to learn

that a beadle can be called out by any civilian to exercise a

domination and despotism over the boys of Britain. I have yet to learn

that a beadle will be permitted by the commissioners of poor law

regulation to wear out the soles and heels of his boots in illegal

interference with the liberties of people not proved poor or otherwise

criminal. I have yet to learn that a beadle has power to stop up the

Queen’s highway at his will and pleasure, or that the whole width of

the street is not free and open to any man, boy, or woman in existence,

up to the very walls of the houses—ay, be they Black Boys and

Stomach-aches, or Boot-jacks and Countenances, I care not.’

‘_Nine o’clock_.

‘I have procured a local artist to make a faithful sketch of the tyrant

Sowster, which, as he has acquired this infamous celebrity, you will no

doubt wish to have engraved for the purpose of presenting a copy with

every copy of your next number. I enclose it.

[Picture which cannot be reproduced]

The under-beadle has consented to write his life, but it is to be

strictly anonymous.

‘The accompanying likeness is of course from the life, and complete in

every respect. Even if I had been totally ignorant of the man’s real

character, and it had been placed before me without remark, I should

have shuddered involuntarily. There is an intense malignity of

expression in the features, and a baleful ferocity of purpose in the

ruffian’s eye, which appals and sickens. His whole air is rampant with

cruelty, nor is the stomach less characteristic of his demoniac

propensities.’

‘_Monday_.

‘The great day has at length arrived. I have neither eyes, nor ears,

nor pens, nor ink, nor paper, for anything but the wonderful

proceedings that have astounded my senses. Let me collect my energies

and proceed to the account.

‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY.

FRONT PARLOUR, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

_President_—Sir William Joltered. _Vice-Presidents_—Mr. Muddlebranes

and Mr. Drawley.

‘Mr. X. X. Misty communicated some remarks on the disappearance of

dancing-bears from the streets of London, with observations on the

exhibition of monkeys as connected with barrel-organs. The writer had

observed, with feelings of the utmost pain and regret, that some years

ago a sudden and unaccountable change in the public taste took place

with reference to itinerant bears, who, being discountenanced by the

populace, gradually fell off one by one from the streets of the

metropolis, until not one remained to create a taste for natural

history in the breasts of the poor and uninstructed. One bear,

indeed,—a brown and ragged animal,—had lingered about the haunts of his

former triumphs, with a worn and dejected visage and feeble limbs, and

had essayed to wield his quarter-staff for the amusement of the

multitude; but hunger, and an utter want of any due recompense for his

abilities, had at length driven him from the field, and it was only too

probable that he had fallen a sacrifice to the rising taste for grease.

He regretted to add that a similar, and no less lamentable, change had

taken place with reference to monkeys. These delightful animals had

formerly been almost as plentiful as the organs on the tops of which

they were accustomed to sit; the proportion in the year 1829 (it

appeared by the parliamentary return) being as one monkey to three

organs. Owing, however, to an altered taste in musical instruments, and

the substitution, in a great measure, of narrow boxes of music for

organs, which left the monkeys nothing to sit upon, this source of

public amusement was wholly dried up. Considering it a matter of the

deepest importance, in connection with national education, that the

people should not lose such opportunities of making themselves

acquainted with the manners and customs of two most interesting species

of animals, the author submitted that some measures should be

immediately taken for the restoration of these pleasing and truly

intellectual amusements.

‘The President inquired by what means the honourable member proposed to

attain this most desirable end?

‘The Author submitted that it could be most fully and satisfactorily

accomplished, if Her Majesty’s Government would cause to be brought

over to England, and maintained at the public expense, and for the

public amusement, such a number of bears as would enable every quarter

of the town to be visited—say at least by three bears a week. No

difficulty whatever need be experienced in providing a fitting place

for the reception of these animals, as a commodious bear-garden could

be erected in the immediate neighbourhood of both Houses of Parliament;

obviously the most proper and eligible spot for such an establishment.

‘Professor Mull doubted very much whether any correct ideas of natural

history were propagated by the means to which the honourable member had

so ably adverted. On the contrary, he believed that they had been the

means of diffusing very incorrect and imperfect notions on the subject.

He spoke from personal observation and personal experience, when he

said that many children of great abilities had been induced to believe,

from what they had observed in the streets, at and before the period to

which the honourable gentleman had referred, that all monkeys were born

in red coats and spangles, and that their hats and feathers also came

by nature. He wished to know distinctly whether the honourable

gentleman attributed the want of encouragement the bears had met with

to the decline of public taste in that respect, or to a want of ability

on the part of the bears themselves?

‘Mr. X. X. Misty replied, that he could not bring himself to believe

but that there must be a great deal of floating talent among the bears

and monkeys generally; which, in the absence of any proper

encouragement, was dispersed in other directions.

‘Professor Pumpkinskull wished to take that opportunity of calling the

attention of the section to a most important and serious point. The

author of the treatise just read had alluded to the prevalent taste for

bears’-grease as a means of promoting the growth of hair, which

undoubtedly was diffused to a very great and (as it appeared to him)

very alarming extent. No gentleman attending that section could fail to

be aware of the fact that the youth of the present age evinced, by

their behaviour in the streets, and at all places of public resort, a

considerable lack of that gallantry and gentlemanly feeling which, in

more ignorant times, had been thought becoming. He wished to know

whether it were possible that a constant outward application of

bears’-grease by the young gentlemen about town had imperceptibly

infused into those unhappy persons something of the nature and quality

of the bear. He shuddered as he threw out the remark; but if this

theory, on inquiry, should prove to be well founded, it would at once

explain a great deal of unpleasant eccentricity of behaviour, which,

without some such discovery, was wholly unaccountable.

‘The President highly complimented the learned gentleman on his most

valuable suggestion, which produced the greatest effect upon the

assembly; and remarked that only a week previous he had seen some young

gentlemen at a theatre eyeing a box of ladies with a fierce intensity,

which nothing but the influence of some brutish appetite could possibly

explain. It was dreadful to reflect that our youth were so rapidly

verging into a generation of bears.

‘After a scene of scientific enthusiasm it was resolved that this

important question should be immediately submitted to the consideration

of the council.

‘The President wished to know whether any gentleman could inform the

section what had become of the dancing-dogs?

‘A Member replied, after some hesitation, that on the day after three

glee-singers had been committed to prison as criminals by a late most

zealous police-magistrate of the metropolis, the dogs had abandoned

their professional duties, and dispersed themselves in different

quarters of the town to gain a livelihood by less dangerous means. He

was given to understand that since that period they had supported

themselves by lying in wait for and robbing blind men’s poodles.

‘Mr. Flummery exhibited a twig, claiming to be a veritable branch of

that noble tree known to naturalists as the Shakspeare, which has taken

root in every land and climate, and gathered under the shade of its

broad green boughs the great family of mankind. The learned gentleman

remarked that the twig had been undoubtedly called by other names in

its time; but that it had been pointed out to him by an old lady in

Warwickshire, where the great tree had grown, as a shoot of the genuine

Shakspeare, by which name he begged to introduce it to his countrymen.

‘The President wished to know what botanical definition the honourable

gentleman could afford of the curiosity.

‘Mr. Flummery expressed his opinion that it was a decided plant.

‘SECTION B.—DISPLAY OF MODELS AND MECHANICAL SCIENCE.

LARGE ROOM, BOOT-JACK AND COUNTENANCE.

_President_—Mr. Mallett. _Vice-Presidents_—Messrs. Leaver and Scroo.

‘Mr. Crinkles exhibited a most beautiful and delicate machine, of

little larger size than an ordinary snuff-box, manufactured entirely by

himself, and composed exclusively of steel, by the aid of which more

pockets could be picked in one hour than by the present slow and

tedious process in four-and-twenty. The inventor remarked that it had

been put into active operation in Fleet Street, the Strand, and other

thoroughfares, and had never been once known to fail.

‘After some slight delay, occasioned by the various members of the

section buttoning their pockets,

‘The President narrowly inspected the invention, and declared that he

had never seen a machine of more beautiful or exquisite construction.

Would the inventor be good enough to inform the section whether he had

taken any and what means for bringing it into general operation?

‘Mr. Crinkles stated that, after encountering some preliminary

difficulties, he had succeeded in putting himself in communication with

Mr. Fogle Hunter, and other gentlemen connected with the swell mob, who

had awarded the invention the very highest and most unqualified

approbation. He regretted to say, however, that these distinguished

practitioners, in common with a gentleman of the name of Gimlet-eyed

Tommy, and other members of a secondary grade of the profession whom he

was understood to represent, entertained an insuperable objection to

its being brought into general use, on the ground that it would have

the inevitable effect of almost entirely superseding manual labour, and

throwing a great number of highly-deserving persons out of employment.

‘The President hoped that no such fanciful objections would be allowed

to stand in the way of such a great public improvement.

‘Mr. Crinkles hoped so too; but he feared that if the gentlemen of the

swell mob persevered in their objection, nothing could be done.

‘Professor Grime suggested, that surely, in that case, Her Majesty’s

Government might be prevailed upon to take it up.

‘Mr. Crinkles said, that if the objection were found to be insuperable

he should apply to Parliament, which he thought could not fail to

recognise the utility of the invention.

‘The President observed that, up to this time Parliament had certainly

got on very well without it; but, as they did their business on a very

large scale, he had no doubt they would gladly adopt the improvement.

His only fear was that the machine might be worn out by constant

working.

‘Mr. Coppernose called the attention of the section to a proposition of

great magnitude and interest, illustrated by a vast number of models,

and stated with much clearness and perspicuity in a treatise entitled

“Practical Suggestions on the necessity of providing some harmless and

wholesome relaxation for the young noblemen of England.” His

proposition was, that a space of ground of not less than ten miles in

length and four in breadth should be purchased by a new company, to be

incorporated by Act of Parliament, and inclosed by a brick wall of not

less than twelve feet in height. He proposed that it should be laid out

with highway roads, turnpikes, bridges, miniature villages, and every

object that could conduce to the comfort and glory of Four-in-hand

Clubs, so that they might be fairly presumed to require no drive beyond

it. This delightful retreat would be fitted up with most commodious and

extensive stables, for the convenience of such of the nobility and

gentry as had a taste for ostlering, and with houses of entertainment

furnished in the most expensive and handsome style. It would be further

provided with whole streets of door-knockers and bell-handles of extra

size, so constructed that they could be easily wrenched off at night,

and regularly screwed on again, by attendants provided for the purpose,

every day. There would also be gas lamps of real glass, which could be

broken at a comparatively small expense per dozen, and a broad and

handsome foot pavement for gentlemen to drive their cabriolets upon

when they were humorously disposed—for the full enjoyment of which feat

live pedestrians would be procured from the workhouse at a very small

charge per head. The place being inclosed, and carefully screened from

the intrusion of the public, there would be no objection to gentlemen

laying aside any article of their costume that was considered to

interfere with a pleasant frolic, or, indeed, to their walking about

without any costume at all, if they liked that better. In short, every

facility of enjoyment would be afforded that the most gentlemanly

person could possibly desire. But as even these advantages would be

incomplete unless there were some means provided of enabling the

nobility and gentry to display their prowess when they sallied forth

after dinner, and as some inconvenience might be experienced in the

event of their being reduced to the necessity of pummelling each other,

the inventor had turned his attention to the construction of an

entirely new police force, composed exclusively of automaton figures,

which, with the assistance of the ingenious Signor Gagliardi, of

Windmill-street, in the Haymarket, he had succeeded in making with such

nicety, that a policeman, cab-driver, or old woman, made upon the

principle of the models exhibited, would walk about until knocked down

like any real man; nay, more, if set upon and beaten by six or eight

noblemen or gentlemen, after it was down, the figure would utter divers

groans, mingled with entreaties for mercy, thus rendering the illusion

complete, and the enjoyment perfect. But the invention did not stop

even here; for station-houses would be built, containing good beds for

noblemen and gentlemen during the night, and in the morning they would

repair to a commodious police office, where a pantomimic investigation

would take place before the automaton magistrates,—quite equal to

life,—who would fine them in so many counters, with which they would be

previously provided for the purpose. This office would be furnished

with an inclined plane, for the convenience of any nobleman or

gentleman who might wish to bring in his horse as a witness; and the

prisoners would be at perfect liberty, as they were now, to interrupt

the complainants as much as they pleased, and to make any remarks that

they thought proper. The charge for these amusements would amount to

very little more than they already cost, and the inventor submitted

that the public would be much benefited and comforted by the proposed

arrangement.

‘Professor Nogo wished to be informed what amount of automaton police

force it was proposed to raise in the first instance.

‘Mr. Coppernose replied, that it was proposed to begin with seven

divisions of police of a score each, lettered from A to G inclusive. It

was proposed that not more than half this number should be placed on

active duty, and that the remainder should be kept on shelves in the

police office ready to be called out at a moment’s notice.

‘The President, awarding the utmost merit to the ingenious gentleman

who had originated the idea, doubted whether the automaton police would

quite answer the purpose. He feared that noblemen and gentlemen would

perhaps require the excitement of thrashing living subjects.

‘Mr. Coppernose submitted, that as the usual odds in such cases were

ten noblemen or gentlemen to one policeman or cab-driver, it could make

very little difference in point of excitement whether the policeman or

cab-driver were a man or a block. The great advantage would be, that a

policeman’s limbs might be all knocked off, and yet he would be in a

condition to do duty next day. He might even give his evidence next

morning with his head in his hand, and give it equally well.

‘Professor Muff.—Will you allow me to ask you, sir, of what materials

it is intended that the magistrates’ heads shall be composed?

‘Mr. Coppernose.—The magistrates will have wooden heads of course, and

they will be made of the toughest and thickest materials that can

possibly be obtained.

‘Professor Muff.—I am quite satisfied. This is a great invention.

‘Professor Nogo.—I see but one objection to it. It appears to me that

the magistrates ought to talk.

‘Mr. Coppernose no sooner heard this suggestion than he touched a small

spring in each of the two models of magistrates which were placed upon

the table; one of the figures immediately began to exclaim with great

volubility that he was sorry to see gentlemen in such a situation, and

the other to express a fear that the policeman was intoxicated.

‘The section, as with one accord, declared with a shout of applause

that the invention was complete; and the President, much excited,

retired with Mr. Coppernose to lay it before the council. On his

return,

‘Mr. Tickle displayed his newly-invented spectacles, which enabled the

wearer to discern, in very bright colours, objects at a great distance,

and rendered him wholly blind to those immediately before him. It was,

he said, a most valuable and useful invention, based strictly upon the

principle of the human eye.

‘The President required some information upon this point. He had yet to

learn that the human eye was remarkable for the peculiarities of which

the honourable gentleman had spoken.

‘Mr. Tickle was rather astonished to hear this, when the President

could not fail to be aware that a large number of most excellent

persons and great statesmen could see, with the naked eye, most

marvellous horrors on West India plantations, while they could discern

nothing whatever in the interior of Manchester cotton mills. He must

know, too, with what quickness of perception most people could discover

their neighbour’s faults, and how very blind they were to their own. If

the President differed from the great majority of men in this respect,

his eye was a defective one, and it was to assist his vision that these

glasses were made.

‘Mr. Blank exhibited a model of a fashionable annual, composed of

copper-plates, gold leaf, and silk boards, and worked entirely by milk

and water.

‘Mr. Prosee, after examining the machine, declared it to be so

ingeniously composed, that he was wholly unable to discover how it went

on at all.

‘Mr. Blank.—Nobody can, and that is the beauty of it.

‘SECTION C.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE.

BAR ROOM, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

_President_—Dr. Soemup. _Vice-Presidents_—Messrs. Pessell and Mortair.

‘Dr. Grummidge stated to the section a most interesting case of

monomania, and described the course of treatment he had pursued with

perfect success. The patient was a married lady in the middle rank of

life, who, having seen another lady at an evening party in a full suit

of pearls, was suddenly seized with a desire to possess a similar

equipment, although her husband’s finances were by no means equal to

the necessary outlay. Finding her wish ungratified, she fell sick, and

the symptoms soon became so alarming, that he (Dr. Grummidge) was

called in. At this period the prominent tokens of the disorder were

sullenness, a total indisposition to perform domestic duties, great

peevishness, and extreme languor, except when pearls were mentioned, at

which times the pulse quickened, the eyes grew brighter, the pupils

dilated, and the patient, after various incoherent exclamations, burst

into a passion of tears, and exclaimed that nobody cared for her, and

that she wished herself dead. Finding that the patient’s appetite was

affected in the presence of company, he began by ordering a total

abstinence from all stimulants, and forbidding any sustenance but weak

gruel; he then took twenty ounces of blood, applied a blister under

each ear, one upon the chest, and another on the back; having done

which, and administered five grains of calomel, he left the patient to

her repose. The next day she was somewhat low, but decidedly better,

and all appearances of irritation were removed. The next day she

improved still further, and on the next again. On the fourth there was

some appearance of a return of the old symptoms, which no sooner

developed themselves, than he administered another dose of calomel, and

left strict orders that, unless a decidedly favourable change occurred

within two hours, the patient’s head should be immediately shaved to

the very last curl. From that moment she began to mend, and, in less

than four-and-twenty hours was perfectly restored. She did not now

betray the least emotion at the sight or mention of pearls or any other

ornaments. She was cheerful and good-humoured, and a most beneficial

change had been effected in her whole temperament and condition.

‘Mr. Pipkin (M.R.C.S.) read a short but most interesting communication

in which he sought to prove the complete belief of Sir William

Courtenay, otherwise Thorn, recently shot at Canterbury, in the

Homoeopathic system. The section would bear in mind that one of the

Homoeopathic doctrines was, that infinitesimal doses of any medicine

which would occasion the disease under which the patient laboured,

supposing him to be in a healthy state, would cure it. Now, it was a

remarkable circumstance—proved in the evidence—that the deceased Thorn

employed a woman to follow him about all day with a pail of water,

assuring her that one drop (a purely homoeopathic remedy, the section

would observe), placed upon his tongue, after death, would restore him.

What was the obvious inference? That Thorn, who was marching and

countermarching in osier beds, and other swampy places, was impressed

with a presentiment that he should be drowned; in which case, had his

instructions been complied with, he could not fail to have been brought

to life again instantly by his own prescription. As it was, if this

woman, or any other person, had administered an infinitesimal dose of

lead and gunpowder immediately after he fell, he would have recovered

forthwith. But unhappily the woman concerned did not possess the power

of reasoning by analogy, or carrying out a principle, and thus the

unfortunate gentleman had been sacrificed to the ignorance of the

peasantry.

‘SECTION D.—STATISTICS.

OUT-HOUSE, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.

_President_—Mr. Slug. _Vice-Presidents_—Messrs. Noakes and Styles.

‘Mr. Kwakley stated the result of some most ingenious statistical

inquiries relative to the difference between the value of the

qualification of several members of Parliament as published to the

world, and its real nature and amount. After reminding the section that

every member of Parliament for a town or borough was supposed to

possess a clear freehold estate of three hundred pounds per annum, the

honourable gentleman excited great amusement and laughter by stating

the exact amount of freehold property possessed by a column of

legislators, in which he had included himself. It appeared from this

table, that the amount of such income possessed by each was 0 pounds, 0

shillings, and 0 pence, yielding an average of the same. (Great

laughter.) It was pretty well known that there were accommodating

gentlemen in the habit of furnishing new members with temporary

qualifications, to the ownership of which they swore solemnly—of course

as a mere matter of form. He argued from these _data_ that it was

wholly unnecessary for members of Parliament to possess any property at

all, especially as when they had none the public could get them so much

cheaper.

‘SUPPLEMENTARY SECTION, E.—UMBUGOLOGY AND DITCHWATERISICS.

_President_—Mr. Grub. _Vice Presidents_—Messrs. Dull and Dummy.

‘A paper was read by the secretary descriptive of a bay pony with one

eye, which had been seen by the author standing in a butcher’s cart at

the corner of Newgate Market. The communication described the author of

the paper as having, in the prosecution of a mercantile pursuit,

betaken himself one Saturday morning last summer from Somers Town to

Cheapside; in the course of which expedition he had beheld the

extraordinary appearance above described. The pony had one distinct

eye, and it had been pointed out to him by his friend Captain

Blunderbore, of the Horse Marines, who assisted the author in his

search, that whenever he winked this eye he whisked his tail (possibly

to drive the flies off), but that he always winked and whisked at the

same time. The animal was lean, spavined, and tottering; and the author

proposed to constitute it of the family of _Fitfordogsmeataurious_. It

certainly did occur to him that there was no case on record of a pony

with one clearly-defined and distinct organ of vision, winking and

whisking at the same moment.

‘Mr. Q. J. Snuffletoffle had heard of a pony winking his eye, and

likewise of a pony whisking his tail, but whether they were two ponies

or the same pony he could not undertake positively to say. At all

events, he was acquainted with no authenticated instance of a

simultaneous winking and whisking, and he really could not but doubt

the existence of such a marvellous pony in opposition to all those

natural laws by which ponies were governed. Referring, however, to the

mere question of his one organ of vision, might he suggest the

possibility of this pony having been literally half asleep at the time

he was seen, and having closed only one eye.

‘The President observed that, whether the pony was half asleep or fast

asleep, there could be no doubt that the association was wide awake,

and therefore that they had better get the business over, and go to

dinner. He had certainly never seen anything analogous to this pony,

but he was not prepared to doubt its existence; for he had seen many

queerer ponies in his time, though he did not pretend to have seen any

more remarkable donkeys than the other gentlemen around him.

‘Professor John Ketch was then called upon to exhibit the skull of the

late Mr. Greenacre, which he produced from a blue bag, remarking, on

being invited to make any observations that occurred to him, “that he’d

pound it as that ’ere ’spectable section had never seed a more gamerer

cove nor he vos.”

‘A most animated discussion upon this interesting relic ensued; and,

some difference of opinion arising respecting the real character of the

deceased gentleman, Mr. Blubb delivered a lecture upon the cranium

before him, clearly showing that Mr. Greenacre possessed the organ of

destructiveness to a most unusual extent, with a most remarkable

development of the organ of carveativeness. Sir Hookham Snivey was

proceeding to combat this opinion, when Professor Ketch suddenly

interrupted the proceedings by exclaiming, with great excitement of

manner, “Walker!”

‘The President begged to call the learned gentleman to order.

‘Professor Ketch.—“Order be blowed! you’ve got the wrong un, I tell

you. It ain’t no ’ed at all; it’s a coker-nut as my brother-in-law has

been a-carvin’, to hornament his new baked tatur-stall wots a-comin’

down ’ere vile the ’sociation’s in the town. Hand over, vill you?”

‘With these words, Professor Ketch hastily repossessed himself of the

cocoa-nut, and drew forth the skull, in mistake for which he had

exhibited it. A most interesting conversation ensued; but as there

appeared some doubt ultimately whether the skull was Mr. Greenacre’s,

or a hospital patient’s, or a pauper’s, or a man’s, or a woman’s, or a

monkey’s, no particular result was obtained.’

‘I cannot,’ says our talented correspondent in conclusion, ‘I cannot

close my account of these gigantic researches and sublime and noble

triumphs without repeating a _bon mot_ of Professor Woodensconce’s,

which shows how the greatest minds may occasionally unbend when truth

can be presented to listening ears, clothed in an attractive and

playful form. I was standing by, when, after a week of feasting and

feeding, that learned gentleman, accompanied by the whole body of

wonderful men, entered the hall yesterday, where a sumptuous dinner was

prepared; where the richest wines sparkled on the board, and fat

bucks—propitiatory sacrifices to learning—sent forth their savoury

odours. “Ah!” said Professor Woodensconce, rubbing his hands, “this is

what we meet for; this is what inspires us; this is what keeps us

together, and beckons us onward; this is the _spread_ of science, and a

glorious spread it is.”’

THE PANTOMIME OF LIFE

Before we plunge headlong into this paper, let us at once confess to a

fondness for pantomimes—to a gentle sympathy with clowns and

pantaloons—to an unqualified admiration of harlequins and columbines—to

a chaste delight in every action of their brief existence, varied and

many-coloured as those actions are, and inconsistent though they

occasionally be with those rigid and formal rules of propriety which

regulate the proceedings of meaner and less comprehensive minds. We

revel in pantomimes—not because they dazzle one’s eyes with tinsel and

gold leaf; not because they present to us, once again, the well-beloved

chalked faces, and goggle eyes of our childhood; not even because, like

Christmas-day, and Twelfth-night, and Shrove-Tuesday, and one’s own

birthday, they come to us but once a year;—our attachment is founded on

a graver and a very different reason. A pantomime is to us, a mirror of

life; nay, more, we maintain that it is so to audiences generally,

although they are not aware of it, and that this very circumstance is

the secret cause of their amusement and delight.

Let us take a slight example. The scene is a street: an elderly

gentleman, with a large face and strongly marked features, appears. His

countenance beams with a sunny smile, and a perpetual dimple is on his

broad, red cheek. He is evidently an opulent elderly gentleman,

comfortable in circumstances, and well-to-do in the world. He is not

unmindful of the adornment of his person, for he is richly, not to say

gaudily, dressed; and that he indulges to a reasonable extent in the

pleasures of the table may be inferred from the joyous and oily manner

in which he rubs his stomach, by way of informing the audience that he

is going home to dinner. In the fulness of his heart, in the fancied

security of wealth, in the possession and enjoyment of all the good

things of life, the elderly gentleman suddenly loses his footing, and

stumbles. How the audience roar! He is set upon by a noisy and

officious crowd, who buffet and cuff him unmercifully. They scream with

delight! Every time the elderly gentleman struggles to get up, his

relentless persecutors knock him down again. The spectators are

convulsed with merriment! And when at last the elderly gentleman does

get up, and staggers away, despoiled of hat, wig, and clothing, himself

battered to pieces, and his watch and money gone, they are exhausted

with laughter, and express their merriment and admiration in rounds of

applause.

Is this like life? Change the scene to any real street;—to the Stock

Exchange, or the City banker’s; the merchant’s counting-house, or even

the tradesman’s shop. See any one of these men fall,—the more suddenly,

and the nearer the zenith of his pride and riches, the better. What a

wild hallo is raised over his prostrate carcase by the shouting mob;

how they whoop and yell as he lies humbled beneath them! Mark how

eagerly they set upon him when he is down; and how they mock and deride

him as he slinks away. Why, it is the pantomime to the very letter.

Of all the pantomimic _dramatis personae_, we consider the pantaloon

the most worthless and debauched. Independent of the dislike one

naturally feels at seeing a gentleman of his years engaged in pursuits

highly unbecoming his gravity and time of life, we cannot conceal from

ourselves the fact that he is a treacherous, worldly-minded old

villain, constantly enticing his younger companion, the clown, into

acts of fraud or petty larceny, and generally standing aside to watch

the result of the enterprise. If it be successful, he never forgets to

return for his share of the spoil; but if it turn out a failure, he

generally retires with remarkable caution and expedition, and keeps

carefully aloof until the affair has blown over. His amorous

propensities, too, are eminently disagreeable; and his mode of

addressing ladies in the open street at noon-day is down-right

improper, being usually neither more nor less than a perceptible

tickling of the aforesaid ladies in the waist, after committing which,

he starts back, manifestly ashamed (as well he may be) of his own

indecorum and temerity; continuing, nevertheless, to ogle and beckon to

them from a distance in a very unpleasant and immoral manner.

Is there any man who cannot count a dozen pantaloons in his own social

circle? Is there any man who has not seen them swarming at the west end

of the town on a sunshiny day or a summer’s evening, going through the

last-named pantomimic feats with as much liquorish energy, and as total

an absence of reserve, as if they were on the very stage itself? We can

tell upon our fingers a dozen pantaloons of our acquaintance at this

moment—capital pantaloons, who have been performing all kinds of

strange freaks, to the great amusement of their friends and

acquaintance, for years past; and who to this day are making such

comical and ineffectual attempts to be young and dissolute, that all

beholders are like to die with laughter.

Take that old gentleman who has just emerged from the _Café de

l’Europe_ in the Haymarket, where he has been dining at the expense of

the young man upon town with whom he shakes hands as they part at the

door of the tavern. The affected warmth of that shake of the hand, the

courteous nod, the obvious recollection of the dinner, the savoury

flavour of which still hangs upon his lips, are all characteristics of

his great prototype. He hobbles away humming an opera tune, and

twirling his cane to and fro, with affected carelessness. Suddenly he

stops—’tis at the milliner’s window. He peeps through one of the large

panes of glass; and, his view of the ladies within being obstructed by

the India shawls, directs his attentions to the young girl with the

band-box in her hand, who is gazing in at the window also. See! he

draws beside her. He coughs; she turns away from him. He draws near her

again; she disregards him. He gleefully chucks her under the chin, and,

retreating a few steps, nods and beckons with fantastic grimaces, while

the girl bestows a contemptuous and supercilious look upon his wrinkled

visage. She turns away with a flounce, and the old gentleman trots

after her with a toothless chuckle. The pantaloon to the life!

But the close resemblance which the clowns of the stage bear to those

of every-day life is perfectly extraordinary. Some people talk with a

sigh of the decline of pantomime, and murmur in low and dismal tones

the name of Grimaldi. We mean no disparagement to the worthy and

excellent old man when we say that this is downright nonsense. Clowns

that beat Grimaldi all to nothing turn up every day, and nobody

patronizes them—more’s the pity!

‘I know who you mean,’ says some dirty-faced patron of Mr.

Osbaldistone’s, laying down the Miscellany when he has got thus far,

and bestowing upon vacancy a most knowing glance; ‘you mean C. J. Smith

as did Guy Fawkes, and George Barnwell at the Garden.’ The dirty-faced

gentleman has hardly uttered the words, when he is interrupted by a

young gentleman in no shirt-collar and a Petersham coat. ‘No, no,’ says

the young gentleman; ‘he means Brown, King, and Gibson, at the

‘Delphi.’ Now, with great deference both to the first-named gentleman

with the dirty face, and the last-named gentleman in the non-existing

shirt-collar, we do _not_ mean either the performer who so grotesquely

burlesqued the Popish conspirator, or the three unchangeables who have

been dancing the same dance under different imposing titles, and doing

the same thing under various high-sounding names for some five or six

years last past. We have no sooner made this avowal, than the public,

who have hitherto been silent witnesses of the dispute, inquire what on

earth it is we _do_ mean; and, with becoming respect, we proceed to

tell them.

It is very well known to all playgoers and pantomime-seers, that the

scenes in which a theatrical clown is at the very height of his glory

are those which are described in the play-bills as ‘Cheesemonger’s shop

and Crockery warehouse,’ or ‘Tailor’s shop, and Mrs. Queertable’s

boarding-house,’ or places bearing some such title, where the great fun

of the thing consists in the hero’s taking lodgings which he has not

the slightest intention of paying for, or obtaining goods under false

pretences, or abstracting the stock-in-trade of the respectable

shopkeeper next door, or robbing warehouse porters as they pass under

his window, or, to shorten the catalogue, in his swindling everybody he

possibly can, it only remaining to be observed that, the more extensive

the swindling is, and the more barefaced the impudence of the swindler,

the greater the rapture and ecstasy of the audience. Now it is a most

remarkable fact that precisely this sort of thing occurs in real life

day after day, and nobody sees the humour of it. Let us illustrate our

position by detailing the plot of this portion of the pantomime—not of

the theatre, but of life.

The Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, attended by his livery

servant Do’em—a most respectable servant to look at, who has grown grey

in the service of the captain’s family—views, treats for, and

ultimately obtains possession of, the unfurnished house, such a number,

such a street. All the tradesmen in the neighbourhood are in agonies of

competition for the captain’s custom; the captain is a good-natured,

kind-hearted, easy man, and, to avoid being the cause of disappointment

to any, he most handsomely gives orders to all. Hampers of wine,

baskets of provisions, cart-loads of furniture, boxes of jewellery,

supplies of luxuries of the costliest description, flock to the house

of the Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, where they are received

with the utmost readiness by the highly respectable Do’em; while the

captain himself struts and swaggers about with that compound air of

conscious superiority and general blood-thirstiness which a military

captain should always, and does most times, wear, to the admiration and

terror of plebeian men. But the tradesmen’s backs are no sooner turned,

than the captain, with all the eccentricity of a mighty mind, and

assisted by the faithful Do’em, whose devoted fidelity is not the least

touching part of his character, disposes of everything to great

advantage; for, although the articles fetch small sums, still they are

sold considerably above cost price, the cost to the captain having been

nothing at all. After various manoeuvres, the imposture is discovered,

Fitz-Fiercy and Do’em are recognized as confederates, and the police

office to which they are both taken is thronged with their dupes.

Who can fail to recognize in this, the exact counterpart of the best

portion of a theatrical pantomime—Fitz-Whisker Fiercy by the clown;

Do’em by the pantaloon; and supernumeraries by the tradesmen? The best

of the joke, too, is, that the very coal-merchant who is loudest in his

complaints against the person who defrauded him, is the identical man

who sat in the centre of the very front row of the pit last night and

laughed the most boisterously at this very same thing,—and not so well

done either. Talk of Grimaldi, we say again! Did Grimaldi, in his best

days, ever do anything in this way equal to Da Costa?

The mention of this latter justly celebrated clown reminds us of his

last piece of humour, the fraudulently obtaining certain stamped

acceptances from a young gentleman in the army. We had scarcely laid

down our pen to contemplate for a few moments this admirable actor’s

performance of that exquisite practical joke, than a new branch of our

subject flashed suddenly upon us. So we take it up again at once.

All people who have been behind the scenes, and most people who have

been before them, know, that in the representation of a pantomime, a

good many men are sent upon the stage for the express purpose of being

cheated, or knocked down, or both. Now, down to a moment ago, we had

never been able to understand for what possible purpose a great number

of odd, lazy, large-headed men, whom one is in the habit of meeting

here, and there, and everywhere, could ever have been created. We see

it all, now. They are the supernumeraries in the pantomime of life; the

men who have been thrust into it, with no other view than to be

constantly tumbling over each other, and running their heads against

all sorts of strange things. We sat opposite to one of these men at a

supper-table, only last week. Now we think of it, he was exactly like

the gentlemen with the pasteboard heads and faces, who do the

corresponding business in the theatrical pantomimes; there was the same

broad stolid simper—the same dull leaden eye—the same unmeaning, vacant

stare; and whatever was said, or whatever was done, he always came in

at precisely the wrong place, or jostled against something that he had

not the slightest business with. We looked at the man across the table

again and again; and could not satisfy ourselves what race of beings to

class him with. How very odd that this never occurred to us before!

We will frankly own that we have been much troubled with the harlequin.

We see harlequins of so many kinds in the real living pantomime, that

we hardly know which to select as the proper fellow of him of the

theatres. At one time we were disposed to think that the harlequin was

neither more nor less than a young man of family and independent

property, who had run away with an opera-dancer, and was fooling his

life and his means away in light and trivial amusements. On reflection,

however, we remembered that harlequins are occasionally guilty of

witty, and even clever acts, and we are rather disposed to acquit our

young men of family and independent property, generally speaking, of

any such misdemeanours. On a more mature consideration of the subject,

we have arrived at the conclusion that the harlequins of life are just

ordinary men, to be found in no particular walk or degree, on whom a

certain station, or particular conjunction of circumstances, confers

the magic wand. And this brings us to a few words on the pantomime of

public and political life, which we shall say at once, and then

conclude—merely premising in this place that we decline any reference

whatever to the columbine, being in no wise satisfied of the nature of

her connection with her parti-coloured lover, and not feeling by any

means clear that we should be justified in introducing her to the

virtuous and respectable ladies who peruse our lucubrations.

We take it that the commencement of a Session of Parliament is neither

more nor less than the drawing up of the curtain for a grand comic

pantomime, and that his Majesty’s most gracious speech on the opening

thereof may be not inaptly compared to the clown’s opening speech of

‘Here we are!’ ‘My lords and gentlemen, here we are!’ appears, to our

mind at least, to be a very good abstract of the point and meaning of

the propitiatory address of the ministry. When we remember how

frequently this speech is made, immediately after _the change_ too, the

parallel is quite perfect, and still more singular.

Perhaps the cast of our political pantomime never was richer than at

this day. We are particularly strong in clowns. At no former time, we

should say, have we had such astonishing tumblers, or performers so

ready to go through the whole of their feats for the amusement of an

admiring throng. Their extreme readiness to exhibit, indeed, has given

rise to some ill-natured reflections; it having been objected that by

exhibiting gratuitously through the country when the theatre is closed,

they reduce themselves to the level of mountebanks, and thereby tend to

degrade the respectability of the profession. Certainly Grimaldi never

did this sort of thing; and though Brown, King, and Gibson have gone to

the Surrey in vacation time, and Mr. C. J. Smith has ruralised at

Sadler’s Wells, we find no theatrical precedent for a general tumbling

through the country, except in the gentleman, name unknown, who threw

summersets on behalf of the late Mr. Richardson, and who is no

authority either, because he had never been on the regular boards.

But, laying aside this question, which after all is a mere matter of

taste, we may reflect with pride and gratification of heart on the

proficiency of our clowns as exhibited in the season. Night after night

will they twist and tumble about, till two, three, and four o’clock in

the morning; playing the strangest antics, and giving each other the

funniest slaps on the face that can possibly be imagined, without

evincing the smallest tokens of fatigue. The strange noises, the

confusion, the shouting and roaring, amid which all this is done, too,

would put to shame the most turbulent sixpenny gallery that ever yelled

through a boxing-night.

It is especially curious to behold one of these clowns compelled to go

through the most surprising contortions by the irresistible influence

of the wand of office, which his leader or harlequin holds above his

head. Acted upon by this wonderful charm he will become perfectly

motionless, moving neither hand, foot, nor finger, and will even lose

the faculty of speech at an instant’s notice; or on the other hand, he

will become all life and animation if required, pouring forth a torrent

of words without sense or meaning, throwing himself into the wildest

and most fantastic contortions, and even grovelling on the earth and

licking up the dust. These exhibitions are more curious than pleasing;

indeed, they are rather disgusting than otherwise, except to the

admirers of such things, with whom we confess we have no

fellow-feeling.

Strange tricks—very strange tricks—are also performed by the harlequin

who holds for the time being the magic wand which we have just

mentioned. The mere waving it before a man’s eyes will dispossess his

brains of all the notions previously stored there, and fill it with an

entirely new set of ideas; one gentle tap on the back will alter the

colour of a man’s coat completely; and there are some expert

performers, who, having this wand held first on one side and then on

the other, will change from side to side, turning their coats at every

evolution, with so much rapidity and dexterity, that the quickest eye

can scarcely detect their motions. Occasionally, the genius who confers

the wand, wrests it from the hand of the temporary possessor, and

consigns it to some new performer; on which occasions all the

characters change sides, and then the race and the hard knocks begin

anew.

We might have extended this chapter to a much greater length—we might

have carried the comparison into the liberal professions—we might have

shown, as was in fact our original purpose, that each is in itself a

little pantomime with scenes and characters of its own, complete; but,

as we fear we have been quite lengthy enough already, we shall leave

this chapter just where it is. A gentleman, not altogether unknown as a

dramatic poet, wrote thus a year or two ago—

‘All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:’

and we, tracking out his footsteps at the scarcely-worth-mentioning

little distance of a few millions of leagues behind, venture to add, by

way of new reading, that he meant a Pantomime, and that we are all

actors in The Pantomime of Life.

SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION

We have a great respect for lions in the abstract. In common with most

other people, we have heard and read of many instances of their bravery

and generosity. We have duly admired that heroic self-denial and

charming philanthropy which prompts them never to eat people except

when they are hungry, and we have been deeply impressed with a becoming

sense of the politeness they are said to display towards unmarried

ladies of a certain state. All natural histories teem with anecdotes

illustrative of their excellent qualities; and one old spelling-book in

particular recounts a touching instance of an old lion, of high moral

dignity and stern principle, who felt it his imperative duty to devour

a young man who had contracted a habit of swearing, as a striking

example to the rising generation.

All this is extremely pleasant to reflect upon, and, indeed, says a

very great deal in favour of lions as a mass. We are bound to state,

however, that such individual lions as we have happened to fall in with

have not put forth any very striking characteristics, and have not

acted up to the chivalrous character assigned them by their

chroniclers. We never saw a lion in what is called his natural state,

certainly; that is to say, we have never met a lion out walking in a

forest, or crouching in his lair under a tropical sun, waiting till his

dinner should happen to come by, hot from the baker’s. But we have seen

some under the influence of captivity, and the pressure of misfortune;

and we must say that they appeared to us very apathetic, heavy-headed

fellows.

The lion at the Zoological Gardens, for instance. He is all very well;

he has an undeniable mane, and looks very fierce; but, Lord bless us!

what of that? The lions of the fashionable world look just as

ferocious, and are the most harmless creatures breathing. A box-lobby

lion or a Regent-street animal will put on a most terrible aspect, and

roar, fearfully, if you affront him; but he will never bite, and, if

you offer to attack him manfully, will fairly turn tail and sneak off.

Doubtless these creatures roam about sometimes in herds, and, if they

meet any especially meek-looking and peaceably-disposed fellow, will

endeavour to frighten him; but the faintest show of a vigorous

resistance is sufficient to scare them even then. These are pleasant

characteristics, whereas we make it matter of distinct charge against

the Zoological lion and his brethren at the fairs, that they are

sleepy, dreamy, sluggish quadrupeds.

We do not remember to have ever seen one of them perfectly awake,

except at feeding-time. In every respect we uphold the biped lions

against their four-footed namesakes, and we boldly challenge

controversy upon the subject.

With these opinions it may be easily imagined that our curiosity and

interest were very much excited the other day, when a lady of our

acquaintance called on us and resolutely declined to accept our refusal

of her invitation to an evening party; ‘for,’ said she, ‘I have got a

lion coming.’ We at once retracted our plea of a prior engagement, and

became as anxious to go, as we had previously been to stay away.

We went early, and posted ourselves in an eligible part of the

drawing-room, from whence we could hope to obtain a full view of the

interesting animal. Two or three hours passed, the quadrilles began,

the room filled; but no lion appeared. The lady of the house became

inconsolable,—for it is one of the peculiar privileges of these lions

to make solemn appointments and never keep them,—when all of a sudden

there came a tremendous double rap at the street-door, and the master

of the house, after gliding out (unobserved as he flattered himself) to

peep over the banisters, came into the room, rubbing his hands together

with great glee, and cried out in a very important voice, ‘My dear,

Mr.—(naming the lion) has this moment arrived.’

Upon this, all eyes were turned towards the door, and we observed

several young ladies, who had been laughing and conversing previously

with great gaiety and good humour, grow extremely quiet and

sentimental; while some young gentlemen, who had been cutting great

figures in the facetious and small-talk way, suddenly sank very

obviously in the estimation of the company, and were looked upon with

great coldness and indifference. Even the young man who had been

ordered from the music shop to play the pianoforte was visibly

affected, and struck several false notes in the excess of his

excitement.

All this time there was a great talking outside, more than once

accompanied by a loud laugh, and a cry of ‘Oh! capital! excellent!’

from which we inferred that the lion was jocose, and that these

exclamations were occasioned by the transports of his keeper and our

host. Nor were we deceived; for when the lion at last appeared, we

overheard his keeper, who was a little prim man, whisper to several

gentlemen of his acquaintance, with uplifted hands, and every

expression of half-suppressed admiration, that—(naming the lion again)

was in _such_ cue to-night!

The lion was a literary one. Of course, there were a vast number of

people present who had admired his roarings, and were anxious to be

introduced to him; and very pleasant it was to see them brought up for

the purpose, and to observe the patient dignity with which he received

all their patting and caressing. This brought forcibly to our mind what

we had so often witnessed at country fairs, where the other lions are

compelled to go through as many forms of courtesy as they chance to be

acquainted with, just as often as admiring parties happen to drop in

upon them.

While the lion was exhibiting in this way, his keeper was not idle, for

he mingled among the crowd, and spread his praises most industriously.

To one gentleman he whispered some very choice thing that the noble

animal had said in the very act of coming up-stairs, which, of course,

rendered the mental effort still more astonishing; to another he

murmured a hasty account of a grand dinner that had taken place the day

before, where twenty-seven gentlemen had got up all at once to demand

an extra cheer for the lion; and to the ladies he made sundry promises

of interceding to procure the majestic brute’s sign-manual for their

albums. Then, there were little private consultations in different

corners, relative to the personal appearance and stature of the lion;

whether he was shorter than they had expected to see him, or taller, or

thinner, or fatter, or younger, or older; whether he was like his

portrait, or unlike it; and whether the particular shade of his eyes

was black, or blue, or hazel, or green, or yellow, or mixture. At all

these consultations the keeper assisted; and, in short, the lion was

the sole and single subject of discussion till they sat him down to

whist, and then the people relapsed into their old topics of

conversation—themselves and each other.

We must confess that we looked forward with no slight impatience to the

announcement of supper; for if you wish to see a tame lion under

particularly favourable circumstances, feeding-time is the period of

all others to pitch upon. We were therefore very much delighted to

observe a sensation among the guests, which we well knew how to

interpret, and immediately afterwards to behold the lion escorting the

lady of the house down-stairs. We offered our arm to an elderly female

of our acquaintance, who—dear old soul!—is the very best person that

ever lived, to lead down to any meal; for, be the room ever so small,

or the party ever so large, she is sure, by some intuitive perception

of the eligible, to push and pull herself and conductor close to the

best dishes on the table;—we say we offered our arm to this elderly

female, and, descending the stairs shortly after the lion, were

fortunate enough to obtain a seat nearly opposite him.

Of course the keeper was there already. He had planted himself at

precisely that distance from his charge which afforded him a decent

pretext for raising his voice, when he addressed him, to so loud a key,

as could not fail to attract the attention of the whole company, and

immediately began to apply himself seriously to the task of bringing

the lion out, and putting him through the whole of his manoeuvres. Such

flashes of wit as he elicited from the lion! First of all, they began

to make puns upon a salt-cellar, and then upon the breast of a fowl,

and then upon the trifle; but the best jokes of all were decidedly on

the lobster salad, upon which latter subject the lion came out most

vigorously, and, in the opinion of the most competent authorities,

quite outshone himself. This is a very excellent mode of shining in

society, and is founded, we humbly conceive, upon the classic model of

the dialogues between Mr. Punch and his friend the proprietor, wherein

the latter takes all the up-hill work, and is content to pioneer to the

jokes and repartees of Mr. P. himself, who never fails to gain great

credit and excite much laughter thereby. Whatever it be founded on,

however, we recommend it to all lions, present and to come; for in this

instance it succeeded to admiration, and perfectly dazzled the whole

body of hearers.

When the salt-cellar, and the fowl’s breast, and the trifle, and the

lobster salad were all exhausted, and could not afford standing-room

for another solitary witticism, the keeper performed that very

dangerous feat which is still done with some of the caravan lions,

although in one instance it terminated fatally, of putting his head in

the animal’s mouth, and placing himself entirely at its mercy. Boswell

frequently presents a melancholy instance of the lamentable results of

this achievement, and other keepers and jackals have been terribly

lacerated for their daring. It is due to our lion to state, that he

condescended to be trifled with, in the most gentle manner, and finally

went home with the showman in a hack cab: perfectly peaceable, but

slightly fuddled.

Being in a contemplative mood, we were led to make some reflections

upon the character and conduct of this genus of lions as we walked

homewards, and we were not long in arriving at the conclusion that our

former impression in their favour was very much strengthened and

confirmed by what we had recently seen. While the other lions receive

company and compliments in a sullen, moody, not to say snarling manner,

these appear flattered by the attentions that are paid them; while

those conceal themselves to the utmost of their power from the vulgar

gaze, these court the popular eye, and, unlike their brethren, whom

nothing short of compulsion will move to exertion, are ever ready to

display their acquirements to the wondering throng. We have known bears

of undoubted ability who, when the expectations of a large audience

have been wound up to the utmost pitch, have peremptorily refused to

dance; well-taught monkeys, who have unaccountably objected to exhibit

on the slack wire; and elephants of unquestioned genius, who have

suddenly declined to turn the barrel-organ; but we never once knew or

heard of a biped lion, literary or otherwise,—and we state it as a fact

which is highly creditable to the whole species,—who, occasion

offering, did not seize with avidity on any opportunity which was

afforded him, of performing to his heart’s content on the first violin.

MR. ROBERT BOLTON: THE ‘GENTLEMAN CONNECTED WITH THE PRESS’

In the parlour of the Green Dragon, a public-house in the immediate

neighbourhood of Westminster Bridge, everybody talks politics, every

evening, the great political authority being Mr. Robert Bolton, an

individual who defines himself as ‘a gentleman connected with the

press,’ which is a definition of peculiar indefiniteness. Mr. Robert

Bolton’s regular circle of admirers and listeners are an undertaker, a

greengrocer, a hairdresser, a baker, a large stomach surmounted by a

man’s head, and placed on the top of two particularly short legs, and a

thin man in black, name, profession, and pursuit unknown, who always

sits in the same position, always displays the same long, vacant face,

and never opens his lips, surrounded as he is by most enthusiastic

conversation, except to puff forth a volume of tobacco smoke, or give

vent to a very snappy, loud, and shrill _hem_! The conversation

sometimes turns upon literature, Mr. Bolton being a literary character,

and always upon such news of the day as is exclusively possessed by

that talented individual. I found myself (of course, accidentally) in

the Green Dragon the other evening, and, being somewhat amused by the

following conversation, preserved it.

‘Can you lend me a ten-pound note till Christmas?’ inquired the

hairdresser of the stomach.

‘Where’s your security, Mr. Clip?’

‘My stock in trade,—there’s enough of it, I’m thinking, Mr. Thicknesse.

Some fifty wigs, two poles, half-a-dozen head blocks, and a dead

Bruin.’

‘No, I won’t, then,’ growled out Thicknesse. ‘I lends nothing on the

security of the whigs or the Poles either. As for whigs, they’re

cheats; as for the Poles, they’ve got no cash. I never have nothing to

do with blockheads, unless I can’t awoid it (ironically), and a dead

bear’s about as much use to me as I could be to a dead bear.’

‘Well, then,’ urged the other, ‘there’s a book as belonged to Pope,

Byron’s Poems, valued at forty pounds, because it’s got Pope’s

identical scratch on the back; what do you think of that for security?’

‘Well, to be sure!’ cried the baker. ‘But how d’ye mean, Mr. Clip?’

‘Mean! why, that it’s got the _hottergruff_ of Pope.

“Steal not this book, for fear of hangman’s rope;

For it belongs to Alexander Pope.”

All that’s written on the inside of the binding of the book; so, as my

son says, we’re _bound_ to believe it.’

‘Well, sir,’ observed the undertaker, deferentially, and in a

half-whisper, leaning over the table, and knocking over the

hairdresser’s grog as he spoke, ‘that argument’s very easy upset.’

‘Perhaps, sir,’ said Clip, a little flurried, ‘you’ll pay for the first

upset afore you thinks of another.’

‘Now,’ said the undertaker, bowing amicably to the hairdresser, ‘I

_think_, I says I _think_—you’ll excuse me, Mr. Clip, I _think_, you

see, that won’t go down with the present company—unfortunately, my

master had the honour of making the coffin of that ere Lord’s

housemaid, not no more nor twenty year ago. Don’t think I’m proud on

it, gentlemen; others might be; but I hate rank of any sort. I’ve no

more respect for a Lord’s footman than I have for any respectable

tradesman in this room. I may say no more nor I have for Mr. Clip!

(bowing). Therefore, that ere Lord must have been born long after Pope

died. And it’s a logical interference to defer, that they neither of

them lived at the same time. So what I mean is this here, that Pope

never had no book, never seed, felt, never smelt no book (triumphantly)

as belonged to that ere Lord. And, gentlemen, when I consider how

patiently you have ’eared the ideas what I have expressed, I feel

bound, as the best way to reward you for the kindness you have

exhibited, to sit down without saying anything more—partickler as I

perceive a worthier visitor nor myself is just entered. I am not in the

habit of paying compliments, gentlemen; when I do, therefore, I hope I

strikes with double force.’

‘Ah, Mr. Murgatroyd! what’s all this about striking with double force?’

said the object of the above remark, as he entered. ‘I never excuse a

man’s getting into a rage during winter, even when he’s seated so close

to the fire as you are. It is very injudicious to put yourself into

such a perspiration. What is the cause of this extreme physical and

mental excitement, sir?’

Such was the very philosophical address of Mr. Robert Bolton, a

shorthand-writer, as he termed himself—a bit of equivoque passing

current among his fraternity, which must give the uninitiated a vast

idea of the establishment of the ministerial organ, while to the

initiated it signifies that no one paper can lay claim to the enjoyment

of their services. Mr. Bolton was a young man, with a somewhat sickly

and very dissipated expression of countenance. His habiliments were

composed of an exquisite union of gentility, slovenliness, assumption,

simplicity, _newness_, and old age. Half of him was dressed for the

winter, the other half for the summer. His hat was of the newest cut,

the D’Orsay; his trousers had been white, but the inroads of mud and

ink, etc., had given them a pie-bald appearance; round his throat he

wore a very high black cravat, of the most tyrannical stiffness; while

his _tout ensemble_ was hidden beneath the enormous folds of an old

brown poodle-collared great-coat, which was closely buttoned up to the

aforesaid cravat. His fingers peeped through the ends of his black kid

gloves, and two of the toes of each foot took a similar view of society

through the extremities of his high-lows. Sacred to the bare walls of

his garret be the mysteries of his interior dress! He was a short,

spare man, of a somewhat inferior deportment. Everybody seemed

influenced by his entry into the room, and his salutation of each

member partook of the patronizing. The hairdresser made way for him

between himself and the stomach. A minute afterwards he had taken

possession of his pint and pipe. A pause in the conversation took

place. Everybody was waiting, anxious for his first observation.

‘Horrid murder in Westminster this morning,’ observed Mr. Bolton.

Everybody changed their positions. All eyes were fixed upon the man of

paragraphs.

‘A baker murdered his son by boiling him in a copper,’ said Mr. Bolton.

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed everybody, in simultaneous horror.

‘Boiled him, gentlemen!’ added Mr. Bolton, with the most effective

emphasis; ‘_boiled_ him!’

‘And the particulars, Mr. B.,’ inquired the hairdresser, ‘the

particulars?’

Mr. Bolton took a very long draught of porter, and some two or three

dozen whiffs of tobacco, doubtless to instil into the commercial

capacities of the company the superiority of a gentlemen connected with

the press, and then said—

‘The man was a baker, gentlemen.’ (Every one looked at the baker

present, who stared at Bolton.) ‘His victim, being his son, also was

necessarily the son of a baker. The wretched murderer had a wife, whom

he was frequently in the habit, while in an intoxicated state, of

kicking, pummelling, flinging mugs at, knocking down, and half-killing

while in bed, by inserting in her mouth a considerable portion of a

sheet or blanket.’

The speaker took another draught, everybody looked at everybody else,

and exclaimed, ‘Horrid!’

‘It appears in evidence, gentlemen,’ continued Mr. Bolton, ‘that, on

the evening of yesterday, Sawyer the baker came home in a reprehensible

state of beer. Mrs. S., connubially considerate, carried him in that

condition up-stairs into his chamber, and consigned him to their mutual

couch. In a minute or two she lay sleeping beside the man whom the

morrow’s dawn beheld a murderer!’ (Entire silence informed the reporter

that his picture had attained the awful effect he desired.) ‘The son

came home about an hour afterwards, opened the door, and went up to

bed. Scarcely (gentlemen, conceive his feelings of alarm), scarcely had

he taken off his indescribables, when shrieks (to his experienced ear

_maternal_ shrieks) scared the silence of surrounding night. He put his

indescribables on again, and ran down-stairs. He opened the door of the

parental bed-chamber. His father was dancing upon his mother. What must

have been his feelings! In the agony of the minute he rushed at his

male parent as he was about to plunge a knife into the side of his

female. The mother shrieked. The father caught the son (who had wrested

the knife from the paternal grasp) up in his arms, carried him

down-stairs, shoved him into a copper of boiling water among some

linen, closed the lid, and jumped upon the top of it, in which position

he was found with a ferocious countenance by the mother, who arrived in

the melancholy wash-house just as he had so settled himself.

‘“Where’s my boy?” shrieked the mother.

‘“In that copper, boiling,” coolly replied the benign father.

‘Struck by the awful intelligence, the mother rushed from the house,

and alarmed the neighbourhood. The police entered a minute afterwards.

The father, having bolted the wash-house door, had bolted himself. They

dragged the lifeless body of the boiled baker from the cauldron, and,

with a promptitude commendable in men of their station, they

immediately carried it to the station-house. Subsequently, the baker

was apprehended while seated on the top of a lamp-post in Parliament

Street, lighting his pipe.’

The whole horrible ideality of the Mysteries of Udolpho, condensed into

the pithy effect of a ten-line paragraph, could not possibly have so

affected the narrator’s auditory. Silence, the purest and most noble of

all kinds of applause, bore ample testimony to the barbarity of the

baker, as well as to Bolton’s knack of narration; and it was only

broken after some minutes had elapsed by interjectional expressions of

the intense indignation of every man present. The baker wondered how a

British baker could so disgrace himself and the highly honourable

calling to which he belonged; and the others indulged in a variety of

wonderments connected with the subject; among which not the least

wonderment was that which was awakened by the genius and information of

Mr. Robert Bolton, who, after a glowing eulogium on himself, and his

unspeakable influence with the daily press, was proceeding, with a most

solemn countenance, to hear the pros and cons of the Pope autograph

question, when I took up my hat, and left.

FAMILIAR EPISTLE FROM A PARENT TO A CHILD

aged two years and two months

My Child,

To recount with what trouble I have brought you up—with what an anxious

eye I have regarded your progress,—how late and how often I have sat up

at night working for you,—and how many thousand letters I have received

from, and written to your various relations and friends, many of whom

have been of a querulous and irritable turn,—to dwell on the anxiety

and tenderness with which I have (as far as I possessed the power)

inspected and chosen your food; rejecting the indigestible and heavy

matter which some injudicious but well-meaning old ladies would have

had you swallow, and retaining only those light and pleasant articles

which I deemed calculated to keep you free from all gross humours, and

to render you an agreeable child, and one who might be popular with

society in general,—to dilate on the steadiness with which I have

prevented your annoying any company by talking politics—always assuring

you that you would thank me for it yourself some day when you grew

older,—to expatiate, in short, upon my own assiduity as a parent, is

beside my present purpose, though I cannot but contemplate your fair

appearance—your robust health, and unimpeded circulation (which I take

to be the great secret of your good looks) without the liveliest

satisfaction and delight.

It is a trite observation, and one which, young as you are, I have no

doubt you have often heard repeated, that we have fallen upon strange

times, and live in days of constant shiftings and changes. I had a

melancholy instance of this only a week or two since. I was returning

from Manchester to London by the Mail Train, when I suddenly fell into

another train—a mixed train—of reflection, occasioned by the dejected

and disconsolate demeanour of the Post-Office Guard. We were stopping

at some station where they take in water, when he dismounted slowly

from the little box in which he sits in ghastly mockery of his old

condition with pistol and blunderbuss beside him, ready to shoot the

first highwayman (or railwayman) who shall attempt to stop the horses,

which now travel (when they travel at all) _inside_ and in a portable

stable invented for the purpose,—he dismounted, I say, slowly and

sadly, from his post, and looking mournfully about him as if in dismal

recollection of the old roadside public-house the blazing fire—the

glass of foaming ale—the buxom handmaid and admiring hangers-on of

tap-room and stable, all honoured by his notice; and, retiring a little

apart, stood leaning against a signal-post, surveying the engine with a

look of combined affliction and disgust which no words can describe.

His scarlet coat and golden lace were tarnished with ignoble smoke;

flakes of soot had fallen on his bright green shawl—his pride in days

of yore—the steam condensed in the tunnel from which we had just

emerged, shone upon his hat like rain. His eye betokened that he was

thinking of the coachman; and as it wandered to his own seat and his

own fast-fading garb, it was plain to see that he felt his office and

himself had alike no business there, and were nothing but an elaborate

practical joke.

As we whirled away, I was led insensibly into an anticipation of those

days to come, when mail-coach guards shall no longer be judges of

horse-flesh—when a mail-coach guard shall never even have seen a

horse—when stations shall have superseded stables, and corn shall have

given place to coke. ‘In those dawning times,’ thought I,

‘exhibition-rooms shall teem with portraits of Her Majesty’s favourite

engine, with boilers after Nature by future Landseers. Some Amburgh,

yet unborn, shall break wild horses by his magic power; and in the

dress of a mail-coach guard exhibit his trained animals in a mock

mail-coach. Then, shall wondering crowds observe how that, with the

exception of his whip, it is all his eye; and crowned heads shall see

them fed on oats, and stand alone unmoved and undismayed, while

counters flee affrighted when the coursers neigh!’

Such, my child, were the reflections from which I was only awakened

then, as I am now, by the necessity of attending to matters of present

though minor importance. I offer no apology to you for the digression,

for it brings me very naturally to the subject of change, which is the

very subject of which I desire to treat.

In fact, my child, you have changed hands. Henceforth I resign you to

the guardianship and protection of one of my most intimate and valued

friends, Mr. Ainsworth, with whom, and with you, my best wishes and

warmest feelings will ever remain. I reap no gain or profit by parting

from you, nor will any conveyance of your property be required, for, in

this respect, you have always been literally ‘Bentley’s’ Miscellany,

and never mine.

Unlike the driver of the old Manchester mail, I regard this altered

state of things with feelings of unmingled pleasure and satisfaction.

Unlike the guard of the new Manchester mail, _your_ guard is at home in

his new place, and has roystering highwaymen and gallant desperadoes

ever within call. And if I might compare you, my child, to an engine;

(not a Tory engine, nor a Whig engine, but a brisk and rapid

locomotive;) your friends and patrons to passengers; and he who now

stands towards you _in loco parentis_ as the skilful engineer and

supervisor of the whole, I would humbly crave leave to postpone the

departure of the train on its new and auspicious course for one brief

instant, while, with hat in hand, I approach side by side with the

friend who travelled with me on the old road, and presume to solicit

favour and kindness in behalf of him and his new charge, both for their

sakes and that of the old coachman,

Boz.

Footnotes:

[122] This paper was written before the practice of exhibiting Members

of Parliament, like other curiosities, for the small charge of

half-a-crown, was abolished.

[161] The regulations of the prison relative to the confinement of

prisoners during the day, their sleeping at night, their taking their

meals, and other matters of gaol economy, have been all altered-greatly

for the better—since this sketch was first published. Even the

construction of the prison itself has been changed.

[165] These two men were executed shortly afterwards. The other was

respited during his Majesty’s pleasure.

[429] [In its original form.]