Produced by Syamanta Saikia, Jon Ingram, Barbara Tozier and the PG
Online Distributed Proofreading Team






PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.



FOR THE WEEK ENDING JULY 31, 1841.

       *       *       *       *       *


POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE.

Let me earnestly implore you, good Mr. PUNCH, to give publicity to a new
invention in the art of poetry, which I desire only to claim the merit of
having discovered. I am perfectly willing to permit others to improve upon
it, and to bring it to that perfection of which I am delightedly aware, it
is susceptible.

It is sometimes lamented that the taste for poetry is on the decline--that
it is no longer relished--that the public will never again purchase it as a
luxury. But it must be some consolation to our modern poets to know (as no
doubt they do, for it is by this time notorious) that their productions
really do a vast deal of service--that they are of a value for which they
were never designed. They--I mean many of them--have found their way into
the pharmacopoeia, and are constantly prescribed by physicians as
soporifics of rare potency. For instance--

  "---- not poppy, nor mandragora,
  Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world.
  Shall ever usher thee to that sweet sleep"

to which a man shall be conducted by a few doses of Robert Montgomery's
Devil's Elixir, called "Satan," or by a portion, or rather a potion, of
"Oxford." Apollo, we know, was the god of medicine as well as of poetry.
Behold, in this our bard, his two divine functions equally mingled!

But waiving this, of which it was not my intention to speak, let me remark,
that the reason why poetry will no longer go down with the public, _as
poetry_, is, that the whole frame-work is worn out. No new rhymes can be
got at. When we come to a "mountain," we are tolerably sure that a
"fountain" is not very far off; when we see "sadness," it leads at once to
"madness"--to "borrow" is sure to be followed by "sorrow;" and although it
is said, "_when_ poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the
window,"--a saying which seems to imply that poverty _may_ sometimes enter
at the chimney or elsewhere--yet I assure you, in poetry, "the poor"
_always_ come in, and always go out at "the door."

My new invention has closed the "door," for the future, against the vulgar
crew of versifiers. A man _must_ be original. He must write common-sense
too--hard exactions I know, but it cannot be helped.

I transmit you a specimen. Like all great discoveries, the chief merit of
my invention is its simplicity. Lest, however, "the meanest capacity"
(which cannot, by the way, be supposed to be addicted to PUNCH) should
boggle at it, it may be as well to explain that every letter of the final
word of each alternate line must be pronounced as though Dilworth himself
presided at the perusal; and that the last letter (or letters) placed in
_italics_ will be found to constitute the rhyme. Here, then, we have

A RENCONTRE WITH A TEA-TOTALLER.

  On going forth last night, a friend to see,
  I met a man by trade a s-n-o-_b_;
  Reeling along the path he held his way.
  "Ho! ho!" quoth I, "he's d-r-u-n-_k_."
  Then thus to him--"Were it not better, far,
  You were a little s-o-b-e-_r_?
  'Twere happier for your family, I guess,
  Than playing off such rum r-i-g-_s_.
  Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see 'em,
  Are taken up at once by t-h-_e_-_m_."
  "Me drunk!" the cobbler cried, "the devil trouble you!
  You want to kick up a blest r-o-_w_.
  Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby,
  If drain I've had!" (the lying s-n-o-_b_!)
  "I've just return'd from a tee-total party,
  Twelve on us jamm'd in a spring c-a-_r_-_t_.
  The man as lectured, now, _was_ drunk; why, bless ye,
  He's sent home in a c-h-a-i-_s_-_e_.
  He'd taken so much lush into his belly,
  I'm blest if he could t-o-dd-_l_-_e_.
  A pair on 'em--hisself and his good lady;--
  The gin had got into her h-e-_a_-_d_.
  (My eye and Betty! what weak mortals _we_ are;
  They said they took but ginger b-e-_e_-_r_!)
  But as for me, I've stuck ('twas rather ropy)
  All day to weak imperial p-o-_p_.
  And now we've had this little bit o'sparrin',
  Just stand a q-u-a-r-t-e-_r_-_n_!"

       *       *       *       *       *


A man in New-York enjoys such very _excellent spirits_ that he has only to
drink water to intoxicate himself.

       *       *       *       *       *


TO JOBBING PATRIOTS.

            MR. GEORGE ROBINS.
    with unparalleled gratification, begs to state that he has it in
                Command
  to announce, that in consequence of
        LORD JOHN RUSSELL'S LETTER
  to the citizens of London having satisfactorily convinced her
          MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY
        that a change of ministry
                CANNOT
  be productive of a corresponding transformation of measures, and that
  the late
        POLITICO-GLADIATORIAL STRUGGLE
  for the guerdon of office could only have emanated from a highly
  commendatory desire on the part of the disinterested and patriotic
  belligerents
          TO SERVE THEMSELVES
            or their country,
          HIS ROYAL MISTRESS,
  ever solicitous to enchain the hearts of her devoted subjects, by an
  impartial exercise of her prerogative, has determined to submit to the
    ARBITRATION OF HIS HUMBLE HAMMER,
  some of those desirable _places_, so long known as the _stimuli_ to the
            LACTANT LYCURGI
  of the nineteenth century.

            LOT 1.
    FIRST LORD OF THE TREASURY,
  at present in possession of Lord Melbourne. This will be found a most
  eligible investment, as it embraces a considerable extent of female
  patronage, comprising the appointments of those valuable legislative
  adjuncts,
      THE LADIES OF THE BEDCHAMBER,
    AND THE ROYAL NURSES, WET AND DRY;
  together with those household desiderata,
          COALS AND CANDLES,
  and an unlimited
        RUN OF THE ROYAL KITCHEN.

            LOT 2.
    SECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE COLONIAL DEPARTMENT,
  at present occupied by Lord John Russell. This lot must possess
  considerable attraction for a gastronomical experimentalist, as its
  present proprietor has for a long time been engaged in the discovery
  of how few pinches of oatmeal and spoonsful of gruel are sufficient
  for a human pauper, and will be happy to transfer his data to the
  next fortunate proprietor. Any gentleman desirous of embarking in the
  manufacture of
    SUGAR CANDY, MATCHES, OR CHEAP BREAD,
  would find this a desirable investment, more particularly should he
  wish to form either
    A PAROCHIAL OR MATRIMONIAL UNION,
  as there are plans for the one, and hints for the other, which will
  be thrown into the bargain, being of no further use to the present
  noble incumbent.

            LOT 3.
    SECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE HOME DEPARTMENT,
  at present the property of Lord Normanby. Is admirably calculated for
  any one of a literary turn of mind, offering resources peculiarly
  adapted for a proper cultivation of the Jack Sheppard and James
  Hatfield "men-of-elegant-crimes" school of novel-writing--the
  archives of Newgate and Horsemonger-lane being open at all times to
  the inspection of the favoured purchaser.
        "YES" OR "NO"
  will determine the sale of this desirable lot in a few days.

            LOT 4.
    SECRETARY OF STATE FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS,
  now in the occupancy of Lord Palmerston. Possesses advantages rarely
  to be met with. From its connexion with the continental powers, Eau
  de Cologne, bear's grease, and cosmetics of unrivalled excellence,
  can be procured at all times, thus insuring the favour of the divine
  sex,

    "From the rich peasant-cheek of bronze,
       And large black eyes that flash on you a volley
     Of rays, that say a thousand things at once,
       To the high dama's brow more melancholy."

  The only requisite (besides money) for this desirable lot is, that
  the purchaser must write a bold round hand for
          PROTOCOLS,
  understand French and Chinese, and be an
        EXPERT TURNER.

            LOT 5.
    SEVERAL UNDER SECRETARYSHIPS,
  admirably adapted for younger sons and poor relatives.

  The whole of the proceeds (by the advice of her Majesty's Cabinet
  Council) will be devoted to the erection of a
    UNION FOR DECAYED MINISTERS.

  Cards to view may be had at the Treasury any day after the meeting of
  Parliament.

       *       *       *       *       *


"Very like a whale!" as the schoolmaster said when he examined the boy's
back after severely flogging him.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE DIARY OF A LORD MAYOR.

All the world is familiar with the "Diary of a Physician," the "Diary of an
Ennuyée," the "Diary of a Lady of Rank," and Heaven knows how many other
diaries besides! but who has ever heard of, or saw, the "_Diary of a Lord
Mayor_,--that day-book, or blotter, as it may be commercially termed, of a
gigantic mind? Who has ever perused the autobiography of the Lama of
Guildhall, Cham of Cripplegate, Admiral of Fleet Ditch, Great Turtle-hunter
and Herod of Michaelmas geese? We will take upon ourselves to answer--not
one! It was reserved for PUNCH to give to his dear friends, the public, the
first and only extract which has ever been made from the genuine diary of a
_late_ Lord Mayor of London, or, as that august individual was wont, when
in Paris, to designate himself on his visiting tickets--

       "Mr. ----
  "FEU LORD MAYOR DE LONDRES."

How the precious MS. came into our possession matters little to the reader;
suffice it to say, it is a secret which must ever remain confined to the
bosoms of PUNCH and his cheesemonger.

DIARY.

_Nov. 10, eight o'clock._--Dreamed a horrid dream--thought that I was
stretched in Guildhall with the two giants sitting on my chest, and
drinking rum toddy out of firemen's buckets--fancied the Board of Aldermen
were transformed into skittle-pins, and the police force into bottles of
_Harvey's sauce_. Tried to squeak, but couldn't. Then I imagined that I was
changed into the devil, and that Alderman Harmer was St. Dunstan, tweaking
my nose with a pair of red-hot tongs. This time, I think, I _did_ shout
lustily. Awoke with the fright, and found my wife pulling my nose
vigorously, and calling me "My Lord!" Pulled off my nightcap, and began to
have an idea I was somebody, but could not tell exactly who. Suddenly my
eye rested upon the civic gown and chain, which lay upon a chair by my
bed-side:--the truth flashed upon my mind--I felt I was a _real_ Lord
Mayor. I remembered clearly that yesterday I had been sworn into office. I
had a perfect recollection of the glass-coach, and the sheriffs, and the
men in armour, and the band playing "Jim along Josey," as we passed the
Fleet Prison, and the glories of the city barge at Blackfriars-bridge, and
the enthusiastic delight with which the assembled multitude witnessed--

[Illustration: THE LORD MAYOR TAKING WATER.]

I could also call to mind the dinner--the turtle, venison, and turbot--and
the popping of the corks from the throats of the champagne bottles. I was
conscious, too, that I had made a speech; but, beyond this point, all the
events of the night were lost in chaotic confusion. One thing, however, was
certain--I was a _bonâ fide_ Lord Mayor--and being aware of the arduous
duties I had to perform, I resolved to enter upon them at once. Accordingly
I arose, and as some poet says--

  "Commenced sacrificing to the Graces,
  By putting on my breeches."

Sent for a barber, and authorised him to remove the superfluous hair from
my chin--at the same time made him aware of the high honour I had conferred
upon him by placing the head of the city under his razor--thought I
detected the fellow's tongue in his cheek, but couldn't be certain. _Mem._
Never employ the rascal again.

_9 o'clock._--Dressed in full fig--sword very troublesome--getting
continually between my legs. Sat down to breakfast--her ladyship
complimented me on my appearance--said I looked the _beau ideal_ of a
mayor--took a side glance at myself in the mirror--her ladyship was
perfectly right. Trotter the shoemaker announced--walked in with as much
freedom as he used to do into my shop in Coleman-street--smelt awfully of
"best calf" and "heavy sole"--shook me familiarly by the hand, and actually
called me "Bob." The indignation of the Mayor was roused, and I hinted to
him that I did not understand such liberties, upon which the fellow had the
insolence to laugh in my face--couldn't stand his audacity, so quitted the
room with strong marks of disgust.

_10 o'clock._--Heard that a vagabond was singing "Jim Crow" on
Tower-hill--proceeded with a large body of the civic authorities to arrest
him, but after an arduous chase of half-an-hour we unfortunately lost him
in Houndsditch. Suppressed two illegal apple-stalls in the Minories, and
took up a couple of young black-legs, whom I detected playing at
chuck-farthing on Saffron-hill. Issued a proclamation against mad dogs,
cautioning all well-disposed persons to avoid their society.

_12 o'clock._--Waited upon by the secretary of the New River Company with a
sample of the water they supply to the City--found that it was much
improved by compounding it with an equal portion of cognac--gave a
certificate accordingly. Lunched, and took a short nap in my cocked hat.

_1 o'clock._--Police-court. Disposed of several cases summarily--everybody
in court amazed at the extraordinary acuteness I displayed, and the
rapidity with which I gave my decisions--they did not know that I always
privately tossed up--heads, complainant wins, and tails, defendant--this is
the fairest way after all--no being humbugged by hard swearing or innocent
looks--no sifting of witnesses--no weighing of evidence--no
deliberating--no hesitating--the thing is done in an instant--and, if the
guilty should escape, why the fault lies with fortune, and not with
justice.

_3 o'clock._--Visited the Thames Tunnel--found Brunel a devilish _deep_
fellow--he explained to me the means by which he worked, and said he had
got nearly over all his difficulties--I suppose he meant to say he had
nearly got _under_ them--at all events the tunnel, when completed, will be
a vast convenience to the metropolis, particularly to the _lower_ classes.
From the Tunnel went to Billingsgate-market--confiscated a basket of
suspicious shrimps, and ordered them to be conveyed to the Mansion-house.
_Mem._ Have them for breakfast to-morrow. Return to dress for dinner,
having promised to take the chair at the Grand Annual Metropolitan
Anti-Hydro-without-gin-drinking Association.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here a hiatus occurs in the MS.; but from cotemporary authorities we are
enabled to state that his lordship was conveyed home at two o'clock on the
following morning, by some jolly companions.

  "Slowly and sadly they smoothed his bed,
    And they told his wife and daughter
  To give him, next day, a couple of red-
    Herrings and soda-water."

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LOVES OF THE PLANTS.

  The gay _Daffodilly_, an amorous blade,
    Stole out of his bed in the dark,
  And calling his brother, _Jon-Quil_, forth he stray'd
  To breathe his love vows to a _Violet_ maid
    Who dwelt in a neighbouring park.

  A spiteful old _Nettle-aunt_ frown'd on their love;
    But _Daffy_, who laugh'd at her power,
  A _Shepherd's-purse_ slipp'd in the nurse's _Fox-glove_,
  Then up _Jacob's-ladder_ he crept to his love,
    And stole to the young _Virgin's-bower_.

  The _Maiden's-blush Rose_--and she seem'd all dismay'd,
    Array'd in her white _Lady's-smock_,
  She call'd _Mignonette_--but the sly little jade,
  That instant was hearing a sweet serenade
    From the lips of a tall _Hollyhock_.

  The _Pheasant's eye_, always a mischievous wight,
    For prying out something not good,
  Avow'd that he peep'd through the keyhole that night;
  And clearly discern'd, by a glow-worm's pale light,
    Their _Two-faces-under-a-hood_.

  Old Dowager _Peony_, deaf as a door,
    Who wish'd to know more of the facts,
  Invited Dame _Mustard_ and Miss _Hellebore_,
  With Miss _Periwinkle_, and many friends more,
    One evening to tea and to tracts.

  The _Butter-cups_ ranged, defamation ran high,
    While every tongue join'd the debate;
  Miss _Sensitive_ said, 'twixt a groan and a sigh,
  Though she felt much concern'd--yet she thought her dear _Vi_--
    Had grown rather bulbous of late.

  Thus the tale spread about through the busy parterre:
    Miss _Columbine_ turn'd up her nose,
  And the prude Lady _Lavender_ said, with a stare,
  That her friend, _Mary-gold_, had been heard to declare,
    The creature had toy'd with the _Rose_.

  Each _Sage_ look'd severe, and each _Cocks-comb_ look'd gay,
    When _Daffy_ to make their mind easy,
  Miss _Violet_ married one morning in May,
  And, as sure as you live, before next Lady-day,
    She brought him a _Michaelmas-daisy_.

       *       *       *       *       *


NOTHING WONDERFUL.

The Duke of Normandie accounts for the non-explosion of his
percussion-shells, by the fact of having incautiously used some of
M'Culloch's pamphlets on the corn laws. If this be the case, no person can
be surprised at their _not going off_.

       *       *       *       *       *


MODERN WAT TYLERS.

The anxiety of the Whigs to repeal the timber duties is quite pardonable,
for, with their _wooden heads_, they doubtlessly look upon it in the light
of a _poll-tax_.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: Head of a Botecudo previous to disfigurement.]

[Illustration: Head of a Butecudo disfigured by chin and ear pendants.]

[Illustration: Head of a Botecudo disfigured by civilisation.]


CIVILISATION.

"If an European," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, in one of his Discourses, "when
he has cut off his beard, and put false hair on his head, or bound up his
own hair in formal, hard knots, as unlike nature as he can make it, and
after having rendered them immoveable by the help of the fat of hogs, has
covered the whole with flour, laid on by a machine with the utmost
regularity--if, when thus attired, he issues forth and meets a Cherokee
Indian who has bestowed as much time at his toilet, and laid with equal
care and attention his yellow and red ochre on such parts of his forehead
and cheeks as he judges most becoming, whichever of these two despises the
other for this attention to the fashion of his country, whichever first
feels himself provoked to laugh, is the barbarian."

Granting this, the popular advocates of civilisation certainly are not the
most civilised of individuals. They appear to consider yellow ochre and
peacocks' feathers the climax of barbarism--marabouts and kalydor the acme
of refinement. A ring through the nose calls forth their deepest pity--a
diamond drop to the ear commands their highest respect. To them, nothing
can show a more degraded state of nature than a New Zealand chief, with his
distinctive coat of arms emblazoned on the skin of his face; nor anything
of greater social elevation than an English peer, with the glittering label
of his "nobility" tacked to his breast. To a rational mind, the one is not
a whit more barbarous than the other; they being, as Sir Joshua observes,
the real barbarians who, like these _soi-disant_ civilisers, would look
upon their own monstrosities as the sole standard of excellence.

The philosophy of the present age, however, is peculiarly the philosophy of
outsides. Few dive deeper into the human breast than the bosom of the
shirt. Who could doubt the heart that beats beneath a cambric front? or who
imagine that hand accustomed to dirty work which is enveloped in white kid?
What Prometheus was to the physical, Stultz is to the moral man--the one
made human beings out of clay, the other cuts characters out of
broad-cloth. Gentility is, with us, a thing of the goose and shears; and
nobility an attribute--not of the mind, but (supreme civilisation!) of _a
garter_!

Certain modern advocates appear to be devout believers in this external
philosophy. They are touchingly eloquent upon the savage state of those who
indulge in yellow ochre, but conveniently mute upon the condition of those
who prefer carmine. They are beautifully alive to the degradation of that
race of people which crushes the feet of its children, but wonderfully dead
to the barbarism of that race, nearer home, which performs a like operation
upon the ribs of its females. By them, also, we are told that "words would
manifestly fail in portraying _so low a state of morals as is pictured in
the lineaments of an Australian chief_,"--a stretch of the outside
philosophy which we certainly were not prepared to meet with; for little
did we dream that this noble science could ever have attained such
eminence, that men of intellect would be able to discover immorality in
particular noses, and crime in a certain conformation of the chin.

That an over-attention to the adornment of the person is a barbarism all
must allow; but that the pride which prompts the Esquimaux to stuff bits of
stone through a hole in his cheek, is a jot less refined than that which
urges the dowager-duchess to thrust coloured crystals through a hole in her
ear, certainly requires a peculiar kind of mental squint to perceive.
Surely there is as great a want of refinement among us, in this respect, as
among the natives of New Zealand. Why rush for subjects for civilisation to
the back woods of America, when thousands may be found, any fine afternoon,
in Regent-street? Why fly to Biddy Salamander and Bulkabra, when the Queen
of Beauty and Count D'Orsay have equally urgent claims on the attention and
sympathies of the civiliser?

On the subject of civilisation, two questions naturally present
themselves--the one, what _is_ civilisation?--the other, have we such a
superabundance of that commodity among us, that we should think about
exporting it? To the former question, the journal especially devoted to the
subject has, to the best of our belief, never condescended a reply;
although, like the celebrated argument on the colour of the chameleon, no
two persons, perhaps, have the same idea of it. In what then, does
civilisation consist, and how is it to be generally promoted? Does it, as
Sir E.L. B---- would doubtlessly assure us, does it lie in a strict
adherence to the last month's fashions; and is it to be propagated
throughout the world only by missionaries from Nugee's, and by the
universal dissemination of curling-tongs and Macassar--patent leather boots
and opera hats--white cambric pocket-handkerchiefs and lavender-water? Or,
does it consist, as the Countess of B---- would endeavour to convince us,
in abstaining from partaking twice of fish, and from eating peas with the
knife? and is it to be made common among mankind only by distributing
silver forks and finger-glasses to barbarians, and printing the Book of
Etiquette for gratuitous circulation among them? Or, is it, as the mild and
humane Judge P---- would prove to us, a necessary result of the Statutes at
Large; and can it be rendered universal only by sending out Jack Ketch as a
missionary--by the introduction of rope-walks in foreign parts, and the
erection of gallows all over the world? Or, is it, as the Archbishop of
Canterbury contests, to be achieved solely by the dissemination of bishops,
and by diffusing among the poor benighted negroes the blessings of sermons,
tithes, and church rates? Christianity, it has, on the other hand, been
asserted, is the only practical system of civilisation; but this is
manifestly the idea of a visionary. For ourselves, we must confess we
incline to the opposite opinion; and think either the bishops or Jack Ketch
(we hardly know which we prefer) by far the more rational means. Indeed,
when we consider the high state of civilisation which this country has
attained, and imagine for an instant the awful amount of distress which
would necessarily accrue from the general practice of Christianity among
us, even for a week, it is clear that the idea never could be entertained
by any moral or religious, mind. A week's Christianity in England! What
_would_ become of the lawyer, and parsons? It is too terrible to
contemplate.

       *       *       *       *       *


NOUVEAU MANUEL DU VOYAGEUR.

These are the continental-trip days. All the world will be now a-_tour_ing.
But every one is not a Dr. Bowring, and it is rather convenient to be able
to edge in a word now and then, when these rascally foreigners will chatter
in their own beastly jargon. Ignorant pigs, not to accustom themselves to
talk decent English! Il Signor Marchese Cantini, the learned and
illustrious author of "Hi, diddlo-diddlino! Il gutto e'l violino!", has
just rendered immense service to the trip-loving natives of these lovely
isles, by preparing a "Guide to Conversation," that for utility and
correctness of idiom surpasses all previous attempts of the same kind. With
it in one hand, and a bagful of Napoléons or Zecchini in the other, the
biggest dunce in London--nay, even a schoolmaster--may travel from Boulogne
to Naples and back, with the utmost satisfaction to himself, and with
substantial profit to the people of these barbarous climes. The following
is a specimen of the way in which Il Signor has accomplished his
undertaking. It will be seen at a glance how well he has united the
classical with the utilitarian principle, clothing both in the purest
dialect; ex. gr.:--

THIS IS ENGLISH.         THIS IS FRENCH.         THIS IS ITALIAN.

Does your mother know    Madame, votre maman,    La vostra signora
you're out?              sait-elle que vous      madre sa che siete
                         n'êtes pas chez vous?   uscito di casa?

It won't do, Mr.         Cela nese passera,      Questo non fara
Ferguson.                Monsieur Ferguson,      cosi, il Signore
                         jamais!                 Fergusoni!

Who are you?             Est-ce que vous aviez   Chi è vossignoria?
                         jamais un père?

All round my hat.        Tout autour mon         Tutto all' interno
                         chapeau.                del mio capello!

Go it, ye cripples!      C'est ça! Battez-vous   Bravo! bravo,
                         bien--boiteux;          stroppiati!
                         cr-r-r-r-matin!         Ancora-ancora!

Such a getting           Diantre! comme on       Come si ha salito--
up-stairs!               monte l'escalier!       è maraviglioso!

Jump, Jim Crow.          Sautez, Monsiuer        Salti, pergrazia,
                         Jaques Corbeau!         Signor Giamomo
                                                 Corvo!

It would not be fair to rob the Signor of any more of his labour. It will
be seen that, on the principle of the Painter and his Cow, we have
distinctly written above each sentence the language it belongs to. It is
always better to obviate the possibility of mistakes.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE OMNIBUS

  The horrors of an omnibus,
    Indeed, I've cause to curse;
  And if I ride in one again,
    I hope 'twill be my hearse.
  If you a journey have to go,
    And they make no delay,
  'Tis ten to one you're serv'd like _curds_,
    They _spill you on the_ WHEY.

  A short time since my wife and I
    A short call had to make,
  And giving me a _kiss_, she said--
    "A _buss_ you'd better take!"
  We journey'd on--two lively cads,
    Were for our custom triers;
  And in a twinkling we were fix'd
    Fast by this _pair of pliers_!

  My wife's arm I had lock'd in mine,
    But soon they forced her from it;
  And she was lugg'd into the _Sun_,
    And I into the _Comet_!
  Jamm'd to a jelly, there I sat,
    Each one against me pushing;
  And my poor gouty legs seem'd made
    For each one's _pins--a cushion_!

  My wife some time had gone before:
    I urged the jarvey's speed,
  When all at once the bus set off
    At fearful pace, indeed!
  I ask'd the coachee what caused this?
    When thus his story ran:--
  "Vy, _a man shied at an oss_, and so
    _An oss shied at a man_!"

  Oh, fearful crash! oh, fearful smash!
    At such a rate we run,
  That presently the _Comet_ came
    In contact with the _Sun_.
  At that sad time each body felt,
    As parting with its soul,
  We were, indeed, _a little whirl'd_,
    And shook from _pole to pole_!

       *       *       *       *       *


Dunn, the miller of Wimbledon, has recently given his infant the
_Christian_ name of Cardigan. If there is truth in the adage of "_give a
dog a bad name and hang him_," the poor child has little else in
perspective than the gallows.

       *       *       *       *       *


PRAY DON'T TELL THE GOVERNOR.

A SONG OF TON.

  Why, y-e-s--'twas rather late last night;
    In fact, past six this morning.
  My rascal valet, in a fright,
    Awoke, and gave me warning.
  But what of that?--I'm very young.
    And you've "been in the Oven," or,
  Like me, you're wrong'd by rumour's tongue,
    So--pray don't tell the Governor.[1]

  I dined a quarter after seven,
    With Dashall of the Lancers;
  Went to the opera at eleven,
    To see the ballet-dancers.
  From thence I saunter'd to the club--
    Fortune to me's a sloven--or,
  I surely must have won one rub,
    But--mind! don't tell the Governor!

  I went to Ascot t'other day,
    Drove Kitty in a tandem;
  Upset it 'gainst a brewer's dray--
    I'd dined, so drove at random.
  I betted high--an "outside" won--
    I'd swear its hoofs were cloven, or
  It ne'er the favourite horse had done,
    But--don't you tell the Governor.

  My cottage ornée down at Kew,
    So picturesque and pretty,
  Cost me of thousands not a few,
    To fit it up for Kitty.
  She said it charm'd her fancy quite,
    But (still I can't help loving her)
  She bolted with the plate one night--
    You needn't tell the Governor.

  My creditors are growing queer,
    Nay, threaten to be furious;
  I'll scan their paltry bills next year,
    At present I'm not curious.
  Such fellows are a monstrous bore,
    So I and Harry Grosvenor
  To-morrow start for Gallia's shore,
    And leave duns--to the Governor.

    [1] The author is aware there exists a legitimate rhyme for
        _Porringer_, but believes a match for governor lies still in
        the _terra incognita_ of allowable rhythm.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE EXPLOSIVE BOX.

Sir Hussey Vivian was relating to Sir Robert Peel the failure of the Duke
of Normandie's experiment with a terrible self-explosive box, which he had
buried in a mound at Woolwich, in the expectation that it would shortly
blow up, but which still remains there, to the great terror of the
neighbourhood, who are afraid to approach the spot where this destructive
engine is interred. Sir Robert, on hearing the circumstance, declared that
Lord John Russell had served him the same trick, by burying the corn-law
question under the Treasury bench. No one knew at what moment it might
explode, and blow them to ----. "The question," he added, "now is--who will
dig it out?"

       *       *       *       *       *


EXCLUSIVE INTELLIGENCE.

(_From_ OUR _West-end and "The Observer's" Correspondent._)

We have every reason to believe, unless a very respectable authority, on
whom we are in the habit of relying, has grievously imposed upon us, that a
very illustrious personage has consulted a certain exalted individual as to
whether a certain other person, no less exalted than the latter, but not so
illustrious as the former, shall be employed in a certain approaching
event, which at present is involved in the greatest uncertainty. Another
individual, who is more dignified than the third personage above alluded
to, but not nearly so illustrious as the first, and not half so exalted as
the second, has nothing whatever to do with the matter above hinted at, and
it is not at all probable that he will be ever in the smallest way mixed up
with it. For this purpose we have cautiously abstained from giving his
name, and indeed only allude to him that there may be no misapprehension on
this very delicate subject.

       *       *       *       *       *


ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

The _Times_ gives a horrible description of some mesmeric experiments by a
M. Delafontaine, by which a boy was deprived of _all sensation_. We suspect
that some one has been operating upon the Poor Law Commissioners, for their
_total want of feeling_ is a mesmeric phenomenon.

       *       *       *       *       *


ON SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BART., _not_ M.P. FOR LINCOLN.

  That Bulwer's from fair Lincoln bann'd,
    Doth threaten evil days;
  For, having much waste time on hand,
    Alas! he'll scribble plays.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE NEW HOUSE.

"This is the House that Jack (Bull) built."

  Once there lived, as old histories learnedly show, a
  Great sailor and shipbuilder, named MISTER NOAH,
  Who a hulk put together, so wondrous--no doubt of it--
  That all sorts of creatures could creep in and out of it.
  Things with heads, and without heads, things dumb, things loquacious,
  Things with tails, and things tail-less, things tame, and things pugnacious;
  Rats, lions, curs, geese, pigeons, toadies and donkeys,
  Bears, dormice, and snakes, tigers, jackals, and monkeys:
  In short, a collection so curious, that no man
  E'er since could with NOAH compare as a show-man
  At length, JOHNNY BULL, with that clever fat head of his,
  Design'd a much stranger and comical edifice,
  To be call'd his "NEW HOUSE"--a queer sort of menagerie
  To hold all his beasts--with an eye to the Treasury.
  Into this he has cramm'd such uncommon monstrosities,
  Such animals rare, such unique curiosities,
  That we wager a CROWN--not to speak it uncivil--
  This HOUSE of BULL'S beats Noah's Ark to the devil.
  Lest you think that we bounce--the great fault, we confess, of men--
  We proceed to detail some few things, as a specimen
  Of what are to be found in this novel museum;
  As it opens next month, you may all go and see 'em.
  Five _Woods_, of five shades, grain, and polish, and gilding,
  Are used this diversified chamber in building.
  Not a nail, bolt, or screw, you'll discover to lurk in it,
  Though six _Smiths_ you will find every evening at work in it.
  A _Forman_ and _Master_ you'll see there appended too,
  Whose words or instructions are never attended to.
  A _Leader_, whom nobody follows; a pair o' _Knights_,
  With courage at ninety degrees of old Fahrenheit's;
  Full a hundred "Jim Crows," wheeling round about--round about,
  Yet only one _Turner_'s this House to be found about.
  Of hogs-heads, Lord knows, there are plenty to spare of them,
  But only one _Cooper_ is kept to take care of them.
  A _Ryder's_ maintain'd, but he's no horse to get upon;
  There's a _Packe_ too, and only one _Pusey_ to set upon.
  Two _Palmers_ are kept, holy men, in this ill, grim age,
  To make every night their Conservative pilgrimage.
  A _Fuller_, for scouring old coats and redressing them;
  A _Taylor_ to fashion; and _Mangles_ for pressing them.
  Two _Stewarts_, two _Fellowes_, a _Clerk_, and a _Baillie_,
  To keep order, yet each call'd to order are, daily.
  A _Duke_, without dukedom--a matter uncommon--
  And _Bowes_, the delight, the enchantment of woman.
  This house has a _Tennent_, but ask for the rent of it,
  He'd laugh at, and send you to Brussels or Ghent for it.
  Of the animals properly call'd so, a sample
  We'll give to you gentlefolks now, for example:--
  There are _bores_ beyond count, of all ages and sizes,
  Yet only one _Hogg_, who both learned and wise is.
  There's a _Buck_ and a _Roebuck_, the latter a wicked one,
  Whom few like to play with--he makes such a kick at one.
  There are _Hawkes_ and a _Heron_, with wings trimm'd to fly upon,
  And claws to stick into what prey they set eye upon.
  There's a _Fox_, a smart cove, but, poor fellow, no tail he has;
  And a _Bruen_--good tusks for a feed we'll be bail he has.
  There's a _Seale_, and four _Martens_, with skins to our wishes;
  There's a _Rae_ and two _Roches_, and all sorts of fishes;
  There's no sheep, but a _Sheppard_--"the last of the pigtails"--
  And a _Ramsbottom_--chip of the old famous big tails.
  Now to mention in brief a few trifles extraneous,
  By connoisseurs class'd, "odds and ends miscellaneous:"--
  There's a couple of _Bells_--frights--nay, Hottentots real!
  A _Trollope_, of elegance _le beau ideal_.
  Of _Browne_, _Green_, and _Scarlett_ men, surely a sack or more,
  Besides three whole _White_ men, preserved with a _Blakemore_.
  There's a _Hill_, and a _Hutt_, and a _Kirk_, and--astounding!
  The entire of old _Holland_ this house to be found in.
  There's a _Flower_, with a perfume so strong 'twould upset ye all;
  And the beauty of _Somers_ is here found perpetual.
  There's a _Bodkin_, a _Patten_, a _Rose_, and a _Currie_,
  And a man that's still _Hastie_, though ne'er in a hurry.
  There is _Cole_ without smoke, a "sou'-_West_" without danger;
  And a _Grey_, that to place is at present a stranger.
  There's a _Peel_,--but enough! if you're a virtuoso
  You'll see for yourself, and next month you may do so;
  When, if you don't say this _New House_ is a wonder,
  We're Dutchmen--that's all!--and at once knuckle under.

       *       *       *       *       *


WATERFORD ELECTION.

  The Tories at Waterford carried the day,
    And the reign of the Rads is for ever now past;
  For one who was _Wyse_ he got out of the way,
    And the hopes of the other proved _Barron_ at last.

       *       *       *       *       *


STATE OF TRADE.

We are sorry to perceive that trade was never in a more alarming state than
at present. A general _strike_ for wages has taken place amongst the
smiths. The carpenters have been dreadfully _cut up_; and the shoemakers
find, at the _last_, that it is impossible to make both _ends_ meet. The
bakers complain that the pressure of the times is so great, that they
cannot get the bread to _rise_. The bricklayers swear that the monopolists
ought to be brought to the _scaffold_. The glaziers, having taken some
_pains_ to discover the cause of the distress, declare that they can _see
through_ the whole affair. The gardeners wish to get at the _root_ of the
evil, and consequently have become _radical_ reformers. The laundresses
have _washed_ their hands clean of the business. The dyers protest that
things never looked so _blue_ in their memory, as there is but a slow
demand for

[Illustration: FAST COLOURS.]

The butchers are reduced to their last _stake_. The weavers say their lives
hang by a single _thread_. The booksellers protest we must _turn over a new
leaf_. The ironmongers declare that the times are very _hard_ indeed. The
cabmen say business is completely at a _stand_. The watermen are all
_aground_. The tailors object to the government _measures_;--and the
undertakers think that affairs are assuming a _grave_ aspect. Public
credit, too, is tottering;--nobody will take doctors' _draughts_, and it is
difficult to obtain cash for the best bills (of the play). An extensive
brandy-ball merchant in the neighbourhood of Oxford-street has called a
meeting of his creditors; and serious apprehensions are entertained that a
large manufacturer of lollypops in the Haymarket will be unable to meet his
heavy liabilities. Two watchmakers in the city have stopped this morning,
and what is more extraordinary, their watches have "_stopped_" too.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE NORMANDIE "NO GO."

The figure, stuffed with shavings, of a French grenadier, constructed by
the Duke of Normandie, and exhibited by him recently at Woolwich, which he
stated would explode if fired at by bullets of his own construction,
possitively objected to being blown up in such a ridiculous manner; and
though several balls were discharged at the man of shavings, he showed no
disposition to move. The Duke waxed exceedingly wroth at the coolness of
his soldier, and swore, if he had been a true Frenchman, he would have
_gone off_ at the first fire.

       *       *       *       *       *


A CONUNDRUM BY COL. SIBTHORP.

"What's the difference between the top of a mountain and a person afflicted
with any disorder?"--"One's a _summit of a hill_, and the other's _ill of a
summut_."

       *       *       *       *       *


A CLASSICAL INSCRIPTION FOR A CIGAR CASE.

[Greek: To bakchikhon doraema labe, se gar philo.].--EURIPIDES.


FREE TRANSLATION.

"Accept this gift of To-_Baccha_--cigar fellow."

       *       *       *       *       *


FASHIONS FOR THE PRESENT WEEK.

Though the dog-days have not yet commenced, _muzzlin_ is very general, and
a new sort of _shally_, called _shilly-shally_, is getting remarkably
prevalent. _Shots_ are still considered the greatest hits, for those who
are anxious to make a good impression; flounces are _out_ in the morning,
and _tucks in_ at dinner-parties, the latter being excessively full, and
much sought after. At _conversaziones_, puffs are very usual, and sleeves
are not so tight as before, to allow of their being laughed in; jewels are
not now to be met with in the head, which is left _au naturel_--that is to
say, as vacant as possible.

       *       *       *       *       *


"Why is the _Gazette_ like a Frenchman's letter?"--"Because it is full of
_broken English_."

       *       *       *       *       *


BREACH OF PRIVILEGE.

In the strangers' gallery in the American house of representatives, the
following notice is posted up:--"Gentlemen will be pleased not to place
their feet on the boards in front of the gallery, _as the dirt from them
falls down on the senators' heads_." In our English House of Commons, this
pleasant _penchant_ for dirt-throwing is practised by the members instead
of the strangers. It is quite amusing to see with what energy O'Connell and
Lord Stanley are wont to bespatter and heap dirt on each other's heads in
their legislative squabbles!

       *       *       *       *       *


SHOCKING WANT OF SYMPATHY.

Sir Peter Laurie has made a sad complaint to the Lord Mayor, of the
slippery state of the wooden pavement in the Poultry, and strongly
recommended the immediate removal of the _blocks_. This is most barbarous
conduct on the part of Sir Peter. Has he lost all natural affection for his
kindred, that he should seek to injure them in public estimation? Has he no
secret sympathy for the poor blocks whom he has traduced? Let him lay his
hand upon his _head_ and confess that--

  "A fellow feeling; makes us wondrous kind."

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH AND PEEL

THE NEW CABINET.


PUNCH.--Well, Sir Robert, have you yet picked your men? Come, no mystery
between friends. Besides, consider your obligations to your old crony,
Punch. Do you forget how I stood by you on the Catholic question? Come,
name, name! Who are to pluck the golden pippins--who are to smack lips at
the golden fish--who are to chew the fine manchet loaves of Downing-street?

PEEL.--The truth is, my dear Punch--

PUNCH.--Stop. You may put on that demure look, expand your right-hand
fingers across the region where the courtesy of anatomy awards to
politicians a heart, and talk about truth as a certain old lady with a
paper lanthorn before her door may talk of chastity--you may do all this on
the hustings; but this is not Tamworth: besides, you are now elected; so
take one of these cigars--they were smuggled for me by my revered friend
Colonel Sibthorp--fill your glass, and out with the list.

PEEL.--(_Rises and goes to the door, which he double locks; returns to his
seat, and takes from his waistcoat pocket a small piece of ass's skin._) I
have jotted down a few names.

PUNCH.--And, I see, on very proper material. Read, Robert, read.

PEEL.--(_In a mild voice and with a slight blush._)--"First Lord of the
Treasury, and Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Robert Peel!"

PUNCH.--Of course. Well?

PEEL.--"First Lord of the Admiralty--Duke of Buckingham."

PUNCH.--An excellent man for the Admiralty. He has been at sea in politics
all his life.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Foreign Affairs--Earl of Aberdeen."

PUNCH.--An admirable person for Foreign Affairs, especially if he
transacted 'em in Sierra Leone. Proceed.

PEEL.--"Lord Lieutenant of Ireland--Lord Wharncliffe."

PUNCH.--Nothing could be better. Wharncliffe in Ireland! You might as well
appoint a red-hot poker to guard a powder magazine. Go on.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Home Department--Goulburn."

PUNCH.--A most domestic gentleman; will take care of home, I am sure. Go
on.

PEEL.--"Lord Chancellor--Sir William Follett."

PUNCH.--A capital appointment: Sir William loves the law as a spider loves
his spinning; and for the same reason Chancery cobwebs will be at a
premium.

PEEL.--"Secretary for the Colonies--Lord Stanley."

PUNCH.--Would make a better Governor of Macquarrie Harbour; but go on.

PEEL.--"President of the Council--Duke of Wellington."

PUNCH.--Think twice there.--The Duke will be a great check upon you. The
Duke is now a little too old a mouser to enjoy Tory tricks. He has
unfortunately a large amount of common sense; and how fatal must that
quality be to the genius of the Wharncliffes, the Goulburns, and the
Stanleys! Besides, the Duke has another grievous weakness--he won't lie.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Ireland--Sir H. Hardinge."

PUNCH.--Come, that will do. Wharncliffe, the flaming torch of Toryism, and
Hardinge the small lucifer. How Ireland will be enlightened, and how
oranges will go up!

PEEL.--"Lord Chamberlain--Duke of Beaufort."

PUNCH.--Capital! The very politician for a Court carpet. Besides, he knows
the etiquette of every green-room from the Pavilion to the Haymarket. He
is, moreover, a member of the Garrick Club; and what, if possible, speaks
more for his State abilities--he used to drive the Brighton coach!

PEEL.--"Ambassador at Paris--Lord Lyndhurst."

PUNCH.--That's something like. How the graces of the Palais Royal will
rejoice! There is a peculiar fitness in this appointment; for is not his
Lordship son-in-law to old Goldsmid, whilom editor of the _Anti-Galliean_,
and for many years an honoured and withal notorious resident of Paris! Of
course BEN D'ISRAELI, his Lordship's friend, will get a slice of
secretaryship--may be allowed to nib a state quill, if he must not use one.
Well, go on.

PEEL.--That's all at present. How d'ye think they read?

PUNCH.--Very glibly--like the summary of a Newgate Calendar. But the truth
is, I think we want a little new blood in the next Cabinet.

PEEL.--New blood! Explain, dear Punch.

PUNCH.--Why, most of your people are, unfortunately, tried men. Hence, the
people, knowing them as well as they know the contents of their own
breeches' pockets, may not be gulled so long as if governed by those whose
tricks--I mean, whose capabilities--have not been so strongly marked. With
new men we have always the benefit of hope; and with hope much swindling
may be perpetrated.

PEEL.--But my Cabinet contains known men.

PUNCH.--That's it; knowing _them_, hope is out of the question. Now, with
Ministers less notorious, the Cabinet farce might last a little longer. I
have put down a few names; here they are on a blank leaf of _Jack
Sheppard_.

PEEL.--A presentation copy, I perceive.

PUNCH.---Why, it isn't generally known; but all the morality, the wit, and
the pathos, of that work I wrote myself.

PEEL.--And I must say they're quite worthy of you.

PUNCH.--I know it; but read--read Punch's Cabinet.

PEEL (_reads_).--"First Lord of the Treasury, and Chancellor of the
Exchequer--the _Wizard of the North_."

PUNCH.--And, wizard as he is, he'll have his work to do. He, however,
promises that every four-pound loaf shall henceforth go as far as eight, so
that no alteration of the Corn Laws shall be necessary. He furthermore
promises to plant Blackheath and Government waste grounds with sugar-cane,
and to raise the penny post stamp to fourpence, in so delicate a manner
that nobody shall feel the extra expense. As for the opposition, what will
a man care for even the speeches of a Sibthorp--who can catch any number of
bullets, any weight of lead, in his teeth? Go on.

PEEL.--"First Lord of the Admiralty--_T.P. Cooke_."

PUNCH.--Is he not the very man? Who knows more about the true interests of
the navy? Who has beaten so many Frenchmen? Then think of his hornpipe--the
very shuffling for a minister.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Foreign Affairs--_Gold dust Solomons_."

PUNCH.--Show me a better man. Consider the many dear relations he has
abroad; and then his admirable knowledge of the rates of exchange? Think of
his crucible. Why, he'd melt down all the crowns of Europe into a coffee
service for our gracious Queen, and turn the Pope's tiara into coral bells
for the little Princess! And I ask you if such feats ain't the practical
philosophy of all foreign policy? Go on.

PEEL.--"Lord Lieutenant of Ireland--_Henry Moreton Dyer_."

PUNCH.--An admirable person. As Ireland is the hotbed of all crimes, do we
not want a Lord Lieutenant who shall be able to assess the true value of
every indiscretion, from simple murder to compound larceny? As every
Irishman may in a few months be in prison, I want a Lord Lieutenant who
shall be emphatically the prisoner's friend. Go on.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Home Department--_George Robins_."

PUNCH.--A man so intimately connected with the domestic affairs of the
influential classes of the country. Go on.

PEEL.--"Lord Chancellor--_Mr. Dunn, barrister_."

PUNCH.--As it appears to me, the best protector of rich heiresses and
orphans. Go on.

PEEL.--"Secretary for the Colonies--_Money Moses_."

PUNCH.--A man, you will allow, with a great stake, in fact, with all he
has, in one of our colonial possessions. Go on.

PEEL.--"President of the Council--_Mrs. Fry_."

PUNCH.--A lady whose individual respectability may give a convenient cloak
to any policy. Go on.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Ireland--_Henry Moreton Dyer's footman_."

PUNCH.--On the venerable adage of "like master like man." Go on.

PEEL.--"Lord Chamberlain--_The boy Jones_."

PUNCH.--As one best knowing all the intricacies, from the Royal bed-chamber
to the scullery, of Buckingham Palace. Besides he will drive a donkey-cart.
Go on.

PEEL.--"Ambassador at Paris--_Alfred Bunn, or any other translator of
French Operas_."

PUNCH.--A person who will have a continual sense of the necessities of his
country at home; and therefore, by his position, be enabled to send us the
earliest copies of M. Scribe's printed dramas; or, in cases of exigency,
the manuscripts themselves. And now, Bobby, what think you of Punch's
Cabinet?

PEEL.--Why, really, I did not think the country contained so much state
talent.

PUNCH.--That's the narrowness of your philosophy; if you were to look with
an enlarged, a thinking mind, you'd soon perceive that the distance was not
so great from St. James's to St. Giles's--from the House of Commons to the
House of Correction. Well, do you accept my list?

PEEL.--Excuse me, my dear Punch, I must first try my own; when if that
fails--

PUNCH.--You'll try mine? That's a bargain.

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S PENCILLINGS.--No. III.

[Illustration: THE EVENING PARTY.

  PREPARATION. DECORATION.

  REALIZATION. TERMINATION.]

       *       *       *       *       *


A FAIR OFFER

In compliance with my usual practice, I send you this letter, containing a
trifling biographical sketch, and an offer of my literary services. I don't
suppose you will accept them, treating me as for forty-three years past all
the journals of this empire have done; for I have offered my contributions
to them all--all. It was in the year 1798, that escaping from a French
prison (that of Toulon, where I had been condemned to the hulks for
forgery)--I say, from a French prison, but to find myself incarcerated in
an English dungeon (fraudulent bankruptcy, implicated in swindling
transactions, falsification of accounts, and contempt of court), I began to
amuse my hours of imprisonment by literary composition.

I sent in that year my "Apology for the Corsican," relative to die murder
of Captain Wright, to the late Mr. Perry, of the _Morning Chronicle_,
preparing an answer to the same in the _Times_ journal; but as the apology
was not accepted (though the argument of it was quite clear, and much to my
credit), so neither was the answer received--a sublime piece, Mr. PUNCH, an
unanswerable answer.

In the year 1799, I made an attempt on the journal of the late Reverend Mr.
Thomas Hill, then fast sinking in years; but he had ill-treated my father,
pursuing him before Mr. Justice Fielding for robbing him of a snuff-box, in
the year 1740; and he continued his resentment towards my father's
unoffending son. I was cruelly rebuffed by Mr. Hill, as indeed I have been
by every other newspaper proprietor.

No; there is not a single periodical print which has appeared for
forty-three years since, to which I did not make some application. I have
by me essays and fugitive pieces in fourteen trunks, seven carpet bags of
trifles in verse, and a portmanteau with best part of an epic poem, which
it does not become me to praise. I have no less than four hundred and
ninety-five acts of dramatic composition, which have been rejected even by
the Syncretic Association.

Such is the set that for forty-three years has been made against a man of
genius by an envious literary world! Are you going to follow in its wake?
Ha, ha, ha! no less than seven thousand three hundred times (the exact
number of my applications) have I asked that question. Think well before
you reject me, Mr. PUNCH--think well, and at least listen to what I have to
say.

It is this: I am not wishing any longer to come forward with tragedies,
epics, essays, or original compositions. I am old now--morose in temper,
troubled with poverty, jaundice, imprisonment, and habitual indigestion. I
hate everybody, and, with the exception of gin-and-water, everything. I
know every language, both in the known and unknown worlds; I am profoundly
ignorant of history, or indeed of any other useful science, but have a
smattering of all. I am excellently qualified to judge and lash the vices
of the age, having experienced, I may almost say, every one of them in my
own person. The immortal and immoral Goethe, that celebrated sage of
Germany, has made exactly the same confession.

I have a few and curious collection of Latin and Greek quotations.

And what is the result I draw from this? This simple one--that, of all men
living, I am the most qualified to be a CRITIC, and hereby offer myself to
your notice in that capacity.

Recollect, I am always at Home--Fleet Prison, Letter L, fourth staircase,
paupers'-ward--for a guinea, and a bottle of Hodges' Cordial, I will do
anything. I will, for that sum, cheerfully abuse my own father or mother. I
can smash Shakspeare; I can prove Milton to be a driveller, or the
contrary: but, for preference, take, as I have said, the abusive line.

Send me over then, Mr. P., any person's works whose sacrifice you may
require. I will cut him up, sir; I will flay him--flagellate him--finish
him! You had better not send me (unless you have a private grudge against
the authors, when I am of course at your service)--you had better not send
me any works of real merit; for I am infallibly prepared to show that there
is not any merit in them. I have not been one of the great unread for
forty-three years, without turning my misfortunes to some account. Sir, I
know how to make use of my adversity. I have been accused, and rightfully
too, of swindling, forgery, and slander. I have been many times kicked down
stairs. I am totally deficient in personal courage; but, though I can't
fight, I can rail, ay, and well. Send me somebody's works, and you'll see
how I will treat them.

Will you have personal scandal? I am your man. I will swear away the
character, not only of an author, but of his whole family--the female
members of it especially. Do you suppose I care for being beaten? Bah! I no
more care for a flogging than a boy does at Eton: and only let the flogger
beware--I will be a match for him, I warrant you. The man who beats me is a
coward; for he knows I won't resist. Let the dastard strike me then, or
leave me, as he likes; but, for a choice, I prefer abusing women, who have
no brothers or guardians; for, regarding a thrashing with indifference, I
am not such a ninny as to prefer it. And here you have an accurate account
of my habits, history, and disposition.

Farewell, sir; if I can be useful to you, command me. If you insert this
letter, you will, of course, pay for it, upon my order to that effect. I
say this, lest an unprincipled wife and children should apply to you for
money. They are in a state of starvation, and will scruple at no dastardly
stratagem to procure money. I spent every shilling of Mrs. Jenkinson's
property forty-five years ago.

I am, sir, your humble servant,

DIOGENES JENKINSON,

Son of the late Ephraim Jenkinson, well known to Dr. O. Goldsmith; the
Rev. ---- Primrose, D.D., Vicar of Wakefield; Doctor Johnson, of
Dictionary celebrity; and other literary gentlemen of the last century.

    [We gratefully accept the offer of Mr. Diogenes Jenkinson, whose
    qualifications render him admirably adapted to fill a situation
    which Mr. John Ketch has most unhandsomely resigned, doubtlessly
    stimulated thereto by the probable accession to power of his old
    friends the Tories. We like a man who dares to own himself--a
    Jenkinson.--ED.]

       *       *       *       *       *


FINE ARTS.

His Royal Highness Prince Albert, who has occasionally displayed a
knowledge and much liking for the Fine Arts, some time since expressed an
intimation to display his ability in sketching landscape from nature. The
Royal Academicians immediately assembled _en masse_; and as they wisely
imagined that it would be impolitic in them to let an opportunity slip of
not being the very foremost in the direction of matters connected with
royalty and their profession, offered, or rather thrust forward, their
services to arrange the landscape according to the established rules of art
laid down by this self-elected body of the professors of the beauties of
nature. St. James's-park, within the enclosure, having been hinted as the
nearest and most suitable spot for the royal essay, the Academicians were
in active service at an early hour of the appointed day: some busied
themselves in making foreground objects, by pulling down trees and heaping
stones together from the neighbouring macadamized stores; others were most
fancifully spotting the trees with whitewash and other mixtures, in
imitation of moss and lichens. The classical Howard was awfully industrious
in grouping some swans, together with several kind-hearted ladies from the
adjoining purlieus of Tothill-street, who had been most willingly secured
as models for water-nymphs. The most rabidly-engaged gentleman was Turner,
who, despite the remonstrances of his colleagues upon the expense attendant
upon his whimsical notions, would persist in making the grass more natural
by emptying large buckets of treacle and mustard about the ground. Another
old gentleman, whose name we cannot at this moment call to recollection,
spent the whole of his time in placing "a little man a-fishing," that
having been for many years his fixed belief as the only illustration of the
pastoral and picturesque. In the meantime, to their utter disappointment,
however, his Royal Highness quietly strolled with his sketch-book into
another quarter.

       *       *       *       *       *


A BARRISTER'S CARD.

Mr. Briefless begs to inform the public and his friends in general, that he
has opened chambers in Pump-court.--N.B. Please to go down the area steps.

In consequence of the general pressure for money, Mr. Briefless has
determined to do business at the following very reduced scale of prices;
and flatters himself, that having been very long a member of a celebrated
debating society, he will be found to possess the qualities so essential to
a legal advocate.

  Motions of cause, 6s. 6d.--Usual charge, 10s. 5d.
  Undefended actions, (from) 15s.--Usually (from) 2l. 2s.
  Actions for breach of promise (from) 1l. 1s.--Usually (from) 5l. 5s. to 500l.
  Ditto, with appeals to the feelings, (from) 3l. 3s.
  Ditto, ditto, very superior, 5l. 5s.
  Ditto, with tirades against the law (a highly approved mixture), 3l. 3s.

N.B. To the three last items there is an addition of five shillings for a
reply, should one be rendered requisite. Mr. Briefless begs to call
attention to the fact, that feeling the injustice that is done to the
public by the system of refreshers, he will in all cases, where he is
retained, take out his refreshers in brandy, rum, gin, ale, or porter.

Injured innocence carefully defended. Oppression and injustice punctually
persecuted. A liberal allowance to attorneys and solicitors.

A few old briefs wanted as dummies. Any one having a second-hand coachman's
wig to dispose of may hear of a purchaser.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE WIFE CATCHERS.

A LEGEND OF MY UNCLE'S BOOTS.

  "Ah! sure a _pair_ was never seen,
  More justly form'd--"


CHAPTER I.

[Illustration: J]Jack, said my uncle Ned to me one evening, as we sat
facing each other, on either side of the old oak table, over which, for the
last thirty years, my worthy kinsman's best stories had been told, "Jack,"
said he, "do you remember the pair of yellow-topped boots that hung upon
the peg in the hall, before you went to college?"

"Certainly, uncle; they were called by every one, 'The Wife Catchers.'"

"Well, Jack, many a title has been given more undeservedly--many a rich
heiress they were the means of bringing into our family. But they are no
more, Jack. I lost the venerated relics just one week after your poor dear
aunt departed this life."

My uncle drew out his bandanna handkerchief and applied it to his eyes; but
I cannot be positive to which of the family relics this tribute of
affectionate recollection was paid.

"Peace be with their _soles_!" said I, solemnly. "By what fatal chance did
our old friends slip off the peg?"

"Alas!" replied my uncle, "it was a melancholy accident; and as I perceive
you take an interest in their fate, I will relate it to you. But first fill
your glass, Jack; you need not be afraid of this stuff; it never saw the
face of a gauger. Come, no skylights; 'tis as mild as new milk; there's not
a head-ache in a hogshead of it."

To encourage me by his example, my uncle grasped the huge black case-bottle
which stood before him, and began to manufacture a tumbler of punch
according to Father Tom's popular receipt.

Whilst he is engaged in this pleasing task, I will give my readers a
pen-and-ink sketch of my respected relative. Fancy a man declining from his
fiftieth year, but fresh, vigorous, and with a greenness in his age that
might put to the blush some of our modern hotbed-reared youths, with the
best of whom he could cross a country on the back of his favourite hunter,
_Cruiskeen_, and when the day's sport was over, could put a score of them
under the aforementioned oak table--which, by the way, was frequently the
only one of the company that kept its legs upon these occasions of
Hibernian hospitality. I think I behold him now, with his open, benevolent
brow, thinly covered with grey hair, his full blue eye and florid cheek,
which glowed like the sunny side of a golden-pippin that the winter's frost
had ripened without shrivelling. But as he has finished the admixture of
his punch, I will leave him to speak for himself.

"You know, Jack," said he, after gulping down nearly half the newly-mixed
tumbler, by way of sample, "you know that our family can lay no claim to
antiquity; in fact, our pedigree ascends no higher, according to the most
authentic records, than Shawn Duffy, my grandfather, who rented a small
patch of ground on the sea-coast, which was such a barren, unprofitable
spot, that it was then, and is to this day, called 'The Devil's Half-acre.'
And well it merited the name, for if poor Shawn was to break his heart at
it, he never could get a better crop than thistles or ragweed off it. But
though the curse of sterility seemed to have fallen on the land, Fortune,
in order to recompense Shawn for Nature's niggardliness, made the caverns
and creeks of that portion of the coast which bounded his farm towards the
sea the favourite resort of smugglers. Shawn, in the true spirit of
Christian benevolence, was reputed to have favoured those enterprising
traders in their industry, by assisting to convey their cargoes into the
interior of the country. It was on one of those expeditions, about five
o'clock on a summer's morning, that a gauger unluckily met my grandfather
carrying a bale of tobacco on his back."

Here my uncle paused in his recital, and leaning across the table till his
mouth was close to my ear, said, in a confidential whisper--

"Jack, do _you_ consider killing a gauger--murder?"

"Undoubtedly, sir."

"You do?" he replied, nodding his head significantly. "Then heaven forgive
my poor grandfather. However, it can't be helped now. The gauger was found
dead, with an ugly fracture in his skull, the next day; and, what was
rather remarkable, Shawn Duffy began to thrive in the world from that time
forward. He was soon able to take an extensive farm, and, in a little time,
began to increase in wealth and importance. But it is not so easy as some
people imagine to shake off the remembrance of what we have been, and it is
still more difficult to make our friends oblivious on that point,
particularly if we have ascended in the scale of respectability. Thus it
was, that in spite of my grandfather's weighty purse, he could not succeed
in prefixing _Mister_ to his name; find he continued for a long time to be
known as plain 'Shawn Duffy, of the Devil's Half-acre.' It was undoubtedly
a most diabolic address; but Shawn was a man of considerable strength of
mind, as well as of muscle, and he resolved to become a _juntleman_,
despite this damning reminiscence. Vulgarity, it is said, sticks to a man
like a limpet to a rock. Shawn knew the best way to rub it off would be by
mixing with good society. Dress, he always understood, was the best
passport he could bring for admission within the pale of gentility;
accordingly, he boldly attempted to pass the boundary of plebeianism, by
appearing one fine morning at the fair of Ballybreesthawn in a flaming red
waistcoat, an elegant _oarline_[2] hat, a pair of buckskin breeches, and a
new pair of yellow-topped boots, which, with the assistance of large plated
spurs, and a heavy silver-mounted whip, took the shine out of the smartest
squireens at the fair.

    [2] A beaver hat.

"Fortunately for the success of my grandfather's invasion of the
aristocratic rights, it occurred on the eve of a general election, and as
he had the command of six or eight votes in the county, his interest was a
matter of some importance to the candidates. Be that as it may, it was with
feelings little short of absolute dismay, that the respectable inhabitants
of the extensive village of Ballybreesthawn beheld the metamorphosed tenant
of 'The Devil's Half-acre,' walking arm-in-arm down the street with Sir
Denis Daly, the popular candidate. At all events, this public and familiar
promenade had the effect of establishing _Mister_ John Duffy's dubious
gentility. He was invited to dine the same day by the attorney; and on the
following night the apothecary proposed his admission as a member of the
Ballybreesthawn Liberal reading-room. It was even whispered that Bill
Costigan, who went twice a-year to Dublin for goods, was trying to strike
up a match between Shawn, who was a hale widower, and his aunt, an ancient
spinster, who was set down by report as a fortune of seven hundred pounds.
Negotiations were actually set on foot, and several preliminary bottles of
potteen had been drunk by the parties concerned, when, unfortunately, in
the high road to happiness, my poor grandfather caught a fever, and popped
off, to the inexpressible grief of the expectant bride, who declared her
intention of dying in the virgin state; to which resolution, there being no
dissentient voice, it was carried _nem. con._

"Thus died the illustrious founder of our family; but happy was it for
posterity that the yellow-topped boots did not die along with him; these,
with the red waistcoat, the leather breeches, and plated spurs, remained to
raise the fortunes of our house to a higher station. The waistcoat has been
long since numbered with the waistcoats before the flood; the buckskins,
made of 'sterner stuff,' stood the wear and tear of the world for a length
of time, but at last were put out of commission; while the boots, more
fortunate or tougher than their leathern companions, endured more than
forty years of actual service through all the ramifications of our
extensive family. In this time they had suffered many dilapidations; but by
the care and ingenuity of the family cobbler, they were always kept in
tolerable order, and performed their duty with great credit to themselves,
until an unlucky accident deprived me of my old and valued friends."

       *       *       *       *       *


POOR JOHN BULL.

That knowing jockey Sir Robert Peel has stated that the old charger, John
Bull, is, from over-feeding, growing restive and unmanageable--kicking up
his heels, and playing sundry tricks extremely unbecoming in an animal of
his advanced age and many infirmities. To keep down this playful spirit,
Sir Robert proposes that a new burthen be placed upon his back in the shape
of a house-tax, pledging himself that it shall be heavy enough to effect
the desired purpose. Commend us to these Tories--they are rare fellows for

[Illustration: BREAKING A HORSE.]

       *       *       *       *       *


A STRONG RESEMBLANCE.

Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer has frequently been accused of identifying himself
with the heroes of his novels. His late treatment at Lincoln leaves no
doubt of his identity with

[Illustration: THE DISOWNED.]

       *       *       *       *       *


A PRUDENT CHANGE.

"So Lord John Russell is married," said one of the Carlton Club loungers to
Colonel Sibthorp the other morning. "Yes," replied that gallant punster;
"his Lordship is at length convinced that his talents will be better
employed in the management of the _Home_ than the _Colonial_ department."

       *       *       *       *       *


THE ABOVE-BRIDGE NAVY.

AN ARTICLE INTENDED FOR THE "QUARTERLY REVIEW," BUT FALLEN INTO THE HANDS
OF "PUNCH."

I.--_Hours of the Starting of the Boats of the Iron Steam Boat Company_.
London: 1841.

II.--_Notes of a Passenger on Board the Bachelor, during a Voyage from Old
Swan Pier, London Bridge, to the Red House, Battersea_. CATNACH: 1840.

III.--_Rule Britannia, a Song_. London: 1694.

IV.--_Two Years before the Mast_. CUNNINGHAM. London.

V.--_Checks issued by the London and Westminster Steam Boat Company_.
CATTARNS AND FRY.

At a time when the glory of England stands--like a door shutting or opening
either way--entirely upon a pivot; when the hostile attitude of enemies
abroad threatens not more, nor perhaps less, than the antagonistic posture
of foes at home--at such a time there is at least a yet undug and hitherto
unexplored mine of satisfaction in the refreshing fact, that the Thames is
fostering in his bosom an entirely new navy, calculated to bid defiance to
the foe--should he ever come--in the very heart and lungs, the very bowels
and vitals, the very liver and lungs, or, in one emphatic word, the very
pluck of the metropolis. There is not a more striking instance of the
remarkable connexion between little--very little--causes, and
great--undeniably great--effects, than the extraordinary origin, rise,
progress, germ, development, and maturity, of the _above-bridge navy_, the
bringing of which prominently before the public, who may owe to that navy
at some future--we hope so incalculably distant as never to have a chance
of arriving--day, the salvation of their lives, the protection of their
hearths, the inviolability of their street-doors, and the security of their
properties. Sprung from a little knot of (we wish we could say "_jolly
young_," though truth compels us to proclaim) far from jolly, and decidedly
old, "watermen," the _above-bridge navy_, whose shattered and unfrequented
wherries were always "in want of a fare," may now boast of covering the
bosom of the Thames with its fleet of steamers; thus, as it were, bringing
the substantial piers of London Bridge within a stone's throw--if we may be
allowed to pitch it so remarkably strong--of the once remote regions of the
Beach[3], and annihilating, as it were, the distance between sombre
southwark and bloom-breathing Battersea.

    [3] Chelsea.

The establishment of this little fleet may well be a proud reflection to
those shareholders who, if they have no dividend in specie, have another
species of dividend in the swelling gratification with which the heart of
every one must be inflated, as, on seeing one of the noble craft dart with
the tide through the arches--supposing, of course, it does not strike
against them--of Westminster Bridge, he is enabled mentally to exclaim,
"There goes some of _my_ capital!" But if the pride of the proprietor--if
_he_ can be called a proprietor who derives nothing from his property--be
great, what must be the feelings of the captain to whose guidance the bark
is committed! We can scarcely conceive a nobler subject of contemplation
than one of those once indigent--not to say absolutely done up--watermen,
perched proudly on the summit of a paddle-box, and thinking--as he very
likely does, particularly when the vessel swags and sways from side to
side--of the height he stands upon.

It may be, and has been, urged by some, that the Thames is not exactly the
place to form the naval character; that a habit of braving the "dangers of
the deep" is hardly to be acquired where one may walk across at low tide,
on account of the water being so confoundedly _shallow_: but these are
cavillings which the lofty and truly patriotic mind will at once and
indignantly repudiate. The humble urchin, whose sole duty consists in
throwing out a rope to each pier, and holding hard by it while the vessel
stops, may one day be destined for some higher service: and where is the
English bosom that will not beat at the thought, that the dirty lad below,
whose exclamation of "Ease her!--stop her!--one turn ahead!"--may one day
be destined to give the word of command on the quarterdeck, and receive, in
the shape of a cannon-ball, a glorious full-stop to his honourable
services!

Looking as we do at the _above-bridge navy_, in a large and national light,
we are not inclined to go into critical details, such as are to be met
with, _passim_, in the shrewd and amusing work of "The Passenger on board
the Bachelor." There may be something in the objection, that there is no
getting comfortably into one of these boats when one desires to go by it.
It may be true, that a boy's neglecting "to hold" sufficiently "hard," may
keep the steamer vibrating and Sliding about, within a yard of the pier,
without approaching it. But these are small considerations, and we are not
sure that the necessity of keeping a sharp look out, and jumping aboard at
precisely the right time, does not keep up that national ingenuity which is
not the least valuable part of the English character. In the same light are
we disposed to regard the occasional running aground of these boats, which,
at all events, is a fine practical lesson of patience to the passengers.
The collisions are not so much to our taste, and these, we think, though
useful to a certain extent for inculcating caution, should be resorted to
as rarely as possible.

We have not gone into the system of signals and "_hand motions_," if we may
be allowed to use a legal term, by which the whole of this navy is
regulated; but these, and other details, may, perhaps, be the subject of
some future article for we are partial to

[Illustration: TAKING IT EASY.]

       *       *       *       *       *


CORRESPONDENCE.

_Newcastle-street, July --, 1841._

MR. PUNCH,--Little did I think wen i've bin a gaping and starin' at you in
the streats, that i shud ever happli to you for gustice. Isntet a shame
that peeple puts advurtusmints in the papers for a howsmaid for a lark, as
it puts all the poor survents out of plaice into a dredfool situashun.

As i alwuss gets a peep at the paper on the landin' as i takes it up for
breckfus, i was unfoughtunite enuf to see a para--thingem-me-bob--for a
howsmaid, wanted in a nobbleman's fameli. On course, a young woman has a
rite to better hursef if she can; so I makes up my mind at wunce--has i
oney has sicks pouns a ear, and finds my own t and shuggar--i makes up my
mind to arsk for a day out; which, has the cold mutting was jest enuf for
mastur and missus without me, was grarnted me. I soon clears up the
kitshun, and goes up stares to clean mysef. I puts on my silk gronin-napple
gownd, and my lase pillowrin, likewise my himitashun vermin tippit, (give
me by my cussen Harry, who keeps kumpany with me on hot-dinner days), also
my tuskin bonnit, parrersole, and blacbag; and i takes mysef orf to
South-street, but what was my felines, wen, on wringing the belle, a boy
anser'd the daw, with two roes of brarse beeds down his jacket.

"Can i speek a word with the futman?" says i, in my ingaugingist manner.

"i'm futman," says he.

"Then the cook," says i.

"We arn't no cook," says he.

"No cook!" says i, almose putrifide with surprise; "you must be jokin'"--

"Jokin'," says he; "do you no who lives here?"

"Not exacly," says i.

"Lord Milburn," says he.

i thort i shud have dropt on the step, as a glimmerin' of the doo shot
aX my mine.

"Then you don't want no howsmaid?" says i.

"Howsmaid!" says the boy; "go to blazes: (What could he mean by

[Illustration: GOING TO BLAZES?)]

"No; i've toled fifty on ye so this mornin'--it's a oaks."

"Then more shame of Lord Milborn to do it," says i; "he may want a place
hissef some day or other," sayin' of which i bounsed off the doorstep, with
all tho dignity i could command.

Now, what i wants to no is, wether i can't summons his lordship for my day
out. Harry sais, should i ever come in contract with Lord Milborn, i'm to
trete him with the silent kontempt of

Yours truly,

[Illustration: AN INDIGNANT HOUSEMAID.]

       *       *       *       *       *


A MOVING SCENE.

The present occupants of the government premises in Downing-street, whose
leases will expire in a few days, are busily employed packing up their
small affairs before the new tenants come into possession. It is a pitiful
sight to behold these poor people taking leave of their softly-stuffed
seats, their rocking-chairs, their footstools, slippers, cushions, and all
those little official comforts of which they nave been so cruelly deprived.
That man must, indeed, be hard-hearted who would refuse to sympathise with
their sorrows, or to uplift his voice in the doleful Whig chorus, when he
hears--

[Illustration:  THE PACK IN FULL CRY.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE DRAMA

DUCROW AT SADLER'S WELLS.

When, in a melo-drama, the bride is placing her foot upon the first step of
the altar, and Ruffi_aa_no tears her away, far from the grasp of her lover;
when a rich uncle in a farce dies to oblige a starving author in a garret;
when, two rivals duellise with toasting-forks; when such things are plotted
and acted in the theatre, hypercritics murmur at their improbability; but
compare them with the haps of the drama off the stage, and they become the
veriest of commonplaces. This is a world of change: the French have invaded
Algiers, British arms are doing mortal damage in the Celestial Empire,
Poulett Thomson has gone over to Canada, and oh! wonder of wonders!
Astley's has removed to Sadler's Wells!! The pyrotechnics of the former
have gone on a visit to the hydraulics of the latter, the red fire of
Astley's has come in contact with the real water of the Wells, yet, marvel
superlative! the unnatural meeting has been successful--there has not been
a single _hiss_.

What was the use of Sir Hugh Middleton bringing the New River to a "head,"
or of King Jamie buying shares in the speculation on purpose to supply
Sadler's Wells with real water, if it is to be drained off from under the
stage to make way for horses? Shade of Dibdin! ghost of Grimaldi! what
would you have said in your day? To be sure ye were guilty of pony races:
they took place _outside_ the theatre, but within the walls, in the very
_cella_ of the aquatic temple, till now, never! We wonder ye do not rise up
and "pluck bright Honner from the vasty deep" of his own tank.

Sawdust at Sadler's Wells! What next, Mr. Merriman?

[Illustration: A JUDGE GOING THE CIRCUIT.]

If Macready had been engaged for Clown, and set down to sing "hot codlins;"
were Palmerston "secured" for Pierrot, or Lord Monteagle for Jim Crow, who
would have wondered? But to saddle "The Wells" with horses--profanity
unparalleled!

Spitefully predicting failure from this terrible declension of the drama,
we went, in a mood intensely ill-natured, to witness how the "Horse of the
Pyrenees" would behave himself at Sadler's Wells. From the piece so called
we anticipated no amusement; we thought the regular company would make but
sorry equestrians, and, like the King of Westphalia's hussars, would prove
totally inefficient, from not being habituated to mount on horseback.
Happily we were mistaken; nothing could possibly _go_ better than both the
animals and the piece. The actors acquitted themselves manfully, even
including the horses. The mysterious Arab threw no damp over the
performances, for he was personated by Mr. Dry. The little Saracen was
performed so well by _le petit Ducrow_, that we longed to see _more_ of
him. The desperate battle fought by about sixteen supernumeraries at the
pass of Castle Moura, was quite as sanguinary as ever: the combats were
perfection--the glory of the red fire was nowise dimmed! It was magic, yes,
it _was_ magic! Mr. Widdicomb was there!!

Thinking of magic and Mr. Widdicomb (of whom dark hints of identification
with the wandering Jew have been dropped--who, _we know_, taught Prince
George of Denmark horsemanship--who is mentioned by Addison in the
"Spectator," by Dr. Johnson in the "Rambler," and helped to put out each of
the three fires that have happened at Astley's during the last two
centuries), brought by these considerations to a train of mind highly
susceptible of supernatural agency, we visited--

THE WIZARD OF THE NORTH,

the illustrious professor of _Phoenixsistography_, and other branches of
the black art, the names of which are as mysterious as their performance.

One only specimen of his prowess convinced us of his supernatural talents.
He politely solicited the loan of a bank-note--he was not choice as to the
amount or bank of issue. "It may be," saith the play-bill, "a Bank of
England or provincial note, for any sum from five pounds to one thousand."
His is better magic than Owen Glendower's, for the note "did come when he
did call it!" for a confiding individual in the boxes (dress circle of
course) actually did lend him, the Wizard, a cool hundred! Conceive the
power, in a metaphysical sense, the conjuror must have had over the
lender's mind! Was it animal magnetism?--was it terror raised by his
extraordinary performances, that spirited the cash out of the pocket of the
man? who, perhaps, thought that such supernatural talents _might_ be
otherwise employed against his very existence, thus occupying his perturbed
soul with the alternative, "Your money or your life!"

This subject is deeply interesting to actors out of engagements, literary
men, and people who "have seen better days"--individuals who have brought
this species of conjuration to a high state of perfection. It is a new and
important chapter in the "art of borrowing." We perceive in the Wizard's
advertisements he takes pupils, and offers to make them proficient in any
of his delusions at a guinea per trick. We intend to put ourselves under
his instructions for the bank-note trick, the moment we can borrow
one-pound-one for that purpose.

Besides this, the Wizard does a variety of things which made our hair stand
on end, even while reading their description in his play-bill. We did not
see him perform them. There was no occasion--the bank-note trick convinced
us--for the man who can borrow a hundred pounds whenever he wants it can do
anything.

Everybody ought to go and see him. Young ladies having a taste for
sentimental-looking men, who wear their hair _à la jeune France_; natural
historians who want to see guinea-pigs fly; gamesters who would like to be
made "fly" to a card trick or two; _connoisseurs_, who wish to see how
plum-pudding may be made in hats, will all be gratified by a visit to the
Adelphi.

       *       *       *       *       *


MACBETH AT THE SURREY.

We heard the "Macbeth choruses" exquisitely performed, and saw the
concluding combat furiously fought at this theatre. This was all,
appertaining unto Macbeth in which we could detect a near approach to the
meaning and purpose of the text, except the performance of the _Queen_, by
Mrs. H. Vining, who seemed to understand the purport of the words she had
to speak, and was, consequently, inoffensive--a rare merit when Shakspere
is attempted on the other side of the Thames.

The qualifications demanded of an actor by the usual run of Surrey
audiences are lungs of undeniable efficiency, limbs which will admit of
every variety of contortion, and a talent for broad-sword combats. How,
then, could the new Macbeth--a Mr. Graham--think of choosing this theatre
for his first appearance? His deportment is quiet, and his voice weak. It
has, for instance, been usually thought, by most actors, that after a
gentleman has murdered his sovereign, and caused a similar peccadillo to be
committed upon his dearest friend, he would be, in some degree, agitated,
and put out of the even tenor of his way, when the ghost of Banquo appears
at the banquet. On such an occasion, John Kemble and Edmund Kean used to
think it advisable to start with an expression of terror or horror; but Mr.
Graham indulges us with a new reading. He carefully places one foot
somewhat in advance of the other, and puts his hands together with the
utmost deliberation. Again, he says mildly--

  "Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!"

in a tone which would well befit the situation, if the text ran thus:--

  "Dear me, how singular! Pray go!"

When he does attempt to vociferate, the asthmatic complaint under which he
evidently labours prevents him from delivering the sentences in more
copious instalments than the following:--

  "I'll fight--till--from my bones--my flesh--be hacked!"


We may be told that Mr. Graham cannot help his physical defects; but he can
help being an actor, and, above all, choosing a part which requires great
prowess of voice. In less trying characters, he may prove an acquisition;
for he showed no lack of judgment nor of acquaintance with the conventional
rules of the stage. At the Surrey, and in "Macbeth," he is entirely out of
his element. Above all, let him never play with Mr. Hicks, whose energy in
the combat scene, and ranting all through _Macduff_, brought down "_Brayvo,
Hicks!_" in showers. The contrast is really too disadvantageous.

But the choruses! Never were they more be_witch_ingly performed. Leffler
sings the part of _Hecate_ better than his best friends could have
anticipated; and, apart from the singing, Miss Romer's _acting_ in the
_soprano_ witch, is picturesque in the extreme.

       *       *       *       *       *


HOP INTELLIGENCE

Fanny Elsler has made an enormous fortune by her _trips_ in America. Few
_pockets_ are so crammed by _hops_ as hers.

Oscar Byrne, professor of the College Hornpipe to the London University,
had a long interview yesterday with Lord Palmerston to give his lordship
lessons in the new waltz step. The master complains that, despite a long
political life's practice, the pupil does not turn _quick enough_. A change
was, however, apparent at the last lesson, and his lordship is expected
soon to be able to effect a complete rota-_tory_ motion.

Mademoiselle Taglioni has left London for Germany, her fatherland, the
country of her _pas_.

The society for the promotion of civilization have engaged Mr. Tom Matthews
to teach the Hottentots the minuet-de-la-Cour and tumbling. He departs with
the other missionaries when the hot weather sets in.

       *       *       *       *       *


Charles Kean is becoming so popular with the jokers of the day, that we
have serious thoughts of reserving a corner entirely to his use. Amongst
the many hits at the young tragedian, the two following are not the
worst:--

EARLY ADVANTAGES.

"Kean's juvenile probation at Eton has done him good service with the
aristocratic patrons of the drama," remarked a lady to a witty friend of
ours. "Yes, madam," was the reply, "he seems to have gained by _Eaton_ what
his father lost by _drinking_."

BILL-STICKERS BEWARE.

"How Webster puffs young Kean--he seems to monopolise the walls!" said
Wakley to his colleague, Tom Duncombe. "Merely a realisation of the
adage,--_The weakest always goes to the wall_," replied the idol of
Finsbury.