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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, Complete

Author: Various

Release Date: December 4, 2005 [EBook #17216]

Language: English

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[pg i]
PUNCH or the London Charivari, with a vignette of PUNCH.


[pg iii]
A group of masked players surround PUNCH. A banner reads INTRODUCTION.


A letter T is hoisted in a shipyard.

This Guffawgraph is intended to form a refuge for destitute wit—an asylum for the thousands of orphan jokes—the superannuated Joe Millers—the millions of perishing puns, which are now wandering about without so much as a shelf to rest upon! It is also devoted to the emancipation of the JEW d’esprits all over the world, and the naturalization of those alien JONATHANS, whose adherence to the truth has forced them to emigrate from their native land.

PUNCH has the honour of making his appearance every SATURDAY, and continues, from week to week, to offer to the world all the fun to be found in his own and the following heads:


“PUNCH” has no party prejudices—he is conservative in his opposition to Fantoccini and political puppets, but a progressive whig in his love of small change.


This department is conducted by Mrs. J. Punch, whose extensive acquaintance with the élite of the areas enables her to furnish the earliest information of the movements of the Fashionable World.


This portion of the work is under the direction of an experienced nobleman—a regular attendant at the various offices—who from a strong attachment to “PUNCH,” is frequently in a position to supply exclusive reports.

[pg iv]


To render this branch of the periodical as perfect as possible, arrangements have been made to secure the critical assistance of John Ketch, Esq., who, from the mildness of the law, and the congenial character of modern literature with his early associations, has been induced to undertake its execution.


Anxious to do justice to native talent, the criticisms upon Painting, Sculpture, &c., are confided to one of the most popular artists of the day—“Punch’s” own immortal scene-painter.


These are amongst the most prominent features of the work. The Musical Notices are written by the gentleman who plays the mouth-organ, assisted by the professors of the drum and cymbals. “Punch” himself does the Drama.


A Prophet is engaged! He foretells not only the winners of each race, but also the “VATES” and colours of the riders.


Are contributed by the members of the following learned bodies:—


Together with original, humorous, and satirical articles in verse and prose, from all the

Dogs dressed in gentlemen's clothing.


[pg v]




Early in the month of July, 1841, a small handbill was freely distributed by the newsmen of London, and created considerable amusement and inquiry. That handbill now stands as the INTRODUCTION to this, the first Volume of Punch, and was employed to announce the advent of a publication which has sustained for nearly twenty years a popularity unsurpassed in the history of periodical literature. Punch and the Elections were the only matters which occupied the public mind on July 17, 1842. The Whigs had been defeated in many places where hitherto they had been the popular party, and it was quite evident that the Meeting of Parliament would terminate their lease of Office. [Street Politics.] The House met on the 19th of August, and unanimously elected MR. SHAW LEFEVRE to be Speaker. The address on the QUEEN’S Speech was moved by MR. MARK PHILLIPS, and seconded by MR. DUNDAS. MR. J.S. WORTLEY moved an amendment, negativing the confidence of the House in the Ministry, and the debate continued to occupy Parliament for four nights, when the Opposition obtained a majority of 91 against the Ministers. Amongst those who spoke against the Government, and directly in favour of SIR ROBERT PEEL, was MR. DISRAELI. In his speech he accused the Whigs of seeking to retain power in opposition to the wishes of the country, and of profaning the name of the QUEEN at their elections, as if she had been a second candidate at some petty poll, and considered that they should blush for the position in which they had placed their Sovereign. MR. BERNAL, Jun., retorted upon MR. DISRAELI for inveighing against the Whigs, with whom he had formerly been associated. SIR ROBERT PEEL, in a speech of great eloquence, condemned the inactivity and feebleness of the existing Government, and promised that, should he displace it, and take office, it should be by walking in the open light, and in the direct paths of the constitution. He would only accept power upon his conception of public duty, and would resign the moment he was satisfied he was unsupported by the confidence of the people, and not continue to hold place when the voice of the country was against him. [Hercules tearing Theseus from the Rock to which he had grown.] LORD JOHN defended the acts of the Ministry, and denied that they had been guilty of harshness to the poor by the New Poor Law, or enemies of the Church by reducing “the ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY to the miserable pittance of £15,000 a year, cutting down the BISHOP OF LONDON to no more than £10,000 a year, and the BISHOP OF DURHAM to the wretched stipend of £8,000 a year!” He twitted PEEL for his reticence upon the Corn Laws, and denounced the possibility of a sliding scale of duties upon corn. He concluded by saying, “I am convinced that, if this country be governed by enlarged and liberal counsels, its power and might will spread and increase, and its influence become greater and greater; liberal principles will prevail, civilisation will be spread to all parts of the globe, and you will bless millions by your acts and mankind by your union.” Loud and continued cheering followed this speech, but on division the majority was against the Ministers. When the House met to recommend the report on the amended Address, MR. SHARMAN CRAWFORD moved another amendment, to the effect that the distress of the people referred to in the QUEEN’S Speech was mainly attributable to the non-representation of the working classes in Parliament. He did not advocate universal suffrage, but one which would give a fair representation of the people. From the want of this arose unjust wars, unjust legislation, unjust monopoly, of which the existing Corn Laws were the most grievous instance. There was no danger in confiding the suffrage to the working classes, who had a vital interest in the public prosperity, and had evinced the truest zeal for freedom.

The amendment was negatived by 283 to 39.

At the next meeting of the House LORD MARCUS HILL read the Answer to the Address, in which the QUEEN declared that “ever anxious to listen to the advice of Parliament, she would take immediate measures for the formation of a new Administration.” [Punch and Peel.] LORD MELBOURNE, in the House of Lords, announced on the 30th of August that he and his colleagues only held office until their successors were appointed. [Last Pinch.] The House received the announcement in perfect silence, and adjourned immediately afterwards. On the same [pg vi]night, in the House of Commons, LORD JOHN RUSSELL made a similar announcement, and briefly defended the course he and his colleagues had taken, and in reply to some complimentary remarks from LORD STANLEY, approving of LORD JOHN’S great zeal, talent, and perseverance, denied that the Crown was answerable for any of the propositions contained in the Speech, which were the result of the advice of HER MAJESTY’S Ministers, and for which her Ministers alone were responsible. This declaration was necessary in consequence of the accusation of the Conservatives, that the Ministry had made an unfair use of the QUEEN’S name in and out of Parliament. [Trimming a Whig.] The new Ministry [The Letter of Introduction] was formed as follows:—


THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON (without office); First Lord of the Treasury, SIR R. PEEL; Lord Chancellor, LORD LYNDHUHST; Chancellor of the Exchequer, RIGHT HON. H. GOULBURN; President of the Council, LORD WHARNCLIFFE; Privy Seal, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM; Home Secretary, SIR JAMES GRAHAM; Foreign Secretary, EARL OF ABERDEEN; Colonial Secretary, LORD STANLEY; First Lord of the Admiralty, EARL OF HADDINGTON; President of the Board of Control, LORD ELLENBOROUGH; President of the Board of Trade, EARL OF RIPON; Secretary at War, SIR H. HARDINGE; Treasurer of the Navy and Paymaster of the Forces, SIR E. KNATCHBULL.


Postmaster-General, LORD LOWTHER; Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, LORD G. SOMERSET; Woods and Forests, EARL OF LINCOLN; Master-General of the Ordnance, SIR G. MURRAY; Vice-President of the Board of Trade and Master of the Mint, W.E. GLADSTONE; Secretary of the Admiralty, HON. SYDNEY HERBERT; Joint Secretaries of the Treasury, SIR G. CLERK and SIR T. FREMANTLE; Secretaries of the Board of Control, HON. W. BARING and J. EMERSON TENNENT; Home Under-Secretary, HON. C.M. SUTTON; Foreign Under-Secretary, LORD CANNING; Colonial Under-Secretary, G.W. HOPE; Lords of the Treasury, ALEXANDER PRINGLE, H. BARING, J. YOUNG, and J. MILNES GASKELL; Lords of the Admiralty, SIR G. COCKBURN, ADMIRAL SIR W. GAGE, SIR G. SEYMOUR, HON. CAPTAIN GORDON, HON. H.L. COREY; Store-keeper of the Ordnance, J.R. BONHAM; Clerk of the Ordnance, CAPTAIN BOLDERO; Surveyor-General of the Ordnance, COLONEL JONATHAN PEEL; Attorney-General, SIR F. POLLOCK; Solicitor-General, SIR W. FOLLETT; Judge-Advocate, DR. NICHOLL; Governor-General of Canada, SIR C. BAGOT; Lord Advocate of Scotland, SIR W. RAE.


Lord Lieutenant, EARL DE GREY; Lord Chancellor, SIR E. SUGDEN; Chief Secretary, LORD ELIOT; Attorney-General, MR. BLACKBURNE, Q.C.; Solicitor-General, SERJEANT JACKSON.


Lord Chamberlain, EARL DELAWARR; Lord Steward, EARL OF LIVERPOOL; Master of the Horse, EARL OF JERSEY; Master of the Buckhounds, EARL OF ROSSLYN; Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard, MARQUIS OF LOTHIAN; Captain of the Gentlemen Pensioners, LORD FORESTER; Vice-Chamberlain, LORD ERNEST BRUCE; Treasurer of the Household, EARL JERMYN; Controller of the Household, HON. D. DAMER; Lords in Waiting, LORD ABOYNE, LORD RIVERS, LORD HARDWICKE, LORD BYRON, EARL OF WARWICK, VISCOUNT SYDNEY, EARL OF MORTON, and MARQUIS OF ORMONDE; Groom in Waiting, CAPTAIN MEYNELL; Mistress of the Robes, DUCHESS OF BUCCLEUCH; Ladies of the Bedchamber, MARCHIONESS CAMDEN, LADY LYTTELTON, LADY PORTMAN, LADY BARHAM, and COUNTESS OF CHARLEMONT.


Groom of the Stole, MARQUIS OF EXETER; Sergeant-at-Arms, COLONEL PERCEVAL; Clerk Marshal, LORD C. WELLESLEY.

The members of the new Government were re-elected without an exception, and the House of Commons met again on September 16. SIR ROBERT PEEL made a statement to the House, in which he merely intimated that he should adopt the Estimates [Playing the Knave] of his predecessors, and continue the existing Poor-Law and its Establishment to the 31st of July following. He declined to announce his own financial measures until the next Session, and continued in this determination unmoved by the speeches of LORD JOHN RUSSELL, LORD PALMERSTON, and other Members of the Opposition. MR. FIELDEN moved that no supplies be granted until after an inquiry into the distress of the country; but the motion was negatived by a large majority. Continual reference was made by MR. COBDEN, MR. VILLIERS, and others to the strong desire of the people for a Repeal of the Corn Laws, and which had been loudly expressed out of the House for more than four years. MR. BUSFIELD FERRAND denied the necessity for any alteration, and accused the manufacturers of fomenting the agitation for their own selfish ends, and to increase their power of reducing the wages of the already starving workmen. MR. MARK PHILLIPS, in a capital speech, disproved all MR. FERRAND’S statements. SIR ROBERT PEEL brought in a Bill to continue the Poor Law Commission for six months, and MR. FIELDER’S Amendment [The Well Dressed and the Well to Do] to reject it was negatived by 183 to 18. LORD MELBOURNE attacked, in the House of Lords, the Ministerial plan of finance, and their silence as to the future [Mr. Sancho Bull and his State Physician], and invited the DUKE OF WELLINGTON to bring forward a measure for an alteration of the Corn Laws, promising him a full House if he would do so. The Duke declined the invitation, as he never announced an intention which he did not entertain, and he had not considered the operation of the Corn Laws sufficiently to bring forward a scheme for the alteration of them. This statement led on a subsequent evening to an intimation from the DUKE OF WELLINGTON, in reply to the EARL OF RADNOR, that a consideration of the Corn Laws was only declined “at the present time.” On the 7th of October Parliament was prorogued until November 11th, the Lords Commissioners being the LORD CHANCELLOR, the DUKE OF WELLINGTON, the DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, the EARL OF SHAFTESBURY, and LORD WHARNCLIFFE.

[pg vii]


Hume’s Terminology.—Defeat at Leeds.

W. ALDAM 2043
T. HUME 2033

Lessons in Punmanship.—THOMAS HOOD, the distinguished Poet and Wit, died May 3, 1845.

Court Circular.—MASTER JONES, better known as the “Boy JONES,” was a sweep who obtained admission on more than one occasion to Buckingham Palace in a very mysterious manner. He gave great trouble to the authorities, and was at length sent into the Royal Navy.

Mrs. Lilly was the nurse of the PRINCESS ROYAL.

Mr. Moreton Dyer, a stipendiary Magistrate, removed from the Commons on a charge of bribing electors.

A Public Conveyance.—THE MARQUIS OF WATERFORD was then a man about town, and frequently before the public in connection with some extravagance.

“The Black-Balled Of The United Service” refers to proceedings connected with the EARL OF CARDIGAN. Exception had been taken to the introduction of black bottles at the mess-table at Brighton, and a duel was subsequently fought by LORD CARDIGAN and MR. HARVEY TUCKETT.

An Ode.—Kilpack’s Divan, now the American Bowling Alley, in King Street, Covent Garden, continues to be the resort of minor celebrities. As the club was a private one, we do not feel justified in more plainly indicating the members referred to as the “jocal nine.”

Mrs. H.—MRS. HONEY, a very charming actress.

Court Circular.—DEAF BURKE was a pugilist who occasionally exhibited himself as “the Grecian Statues,” and upon one occasion attempted a reading from SHAKSPEARE. As he was very ignorant, and could neither read nor write, the effect was extremely ridiculous, and helped to give the man a notoriety.

The Harp, a tavern near Drury Lane, was a favourite resort of the Elder KEAN, and in 1841 had a club-room divided into four wards: Gin Ward, Poverty Ward, Insanity Ward, and Suicide Ward, the walls of which were appropriately illustrated, and by no mean hand. The others named (with the exception of PADDY GREEN) were pugilists.

An an-tea Anacreontic.—RUNDEL was the head of a large Jeweller’s firm on Ludgate Hill.

Monsieur Jullien was the first successful promoter of cheap concerts in England. He was a clever conductor, and affected the mountebank. He was a very honourable man, and hastened his death by over-exertion to meet his liabilities. He died 1860.

Punch and Peel.—SIR ROBERT PEEL stipulated, on taking office, for an entire change of the Ladies of the Bedchamber.

William Farren, the celebrated actor of Old Men.

Colonel Sibthorp was M.P. for Lincoln, and more distinguished by his benevolence to his constituency than his merits as a senator. He was very amusing.

Fashionable Movements.—COUNT D’ORSAY, an elegant, accomplished, and kind-hearted Frenchman, was a leader of Fashion, long resident in England. He was the friend and adviser of Louis NAPOLEON during his exile in this country. COUNT D’ORSAY died in Paris.

Jobbing Patriots.—MR. GEORGE ROBINS was an auctioneer in Covent Garden, and celebrated for the extravagant imagery of his advertisements. His successors have offices in Bond Street.

Shocking Want of Sympathy.—SIR P. LAURIE, a very active City magnate, continually engaged in “putting down” suicide, poverty, &c.

Sir F. Burdett, long the Radical member for Westminster. His political perversion took every one by surprise.

New Stuffing for the Speaker’s Chair.—MR. PETER BORTHWICK had been an actor in the Provinces.

Inquest.—The Eagle Tavern, City Road, was built by MR. ROUSE—“Bravo, ROUSE!” as he was called.

Lady Morgan, the Authoress of The Wild Irish Girl, and many other popular works, died 1860.

The Tory Table d’Hote.—“BILLY” HOLMES was whipper-in to the Conservatives in the House of Commons.

The Legal Eccalobeion.—BARON CAMPBELL had been appointed Chancellor of Ireland a few days before the Dissolution (1841). He is now Lord Chancellor of England (1861). The Eccalobeion was an apparatus for hatching birds by steam, but was too costly to be successful commercially.

The State Doctor.—SIR R. PEEL, in his speech at Tamworth, had called himself “the State Doctor,” who would not attempt to prescribe until regularly called in.

Curious Coincidence.—Certain gentlemen, feeling themselves aggrieved and unfairly treated by the managers of the London Theatres, had for some time been abusing the more fortunate dramatists, whose pieces had found acceptance with the public, until at last they resolved upon the course here set forth, and commented upon.

Animal Magnetism.—LORDS MELBOURNE, RUSSELL, and MORPETH, and MR. LABOUCHERE at the window, SIR R. PEEL and the DUKE OF WELLINGTON mesmerising the Lion.

Mr. Muntz, M.P. for Birmingham, wore a very large beard, and in 1841 such hirsute adornments were very uncommon.

General Satisfaction.—The Morning Herald had acquired the sobriquet of “My Grandmother.”

Done Again.—MR. DUNN, a barrister, subjected Miss BURDETT COUTTS to a series of annoyances which ultimately led to legal proceedings, and to MR. DUNN’S imprisonment.

Bernard Cavanagh was an impostor who pretended he could live for many weeks without food. He attracted much attention at the time, and was ultimately detected concealing [pg viii]a cold sausage, when he confessed his imposture, and was imprisoned by the MAYOR OF READING.

Taking The Hodds.—“Holy Land,” the cant name for a part of St. Giles’s, now destroyed. BANKS owned a public-house frequented by thieves of both sexes, and whom he managed to keep under perfect control. A visit to “Stunning JOE BANKS” was thought a fast thing in 1841.

Feargus O’Connor, M.P. for Nottingham, was the leader of the Chartists and projector of the Land Scheme for securing votes to the masses. The project failed. MR. O’CONNOR was a political enthusiast, ultimately became insane, and died in an Asylum.

Die Hexen am Rhein.—MR. FREDERICK YATES was an admirable actor, and the proprietor and manager of the favourite “little Adelphi” Theatre, in the Strand.

Prospectus.—We believe this article suggested the existing Accident Assurance Company.

Mr. Silk Buckingham was a voluminous writer and founder of the British and Foreign Institute, in George Street, Hanover Square.

Parliamentary Masons.—The masons employed in building the New Houses of Parliament struck for higher wages.


Promenade Concerts.—M. MUSARD was the originator in Paris of this class of amusement. Their popularity induced an imitation in England by M. JULLIEN.

To Benevolent and Humane Jokers.—TOM COOKE was the leader and composer at the Theatres Royal, and a remarkable performer on a penny trumpet. He occasionally made use of this toy in his pantomime introductions. He was also a very “funny” fellow.

Coming Events Cast their Shadows before.—SIR JAMES CLARKE, Accoucheur to the QUEEN.

Savory Con. by Cox.—COX AND SAVORY, advertising silversmiths and watchmakers.

New Parliamentary Masons.—In the foreground COL. SIBTHORP, SIR R. PEEL, and MR. O’CONNELL. At the back SIR JAMES GRAHAM, DUKE OF WELLINGTON, and LORD STANLEY.

“Rob Me the Exchequer, Hal.”—A person of the name of SMITH forged a great amount of Exchequer Bills at this time.

The Fire at the Tower on October 31, 1841. Immense damage was done to the building, and a great quantity of arms were destroyed. (See Annual Register.)

Sir Robert Macaire.Robert Macaire was a French felonious drama made famous by the admirable acting of LEMAITRE, and, from some supposed allusion to LOUIS PHILIPPE, MACAIRE’S friend and scapegoat always appears with a large umbrella.

The O’Connell Papers.—D. O’CONNELL was elected Lord Mayor of Dublin, 1841.

Harmer Virumque Cano.—ALDERMAN HARMER, Proprietor of the Weekly Dispatch, and for that and other reasons, was not elected Lord Mayor.

Cutting at the Root of the Evil.—MR. HOBLER was for many years Principal Clerk to the Magistrates at the Mansion House.

Olivia’s (Lord Brougham’s) Return to her Friends.—LORDS RUSSELL, MELBOURNE, MORPETH, D. O’CONNELL, CORDEN, and LABOUCHERE.

A Barrow Knight.—SIR VINCENT COTTON was a well-known four-in-hand whip, and for some little time drove a coach to Brighton. SIR WYNDHAM ANSTRUTHER (WHEEL OF FORTUNE) was another four-in-hand celebrity.


Barber-ous Announcement.—MR. TANNER’S shop was part of one of the side arches of Temple Bar, and so reached from that obstruction to Shire Lane, which adjoins it on the City side.

Fashionable Intelligence.—The PADDY GREEN so frequently referred to was a popular singer and an excellent tempered man. He was unfairly treated by Punch at this time, because really unknown to the writer. MR. JOHN GREEN is now the well known and much respected host and proprietor of Evans’s Hotel, Covent Garden.

Kings and Carpenters.—DON LEON, shot for insurrection in favour of the Ex-Regent CHRISTINA.

Cupid out of Place.—LORD PALMERSTON, from his very engaging manner, was long known as “Cupid.”

Jack Cutting his Name on the Beam.—LORD JOHN RUSSELL, after GEORGE CRUIKSHANK’S etching of Jack Sheppard.

Sibthorp’s Con. Corner.—BRYANT was publisher of Punch, 1841.

PUNCH kicks the world.

Punch, or the London Charivari

for the week ending

July 17, 1841 October 9, 1841
July 24, 1841 October 16, 1841
July 31, 1841 October 23, 1841
August 7, 1841 October 30, 1841
August 14, 1841 November 6, 1841
August 21, 1841 November 13, 1841
August 28, 1841 November 20, 1841
September 5, 1841 November 27, 1841
September 12, 1841 December 4, 1841
September 18, 1841 December 11, 1841
September 25, 1841 December 18, 1841
October 2, 1841 December 25, 1841


A man sweeping, forming the letter A
A woman leans against a letter B.
A seated man smokes and forms a letter C
A man walks through a letter D
A man doffs his hat, holds a bag in his hand, and has a string attached. He forms a letter E.
A man carries something on a shoulder and forms a letter F
A man leans against a letter G
Two men shaking hands form a letter H
PUNCH in his theatre forms a letter I
A begging dog forms a letter J
A woman and her backwards umbrella form a letter K
People under a tree building a canoe form a letter L
Two girls on stilts form a letter M
Two men and a wheelbarrow form a letter N
A couple in an O-framed vignette
Two men pull on a tree branch and form a letter P
A dog jumps through a hoop and forms a letter Q
A pump with a 'Temperance' banner forms a letter R
Two whales kiss and form a letter S
Two Chinese men stand with their queues out to form a letter T
A man's face in a U-shaped frame
Three men form a letter W



VOL. 1.

[pg 1]

JULY 17, 1841.


As we hope, gentle public, to pass many happy hours in your society, we think it right that you should know something of our character and intentions. Our title, at a first glance, may have misled you into a belief that we have no other intention than the amusement of a thoughtless crowd, and the collection of pence. We have a higher object. Few of the admirers of our prototype, merry Master PUNCH, have looked upon his vagaries but as the practical outpourings of a rude and boisterous mirth. We have considered him as a teacher of no mean pretensions, and have, therefore, adopted him as the sponsor for our weekly sheet of pleasant instruction. When we have seen him parading in the glories of his motley, flourishing his baton (like our friend Jullien at Drury-lane) in time with his own unrivalled discord, by which he seeks to win the attention and admiration of the crowd, what visions of graver puppetry have passed before our eyes! Golden circlets, with their adornments of coloured and lustrous gems, have bound the brow of infamy as well as that of honour—a mockery to both; as though virtue required a reward beyond the fulfilment of its own high purposes, or that infamy could be cheated into the forgetfulness of its vileness by the weight around its temples! Gilded coaches have glided before us, in which sat men who thought the buzz and shouts of crowds a guerdon for the toils, the anxieties, and, too often, the peculations of a life. Our ears have rung with the noisy frothiness of those who have bought their fellow-men as beasts in the market-place, and found their reward in the sycophancy of a degraded constituency, or the patronage of a venal ministry—no matter of what creed, for party must destroy patriotism.

The noble in his robes and coronet—the beadle in his gaudy livery of scarlet, and purple, and gold—the dignitary in the fulness of his pomp—the demagogue in the triumph of his hollowness—these and other visual and oral cheats by which mankind are cajoled, have passed in review before us, conjured up by the magic wand of PUNCH.

How we envy his philosophy, when SHALLA-BA-LA, that demon with the bell, besets him at every turn, almost teasing the sap out of him! The moment that his tormentor quits the scene, PUNCH seems to forget the existence of his annoyance, and, carolling the mellifluous numbers of Jim Crow, or some other strain of equal beauty, makes the most of the present, regardless of the past or future; and when SHALLA-BA-LA renews his persecutions, PUNCH boldly faces his enemy, and ultimately becomes the victor. All have a SHALLA-BA-LA in some shape or other; but few, how few, the philosophy of PUNCH!

We are afraid our prototype is no favourite with the ladies. PUNCH is (and we reluctantly admit the fact) a Malthusian in principle, and somewhat of a domestic tyrant; for his conduct is at times harsh and ungentlemanly to Mrs. P.

“Eve of a land that still is Paradise,

Italian beauty!”

But as we never look for perfection in human nature, it is too much to expect it in wood. We wish it to be understood that we repudiate such principles and conduct. We have a Judy of our own, and a little Punchininny that commits innumerable improprieties; but we fearlessly aver that we never threw him out of window, nor belaboured the lady with a stick—even of the size allowed by law.

There is one portion of the drama we wish was omitted, for it always saddens us—we allude to the prison scene. PUNCH, it is true, sings in durance, but we hear the ring of the bars mingling with the song. We are advocates for the correction of offenders; but how many generous and kindly beings are there pining within the walls of a prison, whose only crimes are poverty and misfortune! They, too, sing and laugh, and appear jocund, but the heart can ever hear the ring of the bars.

We never looked upon a lark in a cage, and heard him trilling out his music as he sprang upwards to the roof of his prison, but we felt sickened with the sight and sound, as contrasting, in our thought, the free minstrel of the morning, bounding as it were into the blue caverns of the heavens, with the bird to whom the world was circumscribed. May the time soon arrive, when every prison shall be a palace of the mind—when we shall seek to instruct and cease to punish. PUNCH has already advocated education by example. Look at his dog Toby! The instinct of the brute has almost germinated into reason. Man has reason, why not give him intelligence?

We now come to the last great lesson of our motley teacher—the gallows! that accursed tree which has its root in injuries. How clearly PUNCH exposes the fallacy of that dreadful law which authorises the destruction of life! PUNCH sometimes destroys the hangman: and why not? Where is the divine injunction against the shedder of man’s blood to rest? None can answer! To us there is but ONE disposer of life. At other times PUNCH hangs the devil: this is as it should be. Destroy the principle of evil by increasing the means of cultivating the good, and the gallows will then become as much a wonder as it is now a jest.

We shall always play PUNCH, for we consider it best to be merry and wise—

“And laugh at all things, for we wish to know,

What, after all, are all things but a show!”—Byron.

As on the stage of PUNCH’S theatre, many characters appear to fill up the interstices of the more important story, so our pages will be interspersed with trifles that have no other object than the moment’s approbation—an end which will never be sought for at the expense of others, beyond the evanescent smile of a harmless satire.


There is a report of the stoppage of one of the most respectable hard-bake houses in the metropolis. The firm had been speculating considerably in “Prince Albert’s Rock,” and this is said to have been the rock they have ultimately split upon. The boys will be the greatest sufferers. One of them had stripped hia jacket of all its buttons as a deposit on some tom-trot, which the house had promised to supply on the following day; and we regret to say, there are whispers of other transactions of a similar character.

Money has been abundant all day, and we saw a half-crown piece and some halfpence lying absolutely idle in the hands of an individual, who, if he had only chosen to walk with it into the market, might have produced a very alarming effect on some minor description of securities. Cherries were taken very freely at twopence a pound, and Spanish (liquorice) at a shade lower than yesterday. There has been a most disgusting glut of tallow all the week, which has had an alarming effect on dips, and thrown a still further gloom upon rushlights.

The late discussions on the timber duties have brought the match market into a very unsettled state, and Congreve lights seem destined to undergo a still further depression. This state of things was rendered worse towards the close of the day, by a large holder of the last-named article unexpectedly throwing an immense quantity into the market, which went off rapidly.


Many of our readers must be aware, that in pantomimic pieces, the usual mode of making the audience acquainted with anything that cannot be clearly explained by dumb-show, is to exhibit a linen scroll, on which is painted, in large letters, the sentence necessary to be known. It so happened that a number of these scrolls had Been thrown aside after one of the grand spectacles at Astley’s Amphitheatre, and remained amongst other lumber in the property-room, until the late destructive fire which occurred there. On that night, the wife of one of the stage-assistants—a woman of portly dimensions—was aroused from her bed by the alarm of fire, and in her confusion, being unable to find her proper habiliments, laid hold of one of these scrolls, and wrapping it around her, hastily rushed into the street, and presented to the astonished spectators an extensive back view, with the words, “BOMBARD THE CITADEL,” inscribed in legible characters upon her singular drapery.


Hume is so annoyed at his late defeat at Leeds, that he vows he will never make use of the word Tory again as long as he lives. Indeed, he proposes to expunge the term from the English language, and to substitute that which is applied to, his own party. In writing to a friend, that “after the inflammatory character of the oratory of the Carlton Club, it is quite supererogatory for me to state (it being notorious) that all conciliatory measures will be rendered nugatory,” he thus expressed himself:—“After the inflammawhig character of the orawhig of the nominees of the Carlton Club, it is quite supererogawhig for me to state (it being nowhigous) that all conciliawhig measures will be rendered nugawhig.”


A correspondent to one of the daily papers has remarked, that there is an almost total absence of swallows this summer in England. Had the writer been present at some of the election dinners lately, he must have confessed that a greater number of active swallows has rarely been observed congregated in any one year.


My dear PUNCH,—Seeing in the “Court Circular” of the Morning Herald an account of a General Goblet as one of the guests of her Majesty, I beg to state, that till I saw that announcement, I was not aware of any other general gobble it than myself at the Palace.

Yours, truly,

[pg 2]


DEAR PUNCH,—I was much amused the other day, on taking my seat in the Birmingham Railway train, to observe a sentimental-looking young gentleman, who was sitting opposite to me, deliberately draw from his travelling-bag three volumes of what appeared to me a new novel of the full regulation size, and with intense interest commence the first volume at the title-page. At the same instant the last bell rang, and away started our train, whizz, bang, like a flash of lightning through a butter-firkin. I endeavoured to catch a glimpse of some familiar places as we passed, but the attempt was altogether useless. Harrow-on-the-Hill, as we shot by it, seemed to be driving pell-mell up to town, followed by Boxmoor, Tring, and Aylesbury—I missed Wolverton and Weedon while taking a pinch of snuff—lost Rugby and Coventry before I had done sneezing, and I had scarcely time to say, “God bless us,” till I found we had reached Birmingham. Whereupon I began to calculate the trifling progress my reading companion could have made in his book during our rapid journey, and to devise plans for the gratification of persons similarly situated as my fellow-traveller. “Why,” thought I, “should literature alone lag in the age of steam? Is there no way by which a man could be made to swallow Scott or bolt Bulwer, in as short a time as it now takes him to read an auction bill?” Suddenly a happy thought struck me: it was to write a novel, in which only the actual spirit of the narration should be retained, rejecting all expletives, flourishes, and ornamental figures of speech; to be terse and abrupt in style—use monosyllables always in preference to polysyllables—and to eschew all heroes and heroines whose names contain more than four letters. Full of this idea, on my returning home in the evening, I sat to my desk, and before I retired to rest, had written a novel of three neat, portable volumes; which, I assert, any lady or gentlemen, who has had the advantage of a liberal education, may get through with tolerable ease, in the time occupied by the railroad train running from London to Birmingham.

I will not dilate on the many advantages which this description of writing possesses over all others. Lamplighters, commercial bagmen, omnibus-cads, tavern-waiters, and general postmen, may “read as they run.” Fiddlers at the theatres, during the rests in a piece of music, may also benefit by my invention; for which, if the following specimen meet your approbation, I shall instantly apply for a patent.




“Brief let me be.”

LONDON: Printed and Published for the Author.


Clare Grey—Sweet girl—Bloom and blushes, roses, lilies, dew-drops, &c.—Tom Lee—Young, gay, but poor—Loved Clare madly—Clare loved Tom ditto—Clare’s pa’ rich, old, cross, cruel, &c.—Smelt a rat—D—d Tom, and swore at Clare—Tears, sighs, locks, bolts, and bars—Love’s schemes—Billet-doux from Tom, conveyed to Clare in a dish of peas, crammed with vows, love, despair, hope—Answer (pencil and curl-paper), slipped through key-hole—Full of hope, despair, love, vows—Tom serenades—Bad cold—Rather hoarse—White kerchief from garret-window—“’Tis Clare! ’tis Clare!”—Garden-wall, six feet high—Love is rash—Scale the wall—Great house-dog at home—Pins Tom by the calf—Old Hunk’s roused—Fire! thieves! guns, swords, and rushlights—Tom caught—Murder, burglary—Station-house, gaol, justice—Fudge!—Pretty mess—Heigho!—‘Oh! ’tis love,’ &c.—Sweet Clare Grey!—Seven pages of sentiment—Lame leg, light purse, heavy heart—Pshaw!—Never mind—

Fellow operating a turnstile



“Adieu, my native land,” &c.—D.I.O.—“We part to meet again”—Death or glory—Red coat—Laurels and rupees in view—Vows of constancy, eternal truth, &c—Tom swells the brine with tears—Clare wipes her eyes in cambric—Alas! alack! oh! ah!—Fond hearts, doomed to part—Cruel fate!—Ten pages, poetry, romance, &c. &c.—Tom in battle—Cut, slash, dash—Sabres, rifles—Round and grape in showers—Hot work—Charge!—Whizz—Bang!—Flat as a Flounder—Never say die—Peace—Sweet sound—Scars, wounds, wooden leg, one arm, and one eye—Half-pay—Home—Huzza!—Swift gales—Post-horses—Love, hope, and Clare Grey—

A peg-legged, pirate cupid



“Here we are!”—At home once more—Old friends and old faces—Must be changed—Nobody knows him—Church bells ringing—Inquire cause—(?)—Wedding—Clare Grey to Job Snooks, the old pawnbroker—Brain whirls—Eyes start from sockets—Devils and hell—Clare Grey, the fond, constant, Clare, a jilt?—Can’t be—No go—Stump up to church—Too true—Clare just made Mrs. Snooks—Madness!! rage!!! death!!!!—Tom’s crutch at work—Snooks floored—Bridesman settled—Parson bolts—Clerk mizzles—Salts and shrieks—Clare in a swoon—Pa’ in a funk—Tragedy speech—Love! vengeance! and damnation!—Half an ounce of laudanum—Quick speech—Tom unshackles his wooden pin—Dies like a hero—Clare pines in secret—Hops the twig, and goes to glory in white muslin—Poor Tom and Clare! they now lie side by side, beneath

A man sitting on a bench next to a tombstone



We have been favoured with the following announcement from Mr. Hood, which we recommend to the earnest attention of our subscribers:—


Begs to acquaint the dull and witless, that he has established a class for the acquirement of an elegant and ready style of punning, on the pure Joe-millerian principle. The very worst hands are improved in six short and mirthful lessons. As a specimen of his capability, he begs to subjoin two conundrums by Colonel Sibthorpe.


“The following is a specimen of my punning before taking six lessons of Mr. T. Hood:—

“Q. Why is a fresh-plucked carnation like a certain cold with which children are affected?

“A. Because it’s a new pink off (an hooping-cough).

“This is a specimen of my punning after taking six lessons of Mr. T. Hood:—

“Q. Why is the difference between pardoning and thinking no more of an injury the same as that between a selfish and a generous man?

“A. Because the one is for-getting and the other for-giving.”

N.B. Gentlemen who live by their wits, and diners-out in particular, will find Mr. T. Hood’s system of incalculable service.

Mr. H. has just completed a large assortment of jokes, which will be suitable for all occurrences of the table, whether dinner or tea. He has also a few second-hand bon mots which he can offer a bargain.


[pg 3]


There hath been long wanting a full and perfect Synopsis of Voting, it being a science which hath become exceedingly complicated. It is necessary, therefore, to the full development of the art, that it be brought into such an exposition, as that it may be seen in a glance what are the modes of bribing and influencing in Elections. The briber, by this means, will be able to arrange his polling-books according to the different categories, and the bribed to see in what class he shall most advantageously place himself.

It is true that there be able and eloquent writers greatly experienced in this noble science, but none have yet been able so to express it as to bring it (as we hope to have done) within the range of the certain sciences. Henceforward, we trust it will form a part of the public education, and not be subject tot he barbarous modes pursued by illogical though earnest and zealous disciples; and that the great and glorious Constitution that has done so much to bring it to perfection, will, in its turn, be sustained and matured by the exercise of what is really in itself so ancient and beautiful a practice.


[pg 4]


Have any of PUNCH’S readers ever met one of the above genus—or rather, have they not? They must; for the race is imbued with the most persevering hic et ubique powers. Like the old mole, these Truepennies “work i’ th’ dark:” at the Theatres, the Opera, the Coal Hole, the Cider Cellars, and the whole of the Grecian, Roman, British, Cambrian, Eagle, Lion, Apollo, Domestic, Foreign, Zoological, and Mythological Saloons, they “most do congregate.” Once set your eyes upon them, once become acquainted with their habits and manners, and then mistake them if you can. They are themselves, alone: like the London dustmen, the Nemarket jockeys, the peripatetic venders, or buyers of “old clo’,” or the Albert continuations at one pound one, they appear to be made to measure for the same. We must now describe them (to speak theatrically) with decorations, scenes, and properties! The entirely new dresses of a theatre are like the habiliments of the professional singer, i.e. neither one nor the other ever were entirely new, and never will be allowed to grow entirely old. The double-milled Saxony of these worthies is generally very blue or very brown; the cut whereof sets a man of a contemplative turn of mind wondering at what precise date those tails were worn, and vainly speculating on the probabilities of their being fearfully indigestible, as that alone could to long have kept them from Time’s remorseless maw. The collars are always velvet, and always greasy. There is a slight ostentation manifested in the seams, the stitches whereof are so apparent as to induce the beholders to believe they must have been the handiwork of some cherished friend, whose labours ought not to be entombed beneath the superstructure. The buttons!—oh, for a pen of steam to write upon those buttons! They, indeed, are the aristocracy—the yellow turbans, the sun, moon, and stars of the woollen system! They have nothing in common with the coat—they are on it, and that’s all—they have no further communion—they decline the button-holes, and eschew all right to labour for their living—they announce themselves as “the last new fashion”—they sparkle for a week, retire to their silver paper, make way for the new comers, and, years after, like the Sleeping Beauty, rush to life in all their pristine splendour, and find (save in the treble-gilt aodication and their own accession) the coat, the immortal coat, unchanged! The waistcoat is of a material known only to themselves—a sort of nightmare illusion of velvet, covered with a slight tracery of refined mortar, curiously picked out and guarded with a nondescript collection of the very greenest green pellets of hyson-bloom gunpowder tea. The buttons (things of use in this garment) describe the figure and proportions of a large turbot. They consist of two rows (leaving imagination to fill up a lapse of the absent), commencing, to all appearance, at the small of the back, and reaching down even to the hem of the garment, which is invariably a double-breasted one, made upon the good old dining-out principle of leaving plenty of room in the victualling department. To complete the catalogue of raiment, the untalkaboutables have so little right to the name of drab, that it would cause a controversy on the point. Perhaps nothing in life can more exquisitely illustrate the Desdemona feeling of divided duty, than the portion of manufactured calf-skin appropriated to the peripatetic purposes of these gentry; they are, in point of fact, invariably that description of mud-markers known in the purlieus of Liecester-square, and at all denominations of “boots”—great, little, red, and yellow—as eight-and-sixpenny Bluchers. But the afore-mentioned drabs are strapped down with such pertinacity as to leave the observer in extreme doubt whether the Prussian hero of that name is their legitimate sponsor, or the glorious Wellington of our own sea-girt isle. Indeed, it has been rumoured that (as there never was a pair of either of the illustrious heroes) these gentlemen, for the sake of consistency, invariably perambulate in one of each. We scarcely know whether it be so or not—we merely relate what we have heard; but we incline to the two Bluchers, because of the eight-and-six. The only additional expense likely to add any emolument to the tanner’s interest (we mean no pun) is the immense extent of sixpenny straps generally worn. These are described by a friend of ours as belonging to the great class of coaxers; and their exertions in bringing (as a nautical man would say) the trowsers to bear at all, is worthy of notice. There is a legend extant (a veritable legend, which emanated from one of the fraternity who had been engaged three weeks at her Majesty’s theatre, as one of twenty in an unknown chorus, the chief peculiarity of the affair being the close approximation of some of his principal foreign words to “Tol de rol,” and “Fal the ral ra”), in which it was asserted, that from a violent quarrel with a person in the grass-bleached line, the body corporate determined to avoid any unnecessary use of that commodity. In the way of wristbands, the malice of the above void is beautifully nullified, inasmuch as the most prosperous linen-draper could never wish to have less linen on hand. As we are describing the genus in black and white, we may as well state at once, those are the colours generally casing the throats from whence their sweet sounds issue; these ties are garnished with union pins, whose strong mosaic tendency would, in the Catholic days of Spain (had they been residents), have consigned them to the lowest dungeons of the Inquisition, and favoured them with an exit from this breathing world, amid all the uncomfortable pomp of an auto-da-fe.

It is a fact on record, that no one of the body ever had a cold in his head; and this peculiarity, we presume, exempts them from carrying pocket-handkerchiefs, a superfluity we never witnessed in their hands, though they indulge in snuff-boxes which assume the miniture form of French plum-cases, richly embossed, with something round the edges about as much in proportion to the box as eighteen insides are to a small tax-cart. This testimonial is generally (as the engraved inscription purports) given by “several gentlemen” (who are, unfortunately, in these instances, always anonymous—which circumstance, as they are invariably described as “admirers of talent,” is much to be regretted, and, we trust, will soon be rectified). We believe, like the immortal Jack Falstaff, they were each born at four o’clock of the morning, with a bald head, and something of a round belly; certain it is, they are universally thin in the hair, and exhibit strong manifestation of obesity.

The further marks of identity consist in a ring very variously chased, and the infallible insignia of a tuning-fork: without this no professional singer does or can exist. The thing has been tried, and found a failure. Its uses are remarkable and various: like the “death’s-head and cross-bones” of the pirates, or the wand, globe, and beard of the conjuror, it is their sure and unvarying sign. We have in our mind’s eye one of the species even now—we see him coquetting with the fork, compressing it with gentle fondness, and then (that all senses may be called into requisition) resting it against his eye-tooth to catch the proper tone. Should this be the prelude to his own professional performance, we see it returned, with a look of profound wisdom, to the right-hand depository of the nondescript and imaginary velvet double-breaster—we follow his eyes, till, with peculiar fascination, they fix upon the far-off cornice of the most distant corner of the smoke-embued apartment—we perceive the extension of the dexter hand employed in innocent dalliance with the well-sucked peel of a quarter of an orange, whilst the left is employed with the links of what would be a watch-guard, if the professional singer had a watch. We hear the three distinct hems—oblivion for a moment seizes us—the glasses jingle—two auctioneers’ hammers astonish the mahogany—several dirty hands are brought in violent and noisy contact—we are near a friend of the vocalist—our glass of gin-and-water (literally warm without) empties itself over our lower extremities, instigated thereto by the gymnastic performances of the said zealous friend—and with an exclamation that, were Mawworn present, would cost us a shilling, we find the professional singer has concluded, and is half stooping to the applause, and half lifting his diligently-stirred grog, gulping down the “creature comfort” with infinite satisfaction.

—There goes the hammer again! (Rubins has a sinecure compared to that fat man). “A glee, gents!—a glee!”—Ah! there they are—three coats—three collars—Heaven knows how many buttons!—three bald heads, three stout stomachs, three mouths, stuffed with three tuning-forks, nodding and conferring with a degree of mystery worthy of three Guy Faux.”—What is the subject?

Hail smilig born.”

That’s a good guess! By the way, the vulgar notion of singing ensemble is totally exploded by these gentry—each professional singer, as a professional singer, sings his very loudest, in justice to himself; if his brethren want physical power, that’s no fault of his, he don’t. Professional singers indulge in small portions of classic lore: among the necessary acquirements is, “Non nobis,” &c. &c.; that is, they consider they ought to know the airs. The words are generally delivered as follows:—Don—dobis—do—by—de. A clear enunciation is not much cultivated among the clever in this line.

In addition to the few particulars above, it may be as well to mention, they treat all tavern-waiters with great respect, which is more Christian-like, as the said waiters never return the same—sit anywhere, just to accommodate—eat everything, to prove they have no squeamish partialities—know to a toothful what a bottom of brandy should be—the exact quantity they may drink, free gratis, and the most likely victim to drop upon for any further nourishment they may require. Their acquirements in the musical world are rendered clear, by the important information that “Harry Phillips knows what he’s about”—“Weber was up to a thing or two.” A baritone ain’t the sort of thing for tenor music: and when they sung with some man (nobody ever heard of), they showed him the difference, and wouldn’t mind—“A cigar?” “Thank you, sir!—seldom smoke—put it in my pocket—(aside) that makes a dozen! Your good health, sir!—don’t dislike cold, though I generally take it warm—didn’t mean that as a hint, but, since you have ordered it, I’ll give you a toast—Here’s—THE PROFESSIONAL SINGER!”




Bards of old have sung the vine

Such a theme shall ne’er be mine;

Weaker strains to me belong,

Pæans sung to thee, Souchong!

What though I may never sip

Rubies from my tea-cup’s lip;

Do not milky pearls combine

In this steaming cup of mine?

What though round my youthful brow

I ne’er twine the myrtle’s bough?

For such wreaths my soul ne’er grieves.

Whilst I own my Twankay’s leaves.

Though for me no altar burns,

Kettles boil and bubble—urns

In each fane, where I adore—

What should mortal ask for more!

I for Pidding, Bacchus fly,

Howqua shall my cup supply;

I’ll ne’er ask for amphoræ,

Whilst my tea-pot yields me tea.

Then, perchance, above my grave,

Blooming Hyson sprigs may wave;

And some stately sugar-cane,

There may spring to life again:

Bright-eyed maidens then may meet,

To quaff the herb and suck the sweet.

[pg 5]



DEAR SIR,—I was a-sitting the other evening at the door of my kennel, thinking of the dog-days and smoking my pipe (blessings on you, master, for teaching me that art!), when one of your prospectuses was put into my paw by a spaniel that lives as pet-dog in a nobleman’s family. Lawk, sir! what misfortunes can have befallen you, that you are obleeged to turn author?

I remember the poor devil as used to supply us with dialect—what a face he had! It was like a mouth-organ turned edgeways; and he looked as hollow as the big drum, but warn’t half so round and noisy. You can’t have dwindled down to that, surely! I couldn’t bear to see your hump and pars pendula (that’s dog Latin) shrunk up like dried almonds, and titivated out in msty-fusty toggery—I’m sure I couldn’t! The very thought of it is like a pound weight at the end of my tail.

I whined like any thing, calling to my missus—for you must know that I’ve married as handsome a Scotch terrier as you ever see. “Vixen,” says I, “here’s the poor old governor up at last—I knew that Police Act would drive him to something desperate.”

“Why he hasn’t hung himself in earnest, and summoned you on his inquest!” exclaimed Mrs. T.

“Worse nor that,” says I; “he’s turned author, and in course is stewed up in some wery elevated apartment during this blessed season of the year, when all nature is wagging with delight, and the fairs is on, and the police don’t want nothing to do to warm ‘em, and consequentially sees no harm in a muster of infantry in bye-streets. It’s very hawful.”

Vixen sighed and scratched her ear with her right leg, so I know’d she’d something in her head, for she always does that when anything tickles her. “Toby,” says she, “go and see the old gentleman; perhaps it might comfort him to larrup you a little.”

“Very well,” says I, “I’ll be off at once; so put me by a bone or two for supper, should any come out while I’m gone; and if you can get the puppies to sleep before I return, I shall be so much obleeged to you.” Saying which, I toddled off for Wellington-street. I had just got to the coach-stand at Hyde Park Corner, when who should I see labelled as a waterman but the one-eyed chap we once had as a orchestra—he as could only play “Jim Crow” and the “Soldier Tired.” Thinks I, I may as well pass the compliment of the day with him; so I creeps under the hackney-coach he was standing alongside on, intending to surprise him; but just as I was about to pop out he ran off the stand to un-nosebag a cab-horse. Whilst I was waiting for him to come back, I hears the off-side horse in the wehicle make the following remark:—

OFF-SIDE HORSE—(twisting his tail about like anything)—Curse the flies!

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—You may say that. I’ve had one fellow tickling me this half-hour.

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—Ours is a horrid profession! Phew! the sun actually penetrates my vertebra.

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—Werterbee! What’s that?

OFF-SIDE HORSE—(impatiently).—The spine, my friend (whish! whish!)

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—Ah! it is a shameful thing to dock us as they does. If the marrow in one’s backbone should melt, it would be sartin to run out at the tip of one’s tail. I say, how’s your feed?

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—Very indifferent—the chaff predominates—(munch) not bene by any means.

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—Beany! Lord bless your ignorance! I should be satisfied if they’d only make it oaty now and then. How long have you been in the hackney line?

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—I have occupied my present degraded position about two years. Little thought my poor mama, when I was foaled, that I should ever come to this.

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—Ah! it ain’t very respectable, is it?—especially since the cabs and busses have druv over our heads. What was you put to?—you look as if you had been well brought up.

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—My mama was own sister to Lottery, but unfortunately married a horse much below her in pedigree. I was the produce of that union. At five years old I entered the army under Ensign Dashard.

NEAR-SIDE HORSE—Bless me, how odd! I was bought at Horncastle, to serve in the dragoons; but the wetternary man found out I’d a splint, and wouldn’t have me! I say, ain’t that stout woman with a fat family looking at us?

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—I’m afraid she is. People of her grade in society are always partial to a dilatory shillingworth.

NEAR-SIDE HORSE—Ay, and always lives up Snow-hill, or Ludgate-hill, or Mutton-hill, or a hill somewhere.


NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—She’s ahailing us! I wonder whether she’s narvous? I’ll let out with my hind leg a bit—(kick)—O Lord! the rheumatiz!

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—Pray don’t. I abjure subterfuges; they are unworthy of a thoroughbred.

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—Thoroughbred? I like that! Haven’t you just acknowledged that you were a cocktail? Thank God! she’s moving on. Hallo! there’s old Readypenny!—a willanous Tory.

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—I beg to remark that my principles are Conservative.

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—And I beg to remark that mine isn’t. I sarved Readypenny out at Westminster ‘lection the other day. He got into our coach to go to the poll, and I wouldn’t draw an inch. I warn’t agoing to take up a plumper for Rous.

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—I declare the obese female returns.

WOMAN.—Coach! Hallo! Coach!

WATERMAN.—Here you is, ma’am. Kuck! kuck! kuck!—Come along!—(Pulling the coach and horses).

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—O heavens! I am too stiff to move, and this brute will pull my head off.

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—Keep it on one side, and you spiles his purchase.

WATERMAN—Come up, you old brute!

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—Old brute! What evidence of a low mind!—[The stout woman and fat family ascend the steps of the coach].

COACH.—O law! oh, law! Week! week! O law!—O law! Week! week!

NEAR-SIDE HORSE—Do you hear how the poor old thing’s a sufferin’?—She must feel it a good deal to have her squabs sat on by everybody as can pay for her. She was built by Pearce, of Long-acre, for the Duchess of Dorsetshire. I wonder her perch don’t break—she has been crazy a long time.

WATERMAN.—Snow-hill—opposite the Saracen’s Head.

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—I know’d it!

COACHMAN.—Kuck! kuck!

WHIP.—Whack! whack!

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—Pull away, my dear fellow; a little extra exertion may save us from flagellation.

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—Well, I’m pulling, ain’t I?

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—I don’t like to dispute your word; but—(whack)—Oh! that was an abrasion on my shoulder.

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—A raw you mean. Who’s not pulling now, I should like to know!

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—I couldn’t help hopping then; you know what a grease I have in my hind leg.

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—Well, haven’t I a splint and a corn, and ain’t one of my fore fetlocks got a formoses, and my hind legs the stringhalt?

WOMAN.—Stop! stop!

COACHMAN.—Whoo up!—d—n you!

OFF-SIDE HORSE.—There goes my last masticator!

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—And I’m blow’d if he hasn’t jerked my head so that he’s given me a crick in the neck; but never mind; if she does get out here, we shall save the hill.

WOMAN.—Three doors higher up.

COACHMAN.—Chuck! chuck!

WHIP.—Whack! whack!

COACHMAN.—Come up, you varmint!

OFF-SIDE HORSE—Varmint! and to me! the nephew of the great Lottery! O Pegasus! what shall I come to next!

NEAR-SIDE HORSE.—Alamode beef, may be, or perhaps pork sassages!

The old woman was so long in that house where she stopped, that I was obleeged to toddle home, for my wife has a rather unpleasant way of taking me by the scruff of my neck if I ain’t pretty regular in my hours.

Yours, werry obediently, TOBY.


Communicated exclusively to this Journal by MASTER JONES, whose services we have succeeded in retaining, though opposed by the enlightened manager of a metropolitan theatre, whose anxiety to advance the interest of the drama is only equalled by his ignorance of the means.

Since the dissolution of Parliament, Lord Melbourne has confined himself entirely to stews.

Stalls have been fitted up in the Royal nursery for the reception of two Alderney cows, preparatory to the weaning of the infant Princess; which delicate duty Mrs. Lilly commences on Monday next.

Sir Robert Peel has been seen several times this week in close consultation with the chief cook. Has he been offered the premiership?

Mr. Moreton Dyer, “the amateur turner,” has been a frequent visitor at the palace of late. Palmerston, it is whispered, has been receiving lessons in the art. We are surprised to hear this, for we always considered his lordship a Talleyrand in turning.



By winter’s chill the fragrant flower is nipp’d,

To be new-clothed with brighter tints in spring;

The blasted tree of verdant leaves is stripp’d,

A fresher foliage on each branch to bring;

The aërial songster moults his plumerie,

To vie in sleekness with each feather’d brother:

A twelvemonth’s wear hath ta’en thy nap from thee,

My seedy coat!—When shall I get another?

NOTE.—Confiding tailors are entreated to send their addresses, pre-paid, to PUNCH’S office.

P.S.—None need apply who refuse three years’ acceptances. If the bills be made renewable, by agreement, “continuations” will be taken in any quantity.—FITZROY FIPS.

[pg 6]



(Enter PUNCH.)



“Wheel about and turn about,

And do jes so;

Ebery time I turn about,

I jump Jim Crow.”

MANAGER.—Hollo, Mr. Punch! your voice is rather husky to-day.

PUNCH.—Yes, yes; I’ve been making myself as hoarse as a hog, bawling to the free and independent electors of Grogswill all the morning. They have done me the honour to elect me as their representative in Parliament. I’m an M.P. now.

MANAGER.—An M.P.! Gammon, Mr. Punch.

THE DOG TOBY.—Bow, wow, wow, wough, wough!

PUNCH.—Fact, upon my honour. I’m at this moment an unit in the collective stupidity of the nation.

DOG TOBY.—R-r-r-r-r-r—wough—wough!

PUNCH.—Kick that dog, somebody. Hang the cur, did he never see a legislator before, that he barks at me so?

MANAGER.—A legislator, Mr. Punch? with that wooden head of yours! Ho! ho! ho! ho!

PUNCH.—My dear sir, I can assure you that wood is the material generally used in the manufacture of political puppets. There will be more blockheads than mine in St. Stephen’s, I can tell you. And as for oratory, why I flatter my whiskers I’ll astonish them in that line.

MANAGER.—But on what principles did you get into Parliament, Mr. Punch?

PUNCH.—I’d have you know, sir, I’m above having any principles but those that put money in my pocket.

MANAGER.—I mean on what interest did you start?

PUNCH.—On self-interest, sir. The only great, patriotic, and noble feeling that a public man can entertain.

MANAGER.—Pardon me, Mr. Punch; I wish to know whether you have come in as a Whig or a Tory?

PUNCH.—As a Tory, decidedly, sir. I despise the base, rascally, paltry, beggarly, contemptible Whigs. I detest their policy, and—

THE DOG TOBY.—Bow, wow, wough, wough!

MANAGER.—Hollo! Mr. Punch, what are you saying? I understood you were always a staunch Whig, and a supporter of the present Government.

PUNCH.—So I was, sir. I supported the Whigs as long as they supported themselves; but now that the old house is coming down about their ears, I turn my back on them in virtuous indignation, and take my seat in the opposition ‘bus.

MANAGER.—-But where is your patriotism, Mr. Punch?

PUNCH.—Where every politician’s is, sir—in my breeches’ pocket.

MANAGER.—And your consistency, Mr. Punch?

PUNCH.—What a green chap you are, after all. A public man’s consistency! It’s only a popular delusion, sir. I’ll tell you what’s consistency, sir. When one gentleman’s in and won’t come out, and when another gentleman’s out and can’t get in, and when both gentlemen persevere in their determination—that’s consistency.

MANAGER.—I understand; but still I think it is the duty of every public man to——


“Wheel about and turn about, And do jes so; Ebery time he turn about, He jumps Jim Crow.”

MANAGER.—Then it is your opinion that the prospects of the Whigs are not very flattering?

PUNCH.—’Tis all up with them, as the young lady remarked when Mr. Green and his friends left Wauxhall in the balloon; they haven’t a chance. The election returns are against them everywhere. England deserts them—Ireland fails them—Scotland alone sticks with national attachment to their backs, like a—

THE DOG TOBY.—Bow, wow, wow, wough!

MANAGER.—Of course, then, the Tories will take office—?

PUNCH.—I rayther suspect they will. Have they not been licking their chops for ten years outside the Treasury door, while the sneaking Whigs were helping themselves to all the fat tit-bits within? Have they not growled and snarled all the while, and proved by their barking that they were the fittest guardians of the country? Have they not wept over the decay of our ancient and venerable constitution—? And have they not promised and vowed, the moment they got into office, that they would—Send round the hat.

MANAGER.—Very good, Mr. Punch; but I should like to know what the Tories mean to do about the corn-laws? Will they give the people cheap food?

PUNCH.—No, but they’ll give them cheap drink. They’ll throw open the Thames for the use of the temperance societies.

MANAGER.—But if we don’t have cheap corn, our trade must be destroyed, our factories will be closed, and our mills left idle.

PUNCH.—There you’re wrong. Our tread-mills will be in constant work; and, though our factories should be empty, our prisons will be quite full.

MANAGER.—That’s all very well, Mr. Punch; but the people will grumble a leetle if you starve them.

PUNCH.—Ay, hang them, so they will; the populace have no idea of being grateful for benefits. Talk of starvation! Pooh!—I’ve studied political economy in a workhouse, and I know what it means. They’ve got a fine plan in those workhouses for feeding the poor devils. They do it on the homoeopathic system, by administering to them oatmeal porridge in infinitessimal doses; but some of the paupers have such proud stomachs that they object to the diet, and actually die through spite and villany. Oh! ’tis a dreadful world for ingratitude! But never mind—Send round the hat.

MANAGER.—What is the meaning of the sliding scale, Mr. Punch?

PUNCH.—It means—when a man has got nothing for breakfast, he may slide his breakfast into his lunch; then, if he has got nothing for lunch, he may slide that into his dinner; and if he labours under the same difficulties with respect to the dinner, he may slide all three meals into his supper.

MANAGER.—But if the man has got no supper?

PUNCH.—Then let him wish he may get it.

MANAGER.—Oh! that’s your sliding scale?

PUNCH.—Yes; and a very ingenious invention it is for the suppression of victuals. R-r-r-roo-to-tooit-tooit! Send round the hat.

MANAGER.—At this rate, Mr. Punch, I suppose you would not be favourable to free trade?

PUNCH.—Certainly not, sir. Free trade is one of your new-fangled notions that mean nothing but free plunder. I’ll illustrate my position. I’m a boy in a school, with a bag of apples, which, being the only apples on my form, I naturally sell at a penny a-piece, and so look forward to pulling in a considerable quantity of browns, when a boy from another form, with a bigger bag of apples, comes and sells his at three for a penny, which, of course, knocks up my trade.

MANAGER.—But it benefits the community, Mr. Punch.

PUNCH.—D—n the community! I know of no community but PUNCH and Co. I’m for centralization—and individualization—every man for himself, and PUNCH for us all! Only let me catch any rascal bringing his apples to my form, and see how I’ll cobb him. So now—send round the hat—and three cheers for



No. 1.

O Reveal, thou fay-like stranger,

Why this lonely path you seek;

Every step is fraught with danger

Unto one so fair and meek.

Where are they that should protect thee

In this darkling hour of doubt?

Love could never thus neglect thee!—

Does your mother know you’re out?

Why so pensive, Peri-maiden?

Pearly tears bedim thine eyes!

Sure thine heart is overladen,

When each breath is fraught with sighs.

Say, hath care life’s heaven clouded,

Which hope’s stars were wont to spangle?

What hath all thy gladness shrouded?—

Has your mother sold her mangle?


We are requested to state, by the Marquis of W——, that, for the convenience of the public, he has put down one of his carriages, and given orders to Pearce, of Long-acre, for the construction of an easy and elegant stretcher.

[pg 7]


A series of vignettes with candidates: CANVASSING. What a love of a child THE DEPUTATION. If you think me worthy THE SUCCESSFUL CANDIDATE. Constituents--rascals THE HUSTINGS. Don't mention it I beg THE PUBLIC DINNER. The proudest moment of my life

CANVASSING. What a love of a child
THE DEPUTATION. If you think me worthy
THE SUCCESSFUL CANDIDATE. Constituents--rascals
THE HUSTINGS. Don't mention it I beg
THE PUBLIC DINNER. The proudest moment of my life

[pg 9]


PUNCH begs most solemnly to assure his friends and the artists in general, that should the violent cold with which he has been from time immemorial afflicted, and which, although it has caused his voice to appear like an infant Lablache screaming through horse-hair and thistles, yet has not very materially affected him otherwise—should it not deprive him of existence—please Gog and Magog, he will, next season, visit every exhibition of modern art as soon as the pictures are hung; and further, that he will most unequivocally be down with his coup de baton upon every unfortunate nob requiring his peculiar attention.

That he independently rejects the principles upon which these matters are generally conducted, he trusts this will be taken as an assurance: should the handsomest likeness-taker gratuitously offer to paint PUNCH’S portrait in any of the most favourite and fashionable styles, from the purest production of the general mourning school—and all performed by scissars—to the exquisitely gay works of the President of the Royal Academy, even though his Presidentship offer to do the nose with real carmine, and throw Judy and the little one into the back-ground, PUNCH would not give him a single eulogistic syllable unmerited. A word to the landscape and other perpetrators: none of your little bits for PUNCH—none of your insinuating cabinet gems—no Art-ful Union system of doing things—Hopkins to praise for one reason, Popkins to censure for another—and as PUNCH has been poking his nose into numberless unseen corners, and, notwithstanding its indisputable dimensions, has managed to screen it from observation, he has thereby smelt out several pretty little affairs, which shall in due time be exhibited and explained in front of his proscenium, for special amusement. In the mean time, to prove that PUNCH is tolerably well up in this line of pseudo-criticism, he has prepared the following description of the private view of either the Royal Academy or the Suffolk-street Gallery, or the British Institution, for 1842, for the lovers of this very light style of reading; and to make it as truly applicable to the various specimens of art forming the collection or collections alluded to, he has done it after the peculiar manner practised by the talented conductor of a journal purporting to be exclusively set apart to that effort. To illustrate with what strict attention to the nature of the subject chosen, and what an intimate knowledge of technicalities the writer above alluded to displays, and with what consummate skill he blends those peculiarities, the reader will have the kindness to attach the criticism to either of the works (hereunder catalogued) most agreeably to his fancy. It will be, moreover, shown that this is a thoroughly impartial way of performing the operation of soft anointment.


Portrait of the miscreant who attempted to assassinate Mr. Macreath. The head is extremely well painted, and the light and shade distributed with the artist's usual judgement.
Portrait of His Majesty the King of Hanover.
Portrait of the boy who got into Buckingham Palace.
Portrait of Lord John Russell. An admirable likeness of the original, and executed with that breadth and clearness so apparent in this clever painter's works.
Portrait of W. Grumbletone, Esq., in the character of Joseph Surface.
Portrait of Sir Robert Peel
Portrait of the Empress of Russia. A well-drawn and brilliantly painted portrait, calculated to sustain the fame already gained by this our favourite painter.
Portrait of the infant Princess.
Portrait of Mary Mumblegums, aged 170 years.


The Death of Abel. This picture is well arranged and coloured with much truth to nature; the chiaro-scuro is admirably managed.
Dead Game.
Vesuvius in Eruption.
Portraits of Mrs. Punch and Child.
Cattle returning from the Watering Place.
"We won't go home till Morning."
M. WATERFORD, R.H.S. This is one of the cleverest productions in the Exhibition; there is a transparency in the shadows equal to Rembrandt.
The infant Cupid sleeping.
Portrait of Lord Palmerston.
Coast Scene: Smugglers on the look out.
Portrait of Captain Rous, M.P.

Should the friends of any of the artists deem the praise a little too oily, they can easily add such a tag as the following:—“In our humble judgment, a little more delicacy of handling would not be altogether out of place;” or, “Beautiful as the work under notice decidedly is, we recollect to have received perhaps as much gratification in viewing previous productions by the same.”


This artist is, we much fear, on the decline; we no longer see the vigour of handling and smartness of conception formerly apparent in his works: or, “A little stricter attention to drawing, as well as composition, would render this artist’s works more recommendatory.”


Either of the following, taken conjointly or separately: “A perfect daub, possessing not one single quality necessary to create even the slightest interest—a disgrace to the Exhibition—who allowed such a wretched production to disgrace these walls?—woefully out of drawing, and as badly coloured,” and such like.



Well, lawks-a-day! things seem going on uncommon queer,

For they say that the Tories are bowling out the Whigs almost everywhere;

And the blazing red of my beadle’s coat is turning to pink through fear,

Lest I should find myself and staff out of Office some time about the end of the year.

I’ve done nothing so long but stand under the magnificent portico

Of Somerset House, that I don’t know what I should do if I was for to go!

What the electors are at, I can’t make out, upon my soul,

For it’s a law of natur’ that the whig should be atop of the poll.

I’ve had a snug berth of it here for some time, and don’t want to cut the connexion;

But they do say the Whigs must go out, because they’ve NO OTHER ELECTION;

What they mean by that, I don’t know, for ain’t they been electioneering—

That is, they’ve been canvassing, and spouting, and pledging, and ginning, and beering.

Hasn’t Crawford and Pattison, Lyall, Masterman, Wood, and Lord John Russell,

For ever so long been keeping the Great Metropolis in one alarming bussel?

Ain’t the two first retired into private life—(that’s the genteel for being rejected)?

And what’s more, the last four, strange to say, have all been elected.

Then Finsbury Tom and Mr. Wakley, as wears his hair all over his coat collar,

Hav’n’t they frightened Mr. Tooke, who once said he could beat them Hollar?

Then at Lambeth, ain’t Mr. Baldwin and Mr. Cabbell been both on ‘em bottled

By Mr. D’Eyncourt and Mr. Hawes, who makes soap yellow and mottled!

And hasn’t Sir Benjamin Hall, and the gallant Commodore Napier,

Made such a cabal with Cabbell and Hamilton as would make any chap queer?

Whilst Sankey, who was backed by a Cleave-r for Marrowbone looks cranky,

Acos the electors, like lisping babbies, cried out “No Sankee?

Then South’ark has sent Alderman Humphrey and Mr. B. Wood,

Who has promised, that if ever a member of parliament did his duty—he would!

Then for the Tower Hamlets, Robinson, Hutchinson, and Thompson, find that they’re in the wrong box,

For the electors, though turned to Clay, still gallantly followed the Fox;

Whilst Westminster’s chosen Rous—not Rouse of the Eagle—tho’ I once seed a

Picture where there was a great big bird, very like a goose, along with a Leda.

And hasn’t Sir Robert Peel and Mr. A’Court been down to Tamworth to be reseated?

They ought to get an act of parliament to save them such fatigue, for its always—ditto repeated.

Whilst at Leeds, Beckett and Aldam have put Lord Jocelyn into a considerable fume,

Who finds it no go, though he’s added up the poll-books several times with the calculating boy, Joe Hume.

So if there’s been no other election, I should like to find out

What all the late squibbing and fibbing, placarding, and blackguarding, losing and winning, beering and ginning, and every other et cetera, has been about!


Black bottles at Brighton,

To darken your fame;

Black Sundays at Hounslow,

To add to your shame.

Black balls at the club,

Show Lord Hill’s growing duller:

He should change your command

To the guards of that colour.

[pg 10]


A man thumbing his nose

English—it has been remarked a thousand and odd times—is one of the few languages which is unaccompanied with gesticulation. Your veritable Englishman, in his discourse, is as chary as your genuine Frenchman is prodigal, of action. The one speaks like an oracle, the other like a telegraph.

Mr. Brown narrates the death of a poor widower from starvation, with his hands fast locked in his breeches’ pocket, and his features as calm as a horse-pond. M. le Brun tells of the debut of the new danseuse, with several kisses on the tips of his fingers, a variety of taps on the left side of his satin waistcoat, and his head engulfed between his two shoulders, like a cock-boat in a trough of the sea.

The cause of this natural diversity is not very apparent. The deficiency of gesture on our parts may be a necessary result of that prudence which is so marked a feature of the English character. Mr. Brown, perhaps, objects to using two means to attain his end when one is sufficient, and consequently looks upon all gesticulation during conversation as a wicked waste of physical labour, which that most sublime and congenial science of Pol. Econ. has shown him to be the source of all wealth. To indulge in pantomime is, therefore, in his eyes, the same as throwing so much money in the dirt—a crime which he regards as second in depravity only to that of having none to throw. Napoleon said, many years back, we were a nation of shopkeepers; and time seems to have increased, rather than diminished, our devotion to the ledger. Gold has become our sole standard of excellence. We measure a man’s respectability by his banker’s account, and mete out to the pauper the same punishment as the felon. Our very nobility is a nobility of the breeches’ pocket; and the highest personage in the realm—her most gracious Majesty—the most gracious Majesty of 500,000l. per annum! Nor is this to be wondered at. To a martial people like the Romans, it was perfectly natural that animal courage should be thought to constitute heroic virtue: to a commercial people like ourselves, it is equally natural that a man’s worthiness should be computed by what he is worth. We fear it is this commercial spirit, which, for the reason before assigned, is opposed to the introduction of pantomime among us; and it is therefore to this spirit that we would appeal, in our endeavours to supply a deficiency which we cannot but look upon as a national misfortune and disgrace. It makes us appear as a cold-blooded race of people, which we assuredly are not; for, after all our wants are satisfied, what nation can make such heroic sacrifices for the benefit of their fellow creatures as our own? A change, however, is coming over us: a few pantomimic signs have already made their appearance amongst us. It is true that they are at present chiefly confined to that class upon whose manners politeness places little or no restraint—barbarians, who act as nature, rather than as the book of etiquette dictates, (and among whom, for that very reason, such a change would naturally first begin to show itself:) yet do we trust, by pointing out to the more refined portion of the “British public,” the advantage that must necessarily accrue from the general cultivation of the art of pantomime, by proving to them its vast superiority over the comparatively tedious operations of speech, and exhibiting its capacity of conveying a far greater quantity of thought in a considerably less space of time, and that with a saving of one-half the muscular exertion—a point so perfectly consonant with the present prevailing desire for cheap and rapid communication—that we say we hope to be able not only to bring the higher classes to look upon it no longer as a vulgar and extravagant mode of expression, but actually to introduce and cherish it among them as the most polite and useful of all accomplishments.

A man winking

But in order to exhibit the capacities of this noble art in all their comprehensive excellence, it is requisite that we should, in the first place, say a few words on language in general.

It is commonly supposed that there are but two kinds of language among men—the written and the spoken: whereas it follows, from the very nature of language itself, that there must necessarily be as many modes of conveying our impressions to our fellow-creatures, as there are senses or modes of receiving impressions in them. Accordingly, there are five senses and five languages; to wit, the audible, the visible, the olfactory, the gustatory, and the sensitive. To the two first belong speech and literature. As illustrations of the third, or olfactory language, may be cited the presentation of a pinch of Prince’s Mixture to a stranger, or a bottle of “Bouquet du Roi” to a fair acquaintance; both of which are but forms of expressing to them nasally our respect. The nose, however, is an organ but little cultivated in man, and the language which appeals to it is, therefore, in a very imperfect state; not so the gustatory, or that which addresses itself to the palate. This, indeed, may be said to be imbibed with our mother’s milk. What words can speak affection to the child like elecampane—what language assures us of the remembrance of an absent friend like a brace of wood-cocks? Then who does not comprehend the eloquence of dinners? A rump steak, and bottle of old port, are not these to all guests the very emblems of esteem—and turtle, venison, and champagne, the unmistakeable types of respect? If the citizens of a particular town be desirous of expressing their profound admiration of the genius of a popular author, how can the sentiment be conveyed so fitly as in a public dinner? or if a candidate be anxious to convince the “free and independent electors” of a certain borough of his disinterested regard for the commonweal, what more persuasive language could he adopt than the general distribution of unlimited beer? Of the sensitive, or fifth and last species of language, innumerable instances might be quoted. All understand the difference in meaning between cuffs and caresses—between being shaken heartily by the hand and kicked rapidly down stairs. Who, however ignorant, could look upon the latter as a compliment? or what fair maiden, however simple, would require a master to teach her how to construe a gentle compression of her fingers at parting, or a tender pressure of her toe under the dinner table?

Such is an imperfect sketch of the five languages appertaining to man. There is, however, one other—that which forms the subject of the present article—Pantomime, and which may be considered as the natural form of the visible language—literature being taken as the artificial. This is the most primitive as well as most comprehensive, of all. It is the earliest, as it is the most intuitive—the smiles and frowns of the mother being the first signs understood by the infant. Indeed, if we consider for a moment that all existence is but a Pantomime, of which Time is the harlequin, changing to-day into yesterday, summer into winter, youth into old age, and life into death, and we but the clowns who bear the kicks and buffets of the scene, we cannot fail to desire the general cultivation of an art which constitutes the very essence of existence itself. “Speech,” says Talleyrand, that profound political pantomimist, “was given to conceal our thoughts;” and truly this is the chief use to which it is applied. We are continually clamouring for acts in lieu of words. Let but the art of Pantomime become universal, and this grand desideratum must be obtained. Then we shall find that candidates, instead of being able, as now, to become legislators by simply professing to be patriots, will be placed in the awkward predicament of having first to act as such; and that the clergy, in lieu of taking a tenth part of the produce for the mere preaching of Christianity, will be obliged to sacrifice at least a portion to charitable purposes, and practise it.

Indeed, we are thoroughly convinced, that when the manifold advantages of this beautiful art shall be generally known, it cannot fail of becoming the principle of universal communication. Nor do we despair of ultimately finding the elegant Lord A. avowing his love for the beautiful Miss B., by gently closing one of his eyes, and the fair lady tenderly expressing that doubt and incredulity which are the invariable concomitants of “Love’s young dream,” by a gentle indication with the dexter hand over the sinister shoulder.

A man laying a finger aside of his nose, and another with a thumbs-up


An action was recently brought in the Court of Queen’s Bench against Mr. Walter, to recover a sum of money expended by a person named Clark, in wine, spirits, malt liquors, and other refreshments, during a contest for the representation of the borough of Southwark. One of the witnesses, who it appears was chairman of Mr. Walter’s committee, swore that every thing the committee had to eat or drink went through him. By a remarkable coincidence, the counsel for the plaintiff in this tippling case was Mr. Lush.

[pg 11]



Cum notis variorum.

“Excise Court.—An information was laid against Mr. Killpack, for selling spirituous liquor. Mr. James (the counsel for the defendant) stated that there was a club held there, of which Mr. Keeley, the actor, was treasurer, and many others of the theatrical profession were members, and that they had a store of brandy, whiskey, and other spirits. Fined £5 in each case.”—Observer

Assist, ye jocal nine1,1. “Ye jocal nine,” a happy modification of “Ye vocal nine.” The nine here so classically invocated are manifestly nine of the members of the late club, consisting of, 1. Mr. D—s J—d. 2. The subject of the engraving, treasurer and store-keeper. 3. Mr. G—e S—h, sub-ed. J—— B——. 4. Mr. B—d, Mem. Dram. Author’s Society. 5. C—s S—y, ditto. 6. Mr. C—e. 7. Mr. C—s, T—s, late of the firm of T—s and P—t. 8. Mr. J—e A—n, Mem. Soc. British Artists. 9, and lastly, “though not least,” the author of “You loved me not in happier days.” inspire my soul!

(Waiter! a go of Brett’s best alcohol,

A light, and one of Killpack’s mild Havannahs).

Fire me! again I say, while loud hosannas

I sing of what we were—of what we now are.

Wildly let me rave,

To imprecate the knave

Whose curious information turned our porter sour,

Bottled our stout, doing it (ruthless cub!)



Knocking our snug, unlicensed club;

Changing, despite our belle esprit, at one fell swop,

Into a legal coffee-crib, our contraband cook-shop!


Then little Bob arose,

And doff’d his clothes,

Exclaiming, “Momus! Stuff!

I’ve played him long enough,”

And, as the public seems inclined to sack us,

Behold me ready dressed to play young Bacchus.

Bacchus straddling a barrel marked 'Best British Brandy Not Permitted'

He said22. “He said.”—Deeply imbued with the style of the most polished of the classics, our author will be found to exhibit in some passages an imitation of it which might be considered pedantic, for ourselves, we admire the severe style. The literal rendering of the ‘dixit’ of the ancient epicists, strikes us as being eitremely forcible here.—PUNCH. his legs the barrel span,

And thus the Covent Garden god began;—

“GENTLEMEN,—I am—ahem—!—I beg your pardon,

But, ahem! as first low com. of Common Garden—

No, I don’t mean that, I mean to say,

That if we were—ahem!—to pay

So much per quarter for our quarterns, [Cries of ‘Hear!’]

Import our own champagne and ginger-beer;

In short, small duty pay on all we sup—

Ahem!—you understand—I give it up.”

The speech was ended,

And Bob descended.

The club was formed. A spicy club it was—

Especially on Saturdays; because

They dined extr’ordinary cheap at five o’clock:

When there were met members of the Dram. A. Soc.

Those of the sock and buskin, artists, court gazetteers—

Odd fellows all—odder than all their club compeers.

Some were sub-editors, others reporters,

And more illuminati, joke-importers.

The club was heterogen’ous

By strangers seen as

A refuge for destitute bons mots

Dépôt for leaden jokes and pewter pots;

Repertory for gin and jeux d’esprit,

Literary pound for vagrant rapartee;

Second-hand shop for left-off witticisms;

Gall’ry for Tomkins and Pitt-icisms;33. A play-bill reminiscence, viz. “The scenery by Messrs. Tomkins and Pitt.”—THE AUTHORS OF “BUT, HOWEVER.”

Foundling hospital for every bastard pun;

In short, a manufactory for all sorts of fun!

Arouse my muse! such pleasing themes to quit,

Hear me while I say

Donnez-moi du frenzy, s’il vous plait!44. “Donnez-moi,” &c.—The classics of all countries are aptly drawn upon by the universal erudition of our bard. A fine parody this upon the exclamation of Belmontel’s starving author: “La Gloire—donnez-moi do pain!”—FENWICK DE PORQUET.

Give me a most tremendous fit

Of indignation, a wild volcanic ebullition,

Or deep anathema,

Fatal as J—d’s bah!

To hurl excisemen downward to perdition.

May genial gin no more delight their throttles—

Their casks grow leaky, bottomless their bottles;

May smugglers run, and they ne’er make a seizure;

May they—I’ll curse them further at my leisure.

But for our club,

“Ay, there’s the rub.”

“We mourn it dead in its father’s halls:”55. “They mourn it dead,” &c.—A pretty, but perhaps too literal allusion to a popular song—J. RODWELL.

The sporting prints are cut down from the walls;

No stuffing there,

Not even in a chair;

The spirits are all ex(or)cised,

The coffee-cups capsized,

The coffee fine-d, the snuff all taken,

The mild Havannahs are by lights forsaken:

The utter ruin of the club’s achieven—

Our very chess-boards are ex-chequered even.

“Where is our club?” X—sighs,66. “X—sighs.”—Who “X” may happen to be we have not the remotest idea. But who would not forgive a little mystification for so brilliant a pun?—THE GHOST OF PUNCH’S THEATRE. and with a stare

Like to another echo, answers “Where?”


We are requested by Mr. Hume to state, that being relieved from his parliamentary duties, he intends opening a day-school in the neighbourhood of the House of Commons, for the instruction of members only, in the principles of the illustrious Cocker; and to remedy in some measure his own absence from the Finance Committees, he is now engaged in preparing a Parliamentary Ready-reckoner. We heartily wish him success.


“In the event of the Tories coming into power, it is intended to confer the place of Postmaster-General upon Lord Clanwilliam. It would be difficult to select an individual more peculiarly fitted for the situation than his lordship, whose love of letters is notorious in the Carlton Club.”—Extract from an Intercepted Letter.


It is currently reported at the Conservative Clubs, that if their party should come into power, Sir Robert Peel will endeavour to conciliate the Whigs, and to form a coalition with their former opponents. We have no doubt the cautious baronet sees the necessity of the step, and would feel grateful for support from any quarter; but we much doubt the practicability of the measure. It would indeed he a strange sight to see Lord Johnny and Sir Bobby, the two great leaders of the opposition engines, with their followers, meeting amicably on the floor of the House of Commons. In our opinion, an infernal crash and smash would be the result of these

Four trains meeting at an intersection with bodies strewn about.


[pg 12]


The “star system” has added another victim to the many already sacrificed to its rapacity and injustice. Mr. Phelps, an actor whose personation of Macduff, the Hunchback, Jaques, &c., would have procured for him in former times no mean position, has been compelled to secede from the Haymarket Theatre from a justifiable feeling of disgust at the continual sacrifices he was required to make for the aggrandisement of one to whom he may not possibly ascribe any superiority of genius. The part assigned to Mr. Phelps (Friar Lawrence) requires an actor of considerable powers, and under the old régime would have deteriorated nothing from Mr. Phelps’ position; but we can understand the motives which influenced its rejection, and whilst we deprecate the practice of actors refusing parts on every caprice, we consider Mr. Phelps’ opposition to this ruinous system of “starring” as commendable and manly. The real cause of the decline of the drama is the upholding of this system. The “stars” are paid so enormously, and cost so much to maintain them in their false position, that the manager cannot afford (supposing the disposition to exist) to pay the working portion of his company salaries commensurate with their usefulness, or compatible with the appearance they are expected to maintain out of the theatre; whilst opportunities of testing their powers as actors, or of improving any favourable impression they may have made upon the public, is denied to them, from the fear that the influence of the greater, because more fortunate actor, may be diminished thereby. These facts are now so well known, that men of education are deterred from making the stage a profession, and consequently the scarcity of rising actors is referable to this cause.

The poverty of our present dramatic literature may also be attributable to this absurd and destructive system. The “star” must be considered alone in the construction of the drama; or if the piece be not actually made to measure, the actor, par excellence, must be the arbiter of the author’s creation. Writers are thus deterred from making experiments in the higher order of dramatic writing, for should their subject admit of this individual display, its rejection by the “star” would render the labour of months valueless, and the dramatist, driven from the path of fame, degenerates into a literary drudge, receiving for his wearying labour a lesser remuneration than would be otherwise awarded him, from the pecuniary monopoly of the “star.”

It is this system which has begotten the present indifference to the stage. The public had formerly many favourites, because all had an opportunity of contending for their favour—now they have only Mr. A. or Mrs. B., who must ultimately weary the public, be their talent what it may, as the sweetest note would pall upon the ear, were it continually sounded, although, when harmonised with others, it should constitute the charm of the melody.

We have made these remarks divested of any personal consideration. We quarrel only with the system that we believe to be unjust and injurious to an art which we reverence.

VAUXHALL.—Vauxhall! region of Punch, both liquid and corporeal!—Elysium of illumination lamps!—Paradise of Simpson!—we have been permitted once again to breathe your oily atmosphere, to partake of an imaginary repast of impalpable ham and invisible chicken—to join in the eruption of exclamations at thy pyrotechnic glories—to swallow thy mysterious arrack and

A jester wearing a toga


We have seen Jullien, the elegant, pantomimic Jullien, exhibit his six-inch wristbands and exquisitely dressed head—we have roved again amid those bowers where, with Araminta Smith, years ago,

“We met the daylight after seven hours’ sitting.”

But we were not happy. There was a something that told us it was not Vauxhall: the G R’s were V R’s—the cocked hats were round hats—the fiddlers were foreigners—the Rotunda was Astley’s—the night was moon-shiny—and there was not—our pen weeps whilst we trace the mournful fact—there was not “Simpson” to exclaim, “Welcome to the royal property!” Urbane M.A.C., wouldst that thou hadst been a Mussulman, then wouldst thou doubtlessly be gliding about amid an Eden of Houris, uttering to the verge of time the hospitable sentence which has rendered thy name immortal—Peace to thy manes!

STRAND.—The enterprising managers of this elegant little theatre have produced another mythological drama, called “The Frolics of the Fairies; or, the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle,” from the pen of Leman Rede, who is, without doubt, the first of this class of writers. The indisposition of Mr. Hall was stated to be the cause of the delay in the production of this piece; out, from the appearance of the bills, we are led to infer that it arose from the indisposition of Mrs. Waylett to shine in the same hemisphere with that little brilliant, Mrs. Keeley, and “a gem of the first water” she proved herself to be on Wednesday night. It would be useless to enter into the detail of the plot of an ephemeron, that depends more upon its quips and cranks than dramatic construction for its success. It abounds in merry conceits, which that merriest of—dare we call her mere woman?—little Mrs. Bob rendered as pointed as a Whitechapel needle of the finest temper. The appointments and arrangements of the stage reflect the highest credit on the management, and the industry which can labour to surmount the difficulties which we know to exist in the production of anything like scenic effect in the Strand Theatre, deserve the encouragement which we were gratified to see bestowed upon this little Temple of Momus.

The Olympic Theatre has obtained an extension of its licence from the Lord Chamberlain, and will shortly open with a company selected from Ducrow’s late establishment; but whether the peds are bi or quadru, rumour sayeth not.


MESSRS. FUDGE and VAMP beg to inform novelists and writers of tales in general, that they supply dénouements to unfinished stories, on the most reasonable terms. They have just completed a large stock of catastrophes, to which they respectfully solicit attention.


Discovery of the real murderers, and respite of the accused.

Ditto very superior, with return of the supposed victim.

Ditto, ditto, extra superfine, with punishment of vice and reward of virtue.


Mollification of flinty-hearted fathers and union of lovers, &c. &c. &c.


Fictitious bankruptcy of the hero, and sudden reinstatement of fortune.

Ditto, ditto, with exposure of false friends.

Non-recognition of son by father, ultimate discovery of former by latter.

Ditto, ditto, very fine, “with convenient cordial,” and true gentlemen, illustrated by an old debauchee.

N.B.—On hand, a very choice assortment of interesting parricides, strongly recommended for Surrey use.


Young Kean’s a bad cigar—because

The more he’s puff’d, the worse he draws.

A new farce, entitled “My Friend the Captain,” is to be produced tonight, at the Haymarket Theatre.

MR. HAMMOND will take a benefit at the English Opera House, on Monday next. We are happy to see that this very deserving actor’s professional brethren are coming forward to lend him that assistance which he has always been ready to afford to others.


Thou sweet, to whom all bend the knee,

No wonder men run after thee;

There’s something in a name, perhaps,

For Honey’s often good for chaps.

A MR. GRAHAM has appeared at the Surrey. He is reported to be a very chaste and clever actor. If so, he certainly will not suit the taste of Mr. Davidge’s patrons. How they have tolerated Wilson, Leffler, and Miss Romer so long, we are utterly at a loss to divine. It must be, that “music hath charms.”

We are authorised to state that Rouse of the Eagle Tavern is not the Rous who was lately returned for Westminster.


Berthelda.—Sanguine, you have killed your mother!!!

Fruitwoman.—Any apples, oranges, biscuits, ginger-beer!

(Curtain falls.)


We give the following list of qualifications for a member of parliament for Westminster, as a logical curiosity, extracted from a handbill very liberally distributed by Captain Rons’s party, during the late contest:—

1st. Because “he is brother to the Earl of Stradbroke.”

2nd. Because “his family have always been hearty Conservatives.”

3rd. Because “they have been established in Suffolk from the time of the Heptarchy.”

4th. Because “he entered the navy in 1808.”

5th. Because “he brought home Lord Aylmer in the Pique, in 1835.”

6th. Because “he ran the Pique aground in the Straits of Belleisle.”

7th. Because “after beating there for eleven hours, he got her off again.”

8th. Because “he brought her into Portsmouth without a rudder or forefoot, lower-masts all sprung, and leaking at the rate of two feet per hour!” ergo, he is the fittest man for the representative of Westminster.—Q.E.D.


LORD LONDONDERRY, in a letter to Colonel Fitzroy, begs of the gallant member to “go the whole hog.” This is natural advice from a thorough bore like his lordship.


VOL. 1.

[pg 13]

JULY 24, 1841.



A building (with the words More Ton Dyer) and a sail forming the letter P

Poor Mr. Dyer! And so this gentleman has been dismissed from the commission of the peace for humanely endeavouring to obtain the release of Medhurst from confinement. Two or three thousand pounds, he thought, given to some public charity, might persuade the Home Secretary to remit the remainder of his sentence, and dispose the public to look upon the prisoner with an indulgent eye.

Now, Mr. Punch, incline thy head, and let me whisper a secret into thine ear. If the Whig ministry had not gone downright mad with the result of the elections, instead of dismissing delectable Dyer, they would have had him down upon the Pension List to such a tune as you wot not of, although of tunes you are most curiously excellent. For, oh! what a project did he unwittingly shadow forth of recruiting the exhausted budget! Such a one as a sane Chancellor of the Exchequer would have seized upon, and shaken in the face of “Robert the Devil,” and his crew of “odious monopolists.” Peel must still have pined in hopeless opposition, when Baring opened his plan.

Listen! Mandeville wrote a book, entitled “Private Vices Public Benefits.” Why cannot public crimes, let me ask, be made so? you, perhaps, are not on the instant prepared with an answer—but I am.

Let the Chancellor of the Exchequer forthwith prepare to discharge all the criminals in Great Britain, of whatever description, from her respective prisons, on the payment of a certain sum, to be regulated on the principle of a graduated or “sliding scale.”

A vast sum will be thus instantaneously raised,—not enough, however, you will say, to supply the deficiency. I know it. But a moment’s further attention. Mr. Goulburn, many years since, being then Chancellor of the Exchequer, and, like brother Baring, in a financial hobble, proposed that on the payment, three years in advance, of the dog and hair-powder tax, all parties so handsomely coming down with the “tin,” should henceforth and for ever rejoice in duty-free dog, and enjoy untaxed cranium. Now, why not a proposition to this effect—that on the payment of a good round sum (let it be pretty large, for the ready is required), a man shall be exempt from the present legal consequences of any crime or crimes he may hereafter commit; or, if this be thought an extravagant scheme, and not likely to take with the public, at least let a list of prices be drawn up, that a man may know, at a glance, at what cost he may gratify a pet crime or favourite little foible. Thus:—

For cutting one’s own child’s head off—so much. (I really think I would fix this at a high price, although I am well aware it has been done for nothing.)

For murdering a father or a mother—a good sum.

For ditto, a grand ditto, or a great-grand ditto—not so much: their leases, it is presumed, being about to fall in.

Uncles, aunts, cousins, friends, companions, and the community in general—in proportion.

The cost of assaults and batteries, and other diversions, might be easily arranged; only I must remark, that for assaulting policemen I would charge high; that being, like the Italian Opera, for the most part, the entertainment of the nobility.

You may object that the propounding such a scheme would be discreditable, and that the thing is unprecedented. Reflect, my dear PUNCH, for an instant. Surely, nothing can be deemed to be discreditable by a Whig government, after the cheap sugar, cheap timber, cheap bread rigs. Why, this is just what might have been expected from them. I wonder they had not hit upon it. How it would have “agitated the masses!”

As to the want of a precedent, that is easily supplied. Pardons for all sorts and sizes of crimes were commonly bought and sold in the reign of James I.; nay, pardon granted in anticipation of crimes to be at a future time committed.

After all, you see, Mr. Dyer’s idea was not altogether original.

Your affectionate friend,
Pump Court.

P.S.—Permit me to congratulate you on the determination you have come to, of entering the literary world. Your modesty may be alarmed, but I must tell you that several of our “popular and talented” authors are commonly thought to be greatly indebted to you. They are said to derive valuable hints from you, particularly in their management of the pathetic.

Keep a strict eye upon your wife, Judith. You say she will superintend your notices of the fashions, &c.; but I fear she has been already too long and exclusively employed on certain newspapers and other periodicals. Her style is not easily mistaken.


The Whigs must go: to reign instead

The Tories will be call’d;

The Whigs should ne’er be at the head—

Dear me, I’m getting bald!

The Whigs! they pass’d that Poor Law Bill;

That’s true, beyond a doubt;

The poor they’ve treated very ill—

There, kick that beggar out!

The Whigs about the sugar prate!

They do not care one dump

About the blacks and their sad state—

Just please to pass the lump!

Those niggers, for their sufferings here,

Will angels be when dying;

Have wings, and flit above us—dear—

Why, how those blacks are flying!

The Whigs are in a state forlorn;

In fact, were ne’er so low:

They make a fuss about the corn—

My love, you’re on my toe!

The Whigs the timber duty say

They will bring down a peg;

More wooden-pated blockheads they!

Fetch me my wooden leg!


Deaf Burke took an airing yesterday afternoon in an open cart. He was accompanied by Jerry Donovan. They afterwards stood up out of the rain under the piazzas in Covent Garden. In the evening they walked through the slops.

The dinner at the Harp, yesterday, was composed of many delicacies of the season, including bread-and-cheese and onions. The hilarity of the evening was highly increased by the admirable style in which Signor Jonesi sang “Nix my dolly pals.”

Despatches yesterday arrived at the house of Reuben Martin, enclosing a post order for three-and six-pence.

The Signor and Deaf Burke walked out at five o’clock. They after wards tossed for a pint of half-and-half.

Jerry Donovan and Bill Paul were seen in close conversation yesterday. It is rumoured that the former is in treaty with the latter for a pair of left-off six-and-eightpenny Clarences.

Paddy Green intends shortly to remove to a three-pair back-room in Little Wild-street, Drury-lane, which he has taken for the summer. His loss will be much felt in the neighbourhood.


Rundell! pride of Ludgate Hill!

I would task thine utmost skill;

I would have a bowl from thee

Fit to hold my Howqua tea.

And oh! leave it not without

Ivory handle and a spout.

Where thy curious hand must trace

Father Mathew’s temperate face,

So that he may ever seem

Spouting tea and breathing steam.

On its sides do not display

Fawns and laughing nymphs at play

But portray, instead of these,

Funny groups of fat Chinese:

On its lid a mandarin,

Modelled to resemble Lin.

When completed, artisan,

I will pay you—if I can.

[pg 14]



On Thursday, July 8, 1841, the celebrated pack of Knocker Boys met at the Cavendish, in Jermyn Street. These animals, which have acquired for themselves a celebrity as undying as that of Tom and Jerry, are of a fine powerful breed, and in excellent condition. The success which invariably attends them must be highly gratifying to the distinguished nobleman who, if he did not introduce this particular species into the metropolis, has at least done much to bring it to its present extraordinary state of perfection.

As there may be some of our readers who are ignorant of the purposes for which this invaluable pack has been organised, it may be as well to state a few particulars, before proceeding to the detail of one of the most splendid nights upon record in the annals of disorderism.

The knocker is a thing which is generally composed of brass or iron. It has frequently a violent resemblance to the “human face divine,” or the ravenous expressiveness of a beast of prey. It assumes a variety of phases under peculiar vinous influences. A gentleman, in whose veracity and experience we have the most unlimited confidence, for a series of years kept an account of the phenomena of his own knocker; and by his permission the following extracts are now submitted to the public:—


Nov. 12—Dined with Captain ——. Capital spread—exquisite liqueurs—magnificent wines—unparalleled cigars—drank my four bottles—should have made it five, but found I had eaten something which disagreed with me—Home at four.

State of Knocker.—Jumping up and down the surface of the door like a rope dancer, occasionally diverging into a zig-zag, the key-hole partaking of the same eccentricities.

Nov. 13.—Supped with Charley B——. Brandy, genuine cognac—Cigars principè. ESTIMATED CONSUMPTION: brandy and water, eighteen glasses—cigars, two dozen—porter with a cabman, two pots.

State of Knocker.—Peripatetic—moved from our house to the next—remained till it roused the family—returned to its own door, and became duplicated—wouldn’t wake the house-porter till five.

N.B. Found I had used my own thumb for a sounding-plate, and had bruised my nail awfully.

Nov. 14.—Devoted the day to soda-water and my tailor’s bill—gave a draught for the amount, and took another on my own account.

Nov. 15.—Lectured by the “governor”—left the house savage—met the Marquess—got very drunk unconsciously—fancied myself a merman, and that the gutter in the Haymarket was the Archipelago—grew preposterous, and felt that I should like to be run over—thought I was waltzing with Cerito, but found I was being carried on a stretcher to the station-house—somebody sent somewhere for bail, and somebody bailed me.

State of Knocker.—Very indistinct—then became uncommonly like the “governor” in his nightcap—could NOT reach it—presume it was filial affection that prevented me—knocked of its own accord, no doubt agitated by sympathy—reverberated in my ears all night, and left me with a confounded head-ache in the morning.

The above examples are sufficient to show the variability of this singular article.

Formerly the knocker was devoted entirely to the menial occupation of announcing, by a single dab, or a variation of raps, the desire of persons on the door-step to communicate with the occupants of the interior of a mansion. Modern genius has elevated it into a source of refined pleasure and practical humour, affording at the same time employment to the artisan, excitement to the gentleman, and broken heads and dislocations of every variety to the police!

We will now proceed to the details of an event which PUNCH alone is worthy to record:—

Notice of a meet having been despatched to all the members of the “Knocker Hunt,” a splendid field—no street—met at the Cavendish—the hotel of the hospitable Marquess. The white damask which covered the mahogany was dotted here and there with rich and invigorating viands; whilst decanters of port and sherry—jugs of Chateau Margaux—bottles of exhilarating spirits, and boxes of cigars, agreeably diversified the scene. After a plentiful but orderly discussion of the “creature comforts,” (for all ebullitions at home are strictly prohibited by the Marquess) it was proposed to draw St. James’s Square. This suggestion was, however, abandoned, as it was reported by Captain Pepperwell, that a party of snobs had been hunting bell-handles in the same locality, on the preceding night. Clarges Street was then named; and off we started in that direction, trying the west end of Jermyn Street and Piccadilly in our way; but, as was expected, both coverts proved blank. We were almost afraid of the same result in the Clarges Street gorse; for it was not until we arrived at No. 33, that any one gave tongue. Young Dashover was the first, and clearly and beautifully came his shrill tone upon the ear, as he exclaimed “Hereth a knocker—thuch a one, too!” The rush was instantaneous; and in the space of a moment one feeling seemed to have taken possession of the whole pack. A more splendid struggle was never witnessed by the oldest knocker-hunter! A more pertinacious piece of cast-iron never contended against the prowess of the Corinthian! After a gallant pull of an hour and a half, “the affair came off,” and now graces the club-room of the “Knocker Hunt.”

The pack having been called off, were taken to the kennel in the Haymarket, when one young dog, who had run counter at a bell-handle, was found to be missing; but the gratifying intelligence was soon brought, that he was safe in the Vine-street station-house.

The various compounds known as champagne, port, sherry, brandy, &c., having been very freely distributed, Captain Pepperwell made a proposition that will so intimately connect his name with that of the immortal Marquess, that, like the twin-born of Jupiter and Leda, to mention one will be to imply the other.

Having obtained silence by throwing a quart measure at the waiter, he wriggled himself into an upright position, and in a voice tremulous from emotion—perhaps brandy, said—

“Gentlemen of—the Knocker Hunt—there are times when a man can’t make—a speech without con-considerable inconvenience to himself—that’s my case at the present moment—but my admiration for the distinguished foun—der of the Knocker Hunt—compels me—to stand as well as I can—and propose, that as soon as we have knockers enough—they be melted down—by some other respectable founder, and cast into a statue of—the Marquess of Waterford!”

Deafening were the cheers which greeted the gallant captain! A meeting of ladies has since been held, at which resolutions were passed for the furtherance of so desirable an object, and a committee formed for the selection of a design worthy of the originator of the Knocker Hunt. To that committee we now appeal.

A statue of a gentleman holding a lion-faced door-knocker in the air.


Mem. The hunt meet again on Monday next, as information has been received that a splendid knocker occupies the door of Laing’s shooting gallery in the Haymarket.

[pg 15]


Our printer’s devil, with a laudable anxiety for our success, has communicated the following pathetic story. As a specimen of stenotypography, or compositor’s short-hand, we consider it unique.



Seraphina Popps was the daughter of Mr. Hezekiah Popps, a highly respectable pawnbroker, residing in —— Street, Bloomsbury. Being an only child, from her earliest infancy she wanted for 0, as everything had been made ready to her hand hand.

She grew up as most little girls do, who live long enough, and became the universal !1 of all who knew her, for

“None but herself could be her ||.”2

Amongst the most devoted of her admirers was Julian Fitzorphandale. Seraphina was not insensible to the worth of Julian Fitzorphandale; and when she received from him a letter, asking permission to visit her, she felt some difficulty in replying to his ?3; for, at this very critical .4, an unamiable young man, named Augustus St. Tomkins, who possessed considerable £. s. d. had become a suitor for her hand. She loved Fitzorphandale +5 St. Tomkins, but the former was ∪ of money; and Seraphina, though sensitive to an extreme, was fully aware that a competency was a very comfortable “appendix.”

She seized her pen, but found that her mind was all 6’s and 7’s. She spelt Fitzorphandale, P-h-i-t-z; and though she commenced ¶6 after ¶, she never could come to a “finis.” She upbraided her unlucky ∗ ∗, either for making Fitzorphandale so poor, or St. Tomkins so ugly, which he really was. In this dilemma we must leave her at present.

Although Augustus St. Tomkins was a Freemason7, he did not possess the universal benevolence which that ancient order inculcates; but revolving in his mind the probable reasons for Seraphina’s hesitation, he came to this conclusion: she either loved him −8 somebody else, or she did not love him at all. This conviction only ×9 his worst feelings, and he resolved that no ℈℈10 of conscience should stand between him and his desires.

On the following day, Fitzorphandale had invited Seraphina to a pic-nic party. He had opened the &11 placed some boiled beef and ^^12 on the verdant grass, when Seraphina exclaimed, in the mildest ``´´13, “I like it well done, Fitzorphandale!”

As Julian proceeded to supply his beloved one with a §14 of the provender, St. Tomkins stood before them with a †15 in his hand.

Want of space compels us to leave the conclusion of this interesting romance to the imagination of the reader, and to those ingenious playwrights who so liberally supply our most popular authors with gratuitous catastrophes.

1. Admiration. 2. Parallel. 3. Note of Interrogation. 4. Period. 5. More than. 6. Paragraph. 7. Freemason. 8. Less than. 9. Multiplied. 10. Scruples. 11. Hampers-and. 12. Carets. 13. Accents. 14. Section. 15. Dagger.


A mechanic in Berlin has invented a balance of extremely delicate construction. Sir Robert Peel, it is said, intends to avail himself of the invention, to keep his political principles so nicely balanced between Whig and Tory, that the most accurate observer shall be unable to tell which way they tend.

The London Fire Brigade have received directions to hold themselves in readiness at the meeting of Parliament, to extinguish any conflagration that may take place, from the amazing quantity of inflammatory speeches and political fireworks that will be let off by the performers on both sides of the house.

The following extraordinary inducement was held out by a solicitor, who advertised last week in a morning paper, for an office-clerk; “A small salary will be given, but he will have enough of over-work to make up for the deficiency.”


The incomplete state of the Treasury has been frequently lamented by all lovers of good taste. We are happy to announce that a tablet is about to be placed in the front of the building, with the following inscription:—





Why is the common chord in music like a portion of the Mediterranean?—Because it’s the E G & C (Ægean Sea).

Silhouette of a conductor holding a blunt object







Now crescendo:—

Thus play the furious band,

Led by the kid-gloved hand

Of Jullien—that Napoleon of quadrille,

Of Piccolo-nians shrillest of the shrill;

Perspiring raver

Over a semi-quaver;

Who tunes his pipes so well, he’ll tell you that

The natural key of Johnny Bull’s—A flat.

Demon of discord, with mustaches cloven—

Arch impudent improver of Beethoven—

Tricksy professor of charlatanerie

Inventor of musical artillery—

Barbarous rain and thunder maker—

Unconscionable money taker—

Travelling about both near and far,

Toll to exact at every bar

What brings thee here again,

To desecrate old Drury’s fane?

Egregious attitudiniser!

Antic fifer! com’st to advise her

’Gainst intellect and sense to close her walls?

To raze her benches,

That Gallic wenches

Might play their brazen antics at masked balls?

Ci-devant waiter

Of a quarante-sous traiteur,

Why did you leave your stew-pans and meat-oven,

To make a fricassee of the great Beet-hoven?

And whilst your piccolos unceasing squeak on,

Saucily serve Mozart with sauce-piquant;

Mawkishly cast your eyes to the cerulean—

Turn Matthew Locke to potage à la julienne!

Go! go! sir, do,

Back to the rue,

Where lately you

Waited upon each hungry feeder,

Playing the garçon, not the leader.

Pray, put your hat on,

Coupez votre bâton.




It is now pretty well understood, that if the Tories come into office, there will be a regular turn out of the present royal household. Her Majesty, through the gracious condescension of the new powers, will be permitted to retain her situation in the royal establishment, but on the express condition that there shall be—

A fashionable couple being tailed by a pair of gentlemen



A subscription has been opened for a medal to commemorate the return of Lord John Russell for the city of London. We would suggest that his speech to the citizens against the corn-laws would form an appropriate inscription for the face of the medal, while that to the Huntingdonshire farmers in favour of them would be found just the thing for the reverse.

[pg 16]


“Boots? Boots!” Yes, Boots! we can write upon boots—we can moralise upon boots; we can convert them, as Jacques does the weeping stag in “As You Like It,” (or, whether you like it or not,) into a thousand similes. First, for—but, “our sole’s in arms and eager for the fray,” and so we will at once head our dissertation as we would a warrior’s host with


A leg wearing a Wellington boot

These are the most judicious species of manufactured calf-skin; like their great “godfather,” they are perfect as a whole; from the binding at the top to the finish at the toe, there is a beautiful unity about their well-conceived proportions: kindly considerate of the calf, amiably inclined to the instep, and devotedly serviceable to the whole foot, they shed their protecting influence over all they encase. They are walked about in not only as protectors of the feet, but of the honour of the wearer. Quarrel with a man if you like, let your passion get its steam up even to blood-heat, be magnificent while glancing at your adversary’s Brutus, grand as you survey his chin, heroic at the last button of his waistcoat, unappeased at the very knees of his superior kersey continuations, inexorable at the commencement of his straps, and about to become abusive at his shoe-ties, the first cooler of your wrath will be the Hoby-like arched instep of his genuine Wellingtons, which, even as a drop of oil upon the troubled ocean, will extend itself over the heretofore ruffled surface of your temper.—Now for


A leg wearing a Blucher

Well, we don’t like them. They are shocking impostors—walking discomforts! They had no right to be made at all; or, if made, ‘twas a sin for them to be so christened (are Bluchers Christians?).

They are Wellingtons cut down; so, in point of genius, was their baptismal sponsor: but these are vilely tied, and that the hardy old Prussian would never have been while body and soul held together. He was no beauty, but these are decidedly ugly commodities, chiefly tenanted by swell purveyors of cat’s-meat, and burly-looking prize-fighters. They have the fortiter in re for kicking, but not the suaviter in modo for corns. Look at them villanously treed out at the “Noah’s Ark” and elsewhere; what are they but eight-and-six-penny worth of discomfort! They will no more accommodate a decent foot than the old general would have turned his back in a charge, or cut off his grizzled mustachios. If it wasn’t for the look of the thing, one might as well shove one’s foot into a box-iron. We wouldn’t be the man that christened them, and take a trifle to meet the fighting old marshal, even in a world of peace; in short, they are ambulating humbugs, and the would-be respectables that wear ‘em are a huge fraternity of “false pretenders.” Don’t trust ‘em, reader; they are sure to do you! there’s deceit in their straps, prevarication in their trousers, and connivance in their distended braces. We never met but one exception to the above rule—it was John Smith. Every reader has a friend of the name of John Smith—in confidence, that is the man. We would have sworn by him; in fact, we did swear by him, for ten long years he was our oracle. Never shall we forget the first, the only time our faith was shaken. We gazed upon and loved his honest face; we reciprocated the firm pressure of his manly grasp; our eyes descended in admiration even unto the ground on which he stood, and there, upon that very ground—the ground whose upward growth of five feet eight seemed Heaven’s boast, an “honest man”—we saw what struck us sightless to all else—a pair of Bluchers!

We did not dream his feet were in them; ten years’ probation seemed to vanish at the sight!—we wept! He spoke—could we believe our ears? “Marvel of marvels!” despite the propinquity of the Bluchers, despite their wide-spreading contamination, his voice was unaltered. We were puzzled! we were like the first farourite when “he has a leg,” or, “a LEG has him,” i.e., nowhere!

John Smith coughed, not healthily, as of yore; it was a hollow emanation from hypocritical lungs: he sneezed; it was a vile imitation of his original “hi-catch-yew!” he invited us to dinner, suggested the best cut of a glorious haunch—we had always had it in the days of the Wellingtons—now our imagination conjured up cold plates, tough mutton, gravy thick enough in grease to save the Humane Society the trouble of admonitory advertisements as to the danger of reckless young gentlemen skating thereon, and a total absence of sweet sauce and currant-jelly. We paused—we grieved—John Smith saw it—he inquired the cause—we felt for him, but determined, with Spartan fortitude, to speak the truth. Our native modesty and bursting heart caused our drooping eyes once more to scan the ground, and, next to the ground, the wretched Bluchers. But, joy of joys! we saw them all! ay, all!—all—from the seam in the sides to the leech-like fat cotton-ties. We counted the six lace-holes; we examined the texture of the stockings above, “curious three-thread”—we gloated over the trousers uncontaminated by straps, we hugged ourselves in the contemplation of the naked truth.

John Smith—our own John Smith—your John Smith—everybody’s John Smith—again entered the arm-chair of our affections, the fire of our love stirred, like a self-acting poker, the embers of cooling good fellowship, and the strong blaze of resuscitated friendship burst forth with all its pristine warmth. John Smith wore Bluchers but he wore them like an honest man; and he was the only specimen of the genus homo (who sported trowsers) that was above the weakness of tugging up his suspenders and stretching his broadcloth for the contemptible purpose of giving a fictitious, Wellingtonian appearance to his eight-and-sixpennies.


A leg wearing an Ankle-Jack

to indulge in the sporting phraseology of the Racing Calendar, appear to be “got by Highlows out of Bluchers.” They thrive chiefly in the neighbourhoods of Houndsditch, Whitechapel, and Billingsgate. They attach themselves principally to butchers’ boys, Israelitish disposers of vix and pinthils, and itinerant misnomers of “live fish.” On their first introduction to their masters, by prigging or purchase, they represent some of the glories of “Day and Martin;” but, strange to say, though little skilled in the penman’s art, their various owners appear to be imbued with extraordinary veneration for the wholesome advice contained in the round-text copy, wherein youths are admonished to “avoid useless repetition,” hence that polish is the Alpha and Omega of their shining days. Their term of servitude varies from three to six weeks: during the first they are fastened to the topmost of their ten holes; the next fortnight, owing to the breaking of the lace, and its frequent knotting, they are shorn of half their glories, and upon the total destruction of the thong (a thing never replaced), it appears a matter of courtesy on their parts to remain on at all. On some occasions various of their wearers have transferred them as a legacy to very considerable mobs, without particularly stating for which especial individual they were intended. This kicking off their shoes “because they wouldn’t die in them,” has generally proved but a sorry method of lengthening existence.


A leg modelling a Hessian boot

are little more than ambitious Wellingtons, curved at the top—wrinkled at the bottom (showing symptoms of superannuation even in their infancy), and betasselled in the front, offering what a Wellington never did—a weak point for an enemy to seize and shake at his pleasure.

There’s no “speculation” in them—they are entirely superficial: like a shallow fellow, you at once see through, and know all about them. There is no mystery as to the height they reach, how far they are polished, or the description of leg they cling round. Save Count D’Oraay, we never saw a calf in a pair of them—that is, we never saw a leg with a calf. Their general tenants are speculative Jew clothesmen who have bought them “vorth the monish” (at tenth hand), seedy chamber counsel, or still more seedy collectors of rents. They are fast falling into decay; like dogs, they have had their “Day (and Martin’s”) Acts, but both are past. But woh! ho!


A booted leg in a stirrup with spurs

Derby!—Epsom!—Ledger!—Spring Summer, Autumn Meetings—Miles, Half-miles—T.Y.C.—Hurdles, Heats, names, weights, colours of the riders—jockies, jackets,—Dead Heats—sweats—distances—trainings—scales—caps, and all—what would you be without Top Boots? What! and echo answers—nothing!

Ay, worse than nothing—a chancery suit without money—an Old Bailey culprit without an alibi—a debtor without an excuse—a new play without a titled author—a manager without impudence—a thief without a character—a lawyer without a wig—or a Guy Faux without matches!

Tops, you must be “made to measure.” Wellingtons, Hessians, Bluchers, Ankle-Jacks, and Highlows, can be chosen from, fitted, and tried on; but you must be measured for, lasted, back-strapped, top’d, wrinkled and bottomed, according to order.

So it is with your proprietors—the little men who ride the great running horses. There’s an impenetrable mystery about those little men—they are, we know that, but we know not how. Bill Scott is in the secret—Chifney is well aware of it—John Day could enlighten the world—but they won’t! They know the value of being “light characters”—their fame is as “a feather,” and downey are they, even as the illustration of that fame. They conspire together like so many little Frankensteins. The world is treated with a very small proportion of very small jockeys; they never increase beyond a certain number, which proves they are not born in the regular way: as the old ones drop off, the young ones just fill their places, and not one to spare. Whoever heard of a “mob of jockeys,” a glut of “light-weights,” or even a handful of “feathers?”—no one!

It’s like Freemasonry—it’s an awful mystery! Bill Scott knows all about the one, and the Duke of Sussex knows all about the other, but the uninitiated know nothing of either! Jockeys are wonders—so are their boots! Crickets have as much calf, grasshoppers as much ostensible thigh; and yet these superhuman specimens of manufactured leather fit like a glove, and never pull the little gentlemen’s legs off. That’s the extraordinary part of it; they never even so much as dislocate a joint! Jockey bootmakers are wonderful men! Jockeys ain’t men at all!

Look, look, look! Oh, dear! do you see that little fellow, with his merry-thought-like looking legs, clinging round that gallant bright chesnut, thoro’bred, and sticking to his ribs as if he meant to crimp him for the dinner of some gourmand curious in horse-flesh! There he is, screwing his sharp knees into the saddle, sitting well up from his loins, stretching his neck, curving his back, stiffening the wire-like muscles of his small arms, [pg 17]and holding in the noble brute he strides, as a saftey-valve controls the foaming steam; only loosing him at his very pleasure.

Look, look! there’s the grey filly, with the other made-to-measure feather on her back; do you notice how she has crawled up to the chesnut? Mark, mark! his arms appear to be India-rubber! Mercy on us, how they stretch! and the bridle, which looked just now like a solid bar of wrought iron, begins to curve! See how gently he leans over the filly’s neck; while the chesnut’s rider turns his eyes, like a boiled lobster, almost to the back of his head! Oh, he’s awake! he still keeps the lead: but the grey filly is nothing but a good ‘un. Now, the Top-boots riding her have become excited, and commence tickling her sides with their flashing silver spurs, putting an extra foot into every bound. She gains upon the chesnut! This is something like a race! The distance-post is reached! The Top-boots on the grey are at work again. Bravo! the tip of the white nose is beyond the level of the opposing boots! Ten strides, and no change! “She must win!” “No, she can’t!” “Grey for ever!” “Chesnut for a hundred!” “Done! done!”—Magnificent!—neck and neck!—splendid!—any body’s race! Bravo grey!—bravo chesnut!—bravo both! Ten yards will settle it. The chesnut rider throws up his arms—a slight dash of blood soils the “Day and Martin”—an earth-disdaining bound lands chesnut a winner of three thousand guineas! and all the world are in raptures with the judgment displayed in the last kick of the little man’s TOP BOOTS.



It has often struck us forcibly that the science of melo-dramatic music has been hitherto very imperfectly understood amongst us. The art of making “the sound an echo of the sense”—of expressing, by orchestral effects, the business of the drama, and of forming a chromatic commentary to the emotions of the soul and the motions of the body, has been shamefully neglected on the English stage. Ignorant composers and ignoble fiddlers have attempted to develop the dark mysteries and intricate horrors of the melo-drama; but unable to cope with the grandeur of their subject, they have been betrayed into the grossest absurdities. What, for instance, could be more preposterous than to assign the same music for “storming a fort,” and “stabbing a virtuous father!” Equally ridiculous would it be to express “the breaking of the sun through a fog,” and “a breach of promise of marriage;” or the “rising of a ghost,” and the “entrance of a lady’s maid,” in the same keys.

The adaptation of the different instruments in the orchestra to the circumstance of the drama, is also a matter of extreme importance. How often has the effect of a highly-interesting suicide been destroyed by an injudicious use of the trombone; and a scene of domestic distress been rendered ludicrous by the intervention of the double-drum!

If our musical composers would attend more closely than they have been in the habit of doing, to the minutiæ of the scene which is intrusted to them to illustrate, and study the delicate lights and shades of human nature, as we behold it nightly on the Surrey stage, we might confidently hope, at no very distant period, to see melo-drama take the lofty position it deserves in the histrionic literature of this country. We feel that there is a wide field here laid open for the exercise of British talent, and have therefore, made a few desultory mems. on the subject, which we subjoin; intended as modest hints for the guidance of composers of melodramatic music. The situations we have selected from the most popular Melos. of the day; the music to be employed in each instance, we have endeavoured to describe in such a manner as to render it intelligible to all our readers.

Music for the entrance of a brigand in the dark, should be slow and mysterious, with an effective double bass in it.

Ditto, for taking wine—an allegro, movement, with da capo for the second glass.

Ditto, for taking porter, beer, or any other inferior swipes—a similar movement, but not con spirito.

Ditto, for the entrance of an attorney—a coda in one sharp, 6-8 time. If accompanied by a client, an accidental flat may be introduced.

Ditto, for discovering a lost babby—a simply affettuoso strain, in a minor key.

Ditto, for recognising a disguised count—a flourish of trumpets, and three bars rest, to allow time for the countess to faint in his arms.

Ditto, for concealing a lover in a closet, and the sudden appearance of the father, guardian, or husband, as the case may be—a prestissimo movement, with an agitated cadenza.

Ditto, for taking an oath or affidavit—slow, solemn music, with a marked emphasis when the deponent kisses the book.

Ditto, for a lover’s vow—a tender, broken adagio.

Ditto, for kicking a low comedy man—a brisk rapid stoccato passage, with a running accompaniment on the kettle-drums.

The examples we have given above will sufficiently explain our views; but there are a vast number of dramatic situations that we have not noticed, which might be expressed by harmonious sounds, such as music for the appearance of a dun or a devil—music for paying a tailor—music for serving a writ—music for an affectionate embrace—music for ditto, very warm—music for fainting—music for coming-to—music for the death of a villain, with a confession of bigamy; and many others “too numerous to mention;” but we trust from what we have said, that the subject will not be lost sight of by those interested in the elevation of our national drama.


The residence of Sir Robert Peel has been so besieged of late by place-hunters, that it has been aptly termed the New Post Office.


In presenting the following epistle to my readers, it may be necessary to apprise them, that it is the genuine production of my eldest daughter, Julia, who has lately obtained the situation of lady’s-maid in the house of Mr. Samuel Briggs, an independent wax and tallow-chandler, of Fenchurch-street, City, but who keeps his family away from business, in fashionable style, in Russell-square, Bloomsbury. The example of many of our most successful literary chiffonniers, who have not thought it disgraceful to publish scraps of private history and unedited scandal, picked up by them in the houses to which they happened to be admitted, will, it is presumed, sufficiently justify my daughter in communicating, for the amusement of an enlightened public, and the benefit of an affectionate parent, a few circumstances connected with Briggs’ family, with such observations and reflections of her own as would naturally suggest themselves to a refined and intelligent mind. Should this first essay of a timid girl in the thorny path of literature be favourably received by my friends and patrons, it will stimulate her to fresh exertions; and, I fondly hope, may be the means of placing her name in the same rank by those of Lady Morgan, Madame Tussaud, Mrs. Glasse, the Invisible Lady, and other national ornaments of the feminine species.—[PUNCH.

Russl Squear, July 14.

Dear PA,—I nose yew will he angxious to ear how I get on sins I left the wing of the best of feathers. I am appy to say I am hear in a very respeckble fammaly, ware they keeps too tawl footmen to my hand; one of them is cawld John, and the other Pea-taw,—the latter is as vane as a P-cock of his leggs, wich is really beutyful, and puffickly streight—though the howskeaper ses he has bad angles; but some pipple loox at things with only 1 i, and sea butt there defex. Mr. Wheazey is the ass-matick butler and cotchman, who has lately lost his heir, and can’t get no moar, wich is very diffycult after a serting age, even with the help of Rowland’s Madagascar isle. Mrs. Tuffney, the howsekeaper, is a prowd and oystere sort of person. I rather suspex that she’s jellows of me and Pea-taw, who as bean throwink ship’s i’s at me. She thinks to look down on me, but she can’t, for I hold myself up; and though we brekfists and t’s at the same board, I treat with a deal of hot-tar, and shoes her how much I dispeyses her supper-silly-ous conduck. Besides these indyvidules, there’s another dome-stick, wich I wish to menshun particlar—wich is the paige Theodore, that, as the poat says, as bean

“—contrived a double debt to pay,

A paige at night—a tigger all the day.”

In the mornink he’s a tigger, drest in a tite froc-cote, top-boots, buxkin smawl-closes, and stuck up behind Master Ahghustusses cab. In the heavening he gives up the tigger, and comes out as the paige, in a fansy jackit, with too rose of guilt buttings, wich makes him the perfeck immidge of Mr. Widdycomb, that ice sea in the serkul at Hashley’s Amphitheatre. The paige’s bisiness is to weight on the ladies, wich is naterally light work; and being such a small chap, you may suppose they can never make enuff of him. These are all the upper servants, of coarse, I shan’t lower myself by notusing the infearyour crechurs; such as the owsmade, coke, edcett rar, but shall purceed drackly to the other potion of the fammaly, beginning with the old guv’nor (as Pee-taw cawls him), who as no idear of i life, and, like one of his own taller lites, has only dipped into good sosiety. Next comes Missus:—in fact, I ot to have put her fust, for the grey mayor is the best boss in our staybill, (Exkews the wulgarisrm.) After Missus, I give persedince to Mr. Ahghustuss, who, bean the only sun in the house, is natrally looked up to by everybody in it. He as bean brot up a perfick genelman, at Oxfut, and is consekently fond of spending his knights in le trou de charbon, and afterwards of skewering the streets—twisting double knockers, pulling singlebelles, and indulging in other fashonable divertions, to wich the low-minded polease, and the settin madgistrets have strong objexions. His Pa allows him only sicks hundred a-year, wich isn’t above 1/2 enuff to keep a cabb, a cupple of hosses, and other thinks, which it’s not necessary to elude to here. Isn’t it ogious to curb so fine a spirit? I wish you see him, Pa; such i’s, and such a pear of beutyful black musquitoes on his lip—enuff to turn the hidds of all the wimming he meats. The other membranes of this fammaly are the 3 dorters—Miss Sofiar, Miss Selinar, and Miss Jorgina, wich are all young ladyes, full groan, and goes in public characters to the Kaledonian bawls, and is likewise angxious to get off hands as soon as a feverable opportunity hoffers. It’s beleaved the old guv’nor can give them ten thowsand lbs. a-peace, wich of coarse will have great weight with a husband. There’s some Qrious stoaries going—Law! there’s Missuses bell. I must run up-stairs, so must conclewd obroply, but hope to resoom my pen necks weak.

Believe me, my dear Pa,
Your affeckshnt


The following notes actually passed between two (now) celebrated comedians:—

Dear J——, Send me a shilling.

Yours, B——,

P.S.—On second thoughts, make it two.

To which his friend replied—

Dear B——, I have but one shilling in the world.

Yours, J——,

P.S.—On second thoughts, I want that for dinner.

A young artist in Picayune takes such perfect likenesses, that a lady married the portrait of her lover instead of the original.

[pg 18]


Arcades ambo.

READER.—God bless us, Mr. PUNCH! who is that tall, fair-haired, somewhat parrot-faced gentleman, smiling like a schoolboy over a mess of treacle, and now kissing the tips of his five fingers as gingerly as if he were doomed to kiss a nettle?

PUNCH.—That, Mr. Reader, is the great cotton-plant, Sir Robert Peel; and at this moment he has, in his own conceit, seized upon “the white wonder” of Victoria’s hand, and is kissing it with Saint James’s devotion.

READER.—What for, Mr. PUNCH?

PUNCH.—What for! At court, Mr. Reader, you always kiss when you obtain an honour. ‘Tis a very old fashion, sir—old as the court of King David. Well do I recollect what a smack Uriah gave to his majesty when he was appointed to the post which made Bathsheba a widow. Poor Uriah! as we say of the stag, that was when his horns were in the velvet.

READER.—You recollect it, Mr. PUNCH!—you at the court of King David!

PUNCH.—I, Mr. Reader, I!—and at every court, from the court of Cain in Mesopotamia to the court of Victoria in this present, flinty-hearted London; only the truth is, as I have travelled I have changed my name. Bless you, half the Proverbs given to Solomon are mine. What I have lost by keeping company with kings, not even Joseph Hume can calculate.

READER.—And are you really in court confidence at this moment?

PUNCH.—Am I? What! Hav’n’t you heard of the elections? Have you not heard the shouts Io Punch? Doesn’t my nose glow like coral—ar’n’t my chops radiant as a rainbow—hath not my hunch gone up at least two inches—am I not, from crown to toe-nails, brightened, sublimated? Like Alexander—he was a particular friend of mine, that same Alexander, and therefore stole many of my best sayings—I only know that I am mortal by two sensations—a yearning for loaves and fishes, and a love for Judy.

READER.—And you really take office under Peel?

PUNCH.—Ha! ha! ha! A good joke! Peel takes office under me. Ha! ha! I’m only thinking what sport I shall have with the bedchamber women. But out they must go. The constitution gives a minister the selection of his own petticoats; and therefore there sha’n’t be a yard of Welsh flannel about her Majesty that isn’t of my choice.

READER.—Do you really think that the royal bedchamber is in fact a third house of Parliament—that the affairs of the state are always to be put in the feminine gender?

PUNCH.—Most certainly: the ropes of the state rudder are nothing more than cap-ribbons; if the minister hav’n’t hold of them, what can he do with the ship? As for the debates in parliament, they have no more to do with the real affairs of the country than the gossip of the apple-women in Palace-yard. They’re made, like the maccaroni in Naples, for the poor to swallow; and so that they gulp down length, they think, poor fellows, they get strength. But for the real affairs of the country! Who shall tell what correspondence can be conveyed in a warming-pan, what intelligence—for

“There may be wisdom in a papillote”—

may be wrapt up in the curl-papers of the Crown? What subtle, sinister advice may, by a crafty disposition of royal pins, be given on the royal pincushion? What minister shall answer for the sound repose of Royalty, if he be not permitted to make Royalty’s bed? How shall he answer for the comely appearance of Royalty, if he do not, by his own delegated hands, lace Royalty’s stays? I shudder to think of it; but, without the key of the bedchamber, could my friend Peel be made responsible for the health of the Princess? Instead of the very best and most scrupulously-aired diaper, might not—by negligence or design, it matters not which—the Princess Royal be rolled in an Act of Parliament, wet from Hansard’s press?

READER.—Dreadful, soul perturbing suggestion! Go on, Mr. PUNCH.

PUNCH.—Not but what I think it—if their constitution will stand damp paper—an admirable way of rearing young princesses. Queen Elizabeth—my wife Judy was her wet nurse—was reared after that fashion.

READER.—David Hume says nothing of it.

PUNCH.—David Hume was one of the wonders of the earth—he was a lazy Scotchman; but had he searched the State Paper Office, he would have found the documents there—yes, the very Acts of Parliament—the very printed rollers. To those rollers Queen Elizabeth owed her knowledge of the English Constitution.

READER.—Explain—I can’t see how.

PUNCH.—Then you are very dull. Is not Parliament the assembled wisdom of the country?

READER.—By a fiction, Mr. PUNCH.

PUNCH—Very well, Mr. Reader; what’s all the world but a fiction? I say, the assembled wisdom; an Act of Parliament is the sifted wisdom of the wise—the essence of an essence. Very well; know you not the mystic, the medicinal effects of printer’s ink? The devil himself isn’t proof to a blister of printer’s ink. Well, you take an Act of Parliament—and what is it but the finest plaster of the finest brains—wet, reeking wet from the press. Eschewing diaper, you roll the Act round the royal infant; you roll it up and pin it in the conglomerated wisdom of the nation. Now, consider the tenderness of a baby’s cuticle; the pores are open, and a rapid and continual absorption takes place, so that long before the Royal infant cuts its first tooth, it has taken up into its system the whole body of the Statutes.

READER.—Might not some patriots object to the application of the wisdom of the country to so domestic a purpose?

PUNCH.—Such patriots are more squeamish than wise. Sir, how many grown up kings have we had, who have shown no more respect for the laws of the country, than if they had been swaddled in ‘em?

READER.—Do you think your friend Sir Robert is for statute rollers?

PUNCH.—I can answer for Sir Robert on every point. His first attack before he kisses hands—and he has, as you perceive, been practising this half-hour—will be upon the women of the bedchamber. The war with China—the price of sugar—the corn-laws—the fourteen new Bishops about to be hatched—timber—cotton—a property tax, and the penny post—all these matters and persons are of secondary importance to this greater question—whether the female who hands the Queen her gown shall think Lord Melbourne a “very pretty fellow in his day;” or whether she shall believe my friend Sir Robert to be as great a conjuror as Roger Bacon or the Wizard of the North—if the lady can look upon O’Connell and not call for burnt feathers or scream for sal volatile; or if she really thinks the Pope to be a woman with a naughty name, clothed in most exceptionable scarlet. It is whether Lady Mary thinks black, or Lady Clementina thinks white; whether her father who begot her voted with the Marquis of Londonderry or Earl Grey—that is the grand question to be solved, before my friend Sir Robert can condescend to be the saviour of his country. To have the privilege of making a batch of peers, or a handful of bishops is nothing, positively nothing—no, the crowning work is to manufacture a lady’s maid. What’s a mitre to a mob-cap—what the garters of a peer to the garters of the Lady Adeliza?

READER.—You are getting warm, Mr. PUNCH—very warm.

PUNCH.—I always do get warm when I talk of the delicious sex: for though now and then I thrash my wife before company, who shall imagine how cosy we are when we’re alone? Do you not remember that great axiom of Sir Robert’s—an axiom that should make Machiavelli howl with envy—that “the battle of the Constitution is to fought in the bedchamber.”

READER.—I remember it.

PUNCH.—That was a great sentence. Had Sir Robert known his true fame, he would never after have opened his mouth.

READER.—Has the Queen sent for Sir Robert yet?

PUNCH.—No: though I know he has staid at home these ten days, and answers every knock at the door himself, in expectation of a message.

READER.—They say the Queen doesn’t like Sir Robert.

PUNCH.—I’m also told that her Majesty has a great antipathy to physic—yet when the Constitution requires medicine, why—

READER.—Sir Robert must be swallowed.

PUNCH.—Exactly so. We shall have warm work of it, no doubt—but I fear nothing, when we have once got rid of the women. And then, we have a few such nice wenches of our own to place about her Majesty; the Queen shall take Conservatism as she might take measles—without knowing it.

READER.—And when, Mr. PUNCH—when you have got rid of the women, what do you and Sir Robert purpose then?

PUNCH.—I beg your pardon: we shall meet again next week: it’s now two o’clock. I have an appointment with half-a-dozen of my godsons; I have promised them all places in the new government, and they’re come to take their choice.

READER.—Do tell me this: Who has Peel selected for Commander of the Forces?

PUNCH.—Who? Colonel Sibthorp.

READER.—And who for Chancellor of the Exchequer?

PUNCH.—Mr. Henry Moreton Dyer!

[pg 19]


A man in a lion's skin holding up the upper half of a smaller man. The bottom half of the small man remains on a bench marked TREASURY BENCH



APOLLODORUS relates that THESEUS sat so long on a rock, that at length he grew to it, so that when HERCULES tore him forcibly away, he left all the nether part of the man behind him.

[pg 20]

[pg 21]



We have been at considerable expense in procuring the subjoined account of the election which has just terminated in the borough of Ballinafad, in Ireland. Our readers may rest assured that our report is perfectly exclusive, being taken, as the artists say, “on the spot,” by a special bullet-proof reporter whom we engaged, at an enormous expense, for this double hazardous service.


Tuesday Morning, Eight o’clock.—The contest has begun! The struggle for the independence of Ballinafad has commenced! Griggles, the opposition candidate, is in the field, backed by a vile faction. The rank, wealth, and independence of Ballinafad are all ranged under the banner of Figsby and freedom. A party of Griggles’ voters have just marched into the town, preceded by a piper and a blind fiddler, playing the most obnoxious tunes. A barrel of beer has been broached at Griggles’ committee-rooms. We are all in a state of the greatest excitement.

Half-past Eight.—Mr. Figsby is this moment proceeding from his hotel to the hustings, surrounded by his friends and a large body of the independent teetotal electors. A wheelbarrow full of rotten eggs has been sent up to the hustings, to be used, as occasion requires, by the Figsby voters, who are bent upon

A fellow trying to pull a hog from a lake, but the rope broke


A serious riot has occurred at the town pump, where two of the independent teetotalers have been ducked by the opposite party. Stones are beginning to fly in all directions. A general row is expected.

Nine o’clock.—Polling has commenced. Tom Daly, of Galway, the fighting friend of Mr. Figsby, has just arrived, with three brace of duelling pistols, and a carpet-bag full of powder and ball. This looks like business. I have heard that six of Mr. Figsby’s voters have been locked up in a barn by Griggles’ people. The poll is proceeding vigorously.

Ten o’clock.—State of the poll to this time:—

Figsby 19
Griggles 22

The most barefaced bribery is being employed by Griggles. A lady, known to be in his interest, was seen buying half-a-pound of tea, in the shop of Mr. Fad, the grocer, for which she paid with a whole sovereign, and took no change. Two legs of mutton have also been sent up to Griggles’ house, by Reilly, the butcher. Heaven knows what will be the result. The voting is become serious—four men with fractured skulls have, within these ten minutes, been carried into the apothecary’s over the way. A couple of policemen have been thrown over the bridge; but we are in too great a state of agitation to mind trifles.

Half-past Twelve o’clock.—State of the poll to this time:—

Figsby 27
Griggles 36

You can have no idea of the frightful state of the town. The faction are employing all sorts of bribery and intimidation. The wife of a liberal greengrocer has just been seen with the Griggles ribbons in her cap. Five pounds have been offered for a sucking-pig. Figsby must come in, notwithstanding two cart-loads of the temperance voters are now riding up to the poll, most of them being too drunk to walk. Three duels have been this morning reported. Results not known. The coroner has been holding inquests in the market-house all the morning.

Three o’clock.—State of the poll to this time:—

Figsby 45
Griggles 39

The rascally corrupt assessor has decided that the temperance electors who came up to vote for the Liberal candidate, being too drunk to speak, were disentitled to vote. Some dead men had been polled by Griggles.

The verdict of the coroner’s inquest on those who unfortunately lost their lives this morning, has been, “Found dead.” Everybody admires the sagacious conclusion at which the jury have arrived. It is reported that Figsby has resigned! I am able to contradict the gross falsehood. Mr. F. is now addressing the electors from his committee-room window, and has this instant received a plumper—in the eye—in the shape of a rotten potato. I have ascertained that the casualties amount to no more than six men, two pigs, and two policemen, killed; thirteen men, women, and children, wounded.

Four o’clock—State of the poll up to this time:—

Figsby 29
Griggles 41

The poll-clerks on both sides are drunk, the assessor has closed the booths, and I am grieved to inform you that Griggles has just been duly elected.

Half past Four o’clock.—Figsby has given Grigglcs the lie on the open hustings. Will Griggles fight?

Five o’clock.—His wife insists he shall; so, of course, he must. I hear that a message has just been delivered to Figsby. Tom Daly and his carpet-bag passed under my window a few minutes ago.

Half-past Five o’clock.—Two post-chaises have just dashed by at full speed—I got a glimpse of Tom Daly smoking a cigar in one of them.

Six o’clock.—I open my letter to tell you that Figsby is the favourite; 3 to 1 has been offered at the club, that he wings his man; and 3 to 2 that he drills him. The public anxiety is intense.

Half-past Six.—I again open my letter to say, that I have nothing further to add, except that the betting continues in favour of the popular candidate.

Seven o’clock.—Huzza!—Griggles is shot! The glorious principles of constitutional freedom have been triumphant! The town is in an uproar of delight! We are making preparations to illuminate. BALLINAFAD IS SAVED! FIGSBY FOR EVER!


Lord Johnny from Stroud thought it best to retreat.

Being certain of getting the sack,

So he ran to the City, and begged for a seat,

Crying, “Please to re-member Poor Jack!”


Why is a tall nobleman like a poker?—Because he’s a high’un belonging to the great.

Why is a defunct mother like a dog?—Because she’s a ma-stiff.

When is a horse like a herring?—When he’s hard rode.


One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop,

To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop:

“Alas!” cried one as round in air he spun,

“That miserable wretch’s race is run.”

“True,” said the other drily, “to his cost,

The race is run—but, by a neck ‘tis lost.”


Lord John Russell has arrived at a conviction—that the Whigs are not so popular as they were.

Sir Peter Laurie has arrived at the conclusion—that Solon was a greater man than himself.


To win the maid the poet tries,

And sonnets writes to Julia’s eyes;—

She likes a verse—but cruel whim,

She still appears a-verse to him.

A most cruel hoax has recently been played off upon that deserving class the housemaids of London, by the insertion of an advertisement in the morning papers, announcing that a servant in the above capacity was wanted by Lord Melbourne. Had it been for a cook, the absurdity would have been too palpable, as Melbourne has frequently expressed his opposition to sinecures.


Now B—y P—l has beat the Whigs,

The Church can’t understand

Why Bot’ny Bay should be all sea,

And have no see on land.

For such a lamentable want

Our good Archbishop grieves;

’Tis very strange the Tories should

Remind him of the thieves!


An American paper tells us of a woman named Dobbs, who was killed in a preaching-house at Nashville, by the fall of a chandelier on her head. Brett’s Patent Brandy poet, who would as soon make a witticism on a cracked crown as a cracked bottle, has sent us the following:—

“The light of life comes from above,”

Old Dingdrum snuffling said;

“The light came down on Peggy Dobbs,

And Peggy Dobbs was dead.”

A man in Kentucky was so absent, that he put himself on the toasting-fork, and did not discover his mistake until he was done brown.


No wonder Tory landlords flout

“Fix’d Duty,” for ’tis plain,

With them the Anti-Corn-Law Bill

Must go against the grain.

The anticipated eruption of Mount Vesuvius is said to have been prevented by throwing a box of Holloway’s Ointment into the crater.

[pg 22]


In the year—let me see—but no matter about the date—my father and mother died of a typhus fever, leaving me to the care of an only relative, and uncle, by my father’s side. His name was Box, as my name is Box. I was a babby in long clothes at that time, not even so much as christened; so uncle, taking the hint, I suppose, from the lid of his sea-chest, had me called Bellophron Box. Bellophron being the name of the ship of which he was sailing-master.

I sha’n’t say anything about my education; though I was brought up in

A Pirate Boarding Battle


It’s not much to boast of; but as soon as I could bear the weight of a cockade and a dirk, uncle got me a berth as midshipman on board his own ship. So there I was, Mr. Bellophron Box. I didn’t like the sea or the service, being continually disgusted at the partiality shown towards me, for in less than a month I was put over the heads of all my superior officers. You may stare—but it’s true; for I was mast-headed for a week at a stretch. When we put into port, Captain —— called me into his cabin, and politely informed me that if I chose to go on shore, and should find it inconvenient to return, no impertinent inquiries should be made after me. I availed myself of the hint, and exactly one year and two months after setting foot on board the Bellophron, I was Master Bellophron Box again.

Well, now for my story. There was one Tom Johnson on board, a fok’sell man, as they called him, who was very kind to me; he tried to teach me to turn a quid, and generously helped me to drink my grog. As I was unmercifully quizzed in the cockpit, I grew more partial to the society of Tom than to that of my brother middies. Tom always addressed me,’Sir,’ and they named me Puddinghead; till at last we might be called friends. During many a night-watch, when I have sneaked away for a snooze among the hen-coops, has Tom saved me from detection, and the consequent pleasant occupation of carrying about a bucket of water on the end of a capstan bar.

I had been on board about a month—perhaps two—when the order came down from the Admiralty, for the men to cut off their tails. Lord, what a scene was there! I wonder it didn’t cause a mutiny! I think it would have done so, but half the crew were laid up with colds in their heads, from the suddenness of the change, though an extra allowance of rum was served out to rub them with to prevent such consequences; but the purser not giving any definite directions, whether the application was to be external or internal, the liquor, I regret to say, for the honour of the British navy, was applied much lower down. For some weeks the men seemed half-crazed, and were almost as unmanageable as ships that had lost their rudders. Well, so they had! It was a melancholy sight to see piles of beautiful tails with little labels tied to them, like the instructions on a physic-bottle; each directed to some favoured relative or sweetheart of the curtailed seamen. What a strange appearance must Portsmouth, and Falmouth, and Plymouth, and all the other mouths that are filled with sea-stores, have presented, when the precious remembrances were distributed! I wish some artist would consider it; for I think it’s a shame that there should be no record of such an interesting circumstance.

One night, shortly after this visitation, it blew great guns. Large black clouds, like chimney-sweepers’ feather-beds, scudded over our heads, and the rain came pouring down like—like winking. Tom had been promoted, and was sent up aloft to reef a sail, when one of the horses giving way, down came Tom Johnson, and snap went a leg and an arm. I was ordered to see him carried below, an office which I readily performed, for I liked the man—and they don’t allow umbrellas in the navy.

“What’s the matter?” said the surgeon.

“Nothing particular, sir; on’y Tom’s broke his legs and his arms by a fall from the yard,” replied a seaman.

Tom groaned, as though he did consider it something very particular.

He was soon stripped and the shattered bones set, which was no easy matter, the ship pitching and tossing about as she did. I sat down beside his berth, holding on as well as I could. The wind howled through the rigging, making the vessel seem like an infernal Eolian harp; the thunder rumbled like an indisposed giant, and to make things more agreeable, a gun broke from its lashings, and had it all its own way for about a quarter of an hour. Tom groaned most pitiably. I looked at him, and if I were to live for a thousand years, I shall never forget the expression of his face. His lips were blue, and—no matter, I’m not clever at portrait painting: but imagine an old-fashioned Saracen’s Head—not the fine handsome fellow they have stuck on Snow Hill, but one of the griffins of 1809—and you have Tom’s phiz, only it wants touching with all the colours of a painter’s palette. I was quite frightened, and could only stammer out, “Why T-o-o-m!”

“It’s all up, sir,” says he; “I must go; I feel it.”

“Don’t be foolish,” I replied; “Don’t die till I call the surgeon.” It was a stupid speech, I acknowledge, but I could not help it at the time.

“No, no; don’t call the surgeon, Mr. Box; he’s done all he can, sir. But it’s here—it’s here!” and then he made an effort to thump his heart, or the back of his head, I couldn’t make out which.

I trembled like a jelly. I had once seen a melodrama, and I recollected that the villain of the piece had used the same action, the same words.

“Mr. Box,” groaned Tom, “I’ve a-a-secret as makes me very uneasy, sir,”

“Indeed, Tom,” I replied; “hadn’t you better confess the mur—” murder, I was a going to say, but I thought it might not be polite, considering Tom’s situation.

The ruffian, for such he looked then, tried to raise himself, but another lurch of the Bellophron sent him on his back, and myself on my beam-ends. As soon as I recovered my former position, Tom continued—

“Mr. Box, dare I trust you, sir? if I could do so, I’m sartin as how I should soon be easier.”

“Of course,” said I, “of course; out with it, and I promise never to betray your confidence.”

“Then come, come here,” gasped the suffering wretch; “give us your hand, sir.”

I instinctively shrunk back with horror!

“Don’t be long, Mr. Box, for every minute makes it worse,” and then his Saracen’s Head changed to a feminine expression, and resembled the Belle Sauvage.

I couldn’t resist the appeal; so placing my hand in his, Tom put it over his shoulder, and, with a ghastly smile, said, “Pull it out, sir!”

“Pull what out?”

“My secret, Mr. Box; it’s hurting on me!”

I thought that he had grown delirious; so, in order to soothe him as much as possible, I forced my hand under his shirt-collar, and what do you think I found? Why, a PIGTAIL—his pigtail, which he had contrived to conceal between his shirt and his skin, when the barbarous order of the Admiralty had been put into execution.

A silhouette of a bulldog pulling a sailor's pigtail



No. II.

You say you would find

But one, and one only,

Who’d feel without you

That the revel was lonely:

That when you were near,

Time ever was fleetest,

And deem your loved voice

Of all music the sweetest.

Who would own her heart thine,

Though a monarch beset it,

And love on unchanged—

Don’t you wish you may get it?

You say you would rove

Where the bud cannot wither;

Where Araby’s perfumes

Each breeze wafteth thither.

Where the lute hath no string

That can waken a sorrow;

Where the soft twilight blends

With the dawn of the morrow;

Where joy kindles joy,

Ere you learn to forget it,

And care never comes—

Don’t you wish you may get it?


JOEY HUME is about to depart for Switzerland: for, finding his flummery of no avail at Leeds, we presume he intends to go to Schaff-hausen, to try the Cant-on.


We beg to congratulate Lord John Russell on his approaching union with Lady Fanny Elliot. His lordship is such a persevering votary of Hymen, that we think he should be named “Union-Jack.”


LORD PALMERSTON, on his road to Windsor, narrowly escaped being upset by a gentleman in a gig. We have been privately informed that the party with whom he came in collision was—Sir Robert Peel.

[pg 23]



If you ever should be

In a state of ennui,

Just listen to me,

And without any fee

I’ll give you a hint how to set yourself free.

Though dearth of intelligence weaken the news,

And you feel an incipient attack of the blues,

For amusement you never need be at a loss,

If you take up the paper and read it across.


Here’s the Times, apropos,

And so,

With your patience, I’ll show

What I mean, by perusing a passage or two.


“Hem! Mr. George Robins is anxious to tell,

In very plain prose, he’s instructed to sell”—

“A vote for the county”—“packed neatly in straw”—

“Set by Holloway’s Ointment”—“a limb of the law.”

“The army has had secret orders to seize”—

“As soon as they can”—“the industrious fleas.”

For amusement you never need be at a loss,

If you take a newspaper and read it across.

“The opera opens with”—“elegant coats”—

“For silver and gold we exchange foreign notes”—

“Specific to soften mortality’s ills”—

“And cure Yorkshire bacon”—“take Morison’s pills.”

“Curious coincidence”—“steam to Gravesend.”

“Tale of deep interest”—“money to lend”—

“Louisa is waiting for William to send.”

For amusement you never need be at a loss,

If you take a newspaper and read it across.

“For relief of the Poles”—“an astounding feat!”—

“A respectable man”—“for a water will eat”—

“The Macadamised portion of Parliament-street.”

“Mysterious occurrence!”—“expected incog.”

“To be viewed by cards only”—“a terrible fog.”

“At eight in the morning the steam carriage starts”—

“Takes passengers now”—“to be finished in parts.”

For amusement you never need be at a loss,

If you take a newspaper and read it across.

“Left in a cab, and”—“the number not known”

“A famous prize ox, weighing 200 stone”—

“He speaks with a lisp”—“has a delicate shape”—

“And had on, when he quitted, a Macintosh cape.”

“For China direct, a fine”—“dealer in slops.”

“To the curious in shaving”—“new way to dress chops.”

“Repeal of the corn”—“was roasted for lunch”—

“Teetotal beverage “—“Triumph of PUNCH!”

For amusement you never need be at a loss,

If you take a newspaper and read it across.


“Why are four thousand eight hundred and forty yards of land obtained on credit like a drinking song?”—“Because it’s an-acre-on-tic.”—“I think I had you there!”


A correspondent of one of the morning papers exultingly observes, that the wood-blocks which are about being removed from Whitehall are in excellent condition. If this is an allusion to the present ministry, we should say, emphatically, NOT.


The Tories in Beverley have been wreaking their vengeance on their opponents at the late election, by ordering their tradesmen who voted against the Conservative candidate to send in their bills. Mr. Duncombe declares that this is a mode of revenge he never would condescend to adopt.

If Farren, cleverest of men,

Should go to the right about,

What part of town will he be then?—

Why, Farren-done-without!


Cox, a pill-doctor at Leeds, it is reported, modestly requested a check for £10, for the honour of his vote. Had his demand been complied with, we presume the bribe would have been endorsed, “This draught to be taken at poll time.”


Why do men who are about to fight a duel generally choose a field for the place of action?


I really cannot tell; unless it be for the purpose of allowing the balls to graze.


Two Prize Essays. By LORD MELBOURNE and SIR ROBERT PEEL. 8 vols. folio. London: Messrs. SOFTSKIN and TINGLE, Downing-street.

We congratulate the refined and sensitive publishers on the production of these elaborately-written gilt-edged folios, and trust that no remarks will issue from the press calculated to affect the digestion of any of the parties concerned. The sale of the volumes will, no doubt, be commensurate with the public spirit, the wisdom, and the benevolence which has uniformly characterised the career of their illustrated authors. Two more statesmanlike volumes never issued from the press; in fact, the books may be regarded as typical of all statesmen. The subject, or rather the line of argument, is thus designated by the respective writers:—

ESSAY I.—“On the Fine Art of Government, or how to do the least possible good to the country in the longest possible time, and enjoy, meanwhile, the most ease and luxury.” By LORD MELBOURNE.

ESSAY II.—“On the Science of Governing, or how to do the utmost possible good for ourselves in the shortest possible time, under the name of our altars, and our throne, and everybody that is good and wise.” By SIR ROBERT PEEL.

We are quite unable to enter into a review of these very costly productions, an estimate of the value of which the public will be sure to receive from “authority,” and be required to meet the amount, not only with cheerful loyalty, but a more weighty and less noisy acknowledgment.

As to the Prize, it has been adjudged by PUNCH to be divided equally between the two illustrious essayists; to the one, in virtue of his incorrigible laziness, and to the other, in honour of his audacious rapacity.


PUNCH begs to inform the inhabitants of Great Britain, Ireland, and the Isle of Dogs, that he has just opened on an entirely new line, an Universal Comic Railroad, and Cosmopolitan Pleasure Van for the transmission of bon mots, puns, witticisms, humorous passengers, and queer figures, to every part of the world. The engines have been constructed on the most laughable principles, and being on the high-pressure principle, the manager has provided a vast number of patent anti-explosive fun-belts, to secure his passengers against the danger of suddenly bursting.

The train starts every Saturday morning, under the guidance of an experienced punster. The departure of the train is always attended with immense laughter, and a tremendous rush to the booking-office. PUNCH, therefore, requests those who purpose taking places to apply early, as there will be no

A group of shadows leaping off of a bench


N.B.—Light jokes booked, and forwarded free of expense. Heavy articles not admitted at any price.

∴ Wanted an epigrammatic porter, who can carry on a smart dialogue, and occasionally deliver light jokes.



Time—old Time—whither away?

Linger a moment with us, I pray;

Too soon thou spreadest thy wings for flight;

Dip, boy, dip

In the bowl thy lip,

And be jolly, old Time, with us to-night.

Dip, dip, &c.

Time—old Time—thy scythe fling down;

Garland thy pate with a myrtle crown,

And fill thy goblet with rosy wine;—

Fill, fill up,

The joy-giving cup,

Till it foams and flows o’er the brim like mine.

Fill, fill, &c.

Time—old Time—sighing is vain,

Pleasure from thee not a moment can gain;

Fly, old greybeard, but leave us your glass

To fill as we please,

And drink at our ease,

And count by our brimmers the hours as they pass.

[pg 24]



Italy! land of love and maccaroni, of pathos and puppets—tomb of Romeo and Juliet—birth-place of Punch and Judy—region of romance—country of the concentrated essences of all these;—carnivals—I, PUNCH, the first and last, the alpha and omega of fun, adore thee! From the moment when I was cast upon thy shores, like Venus, out of the sea, to this sad day, when I am forced to descend from my own stage to mere criticism; have I preserved every token that would endear my memory to thee! My nose is still Roman, my mouth-organ plays the “genteelest of” Italian “tunes”—my scenes represent the choicest of Italian villas—in “choice Italian” doth my devil swear—to wit, “shal-la-bella!

Longing to be still more reminded of thee, dear Italy, I threw a large cloak over my hunch, and a huge pair of spectacles over my nose, and ensconced myself in a box at the Haymarket Theatre, to witness the fourth appearance of my rival puppet, Charles Kean, in Romeo. He is an actor! What a deep voice—what an interesting lisp—what a charming whine—what a vigorous stamp, he hath! How hard he strikes his forehead when he is going into a rage—how flat he falls upon the ground when he is going to die! And then, when he has killed Tybalt, what an attitude he strikes, what an appalling grin he indulges his gaping admirers withal!

This is real acting that one pays one’s money to see, and not such an unblushing imposition as Miss Tree practises upon us. Do we go to the play to see nature? of course not: we only desire to see the actors playing at being natural, like Mr. Gallot, Mr. Howe, Mr. Worral, or Mr. Kean, and other actors. This system of being too natural will, in the end, be the ruin of the drama. It has already driven me from the Stage, and will, I fear, serve the great performers I nave named above in the same manner. But the Haymarket Juliet overdoes it; she is more natural than nature, for she makes one or two improbabilities in the plot of the play seem like every-day matters of fact. Whether she falls madly in love at the first glance, agrees to be married the next afternoon, takes a sleeping draught, throws herself lifeless upon the bed, or wakes in the tomb to behold her poisoned lover, still in all these situations she behaves like a sensible, high-minded girl, that takes such circumstances, and makes them appear to the audience—quite as a matter of course! What let me ask, was the use of the author—whose name, I believe, was Shakspere—purposely contriving these improbabilities, if the actors do not make the most of them? I do hope Miss Tree will no longer impose upon the public by pretending to act Juliet. Let her try some of the characters in Bulwer’s plays, which want all her help to make them resemble women of any nation, kindred, or country.

Much as I admire Kean, I always prefer the acting of Wallack; there is more variety in the tones of his voice, for Kean tunes his pipes exactly as my long-drummer sets his drum;—to one pitch: but as to action, Wallack—more like my drummer—beats him hollow; he points his toes, stands a-kimbo, takes off his hat, and puts it on again, quite as naturally as if he belonged to the really legitimate drama, and was worked by strings cleverly pulled to suit the action to every word. Wallack is an honest performer; he don’t impose upon you, like Webster, for instance, who as the Apothecary, speaks with a hungry voice, walks with a tottering step, moves with a helpless gait, which plainly shows that he never studied the part—he must have starved for it. Where will this confounded naturalness end?

The play is “got up,” as we managers call it, capitally. The dresses are superb, and so are the properties. The scenery exhibited views of different parts of the city, and was, so far as I am a judge, well painted. I have only one objection to the balcony scene. Plagiarism is mean and contemptible—I despise it. I will not apply to the Vice-Chancellor for an injunction, because the imitation is so vilely caricatured; but the balcony itself is the very counterpart of PUNCH’S theatre!—PUNCH.


When a new farce begins with duck and green peas, it promises well; the sympathies of the audience are secured, especially as the curtain rises but a short time before every sober play-goer is ready for his supper. Mr. Gabriel Snoxall is seated before the comsstibles above mentioned—he is just established in a new lodging. It is snug—the furniture is neat—being his own property, for he is an unfurnished lodger. A bachelor so situated must be a happy fellow. Mr. Snoxall is happy—a smile radiates his face—he takes wine with himself; but has scarcely tapped the decanter for his first glass, before he hears a tap at his door. The hospitable “Come in!” is answered by the appearance of Mr. Dunne Brown, a captain by courtesy, and Snoxall’s neighbour by misfortune. Here business begins.

The ancient natural historian has divided the genus homo into the two grand divisions of victimiser and victim. Behold one of each class before you—the yeast and sweat-wort, as it were, which brew the plot! Brown invites himself to dinner, and does the invitation ample justice; for he finds the peas as green as the host; who he determines shall be done no less brown than the duck. He possesses two valuable qualifications in a diner-out—an excellent appetite, and a habit of eating fast, consequently the meal is soon over. Mr. Brown’s own tiger clears away, by the ingenious method of eating up what is left. Mr. Snoxall is angry, for he is hungry; but, good easy man, allows himself to be mollified to a degree of softness that allows Mr. Brown to borrow, not only his tables and chairs, but his coat, hat, and watch; just, too, in the very nick of time, for the bailiffs are announced. What is the hunted creditor to do? Exit by the window to be sure.

A character invented by farce-writers, and retained exclusively for their use—for such folks are seldom met with out of a farce—lives in the next street. He has a lovely daughter, and a nephew momentarily expected from India, and with those persons he has, of course, not the slighest acquaintance; and a niece, by marriage, of whose relationship he is also entirely unconscious. His parlours are made with French windows; they are open, and invite the bailiff-hunted Brown into the house. What so natural as that he should find out the state of family affairs from a loquacious Abigail, and should personate the expected nephew? Mr. Tidmarsh (the property old gentleman of the farce-writers) is in ecstacics. Mrs. T. sees in the supposed Selbourne a son-in-law for her daughter, whose vision is directed to the same prospects. Happy, domestic circle! unequalled family felicity! too soon, alas! to be disturbed by a singular coincidence. Mr. Snoxall, the victim, is in love with Miss Sophia, the daughter. Ruin impends over Brown; but he is master of his art: he persuades Snoxall not to undeceive the family of Tidmarsh, and kindly undertakes to pop the question to Sophia on behalf of his friend, whose sheepishness quite equals his softness. Thus emboldened, Brown inquires after a “few loose sovereigns,” and Snoxall, having been already done out of his chairs, clothes, and watch, of course lends the victimiser his purse, which contains twenty.

Mr. Brown’s career advances prosperously; he makes love in the dark to his supposed cousin pro Snoxall, in the hearing of the supposed wife (for the real Selbourne has been married privately) and his supposed friend, both supposing him false, mightily abuse him, all being still in the dark. At length the real Selbourne enters, and all supposition ends, as does the farce, poetical justice being administered upon the captain by courtesy, by the bailiffs who arrest him. Thus he, at last, becomes really Mr. Dunne Brown.

The farce was successful, for the actors were perfect, and the audience good-humoured. We need hardly say who played the hero; and having named Wrench, as the nephew, who was much as usual, everybody will know how. Mr. David Rees is well adapted for Snoxall, being a good figure for the part, especially in the duck-and-green-peas season. The ladies, of whom there were four, performed as ladies generally do in farces on a first night.

We recommend the readers of PUNCH to cultivate the acquaintance of “My Friend the Captain.” They will find him at home every evening at the Haymarket. We suspect his paternity may be traced to a certain corner, from whose merit several equally successful broad-pieces have been issued.




“What romance is that which outght to be most admired in the kitchen?”


“Don Quixote; because it was written by Cervantes—(servantes).—Rather low, Sir Ned.”


“When is a lady’s neck not a neck?”


“For shame now!—When it is a little bare (bear), I suppose.”


The following is a correct report of a speech made by one of the candidates at a recent election in the north of England.

THOMAS SMITH, Esq., then presented himself, and said—“ *   *   *
*      *      *     *     *      crisis      *     *      *     *
*      *      *     *     *     *     *     *      *    important
dreadful   *     *     *     *      *     industry    *    *    *
    *     *     *    enemies     *     *         slaves      *      *
independence      *     *     *     *       *      *      freedom
*      *      *     *     *     firmly      *      *      *     *
gloriously     *     *     *     *    contested    *     *      *
*      *     *     support      *      *     *     *     victory,

Mr. Smith then sat down; but we regret that the uproar which prevailed, prevents us giving a fuller report of his very eloquent and impressive speech.


COUNT D’ORSAY declares that no gentleman having the slightest pretensions to fashionable consideration can be seen out of doors except on a Sunday, as on that day bailiffs and other low people keep at home.


“All flesh is grass,” so do the Scriptures say;

But grass, when cut and dried, is turned to hay;

Then, lo; if Death to thee his scythe should take,

God bless us! what a haycock thou wouldst make.

An author that lived somewhere has such a brilliant wit, that he contracted to light the parish with it, and did it.

“Our church clock,” say the editors of a down-cast paper, “keeps time so well that we get a day out of every week by it.”

A man in Kentucky has a horse which is so slow, that his hind legs always get first to his journey’s end.


VOL. 1.

[pg 25]

JULY 31, 1841.


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


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.



with unparalleled gratification, begs to state that he has it in


to announce, that in consequence of


to the citizens of London having satisfactorily convinced her


that a change of ministry


be productive of a corresponding transformation of measures, and that the late


for the guerdon of office could only have emanated from a highly commendatory desire on the part of the disinterested and patriotic belligerents


or their country,


ever solicitous to enchain the hearts of her devoted subjects, by an impartial exercise of her prerogative, has determined to submit to the


some of those desirable places, so long known as the stimuli to the


of the nineteenth century.

LOT 1.


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,



together with those household desiderata,


and an unlimited


LOT 2.


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


would find this a desirable investment, more particularly should he wish to form either


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.


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.


will determine the sale of this desirable lot in a few days.

LOT 4.


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


understand French and Chinese, and be an


LOT 5.


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


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.

[pg 26]


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. ——


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.


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—

A fellow falling into the water while crossing a (broken) plank into a boat


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 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.


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.


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.

[pg 27]
A young dark-skinned boy.

Head of a Botecudo previous to disfigurement.

A young dark-skinned man with chin and ear pendants.

Head of a Butecudo disfigured by chin and ear pendants.

A dark-skinned man with drooping ear lobes, wearing English clothes and a monocle.

Head of a Botecudo disfigured by 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.

[pg 28]


These are the continental-trip days. All the world will be now a-touring. 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.:—

Does your mother know you’re out? Madame, votre maman, sait-elle que vous n’êtes pas chez vous? La vostra signora madre sa che siete uscito di casa?
It won’t do, Mr. Ferguson. Cela nese passera, Monsieur Ferguson, jamais! Questo non fara cosi, il Signore Fergusoni!
Who are you? Est-ce que vous aviez jamais un père? Chi è vossignoria?
All round my hat. Tout autour mon chapeau. Tutto all’ interno del mio capello!
Go it, ye cripples! C’est ça! Battez-vous bien—boiteux; cr-r-r-r-matin! Bravo! bravo, stroppiati! Ancora-ancora!
Such a getting up-stairs! Diantre! comme on monte l’escalier! Come si ha salito— è maraviglioso!
Jump, Jim Crow. Sautez, Monsiuer Jaques Corbeau! Salti, pergrazia, 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 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.



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 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.

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.


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?”


(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.


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.


That Bulwer’s from fair Lincoln bann’d,

Doth threaten evil days;

For, having much waste time on hand,

Alas! he’ll scribble plays.

[pg 29]


“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.


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.


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

A man carrying a flag, running from soldiers with swords bared


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 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.


“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.”


Τὸ βακχικὸν δώρημα λαβὲ, σὲ γὰρ Φιλω̑.—EURIPIDES.


“Accept this gift of To-Baccha—cigar fellow.”


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.”


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!


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.”

[pg 30]



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.

[pg 31]


Scenes of a matron and a young woman preparing for a party.




[pg 31]

[pg 33]


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,

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.]


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.


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.

[pg 34]



“Ah! sure a pair was never seen,

More justly form’d—”


The Letter J formed by a dog sitting up in begging position

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 oarline22. A beaver hat. 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.

“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.”


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

An overweight man astride a horse that is down on its knees.



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

A PUNCH character is warding off a large black man in colonial regalia who is presenting a white woman with a black baby.



“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.”

[pg 35]



  1. Hours of the Starting of the Boats of the Iron Steam Boat Company. London: 1841.
  2. Notes of a Passenger on Board the Bachelor, during a Voyage from Old Swan Pier, London Bridge, to the Red House, Battersea. CATNACH: 1840.
  3. Rule Britannia, a Song. London: 1694.
  4. Two Years before the Mast. CUNNINGHAM. London.
  5. 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 Beach33. Chelsea., and annihilating, as it were, the distance between sombre southwark and bloom-breathing Battersea.

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

A sailor picking the pocket of a man dozing at a bar table.



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

A cart of people carrying torches racing towards a burning building.


“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,

An indignant looking woman.



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—

The Jack, King, and Queen of Hearts with tears running down their faces.


[pg 36]



When, in a melo-drama, the bride is placing her foot upon the first step of the altar, and Ruffiaano 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?

A silhouette standing on the back of a horse which is running in a circus ring.


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 illustrious professor of Phœnixsistography, 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.


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 bewitchingly 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.


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:—


“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.”


“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.


VOL. 1.

[pg 37]

AUGUST 7, 1841.



In Four Chapters.

“His name ’tis proper you should hear,

’Twas Timothy Thady Mulligin:

And whenever he finish’d his tumbler of punch,

He always wished it full agin.”


A pontificating man with his arms outstretched in the shape of a Y.

“You can have no idea, Jack, how deeply the loss of those venerated family retainers affected me.”

My uncle paused. I perceived that his eyes were full, and his tumbler empty; I therefore thought it advisable to divert his sorrow, by reminding him of our national proverb, “Iss farr doch na skeal11. A drink is better than a story..”

The old man’s eyes glistened with pleasure, as he grasped my hand, saying, “I see, Jack, you are worthy of your name. I was afraid that school-learning and college would have spoiled your taste for honest drinking; but the right drop is in you still, my boy. I mentioned,” continued he, resuming the thread of his story, “that my grandfather died, leaving to his heirs the topped boots, spurs, buckskin-breeches, and red waistcoat; but it is about the first-mentioned articles I mean especially to speak, as it was mainly through their respectable appearance that so many excellent matches and successful negotiations have been concluded by our family. If one of our cousins was about to wait on his landlord or his sweetheart, if he meditated taking a farm or a wife, ‘the tops’ were instantly brushed up, and put into requisition. Indeed, so fortunate had they been in all the matrimonial embassies to which they had been attached, that they acquired the name of ‘the wife-catchers,’ amongst the young fellows of our family. Something of the favour they enjoyed in the eyes of the fair sex should, perhaps, be attributed to the fact, that all the Duffys were fine strapping fellows, with legs that seemed made for setting off topped boots to the best advantage.

“Well, years rolled by; the sons of mothers whose hearts had been won by the irresistible buckism of Shawn Duffy’s boots, grew to maturity, and, in their turn, furbished up ‘the wife-catchers,’ when intent upon invading the affections of other rustic fair ones. At length these invaluable relics descended to me, as the representative of our family. It was ten years on last Lady-day since they came into my possession, and I am proud to say, that during that time the Duffys and ‘the wife-catchers’ lost nothing of the reputation they had previously gained, for no less than nineteen marriages and ninety-six christenings have occurred in our family during the time. I had every hope, too, that another chalk would have been added to the matrimonial tally, and that I should have the pleasure of completing the score before Lent; for, one evening, about four months ago, I received a note from your cousin Peter, informing me that he intended riding over, on the following Sunday, to Miss Peggy Haggarty’s, for the purpose of popping the question, and requesting of me the loan of the lucky ‘wife-catchers’ for the occasion.

“I need not tell you I was delighted to oblige poor Peter, who is the best fellow and surest shot in the county, and accordingly took down the boots from their peg in the hall. Through the negligence of the servant they have been hung up in a damp state, and had become covered with blue mould. In order to render them decent and comfortable for Peter, I placed them to dry inside the fender, opposite the fire; then lighting my pipe, I threw myself back in my chair, and as the fragrant fumes of the Indian weed curled and wreathed around my head, with half-closed eyes turned upon the renowned ‘wife-catchers,’ I indulged in delightful visions of future weddings and christenings, and recalled, with a sigh, the many pleasant ones I had witnessed in their company.”

Here my uncle applied the tumbler to his face to conceal his emotion. “I brought to mind,” he continued (ordering; in a parenthesis, another jug of boiling water), “I brought to mind the first time I had myself sported the envied ‘wife-catchers’ at the pattron of Moycullen. I was then as wild a blade as any in Connaught, and the ‘tops’ were in the prime of their beauty. In fact, I am not guilty of flattery or egotism in saying, that the girl who could then turn up her nose at the boots, or their master, must have been devilish hard to please. But though the hey-day of our youth had passed, I consoled myself with the reflection that with the help of the saints, and a pair of new soles, we might yet hold out to marry and bury three generations to come.

“As these anticipations passed through my mind, I was startled by a sudden rustling near me. I raised my eyes to discover the cause, and fancy my surprise when I beheld ‘the wife-catchers,’ by some marvellous power, suddenly become animated, gradually elongating and altering themselves, until they assumed the appearance of a couple of tall gentlemen clad in black, with extremely sallow countenances; and what was still more extraordinary, though they possessed separate bodies, their actions seemed to be governed by a single mind. I stared, and doubtless so would you, Jack, had you been in my place; but my astonishment was at its height, when the partners, keeping side by side as closely as the Siamese twins, stepped gracefully over the fender, and taking a seat directly opposite me, addressed me in a voice broken by an irrepressible chuckle—

“‘Here we are, old boy. Ugh, ugh, ugh, hoo!’

“So I perceive, gentlemen,” I replied, rather drily.

“‘You look a little alarmed—ugh, ugh, hoo, hoo, hoo!’ cried the pair. ‘Excuse our laughter—hoo! hoo! hoo! We mean no offence—none whatever. Ugh, hoo, hoo, hoo! We know we are somewhat changed in appearance.’

“I assured the transformed ‘tops’ I was delighted in being honoured with their company, under any shape; hoped they would make themselves quite at home, and take a glass with me in the friendly way. The friends shook their heads simultaneously, declining the offer; and he whom I had hitherto known as the right foot, said in a grave voice:—

“‘We feel obliged, sir, but we never take anything but water; moreover, our business now is to relate to you some of the singular adventures of our life, convinced, that in your hand they will be given to the world in three handsome volumes.’

“My curiosity was instantly awakened, and I drew my chair closer to my communicative friends, who, stretching out their legs, prepared to commence their recital.”

“‘Hem!’ cried the right foot, who appeared to be the spokesman, clearing his throat and turning to his companion—‘hem! which of our adventures shall I relate first, brother?’

“‘Why,’ replied the left foot, after a few moments’ reflection, ‘I don’t think you can do better than tell our friend the story of Terence Duffy and the heiress.’

“‘Egad! you’re right, brother; that was a droll affair:’ and then, addressing himself to me, he continued, ‘You remember your Uncle Terence? A funny dog he was, and in his young days the very devil for lovemaking and fighting. Look here,’ said the speaker, pointing to a small circular perforation in his side, which had been neatly patched. ‘This mark, which I shall carry with me to my grave, I received in an affair between your uncle and Captain Donovan of the North Cork Militia. The captain one day asserted in the public library at Ballybreesthawn, that a certain Miss Biddy O’Brannigan had hair red as a carrot. This calumny was not long in reaching the ears of your Uncle Terence, who prided himself on being the champion of the sex in general, and of Miss Biddy O’Brannigan in particular. Accordingly he took the earliest opportunity of demanding from the captain an apology, and a confession that the lady’s locks were a beautiful auburn. The militia hero, who was too courageous to desert his colours, maintained they were red. The result was a meeting on the daisies at four o’clock in the morning, when the captain’s ball grazed your uncle’s leg, and in return he received a compliment from Terence, in the hip, that spoiled his dancing for life.

“‘I will not insult your penetration by telling you what I perceive you are already aware of, that Terence Duffy was the professed admirer of Miss Biddy. The affair with Captain Donovan raised him materially in her estimation, and it was whispered that the hand and fortune of the heiress were destined for her successful champion. There’s an old saying, though, that the best dog don’t always catch the hare, as Terence found to his cost. He had a rival candidate for the affections of Miss Biddy; but such a rival—however I will not anticipate.’”


I am thine in my gladness,

I’m thine in thy tears;

My love it can change not

With absence or years.

Were a dungeon thy dwelling,

My home it should be,

For its gloom would be sunshine

If I were with thee.

But the light has no beauty

Of thee, love bereft:

I am thine, and thine only!

Thine!—over the left!

Over the left!

As the wild Arab hails,

On his desolate way,

The palm-tree which tells

Where the cool fountains play,

So thy presence is ever

The herald of bliss,

For there’s love in thy smile,

And there’s joy in thy kiss.

Thou hast won me—then wear me!

Of thee, love, bereft,

I should fade like a flower,

Yes!—over the left!

Over the left!

A gentleman in Mobile has a watch that goes so fast, he is obliged to calculate a week back to know the time of day.

A new bass singer has lately appeared at New Orleans, who sings so remarkably deep, it takes nine Kentucky lawyers to understand a single bar!


Why S—e is long-lived at once appears—

The ass was always famed for length of ears.

[pg 38]




“Creation’s heir—the world, the world is mine.”—GOLDSMITH.

Philosophers, moralists, poets, in all ages, have never better pleased themselves or satisfied their readers than when they have descanted upon, deplored, and denounced the pernicious influence of money upon the heart and the understanding. “Filthy lucre”—“so much trash as may be grasped thus”—“yellow mischief,” I know not, or choose not, to recount how many justly injurious names have been applied to coin by those who knew, because they had felt, its consequences. Wherefore, I say at once, it is better to have none on’t—to live without it. And yet, now I think better upon that point, it is well not altogether to discourage its approach. On the contrary, lay hold upon it, seize it, rescue it from hands which in all probability would work ruin with it, and resolutely refuse, when it is once got, to let it go out of your grasp. Let no absurd talk about quittance, discharge, remuneration, payment, induce the holder to relax from his inflexible purpose of palm. Pay, like party, is the madness of many for the gain of a few.

Unhappily, vile gold, or its representation or equivalent, has been, during many centuries, the sole medium through which the majority of mankind have supplied their wants, or ministered to their luxuries. It is high time that a sage should arise to expound how the discerning few—those who have the wit and the will (both must concur to the great end) may live—LIVE—not like him who buys and balances himself by the book of the groveller who wrote “How to Live upon Fifty Pounds a Year”—(O shame to manhood!)—but live, I say—“be free and merry”—“laugh and grow fat”—exchange the courtesies of life—be a pattern of the “minor morals”—and yet: all this without a doit in bank, bureau, or breeches’ pocket.

I am that sage. Let none deride. Haply, I shall only remind some, but I may teach many. Those that come to scoff, may perchance go home to prey.

Let no gentleman of the old school (for whom, indeed, my brief treatise is not designed) be startled when I advance this proposition: That more discreditable methods are daily practised by those who live to get money, than are resorted to by those who without money are nevertheless under the necessity of living. If this proposition be assented to—as, in truth, I know not how it can be gainsaid,—nothing need be urged in vindication of my art of free living. Proceed I then at once.

Here is a youth of promise—born, like Jaffier, with “elegant desires”—one who does not agnize a prompt alacrity in carrying burdens—one, rather, who recognizes a moral and physical unfitness for such, and indeed all other dorsal and manual operations—one who has been born a Briton, and would not, therefore, sell his birthright for a mess of pottage; but, on the contrary, holds that his birthright entitles him to as many messes of pottage as there may be days to his mortal span, though time’s fingers stretched beyond the distance allotted to extreme Parr or extremest Jenkins. “Elegant desires” are gratified to the extent I purpose treating of them, by handsome clothes—comfortable lodgings—good dinners.

1st. Of Handsome Clothes.—Here, I confess, I find myself in some difficulty. The man who knows not how to have his name entered in the day-book of a tailor, is not one who could derive any benefit from instruction of mine. He must be a born natural. Why, it comes by instinct.

2nd. Of Comfortable Lodgings.—Easily obtained and secured. The easiest thing in life. But the wit without money must possess very little more of the former than of the latter, if he do not, even when snugly ensconced in one splendid suite of apartments, have his eye upon many others; for landladies are sometimes vexatiously impertinent, and novelty is desirable. Besides, his departure may be (nay, often is) extremely sudden. When in quest of apartments, I have found tarnished cards in the windows preferable. They imply a length of vacancy of the floor, and a consequent relaxation of those narrow, worldly (some call them prudent) scruples, which landladies are apt to nourish. Hints of a regular income, payable four times a year, have their weight; nay, often convert weekly into quarterly lodgings. Be sure there are no children in your house. They are vociferous when you would enjoy domestic retirement, and inquisitive when you take the air. Once (horresco referens!) on returning from my peripatetics, I was accosted with brutally open-mouthed clamour, by my landlady, who, dragging me in a state of bewilderment into her room, pointed to numerous specimens of granite, which her “young people” had, in their unhallowed thirst for knowledge, discovered and drawn from my trunk, which, by some strange mischance, had been left unlocked! In vain I mumbled something touching my love of mineralogy, and that a lapidary had offered I knew not what for my collection. I was compelled to “bundle,” as the idiomatic, but ignorant woman expressed herself. To resume.

Let not the nervous or sensitive wit imagine that, in a vast metropolis like London, his chance of securing an appropriate lodging and a confiding landlady is at all doubtful. He might lodge safe from the past, certain of the future, till the crash of doom. I shall be met by Ferguson’s case. Ferguson I knew well, and I respected him. But he had a most unfortunate countenance. It was a very solemn, but by no means a solvent face; and yet he had a manner with him too, and his language was choice, if not persuasive. That the matter of his speech was plausible, none ever presumed to deny. “It is all very well, Mr. Ferguson,”—that was always conceded. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead; but Ferguson never entered a lodging without being compelled to pay a fortnight in advance, and always

A cat waits for a mouse.


3rd. Of Good Dinners.—Wits, like other men, are distinguished by a variety of tastes and inclinations. Some prefer dining at taverns and eating-houses; others, more discreet or less daring, love the quiet security of the private house, with its hospitable inmates, courteous guests, and no possibility of “bill transactions.” I confess when I was young and inexperienced, wanting that wisdom which I am now happy to impart, I was a constant frequenter of taverns, eating-houses, oyster-rooms, and similar places of entertainment. I am old now, and have been persecuted by a brutal world, and am grown timid. But I was ever a peaceable man—hated quarrels—never came to words if I could help it. I do not recommend the tavern, eating-house, oyster-room system. These are the words of wisdom. The waiters at these places are invariably sturdy, fleet, abusive rascals, who cannot speak and will not listen to reason. To eat one’s dinner, drink a pint of sherry, and then, calling for the bill, take out one’s pocket-book, and post it in its rotation in a neat hand, informing the waiter the while, that it is a simple debt, and so forth; this really requires nerve. Great spirits only are equal to it. It is an innovation upon old, established forms, however absurd—and innovators bring down upon themselves much obloquy. To run from the score you have run up—not to pay your shot, but to shoot from payment—this is not always safe, and invariably spoils digestion. No; it is not more honourable—far from it—but it is better; for you should strive to become, what is commonly called—“A Diner Out”—that is to say, one who continues to sit at the private tables of other men every day of his life, and by his so potent art, succeeds in making them believe that they are very much obliged to him.

How to be this thing—this “Diner Out”—I shall teach you, by a few short rules next week. Till then—farewell!

Lord William Paget has applied to the Lord Chancellor, to inquire whether the word “jackass” is not opprobrious and actionable. His lordship says, “No, decidedly, in this case only synonymous.”


Sir Robert Peel has convinced us of one thing by his Tamworth speech, that whatever danger the constitution may be in, he will not proscribe for the patient until he is regularly called in. A beautiful specimen of the old Tory leaven. Sir Robert objects to give Advice gratis.


A large assortment of peculiarly fine oyster-shells, warranted fire-proof and of first-rate quality; exquisitely adapted for the construction of grottoes. May be seen by cards only, to be procured of Mr. George Robins, or the clerks of Billingsgate or Hungerfofd markets.

N.B.—Some splendid ground at the corners of popular and well-frequented streets, to be let on short leases for edifices of the above description. Apply as before.

[pg 39]


The following invaluable literary recipes have been most kindly forwarded by the celebrated Ude. They are the produce of many years’ intense study, and, we must say, the very best things of the sort we have ever met with. There is much delicacy in M. Ude leaving it to us, as to whether the communication should be anonymous. We think not, as the peculiarity of the style would at once establish the talented authorship, and, therefore, attempted concealment would be considered as the result of a too morbidly modest feeling.


Take a consummate puppy—M.P.s preferable (as they are generally the softest, and don’t require much pressing)—baste with self-conceit—stuff with slang—season with maudlin sentiment—hash up with a popular publisher—simmer down with preparatory advertisements. Add six reams of gilt-edged paper—grate in a thousand quills—garnish with marble covers, and morocco backs and corners. Stir up with magazine puffs—skim off sufficient for preface. Shred scraps of French and small-talk, very fine. Add “superfine coats”—“satin stocks”—“bouquets”—“opera-boxes”—“a duel”—an elopement—St. George’s Church—silver bride favours—eight footmen—four postilions—the like number of horses—a “dredger” of smiles—some filtered tears—half-mourning for a dead uncle (the better if he has a twitch in his nose), and serve with anything that will bear “frittering.”


(By the same Author.)

Take a young lady—dress her in blue ribbons—sprinkle with innocence, spring flowers, and primroses. Procure a Baronet (a Lord if in season); if not, a depraved “younger son”—trim him with écarté, rouge et noir, Epsom, Derby, and a slice of Crockford’s. Work up with rustic cottage, an aged father, blind mother, and little brothers and sisters in brown holland pinafores. Introduce mock abduction—strong dose of virtue and repentance. Serve up with village church—happy parent—delighted daughter—reformed rake—blissful brothers—syren sisters—and perfect dénouement.

N.B. Season with perspective christening and postponed epitaph.


Take a small boy, charity, factory, carpenter’s apprentice, or otherwise, as occasion may serve—stew him well down in vice—garnish largely with oaths and flash songs—boil him in a cauldron of crime and improbabilities. Season equally with good and bad qualities—infuse petty larceny, affection, benevolence, and burglary, honour and housebreaking, amiability and arson—boil all gently. Stew down a mad mother—a gang of robbers—several pistols—a bloody knife. Serve up with a couple of murders—and season with a hanging-match.

N.B. Alter the ingredients to a beadle and a workhouse—the scenes may be the same, but the whole flavour of vice will be lost, and the boy will turn out a perfect pattern.—Strongly recommended for weak stomachs.


Take a young man six feet high—mix up with a horse—draw a squire from his father’s estate (the broad-shouldered and loquacious are the best sort)—prepare both for potting (that is, exporting). When abroad, introduce a well-pounded Saracen—a foreign princess—stew down a couple of dwarfs and a conquered giant—fill two sauce-tureens with a prodigious ransom. Garnish with garlands and dead Turks. Serve up with a royal marriage and cloth of gold.


Take a distant village—follow with high-road—introduce and boil down pedlar, gut his pack, and cut his throat—hang him up by the heels—when enough, let his brother cut him down—get both into a stew—pepper the real murderer—grill the innocent for a short time—then take them off, and put delinquents in their place (these can scarcely be broiled too much, and a strong fire is particularly recommended). When real perpetrators are done, all is complete.

If the parties have been poor, serve up with mint sauce, and the name of the enriched sufferer.


Lay in a large stock of “gammon” and pennyroyal—carefully strip and pare all the tainted parts away, when this can be done without destroying the whole—wrap it up in printed paper, containing all possible virtues—baste with flattery, stuff with adulation, garnish with fictitious attributes, and a strong infusion of sycophancy.

Serve up to prepared courtiers, who have been previously well seasoned with long-received pensions or sinecures.



Take a beautiful and highly-accomplished young female, imbued with every virtue, but slightly addicted to bigamy! Let her stew through the first act as the bride of a condemned convict—then season with a benevolent but very ignorant lover—add a marriage. Stir up with a gentleman in dusty boots and large whiskers. Dredge in a meeting, and baste with the knowledge of the dusty boot proprietor being her husband. Let this steam for some time; during which, prepare, as a covering, a pair of pistols—carefully insert the bullet in the head of him of the dusty boots. Dessert—general offering of LADIES’ FINGERS! Serve up with red fire and tableaux.


Take an enormous hero—work him up with improbabilities—dress him in spangles and a long train—disguise his head as much as possible, as the great beauty of this dish is to avoid any resemblance to the “tête de veau au naturel.”

Profile of a bearded young man's head, face to face with a cow's head on a platter.


Grill him for three acts. When well worked up, add a murder or large dose of innocence (according to the palate of the guests)—Season, with a strong infusion of claqueurs and box orders. Serve up with twelve-sheet posters, and imaginary Shaksperian announcements.

N.B. Be careful, in cooking the heroes, not to turn their backs to the front range—should you do so the dish will be spoiled.


(A Domestic Sketch.)

Take a young woman—give her six pounds a year—work up her father and mother into a viscous paste—bind all with an abandoned poacher—throw in a “dust of virtue,” and a “handful of vice.” When the poacher is about to boil over, put him into another saucepan, let him simmer for some time, and then he will turn out “lord of the manor,” and marry the young woman. Serve up with bludgeons, handcuffs, a sentimental gaoler, and a large tureen of innocence preserved.


Take a big man with a loud voice, dress him with a pair of ducks, and, if pork is comeatable, a pigtail—stuff his jaws with an imitation quid, and his mouth with a large assortment of dammes. Garnish with two broad-swords and a hornpipe. Boil down a press-gang and six or seven smugglers, and (if in season) a bo’swain and large cat-o’-nine-tails.—Sprinkle the dish with two lieutenants, four midshipmen, and about seven or eight common sailors. Serve up with a pair of epaulettes and an admiral in a white wig, silk stockings, smalls, and the Mutiny Act.


We have no arrivals to-day, but are looking out anxiously for the overland mail from Battersea. It is expected that news will be brought of the state of the mushroom market, and great inconvenience in the mean time is felt by the dealers, who are holding all they have got, in the anticipation of a fall; while commodities are, of course, every moment getting heavier.

The London and Westminster steam-boat Tulip, with letters from Milbank, was planted in the mud off Westminster for several hours, and those who looked for the correspondence, had to look much longer than could have been agreeable.

The egg market has been in a very unsettled state all the week; and we have heard whispers of a large breakage in one of the wholesale houses. This is caused by the dead weight of the packing-cases, to which every house in the trade is liable. In the fruit market, there is positively nothing doing; and the growers, who are every day becoming less, complain bitterly. Raspberries were very slack, at 2½d. per pottle; but dry goods still brought their prices. We have heard of several severe smashes in currants, and the bakers, who, it is said, generally contrive to get a finger in the pie, are among the sufferers.

The salmon trade is, for the most part, in a pickle; but we should regret to say anything that might be misinterpreted. The periwinkle and wilk interest has sustained a severe shock; but potatoes continue to be done much as usual.


“A dinner is to be given to Captain Rous on the 20th inst., at which Sir Francis Burdett has promised to preside.”—Morning Paper.

Egyptian revels often boast a guest

In sparkling robes and blooming chaplets drest;

But, oh! what loathsomeness is hid beneath—

A fleshless, mould’ring effigy of death;

A thing to check the smile and wake the sigh,

With thoughts that living excellence can die.

How many at the coming feast will see


[pg 40]


“Laselato ogni speranza, voi ch’ intrate!”


MR. JOBTICKLER said he had to move in this cause for an injunction to restrain the Peel Place-hunting Company from entering into possession of the estates of plaintiff. It appeared from the affidavits on which he moved, that the defendants, though not in actual possession, laid an equitable claim to the fee simple of the large estates rightfully belonging to the plaintiff, over which they were about to exercise sovereign dominion. They had entered into private treaty with the blind old man who held the post of chief law-grubber of the Exchequer, offering him a bribe to pretend illness, and take half his present pay, in order to fasten one of the young and long-lived leeches—one Sir Frederick Smal-luck—to the vacant bench. They were about to compel a decentish sort of man, who did the business of Chancery as well as such business can be done under the present system, to retire upon half allowance, in order to make room for one Sir William Fullhat, who had no objection to £14,000 a year and a peerage. They were about to fill two sub-chancellorships, which they would not on any account allow the company in the present actual possession of the estates to fill up with a couple of their own shareholders; and were, in fine, proceeding to dispose of, by open sale, and by private contract, the freehold, leasehold, and funded property of plaintiff, to the incalculable danger of the estate, and to the disregard of decency and justice. What rendered this assumption and exercise of power the more intolerable, was, that the persons the most unfit were selected; and as if, it would appear, from a “hateful love of contraries,” the man learned in law being sent to preside over the business of equity, of which he knew nothing, and the man learned in equity being entrusted with the direction of law of which he knew worse than nothing; being obliged to unlearn all he had previously learnt, before he began to learn his new craft.

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—Don’t you know, sir, that poeta nascitur non fit? Is not a judge a judge the moment he applies himself to the seat of justice?

MR. JOBTICKLER.—Most undoubtedly it is so, my lord, as your lordship is a glorious example, but—

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—But me no buts, sir. I’ll have no allusions made to my person. What way are the cases on the point you would press on the court?

MR. JOBTICKLER.—The cases, I am sorry to say, are all in favour of the Peel Place-hunting Company’s proceedings; but the principle, my lord, the principle!

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—Principle! What has principle to do with law, Sir? Really the bar is losing all reverence for authority, all regard for consistency. I must put a stop to such revolutionary tendencies on the part of gentlemen who practise in my court. Sit down, sir.

MR. JOBTICKLER.—May my client have the injunction?

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—No-o-o-o! But he shall pay all the costs, and I only wish I could double them for his impertinence. You, sir, you deserve to be stripped of your gown for insulting the ears of the court with such a motion.

CRIER.—Any more appeals, causes, or motions, in the Supreme Court of the Lord High Inquisitor Punch, to-day? (A dead silence.)

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR (bowing gracefully to the bar).—Good morning, gentlemen. You behold how carefully we fulfil the letter of Magna Charta.

“Nulli vendemus, nulli negabimus, aut differemus rectum vel justitiam.” [Exit.]

CRIER.—This Court will sit the next time it is the Lord High Inquisitor’s pleasure that it should sit, and at no other period or time.—God save the Queen!



Apollo! ere the adverse fates

Gave thy lyre to Mr. Yates22. This celebrated instrument now crowns the chaste yet elaborate front of the Adelphi Theatre, where full-length effigies of Mr. and Mrs. Yates may be seen silently inviting the public to walk in.,

I have melted at thy strain

When Bunn reign’d o’er Drury-lane;

For the music of thy strings

Haunts the ear when Romer sings.

But to me that voice is mute!

Tuneless kettle-drum and flute

I but hear one liquid lyre—

Kettle bubbling on the fire,

Whizzing, fizzing, steaming out

Music from its curved spot,

Wak’ning visions by its song

Of thy nut-brown streams, Souchong;

Lumps of crystal saccharine—

Liquid pearl distill’d from kine;

Nymphs whose gentle voices mingle

With the silver tea-spoons’ jingle!

Symposiarch I o’er all preside,

The Pidding of the fragrant tide.

Such the dreams that fancy brings,

When my tuneful kettle sings!



7th mo. 29th, 1841.

Friend Reuben,—I am in rect. of thine of 27th inst., and note contents. It affordeth me consolation that the brig Hazard hath arrived safely in thy port—whereof I myself was an underwriter—also, that a man-child hath been born unto thee and to thy faithful spouse Rebecca. Nevertheless, the house of Crash and Crackitt hath stopped payment, which hath caused sore lamentation amongst the faithful, who have discounted their paper. It hath pleased Providence to raise the price of E.I. sugars; the quotations of B.P. coffee are likewise improving, in both of which articles I am a large holder. Yet am I not puffed up with foolish vanity, but have girded myself round with the girdle of lowliness, even as with the band which is all round my hat! In token whereof, I offered to hand 20 puncheons of the former, as A glyph of a stylized P margin.

There are serious ferments and heartburnings amongst the great ones of this land: and those that sit on the benches called “The Treasury” are become sore afraid, for he whom men call Lord John Russell hath had notice to quit. Thereat, the Tories rejoice mightily, and lick their chops for the fat morsels and the sops in the pan that Robert the son of Jenny hath promised unto his followers. Nevertheless, tidings have reached me that a good spec. might be made in Y.C. tallow, whereon I desire thy opinion; as also on the practice of stuffing roast turkey with green walnuts, which hath been highly recommended by certain of the brethren here, who have with long diligence and great anxiety meditated upon the subject.

And now, I counsel thee, hold fast the change which thou hast, striving earnestly for that which thou hast not, taking heed especially that no man comes the “artful” over thee; whereby I caution thee against one Tom Kitefly of Manchester, whose bills have returned back unto me, clothed with that unseemly garment which the notary calleth “a protest.” Assuredly he is a viper in the paths of the unwary, and will bewray thee with his fair speeches; therefore, I say, take heed unto him.

I remain thy friend,
Mincing Lane.


Sir,—Seeing in the first number of your paper an announcement from Mr. Thomas Hood, that he was in want of a laugher, I beg to offer my services in that comic capacity, and to hand you my card and certificates of my cachinnatory powers.



Mr. Toady Chuckle begs to inform wits, punsters, and jokers in general that he


His truly invaluable zest for bad jokes has been patronised by several popular farce-writers and parliamentary Pasquins.

Mr. T.C. always has at command smiles for satire, simpers for repartee, sniggers for conundrums, titters for puns, and guffaws for jocular anecdotes. By Mr. T.C.’s system, cues for laughter are rendered unnecessary, as, from a long course of practical experience, the moment of cachinnation is always judiciously selected.

N.B. The worst Jokes laughed at, and rendered successful. Old Joes made to tell as well as new.



Sir,—I feel myself bound in justice to you and your invaluable laughter, as well as to others who may be suffering, as I have been, with a weakly farce, to inform you of its extraordinary results in my case. My bantling was given up by all the faculty, when you were happily shown into the boxes. One laugh removed all sibillatory indications; a second application of your invaluable cachinnation elicited slight applause; whilst a third, in the form of a guffaw, rendered it perfectly successful.

From the prevalence of dulness among dramatic writers, I have no doubt that your services will be in general requisition.

I am, yours, very respectfully,
J.R. Planche.
C—— C——.

Sir,—I beg to inform you, for the good of other bad jokers, that I deem the introduction of your truly valuable cachinnation one of the most important ever made; in proof of which, allow me to state, that after a joke of mine had proved a failure for weeks, I was induced to try your cachinnation, by the use of which it met with unequivocal success; and, I declare, if the cost were five guineas a guffaw, I would not be without it.

Yours truly,
Charles Delaet Waldo Sibthorp (Colonel).

“MY NAME’S THE DOCTOR”—(vide Peel’s Speech at Tamworth.)

The two doctors, Peel and Russell, who have been so long engaged in renovating John Bull’s “glorious constitution!” though they both adopt the lowering system at present, differ as to the form of practice to be pursued. Russell still strenuously advocates his purge, while Sir Robert insists upon the efficacy of bleeding.

“Who shall decide when doctors disagree?”

[pg 41]



Our opinion is, that science cannot be too familiarly dealt with; and though too much familiarity certainly breeds contempt, we are only following the fashion of the day, in rendering science somewhat contemptible, by the strange liberties that publishers of Penny Cyclopædias, three-halfpenny Informations, and twopenny Stores of Knowledge, are prone to take with it.

In order to show that we intend going at high game, we shall begin with the stars; and if we do not succeed in levelling the heavens to the very meanest capacity—even to that of

A squalling child punches its mother.


we shall at once give up all claims to the title of an enlightener of the people.

Every body knows there are planets in the air, which are called the planetary system. Every one knows our globe goes upon its axis, and has two poles, but what is the axis, and what the poles are made of—whether of wood, or any other material—are matters which, as far as the mass are concerned, are involved in the greatest possible obscurity.

The north pole is chiefly remarkable for no one having ever succeeded in reaching it, though there seems to have been a regular communication to it by post in the time of Pope, whose lines—

“Speed the soft intercourse from zone to zone.

And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole,”

imply, without doubt, that packages reached the pole; not, however, without regard to the size (SIGHS), which may have been limited.

The sun, every body knows, is very large, and indeed the size has been ascertained to an inch, though we must say we should like to see the gentleman who measured it. Astronomers declare there are spots upon it, which may be the case, unless the savans have been misled by specks of dirt on the bottom of their telescopes. As these spots are said to disappear from time to time, we are strongly inclined to think our idea is the correct one. Some insist that the sun is liquid like water, but if it were, the probability is, that from its intense heat, the whole must have boiled away long ago, or put itself out, which is rather more feasible.

We do not think it necessary to go into the planets, for, if we did, it is not unlikely we should be some time time before we got out again; but we shall say a few words about our own Earth, in which our readers must, of course, take a special interest.

It has been decided, that, viewed from the moon, our globe presents a mottled appearance; but, as this assertion can possibly rest on no better authority than that of the Man in the Moon, we must decline putting the smallest faith in it.

It is calculated that a day in the moon lasts just a fortnight, and that the night is of the same duration. If this be the case, the watchmen in the moon must be horridly over-worked, and daily labourers must be fatigued in proportion. When the moon is on the increase, it is seen in the crescent; but whether Mornington-crescent or Burton-crescent, or any other crescent in particular, has not been mentioned by either ancient or modern astronomers. The only articles we get from the moon, are moonlight and madness. Lunar caustic is not derived from the planet alluded to.

Of the stars, one of the most brilliant is Sirius, or the Dog-star, which it is calculated gives just one-twenty-millionth part of the light of the sun, or about as much as that of a farthing rushlight. It would seem that such a shabby degree of brilliancy was hardly worth having; but when it is remembered that it takes three years to come, it really seems hardly worth while to travel so far to so very little purpose.

The most magnificent of the starry phenomena, is the Milky Way or Whey; and, indeed, the epithet seems superfluous, for all whey is to a certain extent milky. The Band of Orion is familiar to all of us by name; but it is not a musical band, as most people are inclined to think it is. Perhaps the allusion to the music of the spheres may have led to this popular error, as well as to that which regards Orion’s band as one of wind instruments.

We shall not go into those ingenious calculations that some astronomers have indulged in, as to the time it would take for a cannon-ball to come from the sun to the earth, for we really hope the earth will never be troubled by so unwelcome a visitor. Nor shall we throw out any suggestions as to how long a bullet would be going from the globe to the moon; for we do not think any one would be found goose enough to take up his rifle with the intention of trying the experiment.

Comets are, at present, though very luminous bodies, involved in considerable obscurity. Though there is plenty of light in comets, we are almost entirely in the dark concerning them. All we know about them is, that they are often coming, but never come, and that, after frightening us every now and then, by threatening destruction to our earth, they turn sharp off, all of a sudden, and we see no more of them. Astronomers have spied at them, learned committees have sat upon them, and old women have been frightened out of their wits by them; but, notwithstanding all this, the comet is so utterly mysterious, that “thereby hangs a tail” is all we are prepared to say respecting it.

We trust the above remarks will have thrown a light on the sun and moon, illustrated the stars, and furnished a key to the skies in general; but those who require further information are referred to Messrs. Adams and Walker, whose plans of the universe, consisting of several yellow spots on a few yards of black calico, are exactly the things to give the students of astronomy a full development of those ideas which it has been our aim to open out to him.


“With too much blood and too little brain, these two may run mad; but if with too much brain and too little blood, they do, I’ll be a curer of madmen.”—Troilus and Cressida.

MR. PETER BORTHWICK and Colonel Sibthorpe are both named as candidates for the Speaker’s chair. Peter has a certificate of being “a bould speaker,” from old Richardson, in whose company he was engaged as parade-clown and check-taker. The gallant Colonel, however, is decidedly the favourite, notwithstanding his very ungracious summary of the Whigs some time ago. We would give one of the buttons off our hump to see

A seated bearded man wearing a wig and robes.


MR. JOSEPH MUGGINS begs to inform his old crony, PUNCH, that the report of Sir John Pullon, “as to the possibility of elevating an ass to the head of the poll by bribery and corruption” is perfectly correct, provided there is no abatement in the price. Let him canvass again, and Mr. J.M. pledges himself, whatever his weight, if he will only stand “one penny more, up goes the donkey!”

A circus performer balances a ladder with his mouth. A donkey is balancing on top of the ladder.



Robbed—Melbourne’s butcher of his twelvemonth’s billings.

Verdict—Stealing under forty shillings.


The Chancery bar has been lately occupied with a question relating to a patent for pins’ heads. The costs are estimated at £5000. The lawyers are the best boxers, after all. Only let them get a head in chancery, even a pin’s, and see how they make the proprietor bleed.


Died, Eagle Rouse—Verdict, Felo de se.

Induced by being ta’en for—Ross, M.P.


When Mr. Rumball was at the Surrey Theatre, the treasurer paid him the proceeds of a share of a benefit in half-crowns, shillings, and sixpences, which Rumball boasted that he had carried home on his head. His friends, from that day, accounted for his silvery hair!

[pg 42]


We beg to invite attention to the aspect of our Foreign Affairs. It is dark, lowering, gloomy—some would say, alarming. When it smiles, its smiles deceive. To use the very mildest term, it is exceedingly suspicious. Let John Bull look to his pockets.

It is, nevertheless, but a piece of justice to state, that, formidable as the appearance of Foreign Affairs may be, no blame whatever can, in our opinion, be attached to Lord Palmerston.

The truth is, that the Foreign Affairs of PUNCH are not the Foreign Affairs of Politics. They are certain living beings; and we call them Affairs, by way of compromise with some naturalists, to whom the respective claims of man and the ape to their relationship may appear as yet undecided.

In their anatomical construction they undoubtedly resemble mankind; they are also endowed with the faculty of speech. Their clothes, moreover, do not grow upon their backs, although they look very much as if they did. They come over here in large numbers from other countries, chiefly from France; and in London abound in Leicester-square, and are constantly to be met with under the Quadrant in Regent-street, where they grin, gabble, chatter, and sometimes dance, to the no small diversion of the passengers.

As these Foreign Affairs have long been the leaders of fashion, and continue still to give the tone to the manners and sentiments of the politer circles, where also their language is, perhaps, more frequently spoken than the vernacular tongue; and as there is something about them—no matter what—which renders them great favourites with a portion of the softer sex, we shall endeavour to point out, for the edification of those who may be disposed to copy them, those peculiarities of person, deportment, and dress, by which their tribe is distinguished.

We address ourselves more particularly to those whose animal part—every man is said to resemble, in some respect, one of the lower animals—is made up of the marmozet and the puppy.

Be it known, then, to all those whom it may concern, that there are, to speak in a general way, two great classes of Foreign Affairs—the shining and the dingy.

The characteristic appearance of the former might, perhaps, be obtained by treating the apparel with a preparation of plumbago or black lead; that of the latter by the use of some fuliginous substance, as a dye, or, perhaps, by direct fumigation. The gloss upon the cheeks might be produced by perseverance in the process of dry-rubbing; the more humid style of visage, by the application of emollient cataplasms. General sallowness would result, as a matter of course, from assiduous dissipation. Young gentlemen thus glazed and varnished, French-polished, in fact, from top to toe, might glitter in the sun like beetles; or adopt, if they preferred it, as being better adapted for lady-catching, the more sombre guise of the spider.

Foreign Affairs have two opposite modes of wearing the hair; we can recommend both to those studious of elegance. The locks may be suffered to flow about the shoulders in ringlets, resembling the tendrils of the vine, by which means much will be done towards softening down the asperities of sex; or they may be cropped close to the scalp in such a manner as to impart a becoming prominence to the ears. When the development of those appendages is more than usually ample, and when nature has given the head a particularly stiff and erect covering, descending in two lateral semicircles, and a central point on the forehead, the last mentioned style is the more appropriate By its adoption, the most will be made of certain personal, we might almost say generic, advantages;—we shall call it, in the language of the Foreign Affairs themselves, the coiffure à-la-singe.

Useful hints, with respect to the management of the whiskers, may be derived from the study of Foreign Affairs. The broad, shorn, smooth extent of jaw, darkened merely on its denuded surface, and the trimmed regular fringe surrounding the face, are both, in perhaps equal degrees, worthy of the attention of the tasteful. The shaggy beard and mustachios, especially, if aided by the effect of a ferocious scowl, will admirably suit those who would wish to have an imposing appearance; the chin, with its pointed tuft à la capricorne, will, at all events, ensure distinction from the human herd; and the decorated upper lip, with its downy growth dyed black, and gummed (the cheek at the same time having been faintly tinged with rouge, the locks parted, perfumed, and curled, the waist duly compressed, a slight addition, if necessary, made to the breadth of the hips, and the feet confined by the most taper and diminutive chausserie imaginable), will just serve to give to the tout ensemble that one touch of the masculine character which, perhaps, it may be well to retain.

The remarkable tightness and plumpness of limbs and person exhibited by Foreign Affairs cannot have escaped observation. This attractive quality may be acquired by purchasing the material out of which the clothes are to be made, and giving the tailor only just as much as may exactly suffice for the purpose. Its general effect will be much aided by wearing wristbands turned up over the cuff, and collars turned down upon the stock. An agreeable contrast of black and white will thus also be produced. Those who are fonder of harmony will do well to emulate the closely-buttoned sables likewise worn by a large class of Foreign Affairs, who, affecting a uniform tint, eschew the ostentation of linen.

The diminution of the width of their coat collars, and the increase of the convexity of their coat tails, an object which, by artificial assistance, might easily be gained, are measures which we would earnestly press on all who are ambitious of displaying an especial resemblance to Foreign Affairs. We also advise them to have lofty, napless, steeple-crowned hats.

He who would pass for a shining specimen, in every sense of the word, of a Foreign Affair, should wear varnished boots, which, if composed partly of striped cloth, or what is much prettier, of silk, will display the ancles to the better advantage.

With regard to colours in the matter of costume, the contemplation of Foreign Affairs will probably induce a preference for black, as being better suited to the complexion, though it will, at the same time, teach that the hues of the rainbow are capable, under certain circumstances, of furnishing useful suggestions.

It will have been perceived that the Foreign Affairs of which we have been treating are the Affairs of one particular nation: beside these, however, there are others; but since all of their characteristics may be acquired by letting the clothes alone, never interfering with the hair, abstaining from the practice of ablution, and smoking German pipes about the streets, they are hardly worth dwelling upon. Those who have light and somewhat shaggy locks will study such models with the best success.

Not only the appearance, but the manners also, of Foreign Affairs, may be copied with signal benefit. Two of their accomplishments will be found eminently serviceable—the art of looking black, and that of leering. These physiognomical attainments, exhibited by turns, have a marvellous power of attracting female eyes—those of them, at least, that have a tendency to wander abroad. The best way of becoming master of these acquisitions is, to peruse with attention the features of bravoes and brigands on the one hand, and those of opera-dancers on the other. The progress of Foreign Affairs should be attentively watched, as the manner of it is distinguished by a peculiar grace. This, perhaps, we cannot better teach anyone to catch, than by telling him to endeavour, in walking, to communicate, at each step, a lateral motion to his coat tail. The gait of a popular actress, dressed as a young officer, affords, next to that actually in question, the best exemplification of our meaning. Habitual dancing before a looking-glass, by begetting a kind of second nature, which will render the movements almost instinctive, will be of great assistance in this particular.

In order to secure that general style and bearing for which Foreign Affairs are so remarkable, the mind must be carefully divested of divers incompatible qualities—such as self-respect, the sense of shame, the reverential instinct, and that of conscience, as certain feelings are termed. It must also be relieved of any inconvenient weight of knowledge under which it may labour; though these directions are perhaps needless, as those who have any inclination to form themselves after the pattern of Foreign Affairs, are not very likely to have any such moral or intellectual disqualifications to get rid of. However, it would only be necessary to become conversant with the Affairs themselves, in order, if requisite, to remove all difficulties of the sort. “There is a thing,” reader, “which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch;” we need not finish the quotation.

To defend the preceding observations from misconstruction, we will make, in conclusion, one additional remark; Foreign Affairs are one thing—Foreign Gentlemen another.

[pg 43]


Sketches of people on the top half of the image, and a crowd of fashionable people on the bottom. Signed by John Leach and E. Landells.

FOREIGN AFFAIRS by An ink bottle

[pg 45]


Some of our big mothers of the broad-sheet have expressed their surprise that Lord John Russell should have penned so long an address to the citizens of London, only the day before his wedding. For ourselves, we think, it would have augured a far worse compliment to Lady John had he written it the day after. These gentlemen very properly look upon marriage as a most awful ceremony, and would, therefore, indirectly compliment the nerve of a statesman who pens a political manifesto with the torch of Hymen in his eyes, and the whole house odorous of wedding-cake. In the like manner have we known the last signature of an unfortunate gentleman, about to undergo a great public and private change, eulogized for the firmness and clearness of its letters, with the perfect mastery of the supplementary flourish. However, what is written is written; whether penned to the rustling of bridesmaids’ satins, or the surplice of the consolatory ordinary—whether to the anticipated music of a marriage peal, or to the more solemn accompaniment of the bell of St. Sepulchre’s.

Ha! Lord John, had you only spoken out a little year ago—had you only told her Majesty’s Commons what you told the Livery of London—then, at this moment, you had been no moribund minister—then had Sir Robert Peel been as far from St. James’s as he has ever been from Chatham. But so it is: the Whig Ministry, like martyr Trappists, have died rather than open their mouths. They would not hear the counsel of their friends, and they refused to speak out to their enemies. They retire from office with, at least, this distinction—they are henceforth honorary members of the Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb!

Again, the Whigs are victims to their inherent sense of politeness—to their instinctive observance of courtesy towards the Tories. There has been no bold defiance—no challenge to mortal combat for the cause of public good; but when Whig has called out Tory, it has been in picked and holiday phrase—

“As if a brother should a brother dare,

To gentle exercise and proof of arms.”

For a long time the people have expected to see “cracked crowns and bloody noses,” and at length, with true John Bull disgust, turned from the ring, convinced that the Whigs, whatever play they might make, would never go in and fight.

But have the Tories been correspondingly courteous? By no means; the generosity of politeness has been wholly with the Whigs. They, like frolicsome youths at a carnival, have pelted their antagonists with nothing harder than sugar-plums—with egg-shells filled with rose-water; while the Tories have acknowledged such holiday missiles with showers of brickbats, and eggs not filled with aromatic dew. What was the result? The Tories increased in confidence and strength with every new assault; whilst the battered Whigs, from their sheer pusillanimity, became noisome in the nostrils of the country.

At length, the loaves and fishes being about to be carried off, the Whigs speak out: like sulky Master Johnny, who, pouting all dinner-time, with his finger in his mouth, suddenly finds his tongue when the apple-dumplings are to be taken from the table. Then does he advance his plate, seize his ivory knife and fork, put on a look of determined animation, and cry aloud for plenty of paste, plenty of fruit, and plenty of sugar! And then Mrs. Tory (it must be confessed a wicked old Mother Cole in her time), with a face not unlike the countenance of a certain venerable paramour at a baptismal rite, declares upon her hopes of immortality that the child shall have nothing of the sort, there being nothing so dangerous to the constitution as plenty of flour, plenty of fruit, and plenty of sugar. Therefore, there is a great uproar with Master Johnny: the House, to use a familiar phrase, is turned out of the windows; the neighbourhood is roused; Master Johnny rallies his friends about him, that is, all the other boys of the court, and the fight begins. Johnny and his mates make a very good fight, but certain heavy Buckinghamshire countrymen—fellows of fifty stone—are brought to the assistance of that screaming beldame Mother Tory, and poor Master Johnny has no other election than to listen to the shouts of triumph that declare there never shall be plenty of flour, plenty of sugar, or, in a word, plenty of pudding.

However, Lord Russell is not discouraged. No; he says “there shall be cakes and ale, and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth, too!” We only trust that his Lordship’s manifesto is not tinged by those feelings of hope (and in the case of his lordship we may add, resignation) that animate most men about to enter wedlock. We trust he does not confound his own anticipations of happiness with the prospects of the country; for in allusion to the probable policy of the Tories, he says—“Returned to office—they may adopt our measures, and submit to the influence of reason.” Reason from the Stanleys—reason from the Goulburns—reason from the Aberdeens! When the Marquis of Londonderry shall have discovered the longitude, and Colonel Sibthorp have found out the philosopher’s stone, we may then begin to expect the greater miracle.

The Whigs, according to Lord Russell’s letter, have really done so much when out of power, and—as he insinuates, are again ready to do so much the instant they are expelled the Treasury—that for the sake of the country, it must be a matter of lamentation if ever they get in again.


Punch, we regret to state, was taken into custody on Monday night at a late hour, on a warrant, for the purpose of being bound over to keep the peace towards Sir John Pollen, Bart. The circumstances giving rise to this affair will be better explained by a perusal of the following correspondence, which took place between ourselves and Sir John, on the occasion, a copy of which we subjoin:—

Wellington Street, July 30, 1841.

SIR,—I have this moment read in the Morning Chronicle, the correspondence between you and Lord William Paget, wherein you are reported to say, that your recent defeat at the Andover election was effected by “tampering with some of the smaller voters, who would have voted for Punch or any other puppet;” and that such expressions were not intended to be personally offensive to Lord William Paget! The members of her Majesty’s puppetry not permitting derogatory conclusions to be drawn at their expense, I call upon you to state whether the above assertions are correct; and if so, whether, in the former case, you intended to allude personally to myself, or my friend Colonel Sibthorp; or, in the latter, to infer that you considered Lord W. Paget in any way our superior.

I have the honour to be, Sir, your obedient servant,

Sir John Pollen, Bart.

Redenham, July 30, 1841.

SIGNOR,—I have just received a note in which you complain of a speech made by me at Andover. I have sent express for my Lord Wilkshire, and will then endeavour to recollect what I did say.

I have the honour to be, your admirer,

To Signor Punch.

White Hart.

SIGNOR,—My friend Lord Wilkshire has just arrived. It is his opinion that: I did use the terms “Punch, or any other puppet;” but I intended them to have been highly complimentary, as applied to Lord William Paget.

I have the honour to be, your increased admirer,

To Signor Punch.

Wellington Street.

SIR,—I and the Colonel are perfectly satisfied. Yours ever,


Wellington Street.

MY LORD,—It would have afforded me satisfaction to have consulted the wishes of Sir John Pollen in regard to the publication of this correspondence. The over-zeal of Sir John’s friends have left me no choice in the matter, I shall print.

Your obedient servant,

Earl of Wilkshire.

Thus ended this—

A man looks into a dressing mirror, and his reflection shows a devil's head.


HUMFERY CHEAT-’EM.—(Vide Ainsworth’s “Guy Fawkes.”)

A city friend met us the other morning: “Hark ‘ee,” said he, “Alderman Humfery has been selling shares of the Blackwall Railway, which were not in his possession; and when the directors complained, and gave him notice that they would bring his conduct before a full meeting, inviting him at the same time to attend, and vindicate or explain his conduct as he best might, he not only declined to do so, but hurried off to Dublin. Now, I want to know this,” and he took me by the button, “why was Alderman Humfery, when he ran away to Dublin, like the boy who ripped up his goose which laid golden eggs?”—We were fain to give it up.—“Because,” said he, with a cruel dig in the ribs, “because he cut his lucky!

[pg 46]



The following interesting narrative of the sufferings of the youth Jones, whose indefatigable pursuit of knowledge, under the most discouraging circumstances, has been the cause of his banishment to a distant shore, was lately picked up at sea, in a sealed bottle, by a homeward-bound East Indiaman, and since placed in our hands by the captain of the vessel; who complimented us by saying, he felt such confidence in PUNCH’S honour and honesty! (these were his very words), that he unhesitatingly confided to him the precious document, in order that it might be given to the world without alteration or curtailment.

We hasten to realise the captain’s flattering estimate of our character.

At see, on board the ship Apollo.

June 30.—So soon as the fust aggytation of my mind is woar off, I take up my pen to put my scentiments on peaper, in hops that my friends as nose the misfortin wich as oc-curd to me, may think off me wen I’m far a whey. Halass! sir, the wicktim of that crewel blewbeard, Lord Melbun, who got affeard of my rising poplarity in the Palass, and as sent me to see for my peeping, though, heaven nose, I was acktyated by the pewrest motiffs in what I did. The reel fax of the case is, I’m a young man of an ighly cultiwated mind and a very ink-wisitive disposition, wich naturally led me to the use of the pen. I ad also bean in the abit of reading “Jak Sheppard,” and I may add, that I O all my eleygant tastes to the perowsal of that faxinating book. O! wot a noble mind the author of these wollums must have!—what a frootful inwention and fine feelings he displays!—what a delicat weal he throws over the piccadillys of his ero, making petty larceny lovely, and burglarly butiful.

However, I don’t mean now to enter into a reglar crickitism of this egxtrornary work, but merely to observe, when I read it fust I felt a thust for literrerry fame spring up in my buzzem; and I thort I should to be an orthor. Unfortinnet delusion!—that thort has proved my rooin. It was the bean of my life, and the destroyer of my pease. From that moment I could think of nothink else; I neglekted my wittles and my master, and wanderd about like a knight-errand-boy who had forgotten his message. Sleap deserted my lowly pillar, and, like a wachful shepherd, I lay all night awake amongst my flocks. I had got hold of a single idear—it was the axle of my mind, and, like a wheelbarrow, my head was always turning upon it. At last I resolved to rite, and I cast my i’s about for a subject—they fell on the Palass! Ear, as my friend Litton Bulwer ses, ear was a field for genus to sore into;—ear was an area for fillophosy to dive into;—ear was a truly magnificient and comprehensive desine for a great nash-ional picture! I had got a splendid title, too—not for myself—I’ve a sole above such trumperry—but for my book. Boox is like humane beings—a good title goes a grate way with the crowd:—the one I ad chose for my shed-oove, was “Pencillings in the Palass; or, a Small Voice from the Royal Larder,” with commick illustriations by Fiz or Krokvill. Mr. Bentley wantid to be engaged as monthly nuss for my expected projeny; and a nother gen’leman, whose “name” shall be “never heard,” offered to go shears with me, if I’d consent to cut-uup the Cort ladies. “No,” ses I, indignantly, “I leave Cort scandle to my betters—I go on independent principals into the Palass, and that’s more than Lord Melbun, or Sir Robert Peal, or any one of the insiders or outsiders ever could or ever can say of theirselves.

That’s what I said then,—but now I think, what a cussed fool I was. All my eye-flown bubbles were fated to be busted and melted, like the wigs, “into thin hair.”

Nong port! We gets wiser as we gets

Genteel Reader,—I beg your parding. I’m better now. Bless me, how the ship waggles! It’s reelly hawful; the sailors only laff at it, but I suppose as they’re all tars they don’t mind being pitched a little.

The capting tells me we are now reglarly at see, having just passt the North 4 land; so, ackording to custom, I begin my journal, or, as naughtical men call it—to keep my log.

12 o’clock.—Wind.—All in my eye. Mate said we had our larburd tax aboard—never herd of that tax on shore. Told me I should learn to box the compass—tried, but couldn’t do it—so boxt the cabbing boy insted. Capting several times calld to a man who was steering—“Port, port;” but though he always anserd, “Eye, eye, sir,” he didn’t bring him a drop. The black cook fell into the hold on the topp of his hed. Everybody sed he was gone to Davy Jones’s locker; but he warn’t, for he soon came to again, drank 1/2 a pint of rumm, and declared it was—

A black man applies Marrens Jet shoe polish to his face.


Saw a yung salor sitting on the top of one of the masts—thort of Dibdings faymos see-song, and asked if he warn’t

“The sweet little cherub that sits up aloft?”

Man laff’d, and said it wor only Bill Junk clearing the pennant halliards.

1 o’clock.—Thort formerly that every sailer wore his pigtale at the back of his head, like Mr. Tippy Cook—find I labored under a groce mistake—they all carry their pigtale in their backy-boxes. When I beheld the sailors working and heaving, and found that I was also beginning to heave-too, I cuddn’t help repeting the varse of the old song—which fitted my case egsactly:—

“There’s the capt’n he is our kimmander,

There’s the bos’n and all the ship’s crew,

There’s the married men as well as the single,

Ken-ows what we poor sailors goes through.”

However, I made up my mind not to look inward on my own wose any longer, so I put my head out of a hole in the side of the ship—and, my wiskers! how she did whizz along. Saw the white cliffs of Halbion a long way off, wich brought tiers in my i, thinking of those I had left behind, particular Sally Martin the young gal I was paying my attentions to, who gave me a lock of her air when I was a leaving of the key. Oh! Lord Melbun, Lord Melbun! how can you rest in youre 4-post bed at nite, nowing you have broke the tize of affexion and divided 2 fond arts for hever! This mellancholly reflexion threw me into a poeticle fitte, and though I was werry uneasy in my stommik, and had nothing to rite on but my chest. I threw off as follows in a few 2nds, and arterards sung it to the well-none hair of “Willy Reilly:”—

Oakum to me33. The nautical mode of writing—“Oh! come to me.”—PRINTER’S DEVIL., ye sailors bold,

Wot plows upon the sea;

To you I mean for to unfold

My mournful histo-ree.

So pay attention to my song,

And quick-el-ly shall appear,

How innocently, all along,

I vos in-weigle-ed here.

One night, returnin home to bed,

I walk’d through Pim-li-co,

And, twigging of the Palass, sed,

“I’m Jones and In-i-go.”

But afore I could get out, my boys

Pollise-man 20 A,

He caught me by the corderoys,

And lugged me right a-way.

My cuss upon Lord Melbun, and

On Jonny Russ-all-so,

That forc’d me from my native land

Across the vaves to go-o-oh.

But all their spiteful arts is wain,

My spirit down to keep;

I hopes I’ll soon git back again,

To take another peep.

2 o’clock.—Bell rung for all hands to come down to dinner. Thought I never saw dirtier hands in my life. They call their dinner “a mess” on broad ship, and a preshious mess it did look—no bread but hard biskit and plenty of ship’s rolls, besides biled pork and P-soop—both these articles seemed rayther queer—felt my stommick growing quear too—got on deck, and asked where we were—was told we were in the Straits of Dover. I never was in such dreadful straits in my life—ship leaning very much on one side, which made me feel like a man

A man falling backwards off of a steep roof.


3 o’clock.—Weather getting rather worse than better. Mind very uneasy. Capting says we shall have plenty of squalls to-night; and I heard him just now tell the mate to look to the main shrouds, so I spose it’s all dickey with us, and that this log will be my sad epilog. The idear of being made fish meat was so orrible to my sensitive mind, that I couldn’t refrain from weaping, which made the capting send me down stairs, to vent my sorros in the cable tiers.

5 o’clock.—I’m sure we shan’t srwive this night, therefore I av determined to put my heavy log into an M T rum-bottle, and throw it overbord, in bops it may be pickd up by some pirson who will bare my sad tail to my dear Sally. And now I conclewd with this short advice:—Let awl yung men take warning by my crewel fate. Let them avide bad kumpany and keep out of the Palass; and above all, let them mind their bissnesses on dri land, and never cast their fortunes on any main, like their unfortinet


[pg 47]
Two men in kilt costume: one is standing haughtily upright, the other is hunched over. They are tied together with a sash that reads 'Hay Market'.



O, Gemini-




Representatives of the Tartan hero,

Who wildly tear a passion into rags

More ragged than the hags

That round about the cauldron go!

Murderers! who murder Shakspeare so,

That ’stead of murdering sleep, ye do not do it;

But, vice versa, send the audience to it.

And, oh!—

But no—

Illustrious Mac-

Beth, or -ready,

And thou, small quack,

Of plaudits greedy!

Our pen, deserted by the tuneful Muses,

To write on such a barren theme refuses.



The most splendid night of the season! Friday, the 20th of August.


British Champagne and the British Constitution!—The Church, the State, and Real Turtle!

The performances will commence with


Sam Savory—Captain Rous, R.N.

After which,


Which will embrace the whole strength of THE STEWARDS.

In the course of the Evening, the ENLIGHTENED


(Those zealous admirers of true British spirit) will parade the room amid


To be followed by a GRAND PANTOMIME, called



OLD GLORY (afterwards Pantaloon) SIR F. BURDETT,

who has kindly offered his services on this occasion.

HARRY HUMBUG (a true British Sailor, afterwards Harlequin), CAPT. ROUS.


The whole to conclude with a grand mélange of



Stretchers to be at the doors at half-past 2, and policemen to take up with their heads towards Bow-street.



The experiments of M. Delafontaine having again raised an outcry against this noble science, from the apparent absence of any benefit likely to arise from it, beyond converting human beings into pincushions and galvanic dummies. We, who look deeper into things than the generality of the world, hail it as an inestimable boon to mankind, and proceed at once to answer the numerous enquirers as to the cui bono of this novel soporific.

By a judicious application of the mesmeric fluid, the greatest domestic comfort can be insured at the least possible trouble. The happiest Benedict is too well aware that ladies will occasionally exercise their tongues in a way not altogether compatible with marital ideas of quietude. A few passes of the hand (“in the way of kindness for he who would,” &c. vide Tobin) will now silence the most powerful oral battery; and Tacitus himself might, with the aid of mesmerism, pitch his study in a milliner’s work-room. Hen-pecked husbands have now other means at their command, to secure quiet, than their razors and their garters. We have experimentalised upon our Judy, and find it answer to a miracle. Mrs. Johnson may shut up her laboratory for American Soothing Syrup; mesmerism is the only panacea for those morning and evening infantile ebullitions which affectionate mammas always assign to the teeth, the wind, or a pain in the stomach, and never to that possible cause, a pain in the temper. Mesmerism is “the real blessing to mothers,” and Elliotson the Mrs. Johnson of the day. We have tried it upon our Punchininny, and find it superior to our old practice of throwing him out of the window.

Lovers, to you it is a boon sent by Cupid. Mammas, who will keep in the room when your bosoms are bursting with adoration—fathers, who will wake on the morning of an elopement, when the last trunk and the parrot are confided to you from the window—bailiffs, who will hunt you up and down their bailiwick, even to the church-door, though an heiress is depending upon your character for weekly payments—all are rendered powerless and unobtrusive by this inexplicable palmistry. Candidates, save your money; mesmerise your opponents instead of bribing them, and you may become a patriot by a show of hands.

These are a few of its social advantages—its political uses are unbounded. Why not mesmerise the Chinese? and, as for the Chartists, call out Delafontaine instead of the magistrates—a few mesmeric passes would be an easy and efficient substitute for the “Riot Act.” Then the powers of clairvoyance—the faculty of seeing with their eyes shut—that it gives to the patient. Mrs. Ratsey, your royal charge might be soothed and instructed at the same time, by substituting a sheet of PUNCH for the purple and fine linen of her little Royal Highness’s nautilus-shell.

Lord John Russell, the policy of your wily adversary would no longer be concealed. Jealous husbands, do you not see a haven of security, for brick walls may be seen through, and letters read in the pocket of your rival, by this magnetic telescope? whilst studious young gentleman may place Homer under their arms, and study Greek without looking at it.

A man reads in front of a bench full of sleeping people.



The Marquis of Waterford and party visited Vauxhall Gardens on Monday. The turnpike man on the bridge was much struck by their easy manner of dealing with their inferiors.

Alderman Magnay laid the first shell of an oyster grotto one night this week in the Minories. There was a large party of boys, who, with the worthy Alderman, repaired to a neighbouring fruit-stall, where the festivity of the occasion was kept up for several minutes.

The New Cut was, as usual, a scene of much animation on Saturday last, and there was rather a more brilliant display than customary of new and elegant baked-potato stands. The well-known turn-out, with five lanterns and four apertures for the steam, was the general admiration of the host of pedestrians who throng the Cut between the hours of eight and twelve on Saturday.


SIR R. PEEL, in the celebrated medicinal metaphor with which he lately favoured his constituents at Tamworth, concludes by stating, “that he really believes he does more than any political physician ever did by referring to the prescriptions which he offered in 1835 and 1840, and by saying that he sees no reason to alter them.” This is, to carry out the physical figure, only another version of “the mixture as before.” We are afraid there are no hopes of the patient.

“Why are the Whigs like the toes of a dancing-master?”—“Because they must be turned out.”

“Why are Colonel Sibthorp and Mr. Peter Borthwick like the covering of the dancing-master’s toes?”—“Because they are a pair of pumps.”

“Why are the Whigs and Tories like the scarlet fever and the measles?”—“Because there’s no telling which is the worst.”

[pg 48]


My uncle Septimus Snagglegrable is no more! Excellent old man! no one knew his worthiness whilst he was of the living, for every one called him a scoundrel.

It is reserved for me to do justice to his memory, and one short sentence will be sufficient for the purpose—he has left me five thousand pounds! I have determined that his benevolence shall not want an imitator, and I have resolved, at a great personal sacrifice, to benefit that portion of my fellow creatures who are denominated ugly. I am particularly so. My complexion is a bright snuff-colour; my eyes are grey, and unprotected by the usual verandahs of eye-lashes; my nose is retroussé, and if it has a bridge, it must be of the suspension order, for it is decidedly concave. I wish Rennie would turn his attention to the state of numerous noses in the metropolis. I am sure a lucrative company might he established for the purpose of erecting bridges to noses that, like my own, have been unprovided by nature. I should be happy to become a director. Revenons nous—my mouth is decidedly large, and my teeth singularly irregular. My father was violently opposed to Dr. Jenner’s “repeal of the small-pox,”44. Baylis. and would not have me vaccinated; the consequence of which has been that my chin is full of little dells, thickly studded with dark and stunted bristles. I have bunions and legs that (as “the right line of beauty’s a curve”) are the perfection of symmetry. My poor mother used to lament what she, in the plenitude of her ignorance, was pleased to denominate my disadvantages. She knew not the power of genius. To me these—well, I’ll call them defects—have been the source of great profit. For years I have walked about the great metropolis without any known or even conjectural means of subsistence; my coat has always been without a patch—my linen without spot!

Ugly brothers, I am about to impart to you the secret of my existence! I have lived by the fine arts—yes, by sitting as

A model for door-knockers and cherubim for tomb-stones.

The latter may perhaps surprise you, but the contour of my countenance is decidedly infantile—for when had a babby a bridge?—and the addition of a penny trumpet completes the full-blown expression of the light-headed things known to stone-masons as cherubim.

But it is to the art of knocker-designing that I flatter myself I have been of most service. By the elevation of my chin, and the assistance of a long wig, I can present an excellent resemblance of a lion, with this great advantage over the real animal—I can vary the expression according to circumstances—

“As mild as milk, or raging as the storm.”

So that nervous single ladies need not be terrified out of their senses every time they knock at their door, by the grim personification of a Nero at feeding time; or a tender-hearted poor-law guardian be pestered during dinner by invitations afforded to the starving poor by the benevolent expression of his knocker.

Ugly ones! I have now imparted to you my secret.


Oh, Mr. Punch! what glorious times

Are these, for humbly gifted mimes;

When, spite of each detracter,

Paternal name and filial love,

Assisted by “the powers above,”

Have made C——s K——n an actor!

“’Tis true,” his generous patrons say,

“Of genius he ne’er had a ray;

Yet, all his faults to smother,

The youth inherits, from his sire,

A name which all the world admire,

And dearly loves his mother!”

Stripp’d of his adventitious aid,

He ne’er ten pounds a week had made;

Yet every Thespian brother

Is now kept down, or put to flight,

While he gets fifty pounds a night,

Because—he loves his mother!

Though I’m, in heart and soul, a friend

To genuine talent, Heaven forefend

That I should raise a pother,

Because the philanthropic folks

Wink and applaud a pious hoax,

For one who—loves his mother!

No! Heaven prolong his parent’s life

And grant that no untimely strife

May wean them from each other!

For soon he’d find the golden fleece

Slip from his grasp, should he e’er cease

To keep and—love his mother!


Why is a chesnut horse, going at a rapid pace up an inclined plane, like an individual in white trousers presenting a young lady in book muslin with an infantine specimen of the canine species?—Because he is giving a gallop up (a girl a pup).



The distresses of actors distress nobody but themselves. A tale of woe told off the stage by a broad comedian, begets little sympathy; and if he is in the “heavy line,” people say he is used to it, and is only acting—playing off upon you a melancholy joke, that he may judge how it will tell at night. Thus, when misfortune takes a benefit, charity seldom takes tickets; for she is always sceptical about the so-called miseries of the most giddy, volatile, jolly, careless, uncomplaining (where managers and bad parts are not concerned) vainest, and apparently, happiest possible members of the community, who are so completely associated with fiction, that they are hardly believed when telling the truth. Par exemple—nothing can be more true than that Astley’s Theatre was burnt down the other day; that the whole of that large establishment were suddenly thrown out of employ; that their wardrobes were burnt to rags, their properties reduced to a cinder, and their means of subsistence roasted in a too rapid fire. True also is it, that to keep the wolf from their own doors, those of the Olympic have been opened, where the really dismounted cavalry of Astley’s are continuing their campaign, having appealed to the public to support them. Judging from the night we were present, that support has been extended with a degree of lukewarmness which is exactly proportionate to the effect produced by the appeals of actors when misfortune overtakes them.

But, besides public sympathy, they put forth other claims for support. The amusements they offer are of extraordinary merit. The acting of Mr. H. Widdicomb, of Miss Daly, and Mr. Sidney Forster, was, in the piece we saw—“The Old House at Home”—full of nature and quiet touches of feeling scarcely to be met with on any other stage. Still these are qualifications the “general” do not always appreciate; though they often draw tears, they seldom draw money. Very well, to meet that deficiency, other and more popular actors have come forward to offer their aid. Mr. T.P. Cooke has already done his part, as he always does it, nobly. The same may be said of Mr. Hammond. When we were present, Mrs. H.L. Grattan and Mr. Balls appeared in the “Lady of Munster.” Mr. Sloan, a popular Irish comedian from the provinces, has lent a helping hand, by coming out in a new drama. Mr. Keeley is also announced.

The pieces we saw were well got up and carefully acted; so that the patrons of the drama need not dread that, in this instance, the Astleyan-Olympic actors believe that “charity covers a multitude of sins.” They don’t care who sees their faults—the more the better.


When a certain class of persons, whose antipathy to gratis sea-voyages is by no means remarkable, are overtaken by the police and misfortune; when the last legal quibble has been raised upon their case and failed; when, indeed, to use their own elegant phraseology, they are “regularly stumped and done up;” then—and, to do them justice, not till then—they resort to confession, and to turning king’s evidence against their accomplices.

This seems to be exactly the case with the drama, which is evidently in the last stage of decline; the consumption of new subjects having exhausted the supply. The French has been “taken from” till it has nothing more to give; the Newgate Calendar no longer affords materials; for an entire dramatic edition of it might be collected (a valuable hint this for the Syncretic Society, that desperate association for producing un-actable dramas)—the very air is exhausted in a theatrical sense; for “life in the clouds” has been long voted “law;” whilst the play-writing craft have already robbed the regions below of every spark of poetic fire; devils are decidedly out of date. In short, and not to mince the matter, as hyenas are said to stave off starvation by eating their own haunches, so the drama must be on its last legs, when actors turn king’s evidence, and exhibit to the public how they flirt and quarrel, and eat oysters and drink porter, and scandalise and make fun—how, in fact, they disport themselves “Behind the Scenes.”

A visit to the English Opera will gratify those of the uninitiated, who are anxious to get acquainted with the manners and customs of the ladies and gentlemen of the corps dramatique “at the wing.” Otherwise than as a sign of dramatic destitution, the piece called “Behind the Scenes” is highly amusing. Mr. Wild’s acting displays that happy medium between jocularity and earnest, which is the perfection of burlesque. Mrs. Selby plays the “leading lady” without the smallest effort, and invites the first tragedian to her treat of oysters and beer with considerable empressement, though supposed to be labouring at the time under the stroke of the headsman’s axe. Lastly, it would be an act of injustice to Mr. Selby to pass his Spooney Negus over in silence. PUNCH has too brotherly an affection for his fellow-actors, to hide their faults; in the hope that, by shewing them veluti in speculum, they may be amended. In all kindness, therefore, he entreats Mr. Selby, if he be not bent upon hastening his own ruin, if he have any regard for the feelings of unoffending audiences, who always witness the degradation of human nature with pain—he implores him to provide a substitute for Negus. Every actor knows the difference between portraying imbecility and being silly himself—between puerility, as characteristic of a part in posse, and as being a trait of the performer in esse. To this rule Mr. Selby, in this part, is a melancholy exception; for he seems utterly ignorant of such a distinction, broad as it is—he is silly himself, instead of causing silliness in Spooney. This is the more to be regretted, as whoever witnessed, with us, the first piece, saw in Mr. Selby a respectable representative of an old dandy in “Barnaby Rudge.” Moreover, the same gentleman is, we understand, the adapter of the drama from Boz’s tale. That too proves him to be a clever contriver of situations, and an ingenious adept with the pen and scissors.


VOL. 1.

[pg 49]

AUGUST 14, 1841.



In Four Chapters.


Two slender men are shaking hands. Their bodies form the letter H.

Haberdashers, continued my friend the boot, are wonderful people; they make the greatest show out of the smallest stock—whether of brains or ribbons—of any men in the world. A stranger could not pass through the village of Ballybreesthawn without being attracted by a shop which occupied the corner of the Market-square and the main street, with a window looking both ways for custom. In these windows were displayed sundry articles of use and ornament—toys, stationery, perfumery, ribbons, laces, hardware, spectacles, and Dutch dolls.

In a glass-case on the counter were exhibited patent medicines, Birmingham jewellery, court-plaister, and side-combs. Behind the counter might be seen Mr. Matthew Tibbins, quite a precedent for country shop-keepers, with uncommonly fair hair and slender fingers, a profusion of visible linen, and a most engaging lisp. In addition to his personal attractions, Tibbins possessed a large stock of accomplishments, which, like his goods, “might safely challenge competition.” He was an acknowledged wit, and retailed compliments and cotton balls to the young ladies who visited his emporium. As a poet, too, his merits were universally known; for he had once contributed a poetic charade to the Ladies’ Almanack. He, moreover, played delightfully on the Jews’-harp, knew several mysterious tricks in cards, and was an adept in the science of bread and butter-cutting, which made him a prodigious favourite with maiden aunts and side-table cousins. This was the individual whom fate had ordained to cross and thwart Terence in his designs upon the heart of Miss Biddy O’Brannigan, and upon whom that young lady, in sport or caprice, bestowed a large dividend of those smiles which Terence imagined should be devoted solely to himself.

The man of small wares was, in truth, a dangerous rival, from his very insignificance. Had he been a man of spirit or corporal consideration, Terence would have pistolled or thrashed him out of his audacious notions; but the creature was so smiling and submissive that he could not, for the life of him, dirty his fingers with such a contemptible wretch. Thus Tibbins continued flattering and wriggling himself into Miss Biddy’s good graces, while Terence was fighting and kissing the way to her heart, till the poor girl was fairly bothered between them.

Miss Biddy O’Brannigan, I should have told you, sir, was an heiress, valued at one thousand pounds in hard cash, living with an old aunt at Rookawn Lodge, about six miles from Ballybreesthawn; and to this retreat of the loves and graces might the rival lovers be seen directing their course, after mass, every Sunday;—the haberdasher in a green gig with red wheels, and your uncle mounted on a bit of blood, taking the coal off Tibbins’s pipe with the impudence of his air, and the elegant polish of your humble servants.

Matters went on in this way for some time—Miss O’Brannigan not having declared in favour of either of her suitors—when one bitter cold evening, I remember it was in the middle of January, we were whipped off our peg in the hall, and in company with our fellow-labourers, the buckskin continuations, were carried up to your uncle, whom we found busily preparing for a ball, which was to be given that night by the heiress of Rookawn Lodge. I confess that my brother and myself felt a strong presentiment that something unfortunate would occur, and our forebodings were shared by the buckskins, who, like ourselves, felt considerable reluctance to join in the expedition. Remonstrance, however, would have been idle; we therefore submitted with the best grace we could, and in a few minutes were bestriding Terence’s favourite hunter, and crossing the country over ditch, dyke, and drain, as if we were tallying at the tail of a fox. The night was dark, and a recent fall of rain had so swollen a mountain stream which lay in our road, that when we reached the ford, which was generally passable by foot passengers, Terence was obliged to swim his horse across, and to dismount on the opposite side, in order to assist the animal up a steep clayey bank which had been formed by the torrent undermining and cutting away the old banks.

Although we had received no material damage, you may suppose that our appearance was not much improved by the water and yellow clay into which we had been plunged; and had it been possible, we would have blushed with vexation, on finding ourselves introduced by Terence in a very unseemly state, amidst the titters of a number of young people, into the ball-room at Rookawn Lodge. However, we became somewhat reassured, when we heard the droll manner in which he related his swim, with such ornamental flourishes and romantic embellishments as made him an object of general interest during the night.

Matthew Tibbins had already taken the field in a blue satin waistcoat and nankeen trousers. At the instant we entered the dancing-room, he had commenced lisping to Miss Biddy, in a tender love-subdued tone, a couplet which he had committed to memory for the occasion, when a glance of terrible meaning from Terence’s eye met his—the unfinished stanza died in his throat, and without waiting the nearer encounter of his dreaded rival, he retreated to a distant corner of the apartment, leaving to Terence the post of honour beside the heiress.

“Mr. Duffy,” said she, accompanying her words with the blandest smile you can conceive, as he approached, “what a wonderful escape you have had. Dear me! I declare you are dripping wet. Will you not change your—clothes?” and Miss Biddy glanced furtively at the buckskins, which, like ourselves, had got thoroughly soaked. “Oh! by no means, my dear Miss Biddy,” replied Terence, gaily; “’tis only a thrifle of water—that won’t hurt them”—and then added, in a confidential tone, “don’t you know I’d go through fire as well as water for one kind look from those deludin’ eyes.”

“Shame, Mr. Duffy! how can you!” responded Miss Biddy, putting her handkerchief to her face to make believe she blushed.

“Isn’t it the blessed truth—and don’t you know it is, you darling?—Oh! Miss Biddy, I’m wasting away like a farthing candle in the dog-days—I’m going down to my snug grave through your cruelty. The daisies will be growing over me afore next Easther—Ugh—ugh—ugh. I’ve a murderin’ cough too, and nothing can give me ase but yourself, Miss Biddy,” cried Terence eagerly.

“Hush! they’ll hear you,” said the heiress.

“I don’t care who hears me,” replied Terence desperately; “I can’t stand dying by inches this way. I’ll destroy myself.”

“Oh, Terence!” murmured Miss O’Brannigan.

“Yes,” he continued: “I loaded my pistols this morning, and I told Barney M’Guire, the dog-feeder, to come over and shoot me the first thing he does in the morning.”

“Terence, dear, what do you want? What am I to say?” inquired the trembling girl.

“Say,” cried Terence, who was resolved to clinch the business at a word; “say that you love me.”

The handkerchief was again applied to Miss O’Brannigan’s face, and a faint affirmative issued from the depths of the cambric. Terence’s heart hopped like a racket-ball in his breast.

“Give me your hand upon it,” he whispered.

Miss Biddy placed the envied palm, not on his brows, but in his hand, and was led by him to the top of a set which was forming for a country dance, from whence they started off at the rate of one of our modern steam-engines, to the spirit-stirring tune of “Haste to the Wedding.” There was none of the pirouetting, and chassez-ing, and balancez-ing, of your slip-shod quadrilles in vogue then—it was all life and action: swing corners in a hand gallop, turn your partner in a whirlwind, and down the middle like a flash of lightning.

Terence had never acquitted himself so well; he cut, capered, and set to his partner with unusual agility; we naturally participated in the admiration he excited, and in the fullness of our triumph, while brushing past the flimsy nankeens worn by Tibbins, I could not refrain from bestowing a smart kick upon his shins, that brought the tears to his eyes with pain and vexation.

After the dance had concluded, Terence led his glowing partner to a cool quiet corner, where leaving her, he flew to the side table, and in less time than he would take to bring down a snipe, he was again beside her with a large mugful of hot negus, into which he had put, by way of stiffener, a copious dash of mountain dew.

“How do you like it, my darling?” asked Terence, after Miss Biddy had read the maker’s name in the bottom of the mug.

“Too strong, I’m afraid,” replied the heiress.

“Strong! Wake as tay, upon my honour! Miss Biddy,” cried Mr. Duffy.

(The result of Terence Duffy’s courtship will be given in the next chapter).


No. IV.

O Dinna paint her charms to me,

I ken that she is fair;

I ken her lips might tempt the bee—

Her een with stars compare,

Such transient gifts I ne’er did prize,

My heart they couldna win;

I dinna scorn my Jeannie’s eyes—

But has she ony tin?

The fairest cheek, alas! may fade

Beneath the touch of years;

The een where light and gladness play’d

May soon graw dim wi’ tears.

I would love’s fires should, to the last,

Still burn as they begin;

And beauty’s reign too soon is past,

So—has she ony tin?


Her ladyship, at her last conversazione, propounded to PUNCH the following classical poser:—“How would you translate the Latin words, puella, defectus, puteus, dies, into four English interjections?” Our wooden Roscius hammered his pate for full five minutes, and then exclaimed—“A-lass! a-lack! a-well a-day!” Her ladyship protested that the answer would have done honour to the professor of languages at the London University.

[pg 50]
A Lion and a Unicorn sit with a tankard by a table with legs marked 'Queen,' 'Commons' and 'Lords.'



“GROUND ARMS!”—Birdcage Walk.

LION.—So! how do you feel now?

UNICORN.—Considerably relieved. Though you can’t imagine the stiffness of my neck and legs. Let me see, how long is it since we relieved the griffins?

LION.—An odd century or two, but never mind that. For the first time, we have laid down our charge—have got out of our state attitudes, and may sit over our pot and pipe at ease.

UNICORN.—What a fate is ours! Here have we, in our time, been compelled to give the patronage of our countenance to all sorts of rascality—have been forced to support robbery, swindling, extortion—but it won’t do to think of—give me the pot. Oh! dear, it had suited better with my conscience, had I been doomed to draw a sand-cart!

LION.—Come, come, no unseemly affectation. You, at the best, are only a fiction—a quadruped lie.

UNICORN.—I know naturalists dispute my existence, but if, as you unkindly say, I am only a fiction, why should I have been selected as a supporter of the royal arms?

LION.—Why, you fool, for that very reason. Have you been where you are for so many years, and yet don’t know that often, in state matters, the greater the lie the greater the support?

UNICORN.—Right. When I reflect—I have greater doubts of my truth, seeing where I am.

LION.—But here am I, in myself a positive majesty, degraded into a petty-larceny scoundrel; yes, all my inherent attributes compromised by my position. Oh, Hercules! when I remember my native Africa—when I reflect on the sweet intoxication of my former liberty—the excitement of the chase—the mad triumph of my spring, cracking the back of a bison with one fillip of my paw—when I think of these things—of my tawny wife with her smile sweetly ferocious, her breath balmy with new blood—of my playful little ones, with eyes of topaz and claws of pearl—when I think of all this, and feel that here I am, a damned rabbit-sucker—

UNICORN.—Don’t swear.

LION.—Why not? God knows, we’ve heard swearing enough of all sorts in our time. It isn’t the fault of our position, if we’re not first-rate perjurers.

UNICORN.—That’s true: still, though we are compelled to witness all these things in the courts of law, let us be above the influence of bad example.

LION.—Give me the pot. Courts of law? Oh, Lord! what places they put us into! And there they expect me—me, the king of the animal world, to stand quietly upon my two hind-legs, looking as mildly contemptible as an apoplectic dancing-master,—whilst iniquities, and meannesses, and tyranny, and—give me the pot.

UNICORN:—Brother, you’re getting warm. Really, you ought to have seen enough of state and justice to take everything coolly. I certainly must confess that—looking at much of the policy of the country, considering much of the legal wickedness of law-scourged England—it does appear to me a studied insult to both of us to make us supporters of the national quarterings. Surely, considering the things that have been done under our noses, animals more significant of the state and social policy might have been promoted to our places. Instead of the majestic lion and the graceful unicorn, might they not have had the—the—

LION.—The vulture and the magpie.

UNICORN.—Excellent! The vulture would have capitally typified many of the wars of the state, their sole purpose being so many carcases—whilst, for the courts of law, the magpie would have been the very bird of legal justice and legal wisdom.

LION.—Yes, but then the very rascality of their faces would at once have declared their purpose. The vulture is a filthy, unclean wretch—the bird of Mars—preying upon the eyes, the hearts, the entrails of the victims of that scoundrel-mountebank, Glory; whilst the magpie is a petty-larceny vagabond, existing upon social theft. To use a vulgar phrase—and considering the magistrates we are compelled to keep company with, ’tis wonderful that we talk so purely as we do—’twould have let the cat too much out of the bag to have put the birds where we stand. Whereas, there is a fine hypocrisy about us. Consider—am not I the type of heroism, of magnanimity? Well, compelling me, the heroic, the magnanimous, now to stand here upon my hind-legs, and now to crouch quietly down, like a pet kitten over-fed with new milk,—any state roguery is passed off as the greatest piece of single-minded honesty upon the mere strength of my character—if I may so say it, upon my legendary reputation. Now, as for you, though you are a lie, you are nevertheless not a bad-looking lie. You have a nice head, clean legs, and—though I think it a little impertinent that you should wear that tuft at the end of your tail—are altogether a very decent mixture of the quadrupeds. Besides, lie or not, you have helped to support the national arms so long, that depend upon it there are tens of thousands who believe you to be a true thing.

UNICORN.—I have often flattered myself with that consolation.

LION.—A poor comfort: for if you are a true beast, and really have the attributes you are painted with, the greater the insult that you should be placed here. If, on the contrary, you are a lie, still greater the insult to leonine majesty, in forcing me for so many, many years to keep such bad company.

UNICORN.—But I have a great belief in my reality: besides, if the head, body, legs, tail, I bear, never really met in one animal, they all exist in several: hence, if I am not true altogether, I am true in parts; and what would you have of a thick-and-thin supporter of the crown?

LION.—Blush, brother, blush; such sophistry is only worthy of the Common Pleas, where I know you picked it up. To be sure, if both of us were the most abandoned of beasts, we surely should have some excuse for our wickedness in the profligate company we are obliged to keep.

UNICORN.—Well, well, don’t weep. Take the pot.

LION.—Have we not been, ay, for hundreds of years, in both Houses of Parliament?

UNICORN.—It can’t be denied.

LION—And there, what have we not seen—what have we not heard! What brazen, unblushing faces! What cringing, and bowing, and fawning! What scoundrel smiles, what ruffian frowns! what polished lying! What hypocrisy of patriotism! What philippics, levelled in the very name of liberty, against her sacred self! What orations on the benefit of starvation—on the comeliness of rags! Have we not heard selfishness speaking with a syren voice? Have we not seen the haggard face of state-craft rouged up into a look of pleasantness and innocence? Have we not, night after night, seen the national Jonathan Wilds meet to plan a robbery, and—the purse taken—have they not rolled in their carriages home, with their fingers smelling of the people’s pockets?

UNICORN.—It’s true—true as an Act of Parliament.

LION.—Then are we not obliged to be in the Courts of Law? In Chancery—to see the golden wheat of the honest man locked in the granaries of equity—granaries where deepest rats do most abound—whilst the slow fire of famine shall eat the vitals of the despoiled; and it may be the man of rightful thousands shall be carried to churchyard clay in parish deals? Then in the Bench, in the Pleas—there we are too. And there, see we not justice weighing cobwebs against truth, making too often truth herself kick the beam?

UNICORN.—It has made me mad to see it.

[pg 51]

LION.—Turn we to the Police-offices—there we are again. And there—good God!—to see the arrogance of ignorance! To listen to the vapid joke of his worship on the crime of beggary! To see the punishment of the poor—to mark the sweet impunity of the rich! And then are we not in the Old Bailey—in all the criminal courts! Have we not seen trials after dinner—have we not heard sentences in which the bottle spoke more than the judge?

UNICORN.—Come, come, no libel on the ermine.

LION.—The ermine! In such cases, the fox—the pole-cat. Have we not seen how the state makes felons, and then punishes them for evil-doing?

UNICORN.—We certainly have seen a good deal that way.

LION.—And then the motto we are obliged to look grave over!

UNICORN.—What Dieu et mon droit! Yes, that does sometimes come awkwardly in—“God and my right!” Seeing what is sometimes done under our noses, now and then, I can hardly hold my countenance.

LION.—“God and my right!” What atrocity has that legend sanctified! and yet with demure faces they try men for blasphemy. Give me the pot.

UNICORN.—Come, be cool—be philosophic. I tell you we shall have as much need as ever of our stoicism?

LION.—What’s the matter now?

UNICORN.—The matter! Why, the Tories are to be in, and Peel’s to be minister.

LION.—Then he may send for Mr. Cross for the oran-outan to take my place, for never again do I support him. Peel minister, and Goulburn, I suppose—

UNICORN.—Goulburn! Goulburn in the cabinet! If it be so, I shall certainly vacate my place in favour of a jackass.



The first examination for the degree of bachelor of medicine has taken place at the London University, and has raised itself to the level of Oxford and Cambridge.

Without doubt, it will soon acquire all the other attributes of the colleges. Town and gown rows will cause perpetual confusion to the steady-going inhabitants of Euston-square: steeple-chases will be run, for the express delight of the members, on the waste grounds in the vicinity of the tall chimneys on the Birmingham railroad; and in all probability, the whole of Gower-street, from Bedford-square to the New-road, will, at a period not far distant, be turfed and formed into a T.Y.C.; the property securing its title-deeds under the arms of the university for the benefit of its legs—the bar opposite the hospital presenting a fine leap to finish the contest over, with the uncommon advantage of immediate medical assistance at hand.

The public press of the last week has duly blazoned forth the names of the successful candidates, and great must have been the rejoicings of their friends in the country at the event. But we have to quarrel with these journals for not more explicitly defining the questions proposed for the examinations—the answers to which were to be considered the tests of proficiency. By means of the ubiquity which Punch is allowed to possess, we were stationed in the examination room, at the same time that our double was delighting a crowded and highly respectable audience upon Tower-hill; and we have the unbounded gratification of offering an exact copy of the questions to our readers, that they may see with delight how high a position medical knowledge has attained in our country:—



  1. State the principal variations found in the kidneys procured at Evans’s and the Coal Hole; and likewise name the proportion of animal fibre in the rump-steaks of the above resorts. Mention, likewise, the change produced in the albumen, or white of an egg, by poaching it upon toast.

  2. Describe the comparative circulation of blood in the body, and of the Lancet, Medical Gazette, and Bell’s Life in London, in the hospitals; and mention if Sir Charles Bell, the author of the “Bridgewater Treatise on the Hand,” is the editor of the last-named paper.


  1. You are called to a fellow-student taken suddenly ill. You find him lying on his back in the fender; his eyes open, his pulse full, and his breathing stertorous. His mind appears hysterically wandering, prompting various windmill-like motions of his arms, and an accompanying lyrical intimation that he, and certain imaginary friends, have no intention of going home until the appearance of day-break. State the probable disease; and also what pathological change would be likely to be effected by putting his head under the cock of the cistern.

  2. Was the Mount Hecla at the Surrey Zoological Gardens classed by Bateman in his work upon skin diseases—if so, what kind of eruption did it come under? Where was the greatest irritation produced—in the scaffold-work of the erection, or the bosom of the gentleman who lived next to the gardens, and had a private exhibition of rockets every night, as they fell through his skylight, and burst upon the stairs?

  3. Which is the most powerful narcotic—opium, henbane, or a lecture upon practice of physic; and will a moderate dose of antimonial wine sweat a man as much as an examination at Apothecaries’ Hall?


  1. Does any chemical combination take place between the porter and ale in a pot of half-and-half upon mixture? Is there a galvanic current set up between the pewter and the beer capable of destroying the equilibrium of living bodies.

  2. Explain the philosophical meaning of the sentence—“He cut away from the crushers as quick as a flash of lightning through a gooseberry-bush.”

  3. There are two kinds of electricity, positive and negative; and these have a pugnacious tendency. A, a student, goes up to the College positive he shall pass; B, an examiner, thinks his abilities negative, and flummuxes him accordingly. A afterwards meets B alone, in a retired spot, where there is no policeman, and, to use his own expression, “takes out the change” upon B. In this case, which receives the greatest shock—A’s “grinder,” at hearing his pupil was plucked, or B for doing it?

  4. The more crowded an assembly is, the greater quantity of carbonic acid is evolved by its component members. State, upon actual experience, the per centage of this gas in the atmosphere of the following places:—The Concerts d’Eté, the Swan in Hungerford Market, the pit of the Adelphi, Hunt’s Billiard Rooms, and the Colosseum during the period of its balls.

A silhouette of a group of people riding in an open carriage.


  1. Mention the most liberal pawnbrokers in the neighbourhood of Guy’s and Bartholomew’s; and state under what head of diseases you class the spring outbreak of dissecting cases and tooth-drawing instruments in their windows.

  2. Mention the cheapest tailors in the metropolis, and especially name those who charge you three pounds for dress coats (“best Saxony, any other colour than blue or black”), and write down five in the bills to send to your governor. Describe the anatomical difference between a peacoat, a spencer, and a Taglioni, and also state who gave the best “prish” for old ones.


Public attention being at this particular season anxiously directed to the prospects of the approaching harvest, we are enabled to lay before our readers some authentic information on the subject. Notwithstanding the fears which the late unfavourable weather induced, we have ascertained that reaping is proceeding vigorously at all the barbers’ establishments in the kingdom. Several extensive chins were cut on Saturday last, and the returns proved most abundant.

Sugar-barley is a comparative failure; but that description of oats, called wild oats, promises well in the neighbourhood of Oxford. Turn-ups have had a favourable season at the écarté tables of several dowagers in the West-end district. Beans are looking poorly—particularly the have-beens—whom we meet with seedy frocks and napless hats, gliding about late in the evenings. Clover, we are informed by some luxurious old codgers, who are living in the midst of it, was never in better condition. The best description of hops, it is thought, will fetch high prices in the Haymarket. The vegetation of wheat has been considerably retarded by the cold weather. Sportsmen, however, began to shoot vigorously on the 12th of this month.

All things considered, though we cannot anticipate a rich harvest, we think that the speculators have exaggerated the

Two farmers looking very surprised--eyes wide and hair standing on end.


[pg 52]




Before entering on this series of papers, I have only one request to make of the reader, which is this: that, however absurd or incredible my statements may appear, he will take them all for Grant-ed.

It will hardly be necessary to apologise for making the hero of Waterloo the subject of this article; for, having had always free access to the parlour of the Duke of Wellington, I flatter myself that I am peculiarly fitted for the task I have undertaken.

My acquaintance with the duke commenced in a very singular manner. During the discussions on the Reform Bill, his grace was often the object of popular pelting; and I was, on one occasion, among a crowd of free-born Englishmen who, disliking his political opinions, were exercising the constitutional privilege of hooting him. Fired by the true spirit of British patriotism, and roused to a pitch of enthusiasm by observing that the crowd were all of one opinion, decidedly against the duke, worked up, too, with momentary boldness by perceiving that there was not a policeman in sight, I seized a cabbage-leaf, with which I caught his nose, when, turning round suddenly to look whence the blow proceeded, I caught his eye. It was a single glance; but there was something in it which said more than, perhaps, if I had attempted to lead him into conversation, he would at that moment have been inclined to say to me. The recognition was brief, lasting scarcely an instant; for a policeman coming round the corner, the great constitutional party with whom I had been acting retired in haste, rather than bring on a collision with a force which was at that time particularly obnoxious to all the true friends of excessive liberty.

It will, perhaps, surprise my readers, when I inform them that this is the only personal interview I ever enjoyed with the illustrious duke; but accustomed as I am to take in character at a glance, and to form my conclusions at a wink, I gained, perhaps, as much, or more, information with regard to the illustrious hero, as I have been enabled to do with regard to many of those members of the House of Lords whom, in the course of my “Random Recollections,” it is my intention to treat of.

I never, positively, dined with the Duke of Wellington; but on one occasion I was very near doing so. Whether the duke himself is aware of the circumstances that prevented our meeting at the same table I never knew, and have no wish to inquire; but when his grace peruses these pages, he will perceive that our political views are not so opposite as the dastardly enemies of both would have made the world suppose them to have been. The story of the dinner is simply this:—there was to be a meeting for the purpose of some charity at the Freemasons’-hall, and the Duke of Wellington was to take the chair. I was offered a ticket by a friend connected with the press. My friend broke his word. I did not attend the dinner. But those virulent liars much malign me who say I stopped away because the duke was in the chair; and much more do they libel me who would hint that my absence was caused by a difference with the duke on the subject of politics. Whether Wellington observed that I did not attend I never knew, nor shall I stop to inquire; but when I say that his grace spoke several times, and never once mentioned my name, it will be seen that whatever may have been his thoughts on the occasion, he had the delicacy and good taste to make no allusion whatever to the subject, which, but for its intrinsic importance, I should not so long have dwelt upon,

Looking over some papers the other day in my drawer, with the intention of selecting any correspondence that might have passed between myself and the duke, I found that his grace had never written to me more than once; but the single communication I had received from him was so truly characteristic of the man, that I cannot refrain from giving the whole of it. Having heard it reported that the duke answered with his own hand every letter that he received, I, who generally prefer judging in all things for myself, determined to put his grace’s epistolary punctuality to the test of experience. With this view I took up my pen, and dashed off a few lines, in which I made no allusion, either to my first interview, or the affair of the dinner; but simply putting forward a few general observations on the state of the country, signed with my own name, and dated from Whetstone-park, which was, at that time, my residence. The following was the reply I received from the duke, which I print verbatim, as an index—short, but comprehensive, as an index ought to be—to the noble duke’s character.


“The Duke of Wellington begs to return the enclosed letter, as he neither knows the person who wrote it, nor the reason of sending it.”

This, as I said before, is perhaps one of the most graphic traits on record of the peculiar disposition of the hero of Waterloo. It bespeaks at once the soldier and the politician. He answers the letter with military precision, but with political astuteness—he pretends to be ignorant of the object I had in sending it. His ready reply was the first impulse of the man; his crafty and guarded mode of expression was the cautious act of the minister. Had I been disposed to have written a second time to my illustrious correspondent, I now had a fine opportunity of doing so; but I preferred letting the matter drop, and from that day to this, all communication between myself and the duke has ceased. I shall not be the first to take any step for the purpose of resuming it. The duke must, by this time, know me too well to suppose that I have any desire to keep up a correspondence which could lead to no practical result, and might only tear open afresh wounds that the healing hand of time has long ago restored to their former salubrity.

It may be expected I should say a few words of the duke’s person. He generally wears a frock coat, and rides frequently on horseback. His nose is slightly curved; but there is nothing peculiar in his hat or boots, the latter of which are, of course, Wellington’s. His habits are still those of a soldier, for he gets up and goes to bed again much as he was accustomed to do in the days of the Peninsula. His speeches in Parliament I have never heard; but I have read some of them in the newspapers. He is now getting old; but I cannot tell his exact age: and he has a son who, if he should survive his father, will undoubtedly attain to the title of Duke of Wellington.


Royal Dispensary for Diseases of the Ear.

Our esteemed friend and staunch supporter Colonel Sibthorp has lately, in the most heroic manner, submitted to an unprecedented and wonderfully successful operation. Our gallant friend was suffering from a severe elongation of the auricular organs; amputation was proposed, and submitted to with most heroic patience. We are happy to state the only inconvenience resulting from the operation is the establishment of a new hat block, and a slight difficulty of recognition on the part of some of his oldest friends.


One of the morning papers gave its readers last week a piece of extraordinary assize intelligence, headed—“Cutting a wife’s throat—before Mr. Serjeant Taddy” We advise the learned Serjeant to look to this: ’tis a too serious joke to be set down as an accessary to the cutting of a wife’s throat.


“For Ireland’s weal!” hear turncoat S—y rave,

Who’d trust the wheel that own’d so sad a knave?


In the parish of Llanelly, Breconshire, the males exceed the females by more than one thousand. At Worcester, says the Examiner, the same majority is in favour of the ladies. We should propose a conference and a general swap of the sexes next market-day, as we understand there is not a window in Worcester without a notice of “Lodgings to let for single men,” whilst at Llanelly the gentlemen declare sweethearts can’t be had for “love nor money.”


“There’ll soon be rare work (cry the journals in fear),

When Peel is call’d in in his regular way;”

True—for when we’ve to pay all the Tories, ’tis clear,

It is much the same thing as the devil to pay.


“Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen, feeding is going to commence Wellington and Peel are now giving their opening dinners to their friends and admirers. All who want places must come early. Walk up! walk up!—This is the real constitutional tavern. Here we are! gratis feeding for the greedy! Make way there for those hungry-looking gentlemen—walk up, sir—leave your vote at the bar, and take a ticket for your hat.”


The Tories vow the Whigs are black as night,

And boast that they are only blessed with light.

Peel’s politics to both sides so incline,

His may be called the equinoctial line.


Baron Campbell, who has sat altogether about 20 hours in the Irish Court of Chancery, will receive 4,000l. a-year, on the death of either Lord Manners or Lord Plunkett, (both octogenarians;) which, says the Dublin Monitor, “taking the average of human life, he will enjoy thirty years;” and adds, “20 hours contain 1,200 minutes; and 4,000l. a-year for thirty years gives 120,000l. So that he will receive for the term of his natural life just one hundred pounds for every minute that he sat as Lord Chancellor.” Pleasant incubation this! Sitting 20 hours, and hatching a fortune. If there be any truth in metempsychosis, Jocky Campbell must be the goose that laid golden eggs.


SHEIL’S oratory’s like bottled Dublin stout;

For, draw the cork, and only froth comes out.


We can state on the most positive authority that the recent fire at the Army and Navy Club did not originate from a spark of Colonel Sibthorp’s wit falling amongst some loose jokes which Captain Marryatt had been scribbling on the backs of some unedited purser’s bills.


The Whigs resemble nails—How so, my master?

Because, like nails, when beat they hold the faster.


“Do you admire Campbell’s ‘Pleasures of Hope’?” said Croker to Hook. “Which do you mean, the Scotch poet’s or the Irish Chancellor’s? the real or the ideal—Tommy’s four thousand lines or Jocky’s four thousand pounds a-year?” inquired Theodore. Croker has been in a brown study ever since.

[pg 53]


MR. PUNCH,—Myself and a few other old Etonians have read with inexpressible scorn, disgust, and indignation, the heartless and malignant attempts, in your scoundrel journal, to blast the full-blown fame of that most transcendant actor, and most unexceptionable son, Mr. Charles Kean. Now, PUNCH, fair play is beyond any of the crown jewels. I will advance only one proof, amongst a thousand others that cart-horses sha’n’t draw from me, to show that Charles Kean makes more—mind, I say, makes more—of Shakspere, than every other actor living or dead. Last night I went to the Haymarket—Lady Georgiana L—— and other fine girls were of the party. The play was “Romeo and Juliet,” and there are in that tragedy two slap-up lines; they are, to the best of my recollection, as follow:—

Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand,

That I might touch that cheek.”

Now, ninety-nine actors out of a hundred make nothing of this—not so Charles Kean. Here’s my proof. Feeling devilish hungry, I thought I’d step out for a snack, and left the box, just as Charles Kean, my old schoolfellow, was beginning—


Well, I crossed the way, stepped into Dubourg’s, swallowed two dozen oysters, took a bottom of brandy, and booked a small bet with Jack Spavin for the St. Leger, returned to the theatre, and was comfortably seated in my box, as Charles Kean, my old school-fellow, had arrived at


Now, PUNCH, if this isn’t making much of Shakspere, what is?

Yours (you scoundrel),


The following ode is somewhat freely translated from the original of a Chinese emigrant named CA-TA-NA-CH, or the “illustrious minstrel.”

We have given a short specimen of the original, merely substituting the Roman for the Chinese characters.








&c. &c.


As the Teian poet’s lyre

Young Lyæus did inspire;

When the bard awoke his lays,

Love and wine alike to praise.

So, illustrious Pidding, thou

Inspire thy tea-urn votary now,

Whilst the tea-pot circles round—

Whilst the toast is being brown’d—

Let me, ere I quaff my tea,

Sing a paean unto thee,

IO PIDDING! who foretold,

Chinamen would keep their gold;

Who foresaw our ships would be

Homeward bound, yet wanting tea;

Who, to cheer the mourning land,

Said, “I’ve Howqua still on hand!”

Who, my Pidding, who but thee?

Io Pidding! Evoe!



Dramatis Personæ.

SCENE. Tamworth.

The Doctor and his Man are discovered in a large waggon, surrounded by a crowd of people.

RHUBARB PILL.—Balaam, blow the trumpet.

BALAAM (blows).—Too-too-tooit! Silence for the doctor!

RHUBARB PILL.—Now, friends and neighbours, now’s your time for getting rid of all your complaints, whether of the pocket or the person, for I, Rhubarb Pill, professor of sophistry and doctorer of laws, have now come amongst you with my old and infallible remedies and restoratives, which, although they have not already worked wonders, I promise shall do so, and render the constitution sound and vigorous, however it may have been injured by poor-law-bill-ious pills, cheap bread, and black sugar, prescribed by wooden-headed quacks. (Aside.) Balaam, blow the trumpet.

BALAAM (blows).—Too-too-tooit! Hurrah for the doctor!

RHUBARB PILL.—These infallible remedies have been in my possession since the years 1835 and 1837, but owing to the opposition of the Cabinet of Physicians, I have not been able to use them for the benefit of the public—and myself. (Bows.) These invaluable remedies—

COUNTRYMAN.—What be they?

RHUBARB PILL.—That’s not a fair question—wait till I’m regularly called in11. Sir Robert Peel at Tamworth.. It’s not that I care about the fee—mine is a liberal profession, and though I have a large family, and as many relations as most people, I really think I should refuse a guinea if it was offered to me.

COUNTRYMAN.—Then why doant’ee tell us?

RHUBARB PILL.—It’s not professional. Besides, it’s quite requisite that I should “feel the patient’s pulse,” or I might make the dose too powerful, and so—

COUNTRYMAN.—Get the sack, Mr. Doctor.

RHUBARB PILL (aside).—Blow the trumpet, Balaam.


RHUBARB PILL.—And so do more harm than good. Besides, I should require to have the “necessary consultations” over the dinner-table. Diet does a great deal—not that I care about the “loaves and fishes”—but patients are always more tractable after a good dinner. Now there’s an old lady in these parts—

COUNTRYMAN.—What, my old missus?

RHUBARB PILL.—The same. She’s in a desperate way.

COUNTRYMAN.—Ees. Dr. Russell says it’s all owing to your nasty nosdrums.

RHUBARB PILL.—Doctor Russell’s a—never mind. I say she is very bad, and I AM the only man that can cure her.

COUNTRYMAN—Then out wi’it, doctor—what will?

RHUBARB PILL.—Wait till I’m regularly called in.

COUNTRYMAN.—But suppose she dies in the meantime?

RHUBARB PILL.—That’s her fault. I won’t do anything by proxy. I must direct my own administration, appoint my own nurses for the bed-chamber, have my own herbalists and assistants, and see Doctor Russell’s “purge” thrown out of the window. In short, I must be regularly called in. Balaam, blow the trumpet.

[Balaam blows the trumpet, the crowd shout, and the Doctor bows gracefully, with one hand on his heart and the other in his breeches pocket. At the end of the applause he commences singing].

I am called Doctor Pill, the political quack,

And a quack of considerable standing and note;

I’ve clapp’d many a blister on many a back,

And cramm’d many a bolus down many a throat,

I have always stuck close, like the rest of my tribe,

And physick’d my patient as long as he’d pay;

And I say, when I’m ask’d to advise or prescribe,

You must wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.”

Old England has grown rather sickly of late,

For Russell’s reduced her almost to a shade;

And I’ve honestly told him, for nights in debate,

He’s a quack that should never have follow’d the trade.

And, Lord! how he fumes, and exultingly cries,

“Were you in my place, Pill, pray what would you say?”

But I only reply, “If I am to advise,

I shall wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.”

It’s rather “too bad,” if an ignorant elf,

Who has caught a rich patient ’twere madness to kill,

Should have all the credit, and pocket the pelf,

Whilst you are requested to furnish the skill.

No! no! amor patriæ’s a phrase I admire,

But I own to an amor that stands in its way;

And if England should e’er my assistance require,

She must

A man thumbs his nose at another man who is pointing towards a building on fire.



Peter Borthwich has expressed his determination—not to accept of the speakership of the House of Commons.

C.M. Westmacott has announced his intention of not joining the new administration; in consequence of which serious defection, he asserts that Sir Robert Peel will be unable to form a cabinet.

“You have heard,” said his Grace of Buckingham, to Lord Abinger, a few evenings ago, “how scandalously Peel and his crew have treated me—they have actually thrown me overboard. A man of my weight, too!” “That was the very objection, my Lord,” replied the rubicund functionary. “Their rotten craft could not carry a statesman of your ponderous abilities. Your dead weight would have brought them to the bottom in five minutes.”

[pg 54]


Alas! that poor old Whiggery should have been so silly as to go a-wooing. Infirm and tottering as he is, it was the height of insanity. Down he dropped on his bended knees before the object of his love; out he poured his touching addresses, lisped in the blandest, most persuasive tones; and what was his answer? Scoffs, laughs, kicks, rejection! Even Johnny Russell’s muse availed not, though it deserved a better fate. It gained him a wife, but could not win the electors. Our readers will discover the genius of the witty author of “Don Carlos” in the address, which, though rejected, we in pity immortalise in PUNCH.

Loved friends—kind electors, once more we are here

To beg your sweet voices—to tell you our deeds.

Though our Budget is empty, we’ve got—never fear—

A long full privy purse, to stand bribing and feeds.

For, oh! we are out-and-out Whigs—thorough Whigs!

Then, shout till your throttles, good people, ye crack;

Hurrah! for the troop of sublime “Thimble-rigs!”

Hurrah! for the jolly old Downing-street pack.

What we’ve done, and will do for you, haply you’ll ask:

All, all, gentle folks, you shall presently see.

Off your sugar we’ll take just one penny a cask!

Only adding a shilling a pound on your tea.

That’s the style for your Whigs—your reforming old Whigs!

Then, shout, &c.

Off your broad—think of this!—we will take—(if we can)—

A whole farthing a loaf; then, when wages decline,

By one-half—as they must—and you’re starving, each man

In our New Poor Law Bastiles may go lodge, and go dine.

That’s the plan of your Whigs—your kind-hearted, true Whigs!

Then, shout, &c.

Off the fine Memel timber, we’d take—if we could—

All tax, ’cause ’tis used in the palace and hall;

On the cottager’s, tradesman’s coarse Canada wood,

We will clap such a tax as shall pay us for all.

That’s the “dodge” for your Whigs—your poor-loving, true Whigs!

Then, shout, &c.

To free our dear brothers, the niggers, you know

Twenty millions and more we have fix’d on your backs.

’Twas gammon—’twas humbug—’twas swindle! for, lo!

We undo all we’ve done—we go trade in the blacks.

Your humanity Whigs!—anti-slavery Whigs!

Then, shout, &c.

When to Office we came, full two millions in store

We found safe and snug. Now, that surplus instead,

Besides having spent it, and six millions more,

Lo! we’re short, on the year, only two millions dead.

That’s the “go” for your Whigs—your retrenching old Whigs

Then, shout, &c.

In a word, round the throne we’ve stuck sisters and wives,

Our brothers and cousins fill bench, church, and steeple;

Assist us to stick in, at least for our lives,

And nicely “we’ll sarve out” Queen, Lords, ay, and People.

That’s the fun for your Whigs—your bed-chamber old Whigs!

Shout, shout, &c.

What was the reply to this pathetic, this generous appeal? Name it not at Woburn-abbey—whisper it not at Panshanger—breathe it not in the epicurean retreat of Brocket-hall! Tears, big tears, roll down our sympathetic checks as we write it. It was simply—“Cock-a-doodle-do!”


Lord John Russell, on his arrival with his bride at Selkirk the other day, was invested with the burghship of that ancient town. In this ceremony, “licking the birse,” that is, dipping a bunch of shoemaker’s bristles in a glass of wine and drawing them across the mouth, was performed with all due solemnity by his lordship. The circumstance has given rise to the following jeu d’esprit, which the author, Young Ben D’Israeli, has kindly dropped into PUNCH’S mouth:—

Lord Johnny, that comical dog,

At trifles in politics whistles;

In London he went the whole hog,

At Selkirk he’s going the bristles.

“Why are Sir Robert Peel and Sir James Graham like two persons with only one intellect?”—“Because there is an understanding between them.”

“Why is Sir Robert Peel like a confounded and detected malefactor?”—“Because he has nothing at all to say for himself.”


The Salisbury Herald says, that Sir John Pollen stated, in reference to his defeat at the Andover election, “that from the bribery and corruption resorted to for that purpose, they (the electors) would have returned a jackass to parliament.” Indeed! How is it that he tried and failed?

LORD HOWICK, it is said, has gone abroad for the benefit of his health; he feels that he has not been properly treated at home.


As much anxiety necessarily exists for the future well-being of our beloved infant Princess, we have determined to take upon ourselves the onerous duties of her education. In accordance with the taste of her Royal mother for that soft language which

“—sounds as if it should be writ on satin,”

we have commenced by translating the old nursery song of “Ride a cock-horse” into most choice Italian, and have had it set to music by Rossini; who, we are happy to state, has performed his task entirely to the satisfaction of Mrs. Ratsey, the nurse of her Royal Highness; a lady equally anxious with ourselves to instil into the infant mind an utter contempt for everything English, except those effigies of her illustrious mother which emanate from the Mint. The original of this exquisite and simple ballad is too well known to need a transcript; the Italian version, we doubt not, will become equally popular with aristocratic mamas and fashionable nurses.






Several lines of music, with many trills and fancy notes. The text reads:Su gàl - lo ca - vàl - - - lo A / Ban - bu - ri crò - ce, An - dia - mo a / mi-rar La - - vec chia - a trot - tar. / Ai dìta ha gli anelli Ai piè i campanelli, E musica avra Do- / vùnque sen va - - - - - - - -


We have seen, with deep regret, a paragraph going the round of the papers headed, “THE LADY THIEF AT LINCOLN,” as if a lady could commit larceny! “Her disorder,” says the newspapers, “is ascribed to a morbid or irrrepressible propensity, or monomania;” in proof of which we beg to subjoin the following prescriptions of her family physician, which have been politely forwarded to us.


R.— Spoons—silv. vi
Rings—pearls ii
Ditto—diamond j
Brooches—emer. et turq. ii
Combs—tortois. et dia. ii
Fiat sumendum bis hodie cum magno reticulo aut muffo,



R.— Balls—worsted xxiv
veils { Chantilly } j
Mec. et Bruss.
Hose—Chi. rib. et cot. tops cum toe vj prs.
Ribbons—sat. gau. et sarse. (pieces) iv
Fiat sumendum cum cloko capace pocteque maneque.


[pg 55]


A gentleman taking snuff from a box marked 'Treasury', surrounded by pamphlets and books, one of which says 'Natural History of the Sponge by Lord Melb'


[pg 56]
[pg 57]


Mr. Combe, the great phrenologist, or, as some call him, Mr. Comb—perhaps on account of his being so busy about the head—has given it as his opinion, that in less than a hundred years public affairs will be (in America at least) carried on by the rules of phrenology. By postponing the proof of his assertion for a century, he seems determined that no one shall ever give him the lie while living, and when dead it will, of course, be of no consequence. We are inclined to think there may be some truth in the anticipation, and we therefore throw out a few hints as to how the science ought to be applied, if posterity should ever agree on making practical use of it. Ministers of state must undoubtedly be chosen according to their bumps, and of course, therefore, no chancellor or any other legal functionary will be selected who has the smallest symptom of the bump of benevolence. The judges must possess causality in a very high degree; and time, which gives rise to the perception of duration (which they could apply to Chancery suits), would be a great qualification for a Master of the Rolls or a Vice-chancellor. The framers of royal speeches should be picked out from the number of those who have the largest bumps of secretiveness; and those possessing inhabitiveness, producing the desire of permanence in place, should be shunned as much as possible. No bishop should be appointed whose bump of veneration would not require him to wear a hat constructed like that of PUNCH, to allow his organ full play; and the development of number, if large, might ensure a Chancellor of the Exchequer whose calculations could at least be relied upon.

Our great objection to the plan is this—that it might be abused by parties bumping their own heads, and raising tumours for the sake of obtaining credit for different qualities. Thus a terrific crack at the back of the ear might produce so great an elevation of the organ of combativeness as might obtain for the greatest coward a reputation for the greatest courage; and a thundering rap on the centre of the head might raise on the skull of the veriest brute a bump of, and name for, benevolence.



Well, come my dear, I will confess—

(Though really you too hard are)

So dry these tears and smooth each tress—

Let Betty search the larder;

Then o’er a chop and genial glass,

Though I so late have tarried,

I will recount what came to pass

I’ the days before I married.

Then, every place where fashion hies,

Wealth, health, and youth to squander,

I sought—shot folly as it flies,

’Till I could shoot no longer.

Still at the opera, playhouse, clubs,

’Till midnight’s hour I tarried;

Mixed in each scene that fashion dubs

“The Cheese”—before I married.

Soon grown familiar with the town,

Through Pleasure’s haze I hurried;

(Don’t feel alarmed—suppress that frown—

Another glass—you’re flurried)

Subscribed to Crockford’s, betted high—

Such specs too oft miscarried;

My purse was full (nay, check that sigh)—

It was before I married.

At Ascot I was quite the thing,

Where all admired my tandem;

I sparkled in the stand and ring,

Talked, betted (though at random);

At Epsom, and at Goodwood too,

I flying colours carried.

Flatterers and followers not a few

Were mine—before I married.

My cash I lent to every one,

And gay crowds thronged around me;

My credit, when my cash was gone,

’Till bills and bailiffs bound me.

With honeyed promises so sweet,

Each friend his object carried,

Till I was marshalled to the Fleet;

But—’twas before I married.

Then sober thoughts of wedlock came,

Suggested by the papers;

The Sunday Times soon raised a flame,

The Post cured all my vapours;

And spite of what Romance may say

’Gainst courtship so on carried,

Thanks to the fates and fair “Z.A.”

I now am blest and—married.


Jockey Campbell, who has secured 4,000l. a-year by crossing the water and occupying for 20 hours the Irish Woolsack, strongly reminds us of Jason’s Argonautic expedition, after the golden fleece.


The immense importance of the signals now used in the royal navy, by facilitating the communication between ships at sea; has suggested to an ingenious member of the Scientific Association, the introduction of a telegraphic code of signals to be employed in society generally, where the viva voce mode of communication might be either inconvenient or embarrassing. The inventor has specially devoted his attention to the topics peculiarly interesting to both sexes, and proposes by his system to remove all those impediments to a free and unreserved interchange of sentiment between a lady and gentleman, which feminine timidity on the one side—natural gaucherie on the other—dread of committing one’s self, or fear of transgressing the rules of good breeding, now throw in the way of many well-disposed young persons. He explains his system, by supposing that an unmarried lady and gentleman meet for the first time at a public ball: he is enchanted with the sylph-like grace of the lady in a waltz—she, fascinated with the superb black moustaches of the gentleman. Mutual interest is created in their bosoms, and the gentleman signalizes:—

“Do you perceive how much I am struck by your beauty?”—by twisting the tip of his right moustache with the finger and thumb of the corresponding hand. If the gentleman be unprovided with these foreign appendages, the right ear must be substituted.

The lady replies by an affirmative signal, or the contrary:—e.g. “Yes,” the lady arranges her bouquet with the left hand. “No,” a similar operation with the right hand. Assuming the answer to have been favourable, the gentleman, by slowly throwing back his head, and gently drawing up his stock with the left hand, signals—

“How do you like this style of person?”

The lady must instantly lower her eyelids, and appear to count the sticks of her fan, which will express—“Immensely.”

The gentleman then thrusts the thumb of his left-hand into the arm-hole of his waistcoat, taps three times carelessly with his fingers upon his chest. By this signal he means to say—

“How is your little heart?”

The lady plucks a leaf out of her bouquet, and flings it playfully over her left shoulder, meaning thereby to intimate that her vital organ is “as free as that.”

The gentleman, encouraged by the last signal, clasps his hands, and by placing both his thumbs together, protests that “Heaven has formed them for each other.”

Whereupon the lady must, unhesitatingly, touch the fourth finger of her left hand with the index finger of the right; by which emphatic signal she means to say—“No nonsense, though?”

The gentleman instantly repels the idea, by expanding the palms of both hands, and elevating his eyebrows. This is the point at which he should make the most important signal in the code. It is done by inserting the finger and thumb of the right hand into the waistcoat pocket, and expresses, “What metal do you carry?” or, more popularly, “What is the amount of your banker’s account?”

The lady replies by tapping her fan on the back of her left hand; one distinct tap for every thousand pounds she possesses. If the number of taps be satisfactory to the gentleman, he must, by a deep inspiration, inflate his lungs so as to cause a visible heaving of his chest, and then, fixing his eyes upon the chandelier, slap his forehead with an expression of suicidal determination. This is a very difficult signal, which will require some practice to execute properly. It means—

“Pity my sad state! If you refuse to love me, I’ll blow my miserable brains out.” The lady may, by shaking her head incredulously, express a reasonable doubt that the gentleman possesses any brains.

After a few more preliminary signals, the lover comes to the point by dropping his gloves on the floor, thereby beseeching the lady to allow him to offer her his hand and fortune.

To which she, by letting fall her handkerchief, replies—

“Ask papa and mamma.”

This is only an imperfect outline of the code which the inventor asserts may be introduced with wonderful advantage in the streets, the theatres, at churches, and dissenting chapels; and, in short, everywhere that the language of the lips cannot be used.


A day on the water, by way of excursion,

A night at the play-house, by way of diversion,

A morning assemblage of elegant ladies,

A chemical lecture on lemon and kalis,

A magnificent dinner—the venison so tender—

Lots of wine, broken glasses—that’s all I remember.

Plymouth, August 5.


We have much pleasure in announcing to the liverymen and our fellow-citizens, the important fact, that for the future, the lord mayor’s day will be the fifth instead of the ninth of November. The reason for this change is extremely obvious, as that is the principal day of the “Guy season.”

The members of the Carlton Club have been taking lessons in bell-ringing. They can already perform some pleasing changes. Colonel Sibthorpe is quite au fait at a Bob major, and Horace Twiss hopes, by ringing a Peal, to be appointed collector of tolls—at Waterloo Bridge.

We recommend Lord Cardigan to follow the example of the officers of Ghent, who have introduced umbrellas into the army, even on parade. Some men should gladly avail themselves of any opportunity of hiding their heads.

[pg 58]
PUNCH holds a copy of PUNCH



General Description.—The thermometer is an instrument for showing the temperature; for by it we can either see how fast a man’s blood boils when he is in a passion, or, according as the seasons have occurred this year, how cold it is in summer, and how hot in winter. It is mostly cased in tin, all the brass being used up by certain lecturers, who are faced with the latter metal. It has also a glass tube, with a bulb at the end, exactly like a tobacco-pipe, with the bowl closed up; except that, instead of tobacco, they put mercury into it. As the heat increases, the mercury expands, precisely as the smoke would in a pipe, if it were confined to the tube. A register is placed behind the tube, crossed by a series of horizontal lines, the whole resembling a wooden milk-score when the customer is several weeks in arrear.

Derivation of Name.—The thermometer derives its name from two Greek words, signifying “measure of heat;” a designation which has caused much warm discussion, for the instrument is also employed to tell when it freezes, by those persons who are too scientific to find out by the tips of their fingers and the blueness of their noses.

History and Literature of the Thermometer.—The origin of the instrument is involved in a depth of obscurity considerably below zero; Pliny mentions its use by a celebrated brewer of Bœotia; we have succeeded, after several years’ painful research, in tracing the invention of the instrument to Mercury, who, being the god of thieves, very likely stole it from somebody else. Of ancient writers, there are few except Hannibal (who used it on crossing the Alps) and Julius Cæsar, that notice it. Bacon treats of the instrument in his “Novum Organum;” from which Newton cabbaged his ideas in his “Principia,” in the most unprincipled manner. The thermometer remained stationary till the time of Robinson Crusoe, who clearly suggested, if he did not invent the register, now universally adopted, which so nearly resembles his mode of measuring time by means of notched sticks. Fahrenheit next took it in hand, and because his calculations were founded on a mistake, his scale is always adopted in England. Raumur altered the system, and instead of giving the thermometer mercury, administered to it ‘cold without,’ or spirits of wine diluted with water. Celsius followed, and advised a medium fluid, so that his thermometer is known as the centigrade. De Lisle made such important improvements, that they have never been attended to; and Mr. Sex’s differential thermometer has given rise to considerably more than a half-dozen different opinions. All these persons have written learnedly on the subject, blowing respectively hot or cold, as their tastes vary. The most recent work is that by Professor Thompson—a splendid octavo, hot-pressed, and just warm from the printer’s. Though this writer disagrees with Raumur’s temperance principles, and uses the strongest spirit he can get, instead of mercury, we are assured that he is no relation whatever to Messrs. Thompson and Fearon of Holborn-hill.

Concluding Remarks and Description of Punch’s Thermometer.—It must be candidly acknowledged by every unprejudiced mind, that the thermometer question has been most shamefully handled by the scientific world. It is made an exclusive matter; they keep it all to themselves; they talk about Fahrenheit with the utmost coolness; of Raumur in un-understandable jargon, and fire whole volleys of words concerning the centigrade scale, till one’s head spins round with their inexplicable dissertations. What is the use of these interminable technicalities to the world at large? Do they enlighten the rheumatic as to how many coats they may put on, for the Midsummer days of this variable climate? Do their barometers tell us when to take an umbrella, or when to leave it at home? No. Who, we further ask, knows how hot it is when the mercury stands at 120°, or how cold it is when opposite 32° of Fahrenheit? Only the initiated, a class of persons that can generally stand fire like salamanders, or make themselves comfortable in an ice-house.

Deeply impressed with the importance of the subject, PUNCH has invented a new thermometer, which may be understood by the “people” whom he addresses—the unlearned in caloric—the ignorant of the principles of expansion and dilatation. Everybody can tell, without a thermometer, if it be a coat colder or a cotton waistcoat warmer than usual when he is out. But at home! Ah, there’s the rub! There it has been impossible to ascertain how to face the storm, or to turn one’s back upon the sunshine, till to-day. PUNCH’S thermometer decides the question, and here we give a diagram of it. Owing a stern and solemn duty to the public, PUNCH has indignantly spurned the offers of the British Association to join in their mummeries at Plymouth—to appear at their dinners for the debasement of science. No; here in his own pages, and in them only, doth he propound his invention. But he is not exclusive; having published his wonderful invention, he invites the makers to copy his plan. Mr. Murphy is already busily arranging his Almanac for 1842, by means of a PUNCH thermometer, made by Carey and Co.


Iced bath 110
Cold bath 98 Blood heat.
Coat Off 90
Stock loosened 88
Cuffs turned up 85
One waistcoat 80
Morning coat all day 75
One Coat 65 Summer heat.
Spencer 55 Temperate.
Ditto, and “Comfortable” 52
Ditto, and Macintosh 45
Ditto, ditto, and worsted stockings 43
Ditto, ditto, ditto, and double boxcoat and Guernseys 35
Ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, and bear-skin coat 32 Freezing.
Ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto, ditto and between two feather beds all day 0 Zero.


The Parliamentary lucus a non lucendo—the Speaker who never speaks—the gentleman who always holds his own tongue, except when he wants others to hold theirs—the man who fills the chair, which is about three times too big for him—is not, after all, to be changed. But the incoming tenants of office have resolved to take him as a fixture, though not at a fair valuation; for they do nothing but find fault all the time they are agreeing to let him remain on the premises. For our own part, we see no objection to the arrangement; for Mr. Lefevre, we believe, shakes his head as slowly and majestically as his predecessors, and rattles his teeth over the r in oR-der, with as much dignity as Sutton, who was the very perfection of Manners, was accustomed to throw into it. The fatigues of the office are enough to kill a horse, but asses are not easily exterminated. It is thought that Lefevre has not been sufficiently worked, and before giving him a pension, “the receiver must,” as the chemist say, “be quite exhausted.” Tiring him out will not be enough; but he must be tired again, to entitled him to a re-tiring allowance.


DEER SIR,—As I taks in your PUNCH (bein’ in the line meself, mind yes), will you tell me wot is the meeinigs of beein’ “konvelessent.” A chap kalled me that name the other days, and I sined him as I does this.

Yours truly,

A man with a very bad black eye.



There is something very amusing in witnessing the manner in which the little Jacks in office imitate the great ones. Sir Peter Laurie has been doing the ludicrous by imitating his political idol, Sir Robert. “I shan’t prescribe till I am state-doctor,” says the baronet. “I shan’t decide; wait for the Lord Mayor,” echoes the knight.

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Lord John Russell begs respectfully to inform the connubially-disposed portion of the community, that being about to retire from the establishment in Downing-street, of which he has so long been a member, he has resolved (at the suggestion of several single ladies about thirty, and of numerous juvenile gentlemen who have just attained their majority a second time) to open a


where (from his long and successful experience) he trusts to be honoured by the confidence of the single, and the generous acknowledgments of the married.

Lord J.R. intends to transact business upon the most liberal scale, and instead of charging a per centage on the amount of property concerned in each union, he will take every lady and gentleman’s valuation of themselves, and consider one thousandth part thereof as an adequate compensation for his services.

Ladies who have lost the registries of their birth can be supplied with new ones, for any year they please, and the greatest care will be taken to make them accord with the early recollections of the lady’s schoolfellows and cousins of the same age.

Gentlemen who wear wigs, false calves, or artificial teeth, or use hair-dye, &c., will be required to state the same, as no deception can be countenanced by Lord J.R.

Ladies are only required to certify as to the originality of their teeth; and as Lady Russell will attend exclusively to this department, no disclosure will take place until all other preliminaries are satisfactorily arranged.

Young gentlemen with large mustachios and small incomes will find the MATRIMONIAL AGENCY OFFICE well worthy their attention; and young ladies who play the piano, speak French, and measure only eighteen inches round the waist, cannot better consult their own interests than by making an early application.

N.B. None with red hair need apply, unless with a mother’s certificate that it was always considered to be auburn.

Wanted several buxom widows for the commencement. If in weeds, will be preferred.


“Law is the perfection of reason!” said, some sixty years ago, an old powder-wigged priest of Themis, in his “enthusymusy” for the venerable lady; and what one of her learned adorers, from handsome Jock Campbell down to plain Counsellor Dunn, would dare question the maxim? A generous soul, who, like the fabled lady of the Arabian tale, drops gold at every word she utters, varying in value from one guinea to five thousand, according to the quality of the hand that is stretched forth to receive it, cannot possibly be other than reason herself. But to appreciate this dear creature justly, it is absolutely necessary to be in her service. No ordinary lay person can judge her according to her deserts. You must be initiated into her mysteries before you can detect her beauties; but once admitted to her august presence—once enrolled as her sworn slave—your eyes become opened and clear, and you see her as she is, the marvel of the world. Yet, though so difficult of comprehension, no man, nor woman, nor child, must plead ignorance of her excellencies. To be ignorant of any one of them is an impossibility as palpable as that “the Queen can do no wrong,” or any other admirable fiction which the genius of our ancestors has bequeathed us. We all must know the law, or be continually whipped! A hard rule, though an inflexible one. But the schoolmaster is abroad—PUNCH, that teaches all, must teach the law; and, as a preliminary indispensable, he now proceeds to give a few definitions of the principal matters contained in that science, which bear a different meaning from what they would in ordinary language. The admiring neophyte will perceive with delight the vast superiority apparent in all cases of “matters of law,” or “matters of fact.”

To illustrate:—When a lovely girl, all warmth and confidence, steals on tiptoe from her lonely chamber, and, lighted by the moon, when “pa’s” asleep, drops from the balcony into the arms of some soft youth, as warm as she, who has been waiting to whisk her off to Hymen’s altar—that is generally understood as

A young woman kisses her beau from a window so hard it knocks his hat off.


When an ugly “bum,” well up to trap, creeps like a rascal from the sheriff’s-office, and with his capias armed, ere you are half-dressed, gives you the chase, and, as you “leg” away for the bare life, his knuckles dig into the seat of your unmentionables, gripping you like a tiger—that indeed is une autre chose, that is

An official-looking man grabs a running-away man by the pants.


When you remark a round, rosy, jolly fellow, shining from top to toe, “philandering” down Regent-street, with a self-satisfied grin, that seems to say, “Match me that, demme!” and casting looks of pity—mellowed through his eye-glass—on all passers, you may fairly conclude that that happy dog has just slipped into

A dapper, fashionable fellow.


But when you perceive a gaunt, yellow spectre of a man, reduced to his last chemise, and that a sad spectacle of ancient purity, starting from Lincoln’s-Inn, and making all haste for Waterloo-bridge, the inference is rather natural, that he is blessed with

A bedraggled, nearly unclothed, man running.


It being dangerous to take too great a meal at a time, and PUNCH knowing well the difficulty of digesting properly over-large quantities of mental food, he concludes his first lecture on L—A—W. Whether he will continue here his definitions of legal terms, or not, time and his humour shall determine.


Lord Melbourne, imitating the example of the ancient philosophers, is employing the last days of his political existence in composing a learned discourse “On the Shortness of Ministerial Life.” To try the effect of it, his lordship gives a full dress dinner-party, immediately after the meeting of Parliament, to several of his friends. On the removal of the cloth, he will read the essay, and then the Queen’s intended speech, in which she civilly gives his lordship leave to provide himself with another place. Where, in the whole range of history, could we meet with a similar instance of magnanimity? Where, with such a noble picture—of a great soul rising superior to adversity? Seneca in the bath, uttering moral apophthegms with his dying breath—Socrates jesting over his bowl of hemlock juice—were great creatures—immense minds; but Lord Melbourne reading his own dismissal to his friends—after dinner, too!—over his first glass of wine—leaves them at an immeasurable distance. Oh! that we had the power of poor Wilkie! what a picture we could make of such a subject.

[pg 60]



Some of the melancholy duties of this life afford a more subdued, and, therefore, a more satisfactory pleasure than scores with which duty has nothing to do, or those of mere enjoyment. If, for instance, the friend, whose feeds we have helped to eat, whose cellars we have done our part to empty for the last quarter of a century, should happen to fall ill; if the doctors shake their heads, and warn us to make haste to his bedside, there is always a large proportion of honey to be extracted, in obeying the summons, out of the sting of parting, recounting old reminiscences, and gossipping about old times, never, alas! to return. But should we neglect the summons, where would the stings of conscience end?

Impelled by such a sense of duty, we wended our way to the “royal property,” to take a last look at the long-expiring gardens. It was a wet night—the lamps burnt dimly—the military band played in the minor key—the waiters stalked about with so silent, melancholy a tread, that we took their towels for pocket-handkerchiefs; the concert in the open rain went off tamely—dirge-like, in spite of the “Siege of Acre,” which was described in a set of quadrilles, embellished with blue fire and maroons, and adorned with a dozen double drums, thumped at intervals, like death notes, in various parts of the doomed gardens. The divertissement was anything but diverting, when we reflect upon the impending fate of the “Rotunda,” in which it was performed.

No such damp was, however, thrown over the evolutions of “Ducrow’s beautiful horses and equestrian artistes,” including “the new grand entrée, and cavalcade of Amazons.” They had no sympathy with the decline and fall of the Simpsonian empire. They were strangers, interlopers, called in like mutes and feathers, to grace the “funeral show,” to give a more graceful flourish to the final exit. The horses pawed the sawdust, evidently unconscious that the earth it covered would soon “be let on lease for building ground;” the riders seemed in the hey-day of their equestrian triumph. Let them, however, derive from the fate of Vauxhall, a deep, a fearful lesson!—though we shudder as we write, it shall not be said that destruction came upon them unawares—that no warning voice had been raised—that even the squeak of PUNCH was silent! Let them not sneer, and call us superstitious—we do not give credence to supernatural agency as a fixed and general principle; but we did believe in Simpson, and stake our professional reputation upon Widdicomb.

That Vauxhall gardens were under the especial protection of, that they drew the very breath of their attractiveness from, the ceremonial Simpson, who can deny? When he flitted from walk to walk, from box to box, and welcomed everybody to the “royal property,” right royally did things go on! Who would then have dreamt that the illustrious George—he of the Piazza—would ever be “honoured with instructions to sell;” that his eulogistic pen would be employed in giving the puff superlative to the Elysian haunts of quondam fashion—in other words, in painting the lily, gilding refined gold? But, alas! Simpson, the tutelar deity, has departed (“died,” some say, but we don’t believe it), and at the moment he made his last bow, Vauxhall ought to have closed; it was madness—the madness which will call us, peradventure, superstitious—which kept the gates open when Simpson’s career closed—it was an anomaly, for like Love and Heaven, Simpson was Vauxhall, and Vauxhall was Simpson!

Let Ducrow reflect upon these things—we dare not speak out—but a tutelar being watches over, and giveth vitality to his arena—his ring is, he may rely upon it, a fairy one—while that mysterious being dances and prances in it, all will go well; his horses will not stumble, never will his clowns forget a syllable of their antiquated jokes. O! let him then, while seriously reflecting upon Simpson and the fate of Vauxhall, give good heed unto the Methuselah, who hath already passed his second centenary in the circle!

These were our awful reflections while viewing the scenes in the circle, very properly constructed in the Rotunda. They overpowered us—we dared not stay to see the fireworks, “in the midst of which Signora Rossini was to make her terrific ascent and descent on a rope three hundred feet high.” She might have been the sprite of Madame Saqui; in fact, the “Vauxhall Papers” published in the gardens, put forth a legend, which favours such a dreadful supposition! We refer our readers to them—they are only sixpence a-piece.

Of course the gardens were full in spite of the weather; for what must be the callousness of that man who could let the gardens pass under the hammer of George Robins, without bidding them an affecting farewell? Good gracious! We can hardly believe such insensibility does exist. Hasten then, dear readers, as you would fly to catch the expiring sigh of a fine old boon companion—hasten to take your parting slice of ham, your last bowl of arrack, even now while the great auctioneer says “Going.”

For your sake, and yours only, Alfred Bunn (whose disinterestedness has passed into a theatrical proverb), arrests the arm of his friend of the Auction Mart in its descent. Attend to his bidding. Do not—oh! do not wait till the vulcan of the Bartholomew-lane smithy lets fall his hammer upon the anvil of pleasure, to announce that the Royal Property is—“Gone!”

A man tips his hat to a skeleton, who tips his crown in return.




Mrs. Waylett and Mr. Keeley were the lady and gentleman who were placed in the peculiarly perplexing predicament of making a second-hand French interlude supportable to an English Opera audience. In this they more than succeeded—for they caused it to be amusing; they made the most of what they had to do, which was not much, and of what they had to say, which was a great deal too much; for the piece would be far more tolerable if considerably shorn of its unfair proportions. The translator seems to have followed the verbose text of his original with minute fidelity, except where the idioms bothered him; and although the bills declare it is adapted by Mr. Charles Selby to the English stage, the thing is as essentially French as it is when performed at the Palais Royal, except where the French language is introduced, when, in every instance, the labours of correct transcription were evidently above the powers of the translator. The best part of the adaptation is the exact fitness of the performers to their parts; we mean as far as concerns their personnel.

Of course, all the readers of PUNCH know Mr. Keeley. Let them, then, conceive him an uncle at five-and-thirty, but docking himself of six years’ age when asked impertinent questions. He has a head of fine auburn hair, and dresses in a style that a badaud would call “quiet;” that is to say, he wears brass buttons to his coat, which is green, and adorned with a velvet collar. In short, it is not nearly so fine as Lord Palmerston’s, for it has no velvet at the cuffs; and is not embroidered. Add white unhintables, and you have an imaginative portrait of the hero. But the heroine! Ah! she, dear reader, if you have a taste for full-blown beauty and widows, she will coax the coin out of your pockets, and yourselves into the English Opera House, when we have told you what she acts, and how she acts. Imagine her, the syren, with the quiet, confiding smile, the tender melting voice, the pleasing highly-bred manner; just picture her in the character of a Parisian widow—the free, unshackled, fascinating Parisian widow—the child of liberty—the mother of—no, not a mother; for the instant a husband dies, the orphans are transferred to convent schools to become nephews and nieces. Well, we say for the third time, conceive Mrs. Waylett, dressed with modest elegance, a single rose in her hair—sympathise with her as she rushes upon the stage (which is “set” for the chambre meublée of a country inn), escaping from the persecutions of a persevering traveller who will follow her charms, her modest elegance, her single rose, wherever they make their appearance. She locks the door, and orders supper, declaring she will leave the house immediately after it is eaten and paid for. Alas! the danger increases, and with it her fears; she will pay without eating; and as the diligence is going off, she will resume her journey, but—a new misfortune—there is no place in it! She will, then, hire a postchaise; and the landlady goes to strike the bargain, having been duly paid for a bed which has not been lain in, and a supper that has not been eaten. As the lady hastens away, with every prospect of not returning, the piece would inevitably end here, if a gentleman did not arrive by the very diligence which has just driven off full, and taken the same chamber the lady has just vacated; but more particularly if the only chaise in the place had not been hired by the lady’s wicked persecutor on purpose to detain her. She, of course, returns to the twice-let chamber, and finds it occupied by a sentimental traveller.

Here we have the “peculiarly perplexing predicament”—a lady and gentleman, and only one chamber between them! This is the plot; all that happens afterwards is merely supplementary. To avoid the continued persecutions of the unseen Adolphe, the lady agrees, after some becoming hesitation, to pass to the hostess as the wife of the sentimental traveller. The landlady is satisfied, for what so natural as that they should have but one bed-room between them? so she carefully locks them in, and the audience have the pleasure of seeing them pass the night together—how we will not say—let our readers go and see. Yet we must in justice add that the “lady and gentleman” make at the end of the piece the amende good morals demand—they get married.

To the performers, and to them alone, are we indebted for any of the amusement this trifle affords. Mr. Keeley and Mrs. Waylett were, so far as acting goes, perfection; for never were parts better fitted to them. There are only three characters in the piece; the third, the hostess of the “Cochon bleu,” is very well done by Mrs. Selby. The persecuting Adolphe (who turns out to be the gentleman’s nephew) never appears upon the stage, for all his rude efforts to get into the lady’s chamber are fruitless.

Such is the prying disposition of the British public, that the house was crammed to the ceiling to see a lady and a gentleman placed in a peculiarly perplexing predicament.

As Romeo, Kean, with awkward grace,

On velvet rests, ’tis said:

Ah! did he seek a softer place,

He’d rest upon his head.


Several Dutch males arrived from Rotterdam during the last week. They are all totally devoid of intelligence or interest.


“Crack’d China mended!”—Zounds, man! off this minute—

There’s work for you, or else the deuce is in it!

“Draw it mild!” as the boy with the decayed tooth said to the dentist.

Webster’s Manganese Ink is so intensely black, that it is used as a marking-fluid for coal-sacks.

There is a man up country so fat, they grease the cart-wheels with his shadow.


VOL. 1.

[pg 61]

AUGUST 21, 1841.



In Four Chapters.


A man in stocks forms the letter T

The conversation now subsided into “private and confidential” whispers, from which I could learn that Miss O’Brannigan had consented to quit her father’s halls with Terence that very night, and, before the priest, to become his true and lawful wife.

It had been previously understood that those of the guests who lived at a distance from the lodge should sleep there that night. Nothing could have been more favourable for the designs of the lovers; and it was arranged between them, that Miss Biddy was to steal from her chamber into the yard, at daybreak, and apprise her lover of her presence by flinging a handful of gravel against his window. Terence’s horse was warranted to carry double, and the lady had taken the precaution to secure the key of the stable where he was placed.

It was long after midnight before the company began to separate;—cloaks, shawls, and tippets were called for; a jug of punch of extra strength was compounded, and a doch an dhurris11. A drink at the door;—a farewell cup. of the steaming beverage administered to every individual before they were permitted to depart. At length the house was cleared of its guests, with the exception of those who were to remain and take beds there. Amongst the number were the haberdasher and your uncle. The latter was shown into a chamber in which a pleasant turf fire was burning on the hearth.

Although Terence’s mind was full of sweet anticipations and visions of future grandeur, he could not avoid feeling a disagreeable sensation arising from the soaked state of his boots; and calculating that it still wanted three or four hours of daybreak, he resolved to have us dry and comfortable for his morning’s adventure. With this intention he drew us off, and placed us on the hearth before the fire, and threw himself on the bed—not to sleep—he would sooner have committed suicide—but to meditate upon the charms of Miss Biddy and her thousand pounds.

But our strongest resolutions are overthrown by circumstances—the ducking, the dancing, and the potteen, had so exhausted Terence, that he unconsciously shut, first, one eye, then the other, and, finally, he fell fast asleep, and dreamed of running away with the heiress on his back, through a shaking bog, in which he sank up to the middle at every step. His vision was, however, suddenly dispelled by a smart rattle against his window. A moment was sufficient to recall him to his senses—he knew it was Miss Biddy’s signal, and, jumping from the bed, drew back the cotton window-curtains and peered earnestly out: but though the day had begun to break, it was still too dark to enable him to distinguish any person on the lawn. In a violent hurry he seized on your humble servant, and endeavoured to draw me on; but, alas! the heat of the fire had so shrank me from my natural dimensions, that he might as well have attempted to introduce his leg and foot into an eel-skin. Flinging me in a rage to the further corner of the room, he essayed to thrust his foot into my companion, which had been reduced to the same shrunken state as myself. In vain he tugged, swore, and strained; first with one, and then with another, until the stitches in our sides grinned with perfect torture; the perspiration rolled down his forehead—his eyes were staring, his teeth set, and every nerve in his body was quivering with his exertions—but still he could not force us on.

“What’s to be done!” he ejaculated in despairing accents. A bright thought struck him suddenly, that he might find a pair of boots belonging to some of the other visitors, with which he might make free on so pressing an emergency. It was but sending them back, with an apology for the mistake, on the following day. With this idea he sallied from his room, and groped his way down stairs to find the scullery, where he knew the boots were deposited by the servant at night. This scullery was detached from the main building, and to reach it it was necessary to cross an angle of the yard. Terence cautiously undid the bolts and fastenings of the back door, and was stealthily picking his steps over the rough stones of the yard, when he was startled by a fierce roar behind him, and at the same moment the teeth of Towser, the great watch-dog, were fastened in his nether garments. Though very much alarmed, he concealed his feelings, and presuming on a slight previous intimacy with his assailant, he addressed him in a most familiar manner, calling him “poor fellow” and “old Towser,” explained to him the ungentlemanly liberty he was taking with his buckskins, and requested him to let go his hold, as he had quite enough of that sport. Towser was, however, not to be talked out of his private notions; he foully suspected your uncle of being on no good design, and replied to every remonstrance he made with a growl and a shake, that left no doubt he would resort to more vigorous measures in case of opposition. Afraid or ashamed to call for help, Terence was kept in this disagreeable state, nearly frozen to death with cold and trembling with terror, until the morning was considerably advanced, when he was discovered by some of the servants, who released him from the guardianship of his surly captor. Without waiting to account for the extraordinary circumstances in which he had been found, he bolted into the house, rushed up to his bed-chamber, and, locking the door, threw himself into a chair, overwhelmed with shame and vexation.

But poor Terence’s troubles were not half over. The beautiful heiress, after having discharged several volleys of sand and small pebbles against his window without effect, was returning to her chamber, swelling with indignation, when she was encountered on the stairs by Tibbins, who, no doubt prompted by the demon of jealousy, had been watching her movements. He could not have chosen a more favourable moment to plead his suit; her mortified vanity, and her anger at what she deemed the culpable indifference of her lover, made her eager to be revenged on him. It required, therefore, little persuasion to obtain her consent to elope with the haberdasher. The key of the stable was in her pocket, and in less than ten minutes she was sitting beside him in his gig, taking the shortest road to the priest’s.

I cannot attempt to describe the rage that Terence flew into, as soon as he learned the trick he had been served; he vowed to be the death of Tibbins, and it is probable he would have carried his threat into effect, if the haberdasher had not prudently kept out of his way until his anger had grown cool.

“So,” said I, addressing the narrator, “you lost the opportunity of figuring at Miss Biddy’s wedding?”

“Yes,” replied the ‘wife-catcher;’ “but Terence soon retrieved his credit, for in less than three months after his disappointment with the heiress, we were legging it as his wedding with Miss Debby Doolan, a greater fortune and a prettier girl than the one he had lost: and, by-the-bye, that reminds me of a funny scene which took place when the bride came to throw the stocking—hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo!”

Here my friends, the boots, burst into a long and loud fit of laughter; while I, ignorant of the cause of their mirth, looked gravely on, wondering when it would subside. Instead, however, of their laughter lessening, the cachinnations became so violent that I began to feel seriously alarmed.

“My dear friends!” said I.

“Hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo!” shouted the pair.

“This excessive mirth may be dangerous”—

A peal of laughter shook their leathern sides, and they rolled from side to side on their chair. Fearful of their falling, I put out my hand to support them, when a sense of acute pain made me suddenly withdraw it. I started, opened my eyes, and discovered that I had laid hold of the burning remains of the renowned “wife-catchers,” which I had in my sleep placed upon the fire.

As I gazed mournfully upon the smoking relics of the ancient allies of our house, I resolved to record this strange adventure; but you know I never had much taste for writing, Jack, so I now confide the task to you. As he concluded, my uncle raised his tumbler to his lips, and I could perceive a tear sparkling in his eye—a genuine tribute of regard to the memory of the venerated “Wife Catchers.”


Wrote Paget to Pollen,

With face bright as brass,

“T’other day in the Town Hall

You mention’d an ass:

“Now, for family reasons,

I’d like much to know,

If on me you intended

That name to bestow?”

“My lord,” says Jack Pollen,

“Believe me, (’tis true,)

I’d be sorry to slander

A donkey or you.”

“Being grateful,” says Paget,

“I’d ask you to lunch;

But just, Sir John, tell me.

Did you call me PUNCH?”

“In wit, PUNCH is equalled,”

Says Pollen, “by few;

In naming him, therefore,

I couldn’t mean you,”

“Thanks! thanks! To bear malice,”

Save Paget, “I’m loath;

Two answers I’ve got, and I’m

Charm’d with them both.”



Lisette has lost her wanton wiles—

What secret care consumes her youth,

And circumscribes her smiles?—

A spec on a front tooth!


Fitzsmall, who drinks with knights and lords,

To steal a share of notoriety,

Will tell you, in important words,

He mixes in the best society.


We find, by the Times of Saturday, the British teasel crops in the parish of Melksham have fallen entirely to the ground, and from their appearance denote a complete failure. Another paragraph in the same paper speaks quite as discouragingly of the appearance of the American Teazle at the Haymarket.

[pg 62]



To be said or sung by the Infant Princess.

A gentleman attacks another man. A stands for Aristocracy, a thing I should admire;
A bishop eats a suckling pig. B stands for a Bishop, who is clothed in soft attire;
A group of people seated around a table that is in a cabinet. C beginneth Cabinet, where Mamma keeps her tools;
A man in a clown hat hands something to another man in a clown hat. D doth stand for Downing-street, the “Paradise of Fools;”
A guard pulls a lion in a toy wagon. E beginneth England, that granteth the supplies;
An orchestra. F doth stand for Foreigners, whom I should patronize;
Two politicians offer PUNCH a bag of money for his vote. G doth stand for Gold—good gold!—for which man freedom barters;
A fat snooty fellow walks from a fancy carriage into a door marked 'Lords.' H beginneth Honors—that is, ribbons, stars, and garters;
A parasol with money bags hanging from it. I stands for my Income (several thousand pounds per ann.);
A man plays with a baby while his pockets are being picked. J stands for Johnny Bull, a soft and easy kind of man;
A king-puppet is being worked by a right hand. K beginneth King, who rules the land by “right divine;”
A woman courtier tries to feed a screaming princess while in a curtsey. L’s for Mrs. Lilly, who was once a nurse of mine.
A man bastes a spit of meat. M beginneth Melbourne, who rules the roast and State;
Two smoking men wearing tophats try to pull a door knocker off of a door. N stands for a Nobleman, who’s always good and great.
A woman dances on a stage. O is for the Opera, that I should only grace;
A man throws money to a group of men in robes. P stands for the Pension List, for “servants out of place.”
A man carrying a box marked 'RENT' faces away while a uniformed man takes something from it. Q’s the Quarter’s Salary, for which true patriots long;
A woman leads a group of girls in a flag-waving musical. R’s for Mrs. Ratsey, who taught me this pretty song;
A pipe blows a big bubble. S stands for the Speech, which Mummy learns to say;
A man holds another man upside down by the ankles and makes all of his pocket money fall out. T doth stand for Taxes, which the people ought to pay;
A three-headed dog guards a door marked 'UNION'. U’s for the Union Work-house, which horrid paupers shun;
A coin with Victoria's profile. V is for Victoria, “the Bess of forty-one;”
A skelton in military uniform lights a cannon and wields a sword. W stands for War, the “noble game” which Monarchs play;
A man pours liquid from a watering can marked XXX into the waiting mouth of a flower. X is for the Treble X—Lilly drank three times a day;
A woman on a dias is surrounded by applauding courtiers. And Y Z’s for the Wise Heads, who admire all I say.

[pg 63]




A popular encyclopædia of the requisites for gentility—a companion to the toilet, the salons, the Queen’s Bench, the streets, and the police-stations, has long been felt to be a desideratum by every one aspiring to good-breeding. The few works which treat on the subject have all become as obselete as “hot cockles” and “crambo.” “The geste of King Horne,” the “ΒΑΣΙΛΙΚΟΝ” of King Jamie, “Peacham’s Complete Gentleman,” “The Poesye of princelye Practice,” “Dame Juliana Berners’ Book of St. Alban’s,” and “The Jewel for Gentrie,” are now confined to bibliopoles and bookstalls. Even more modern productions have shared the same fate. “The Whole Duty of Man” has long been consigned to the trunk-maker, “Chesterfield’s Letters” are now dead letters, and the “Young Man” lights his cigar with his “Best Companion.” It is true, that in lieu of these, several works have emanated from the press, adapted to the change of manners, and consequently admirably calculated to supply their places. We need only instance “The Flash Dictionary,” “The Book of Etiquette,” “A Guide to the Kens and Cribs of London,” “The whole Art of Tying the Cravat,” and “The Hand-book of Boxing;” but it remains for us to remove the disadvantages which attend the acquirement of each of these noble arts and sciences in a detached form.

The possessor of an inquiring and genteel mind has now to wander for his politeness to Paternoster-row22. “Book of Etiquette.” Longman and Co.; to Pierce Egan, for his knowledge of men and manners; and to Owen Swift, for his knightly accomplishments, and exercises of chivalry.

We undertake to collect and condense these scattered radii into one brilliant focus, so that a gentleman, by reading his “own book,” may be made acquainted with the best means of ornamenting his own, or disfiguring a policeman’s, person—how to conduct himself at the dinner-table, or at the bar of Bow-street—how to turn a compliment to a lady, or carry on a chaff with a cabman.

These are high and noble objects! A wider field for social elevation cannot well be imagined. Our plan embraces the enlightenment and refinement of every scion of a noble house, and all the junior clerks in the government offices—from the happy recipient of an allowance of 50£ per month from “the Governor,” to the dashing acceptor of a salary of thirty shillings a week from a highly-respectable house in the City—from the gentleman who occupies a suite of apartments in the Clarendon, to the lodger in the three-pair back, in an excessively back street at Somers Town.

With these incentives, we will proceed at once to our great and glorious task, confident that our exertions will be appreciated, and obtain for us an introduction into the best circles.


We trust that our polite readers will commence the perusal of our pages with a pleasure equal to that which we feel in sitting down to write them; for they call up welcome recollections of those days (we are literary and seedy now!) when our coats emanated from the laboratory of Stultz, our pantaloons from Buckmaster, and our boots from Hoby, whilst our glossy beaver—now, alas! supplanted by a rusty goss—was fabricated by no less a thatcher than the illustrious Moore. They will remind us of our Coryphean conquests at the Opera—our triumphs in Rotten row—our dinners at Long’s and the Clarendon—our nights at Offley’s and the watch-house—our glorious runs with the Beaufort hounds, and our exhilarating runs from the sheriffs’ officers—our month’s sporting on the heathery moors, and our day rule when rusticating in the Bench!

We are in “the sear and yellow leaf”—there is nothing green about us now! We have put down our seasoned hunter, and have mounted the winged Pegasus. The brilliant Burgundy and sparkling Hock no longer mantle in our glass; but Barclay’s beer—nectar of gods and coalheavers—mixed with hippocrene—the Muses’ “cold without”—is at present our only beverage. The grouse are by us undisturbed in their bloomy mountain covert. We are now content to climb Parnassus and our garret stairs. The Albany, that sanctuary of erring bachelors, with its guardian beadle, are to us but memories, for we have become the denizens of a roomy attic (ring the top bell twice), and are only saluted by an Hebe of all-work and our printer’s devil!

ON DRESS IN GENERAL.—L’habit fait le moine.—It has been laid down by Brummel, Bulwer, and other great authorities, that “the tailor makes the man;” and he would be the most daring of sceptics who would endeavour to controvert this axiom. Your first duty, therefore, is to place yourself in the hands of some distinguished schneider, and from him take out your patent of gentility—for a man with an “elegant coat” to his back is like a bill at sight endorsed with a good name; whilst a seedy or ill-cut garment resembles a protested note of hand labelled “No effects.” It will also be necessary for you to consult “The Monthly Book of Fashions,” and to imitate, as closely as possible, those elegant and artistical productions of the gifted burin, which show to perfection “What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties!” &c.—You must not consult your own ease and taste (if you have any), for nothing is so vulgar as to suit your convenience in these matters, as you should remember that you dress to please others, and not yourself. We have heard of some eccentric individuals connected with noble families, who have departed from this rule; but they invariably paid the penalty of their rashness, being frequently mistaken for men of intellect; and it should not be forgotten, that any exercise of the mind is a species of labour utterly incompatible with the perfect man of fashion.

The confiding characters of tailors being generally acknowledged, it is almost needless to state, that the faintest indication of seediness will be fatal to your reputation; and as a presentation at the Insolvent Court is equally fashionable with that of St. James, any squeamishness respecting your inability to pay could only be looked upon as a want of moral courage upon your part, and

A nicely dressed man passes by a scarecrow.


[The subject of dress in particular will form the subject of our next chapter.]



If I had a thousand a-year,

(How my heart at the bright vision glows!)

I should never be crusty or queer,

But all would be couleur de rose.

I’d pay all my debts, though outré,

And of duns and embarrassments clear,

Life would pass like a bright summer day,

If I had a thousand a-year.

I’d have such a spicy turn-out,

And a horse of such mettle and breed—

Whose points not a jockey should doubt,

When I put him at top of his speed.

On the foot-board, behind me to swing,

A tiger so small should appear,

All the nobs should protest “’twas the thing!”

If I had a thousand a-year.

A villa I’d have near the Park,

From Town just an appetite-ride;

With fairy-like grounds, and a bark

O’er its miniature waters to glide.

There oft, ’neath the pale twilight star,

Or the moonlight unruffled and clear,

My meerschaum I’d smoke, or cigar,

If I had a thousand a-year.

I’d have pictures and statues, with taste—

Such as ladies unblushing might view—

In my drawing and dining-rooms placed,

With many a gem of virtù.

My study should be an affair

The heart of a book-worm to cheer—

All compact, with its easy spring chair,

If I had a thousand a-year.

A cellar I’d have quite complete

With wines, so recherché, well stored;

And jovial guests often should meet

Round my social and well-garnish’d board.

But I would have a favourite few,

To my heart and my friendship more dear;

And I’d marry—I mustn’t tell who—

If I had a thousand a-year.

With comforts so many, what more

Could I ask of kind Fortune to grant?

Humph! a few olive branches—say four—

As pets for my old maiden aunt.

Then, with health, there’d be nought to append.

To perfect my happiness here;

For the utile et duloc would blend.

If I had a thousand a-year.

[pg 64]


The Buckets are a large family! I am one of them—my uncle Job Bucket is another. We, the Buckets, are atoms of creation; yet we, the Buckets, are living types of the immensity of the world’s inhabitants. We illustrate their ups and downs—their fulness and their emptiness—their risings and their falling—and all the several goods and ills, the world’s denizens in general, and Buckets in particular, are undoubted heirs to.

It hath ever been the fate of the fulness of one Bucket to guarantee the emptiness of another; and (mark the moral!) the rising Bucket is the richly-stored one; its sinking brother’s attributes, like Gratiano’s wit, being “an infinite deal of nothing.” Hence the adoption of our name for the wooden utensils that have so aptly fished up this fact from the deep well of truth.

There be certain rods that attract the lightning. We are inclined to think there be certain Buckets that invite kicking, and our uncle Job was one of them. He was birched at school for everybody but himself, for he never deserved it! He was plucked at college—because some practical joker placed a utensil, bearing his name, outside the door of the examining master, and our uncle Job Bucket being unfortunately present, laughed at the consequent abrasion of his, the examining master’s, shins. He was called to the bar. His first case was, “Jane Smith versus James Smith” (no relations). His client was the female. She had been violently assaulted. He mistook the initial—pleaded warmly for the opposing Smith, and glowingly described the disgraceful conduct of the veriest virago a legal adviser ever had the pain of speaking of. The verdict was, as he thought, on his side. The lady favoured him with a living evidence of all the attributes he was pleased to invent for her benefit, and left him with a proof impression of her nails upon his face, carrying with her, by way of souvenir, an ample portion of the skin thereof. Had the condensed heels of all the horses whose subscription hairs were wrought into his wig, with one united effort presented him with a kick in his abdominals, he could not have been more completely “knocked out of time” than he was by the mistake of those cursed initials. “What about Smith?” sent him out of court! At length he

“Cursed the bar, and declined.”

He next turned his attention to building. Things went on swimmingly during the erection—so did the houses when built. The proprietorship of the ground was disputed—our uncle Job had paid the wrong person. The buildings were knocked down (by Mr. Robins), and the individual who had benefited by the suppositionary ownership of the acres let on the building lease “bought the lot,” and sent uncle Job a peculiarly well-worded legal notice, intimating, “his respectable presence would, for the future, approximate to a nuisance and trespass, and he (Job) would be proceeded against as the statutes directed, if guilty of the same.”

It is impossible to follow him through all his various strivings to do well: he commenced a small-beer brewery, and the thunder turned it all into vinegar; he tried vinegar, and nothing on earth could make it sour; he opened a milk-walk, and the parish pump failed; he invented a waterproof composition—there was fourteen weeks of drought; he sold his patent for two-and-sixpence, and had the satisfaction of walking home for the next three months wet through, from his gossamer to his ci-devant Wellingtons, now literally, from their hydraulic powers, “pumps.”

He lost everything but his heart! And uncle Bucket was all heart! a red cabbage couldn’t exceed it in size, and, like that, it seemed naturally predestined to be everlastingly in a pickle! Still it was a heart! You were welcomed to his venison when he had it—his present saveloy was equally at your service. He must have been remarkably attached to facetious elderly poultry of the masculine gender, as his invariable salute to the tenants of his “heart’s core” was, “How are you, my jolly old cock?” Coats became threadbare, and defunct trousers vanished; waistcoats were never replaced; gossamers floated down the tide of Time; boots, deprived of all hope of future renovation by the loss of their soles, mouldered in obscurity; but the clear voice and chuckling salute were changeless as the statutes of the Medes and Persians, the price and size of penny tarts, or the accumulating six-and-eightpences gracing a lawyer’s bill.

Poor uncle Job Bucket’s fortune had driven “him down the rough tide of power,” when first and last we met; all was blighted save the royal heart; and yet, with shame we own the truth, we blushed to meet him. Why? ay, why? We own the weakness!—the heart, the goodly heart, was almost cased in rags!


Right, reader, right; we were a puppy. Lash on, we richly deserve it! but, consider the fearful influence of worn-out cloth! Can a long series of unchanging kindness balance patched elbows? are not cracked boots receipts in full for hours of anxious love and care? does not the kindness of a life fade “like the baseless fabric of a vision” before the withering touch of poverty’s stern stamp? Have you ever felt—

“Eh? what? No—stuff! Yes, yes—go on, go on.”

We will!—we blushed for our uncle’s coat! His heart, God bless it, never caused a blush on the cheek of man, woman, child, or even angel, to rise for that. We will confess. Let’s see, we are sixty now (we don’t look so much, but we are sixty). Well, be it so. We were handsome once—is this vanity at sixty? if so, our grey hairs are a hatchment for the past. We were “swells once!—hurrah!—we were!” Stop, this is indecent—let us be calm—our action was like the proceeding of the denuder of well-sustained and thriving pigs, he who deprives them of their extreme obesive selvage—vulgo, “we cut it fat.” Bond-street was cherished by our smile, and Ranelagh was rendered happy by the exhibition of our symmetry. Behold us hessianed in our haunts, touching the tips of well-gloved fingers to our passing friends; then fancy the opening and shutting of our back, just as Lord Adolphus Nutmeg claimed the affinity of “kid to kid,” to find our other hand close prisoner made by our uncle Bucket.

“How are you, old cock?”

“Who’s that, eh?”

“A lunatic, my lord (what lies men tell!), and dangerous!”

“Good day! [Exit my lord]. This way.” We followed our uncle—the end of a blind alley gave us a resting-place.

“Bravo!” exclaimed our uncle Bucket, “this is rare! I live here—dine with me!”

A mob surrounded us—we acquiesced, in hopes to reach a place of shelter.

“All right!” exclaimed he of the maternal side, “stand three-halfpence for your feed.”

We shelled the necessary out—he dived into a baker’s shop—the mob increased—he hailed us from the door.

“Thank God, this is your house, then.”

“Only my kitchen. Lend a hand!”

A dish of steaming baked potatoes, surmounted by a fractional rib of consumptive beef, was deposited between the lemon-coloured receptacles of our thumbs and fingers—an outcry was raised at the court’s end—we were almost mad.

“Turn to the right—three-pair back—cut away while it’s warm, and make yourself at home! I’ll come with the beer!”

We wished our I had been in that bier! We rushed out—the gravy basted our pants, and greased our hessians! Lord Adolphus Nutmeg appeared at the entrance of the court. As we proceeded to our announced destination,—“Great God!” exclaimed his lordship, “the Bedlamite has bitten him!” A peal of laughter rang in our ears—we rushed into the wrong room, and our uncle Job Bucket picked us, the shattered dish, the reeking potatoes, and dislodged beef, from the inmost recesses of a wicker-cradle, where, spite the thumps and entreaties of a distracted parent, we were all engaged in overlaying a couple of remarkably promising twins! We can say no more on this frightful subject. But—

“Once again we met!”

Our pride wanted cutting, and fate appeared determined to perform the operation with a jagged saw!

Tom Racket died! His disease was infectious, and we had been the last person to call upon him, consequently we were mournful. Thick-coming fancies brooded in our brain—all things conspired against us; the day was damp and wretched—the church-bells emulated each other in announcing the mortalities of earth’s bipeds—each toll’d its tale of death. We thought upon our “absent friend.” A funeral approached. We were still more gloomy. Could it be his? if so, what were his thoughts? Could ghosts but speak, what would he say? The coffin was coeval with us—sheets were rubicund compared to our cheeks. A low deep voice sounded from its very bowels—the words were addressed to us—they were, “Take no notice; it’s the first time; it will soon be over!”

“Will it?” we groaned.

“Yes. I’m glad you know me. I’ll tell you more when I come back.”

“Gracious powers! do you expect to return?”

“Certainly! We’ll have a screw together yet! There’s room for us both in my place. I’ll make you comfortable.”

The cold perspiration streamed from us. Was there ever anything so awful! Here was an unhappy subject threatening to call and see us at night, and then screw us down and make us comfortable.

“Will you come?” exclaimed the dead again.

“Never!” we vociferated with fearful energy.

“Then let it alone; I didn’t think you’d have cut me now; but wait till I show you my face.”

Horror of horrors!—the pall moved—a long white face peered from it. We gasped for breath, and only felt new life when we recognised our uncle Job Bucket, as the author of the conversation, and one of the bearers of the coffin! He had turned mute!—but that was a failure—no one ever died in his parish after his adopting that profession!

He has been seen once since in the backwoods of America. His fate seemed still to follow him, and his good temper appeared immortal—his situation was more peculiar than pleasant. He was seated on a log, three hundred miles from any civilised habitation, smiling blandly at a broken axe (his only one), the half of which was tightly grasped in his right hand, pointing to the truant iron in the trunk of a huge tree, the first of a thriving forest of fifty acres he purposed felling; and, thus occupied, a solitary traveller passed our uncle Job Bucket, serene as the melting sunshine, and thoughtless as the wild insect that sported round the owner “of the lightest of light hearts.”—PEACE BE WITH HIM.



A gentleman of the name of Stuckey has discovered a new filtering process, by which “a stream from a most impure source may be rendered perfectly translucent and fit for all purposes.” In the name of our rights and liberties! in the name of Judy and our country! we call upon the proper authorities to have this invaluable apparatus erected in the lobby of the House of Commons, and so, by compelling every member to submit to the operation of filtration, cleanse the house from its present accumulation of corruption, though we defy Stuckey himself to give it brightness.


New honours heaped on roué Segrave’s name!

A cuckold’s horn is then the trump of fame.

[pg 65]



Under this head it is our intention, from time to time, to revert to numberless free exhibitions, which, in this advancement-of-education age, have been magnanimously founded with a desire to inculcate a knowledge of, and disseminate, by these liberal means, an increased taste for the arts in this vast metropolis. We commence not with any feelings of favouritism, nor in any order of ability, our pleasures being too numerously divided to be able to settle as to which ought to be No. 1, but because it is necessary to commence—consequently we would wish to settle down in company with the amiable reader in front of a tobacconist’s shop in the Regent Circus, Piccadilly; and as the principal attractions glare upon the astonishment of the spectators from the south window, it is there in imagination that we are irresistibly fixed. Before we dilate upon the delicious peculiarities of the exhibition, we deem it absolutely a matter of justice to the noble-hearted patriot who, imitative of the Greeks and Athenians of old, who gave the porticoes of their public buildings, and other convenient spots, for the display of their artists’ productions, has most generously appropriated the chief space of his shop front to the use and advantage of the painter, and has thus set a bright example to the high-minded havannah merchants and contractors for cubas and c’naster, which we trust will not be suffered to pass unobserved by them.

The principal feature, or, rather mass of features, which enchain the beholder, is a whole-length portrait of a gentleman (par excellence) seated in a luxuriating, Whitechapel style of ease, the envy, we venture to affirm, of every omnibus cad and coachman, whose loiterings near this spot afford them occasional peeps at him. He is most decidedly the greatest cigar in the shop—not only the mildest, if his countenance deceive us not, but evidently the most full-flavoured. The artist has, moreover, by some extraordinary adaptation or strange coincidence, made him typical of the locality—we allude to the Bull-and-Mouth—seated at a table evidently made and garnished for the article. The said gentleman herein depicted is in the act of drinking his own health, or that of “all absent friends,” probably coupling with it some little compliment to a favourite dog, one of the true Regent-street-and-pink-ribbon breed, who appears to be paying suitable attention. A huge pine-apple on the table, and a champagne cork or two upon the ground, contribute a gallant air of reckless expenditure to this spirited work. In reference to the artistic qualities, it gives us immoderate satisfaction to state that the whole is conceived and executed with that characteristic attention so observable in the works of this master333. We have forgotten the artist’s name—perhaps never knew it; but we believe it is the same gentleman who painted the great author of “Jack Sheppard.”, and that the fruit-knife, fork, cork-screw, decanter, and chiaro-scuro (as the critic of the Art Union would have it), are truly excellent. The only drawback upon the originality of the subject is the handkerchief on the knee, which (although painted as vigorously as any other portion of the picture) we do not strictly approve of, inasmuch as it may, with the utmost impartiality, be assumed as an imitation of Sir Thomas Lawrence’s portrait of George the Fourth; nevertheless, we in part excuse this, from the known difficulty attendant upon the representation of a gentleman seated in enjoyment, and parading his bandana, without associating it with a veritable footman, who, upon the occasion of his “Sunday out,” may, perchance, be seen in one of the front lower tenements in Belgrave-square, or some such locale, paying violent attentions to the housemaid, and the hot toast, decorated with the order of the handkerchief, to preserve his crimson plush in all its glowing purity. We cannot take leave of this interesting work without declaring our opinion that the composition (of the frame) is highly creditable.

Placed on the right of the last-mentioned work of art, is a representation of a young lady, as seen when presenting a full-blown flower to a favourite parrot. There is a delicate simplicity in the attitude and expression of the damsel, which, though you fail to discover the like in the tortuous figures of Taglioni or Cerito, we have often observed in the conduct of ladies many years in the seniority of the one under notice, who, ever mindful of the idol of their thoughts and affections—a feline companion—may be seen carrying a precious morsel, safely skewered, in advance of them; this gentleness the artist has been careful to retain to eminent success. We are, nevertheless, woefully at a loss to divine what the allegory can possibly be (for as such we view it), what the analogy between a pretty poll and a pol-yanthus. We are unlearned in the language of flowers, or, perhaps, might probe the mystery by a little floral discussion. We are, however, compelled to leave it to the noble order of freemasons, and shall therefore wait patiently an opportunity of communicating with his Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex. In the meantime we shall not he silent upon the remaining qualities of the work as a general whole—the young lady—the parrot—the polyanthus, and the chiaro-scuro, are as excellent as usual in this our most amusing painter’s productions.

As a pendant to this, we are favoured with the portrait of a young gentleman upon a half-holiday—and, equipped with cricket means, his dexter-hand grasps his favourite bat, whilst the left arm gracefully encircles a hat, in which is seductively shown a genuine “Duke.” The sentiment of this picture is unparalleled, and to the young hero of any parish eleven is given a stern expression of Lord’s Marylebone ground. We can already (aided by perspective and imagination) see him before a future generation of cricketers, “shoulder his bat, and show how games were won.” The bat is well drawn and coloured with much truth, and with that strict observance of harmony which is so characteristic of the excellences of art. The artist has felicitously blended the tone and character of the bat with that of the young gentleman’s head. As to the ball, we do not recollect ever to have seen one in the works of any of the old masters so true to nature. In conclusion, the buttons on the jacket, and the button-holes, companions thereto, would baffle the criticism of the most hyper-fastidious stab-rag; and the shirt collar, with every other detail—never forgetting the chiaro-scuro—are equal to any of the preceding.


We had prepared an announcement of certain theatricals extraordinary, with which we had intended to favour the public, when the following bill reached us. We feel that its contents partake so strongly of what we had heretofore conceived the exclusive character of PUNCH, that to avoid the charge of plagiarism, as well as to prevent any confusion of interests, we have resolved to give insertion to both.

As PUNCH is above all petty rivalry, we accord our collaborateurs the preference.

Red Lion Court, Fleet Street.

SIR,—Allow me to solicit your kindness so far, as to give publicity to this bill, by placing it in some conspicuous part of your Establishment. The success of the undertaking will prove so advantageous to the public at large, that I fear not your compliance in so good a cause.

I am, Sir, your’s very obediently,




Conducted by the Council of the Dramatic Authors’ Theatre, established for the full encouragement of English Living Dramatists.


The generous National feelings of the British Public are proverbially interested in every endeavour to obtain “a Free Stage and Fair Play.” The Council of the Dramatic Authors’ Theatre seek to achieve both, for every English Living Dramatist. Compelled, by the state of the Law, to present on the Stage a high Tragic Composition IN AN IRREGULAR FORM (in effecting which, nevertheless, regard has been had to those elements of human nature, which must constitute the essential principles of every genuine Dramatic Production), they hope for such kind consideration as may be due to a work brought forward in obedient accordance with the regulations of Acts of Parliament, though labouring thereby under some consequent difficulties; the Law for the Small Theatres Royal, and the Law for the Large Theatres Royal, not being one and the same Law. If, by these efforts, a beneficial alteration in such Law, which presses so fatally on Dramatic Genius, and which militates against the revival of the highest class of Drama, should be effected, they feel assured that the Public will Participate in their Triumph.

On THURSDAY, the 26th of AUGUST, will be presented, for the First Time,

(Interspersed with Songs and Music).



Taken by him from his “magnificent” Dramatic Poem, entitled, The Hungarian Daughter.

The Solos, Duets, Chorusses, and every other Musical arrangement the Law may require, by Mr. DAVID LEE.

The following Opinions of the Press on the Actable qualities of the Dramatic Poem, are selected from a vast mass of similar notices.

“Worthy of the Stage in its best days.”—The Courier.

“Effective situations; if well acted, it could not fail of success.”—New Bell’s Messenger.

“The mantle of the Elizabethan Poets seems to have fallen on Mr. Stephens, for we have scarcely ever met with, in the works of modern dramatists, the truthful delineations of human passion, the chaste and splendid imagery, and continuous strain of fine poetry to be found in The Hungarian Daughter.”—Cambridge Journal.

“Equal to Goethe. All is impassioned and effective. The Poet has availed himself of every tragic point, and brought together every element; nor, with the exception, of Mr. Knowles’s Love, has there been a single Drama, within the last four years, presented on the Stage at all comparable.—Monthly Magazine.

After which will be performed, also for the First Time, An Original Entertainment in One Act, Entitled


By the Author of Jacob Faithful, Peter Simple, &c. &c.

No Orders admitted.—No Free List, the Public Press excepted.

Now for our penny trumpet.


READER,—Allow us to solicit your kindness so far as to give publicity to the following announcement, by buying up and distributing among your friends the whole of the unsold copies of this number. The success of this undertaking will prove so advantageous to the public at large, and of so little benefit to ourselves, that we fear not your compliance in so good a cause.

Yours obediently,



Conducted by the Council of the Fanatic Association established for the full encouragement of Timber Actors and Wooden-headed Dramatists.



The general National feelings of the British Public are proverbially interested in every endeavour to obtain “a blind alley, and no Fantoccini.” Compelled by the New Police Act to move on, and so present our high tragic composition by small instalments (in effecting which, nevertheless, regard has been had—This parenthesis to be continued in our next), we hope for such kind consideration as may be due, when it is remembered that the law for the out-door PUNCH and the law for the in-door PUNCH is not one and the same law. Oh, law!

On SATURDAY, the 28th of AUGUST, will be presented,

(Interspersed with Drum and Mouth Organ),



Taken from his “magnificent” Dramatic Poem, entitled, “PUNCH NUTS UPON HIMSELF.”

The following Opinions on the Actable qualities of Punchinuzzi, are selected from a vast mass of similar notices.

“This ere play ‘ud draw at ony fare.”—The late Mr. Richardson.

“This happy poetic drama would be certain to command crowded and elegant courts.”—La Belle Assemblée.

“We have read Punchinuzzi, and we fearlessly declare that the mantle of that metropolitan bard, the late Mr. William Waters, has descended upon the gifted author.”—Observer.

“Worthy of the streets in their best days.”—Fudge.

No Orders! No Free List! No Money!!.

[pg 66]


It is with no common pride that PUNCH avails himself of the opportunity presented to him, from sources exclusively his own, of laying before his readers a copy of the original draft of the Speech decided upon at a late Cabinet Council. There is a novelty about it which pre-eminently distinguishes it from all preceding orations from the throne or the woolsack, for it has a purpose, and evinces much kind consideration on the part of the Sovereign, in rendering this monody on departed Whiggism as grateful as possible to its surviving friends and admirers.

There is much of the eulogistic fervour of George Robins, combined with the rich poetic feeling of Mechi, running throughout the oration. Indeed, it remained for the Whigs to add this crowning triumph to their policy; for who but Melbourne and Co. would have conceived the happy idea of converting the mouth of the monarch into an organ for puffing, and transforming Majesty itself into a National Advertiser?



I have the satisfaction to inform you, that, through the invaluable policy of my present talented and highly disinterested advisers, I continue to receive from foreign powers assurances of their amicable disposition towards, and unbounded respect for, my elegant and enlightened Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and of their earnest desire to remain on terms of friendship with the rest of my gifted, liberal, and amiable Cabinet.

The posture of affairs in China is certainly not of the most pacific character, but I have the assurance of my infallible Privy Council, and of that profound statesman my Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, in particular, that the present disagreement arises entirely from the barbarous character of the Chinese, and their determined opposition to the progress of temperance in this happy country.

I have also the satisfaction to inform you, that, by the acute diplomatic skill of my never-to-be-sufficiently-eulogised Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, that, after innumerable and complicated negotiations, he has at length succeeded in seducing his Majesty the King of the French to render to England the tardy justice of commemorating, by a fête and inauguration at Boulogne, the disinclination of the French, at a former period, to invade the British dominions.


I have directed the estimates for the next fortnight to be laid before you, which, I am happy to inform you, will be amply sufficient for the exigencies of my present disinterested advisers.

The unequalled fiscal and arithmetical talents of my Chancellor of the Exchequer have, by the most rigid economy, succeeded in reducing the revenue very considerably below the actual expenditure of the state.


Measures will be speedily submitted to you for carrying out the admirable plans of my Secretary of State for the Colonial Department, and the brilliant author of “Don Carlos,” for the prevention of apoplexy among paupers, and the reduction of the present extravagant dietary of the Unions.

I have the gratification to announce that a commission is in progress, by which it is proposed by my non-patronage Ministers to call into requisition the talents of several literary gentlemen—all intimate friends or relations of my deeply erudite and profoundly philosophic Secretary of State for the Home Department, and author of “Yes and No,” (three vols. Colburn) for the purpose of extending the knowledge of reading and writing, and the encouragement of circulating libraries all over the kingdom.

My consistent and uncompromising Secretary of State for the Colonies, having, since the publication of his spirited “Essays by a gentleman who has lately left his lodgings,” totally changed his opinions on the subject of the Corn Laws, a measure is in the course of preparation with a view to the repeal of those laws, and the continuance in office of my invaluable, tenacious, and incomparable ministry.

CAUTION.—We have just heard from a friend in Somerset House, that it is the intention of the Commissioners of Stamps, from the glaring puffs embodied in the above speech, to proceed for the advertisement duty against all newspapers in which it is inserted. For ourselves, we will cheerfully pay.

A German, resident in New York, has such a remarkably hard name, that he spoils a gross of steel pens indorsing a bill.


A slender man tries to get out of a chair while his boots run away.


Such, we are credibly assured, was the determination of these liberal and enlightened leathers. They had heard frequent whispers of a general indisposition on the part of all lovers of consistency to stand in their master’s shoes, and taking the insult to themselves, they lately came to the resolution of cutting the connexion. They felt that his liberality and his boots were all that constituted the idea of Burdett; and now that he had forsaken his old party and joined Peel’s, the “tops” magnanimously decided to forsake him, and force him to take to—Wellingtons. We have been favoured with a report of the conversation that took place upon the occasion, and may perhaps indulge our readers with a copy of it next week.

In the mean time, we beg to subjoin a few lines, suggested by the circumstance of Burdett taking the chair at Rous’s feast, which strongly remind us of Byron’s Vision of Belshazzar.

Burdett was in the chair—

The Tories throng’d the hall—

A thousand lamps were there,

O’er that mad festival.

His crystal cup contain’d

The grape-blood of the Rhine;

Draught after draught he drain’d,

To drown his thoughts in wine.

In that same hour and hall

A shade like “Glory” came,

And wrote upon the wall

The records of his shame.

And at its fingers traced

The words, as with a wand,

The traitorous and debased

Upraised his palsied hand.

And in his chair he shook,

And could no more rejoice;

All bloodless wax’d his look,

And tremulous his voice.

“What words are those appear,

To mar my fancied mirth!

What bringeth ‘Glory’ here

To tell of faded worth?”

“False renegade! thy name

Was once the star which led

The free; but, oh! what shame

Encircles now thine head!

Thou’rt in the balance weigh’d,

And worthless found at last.

All! all! thou hast betray’d!”—

And so the spirit pass’d.

[pg 67]


A man in a tophat mesmerises a lion seated in a throne while a ghost and a crowd of people watch.


[pg 69]



This is a cause of thorough orthodox equity standing, having commenced before the time of legal memory, with every prospect of obtaining a final decree on its merits somewhere about the next Greek Kalends. In the present term,

COUNSELLOR BAYWIG moved, on the part of the plaintiff, who sues in formâ pauperis, for an injunction to restrain the Whig Justice Company from setting a hungry Scotchman—one of their own creatures, without local or professional knowledge—over the lands of which the plaintiff is the legal, though unfortunately not the beneficial owner, as keeper and head manager thereof, to the gross wrong of the tenants, the depreciation of the lands themselves, the further reduction of the funds standing in the name of the cause, the insult to the feelings and the disregard of the rights of gentlemen living on the estate, and perfectly acquainted with its management; and finally, to an unblushing and barefaced denial of justice to all parties. The learned counsel proceeded to state, that the company, in order to make an excuse for thus saddling the impoverished estates with an additional incubus, had committed a double wrong, by forcing from the office a man eminently qualified to discharge its functions—who had lived and grown white with honourable years in the actual discharge of these functions—and by thrusting into his place their own needy retainer, who, instead of being the propounder of the laws which govern the estates, would be merely the apprentice to learn them; and this too at a time when the company was on the eve of bankruptcy, and when the possession which they had usurped so long was about to pass into the hands of their official assignees.

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—What authorities can you cite for this application?

COUNSELLOR BAYWIG.—My lord, I fear the cases are, on the whole, rather adverse to us. Men have, undoubtedly, been chosen to administer the laws of this fine estate, and to guard it from waste, who have studied its customs, been thoroughly learned in its statistics, and interested, by blood and connexion, in its prosperity; but this number is very small. However, when injustice of the most grievous kind is manifest, it should not be continued merely because it is the custom, or because it is an “old institution of the country.”

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—I am quite astonished at your broaching such abominable doctrines here, sir. You a lawyer, and yet talk of justice in a Court of Equity! By Bacon, Blackstone, and Eldon, ‘tis marvellous! Mr. Baywig, if you proceed, I shall feel it my duty to commit you for a contempt of court.

COUNSELLOR BAYWIG.—My lord, in that case I decline the honour of addressing your lordship further; but certainly my poor client is wronged in his land, in himself, and in his kindred. It is shocking personal insult added to terrible pecuniary punishment.

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—Serve him right! We dismiss the application with costs.


Some of the uninitiated in the art and mystery of book-making conceive the chief tax must be upon the compiler’s brain. We give the following as a direct proof to the contrary—one that has the authority of Lord Hamlet, who summed the matter up in three

“Words! Words! Words!”

In one column we give a common-place household and familiar term—in the other we render it into the true Bulwerian phraseology:

Does your mother know you are out? Is your maternal parent’s natural solicitude allayed by the information, that you have for the present vacated your domestic roof?
You don’t lodge here, Mr. Ferguson. You are geographically and statistically misinformed; this is by no means the accustomed place of your occupancy, Mr. Ferguson.
See! there he goes with his eye out. Behold! he proceeds totally deprived of one moiety of his visual organs!
Don’t you wish you may get it? Pray confess, are you not really particularly anxious to obtain the desired object?
More t’other. Infinitely, peculiarly, and most intensely the entire extreme and the absolute reverse.
Quite different. Dissimilar as the far-extended poles, or the deep-tinctured ebon skins of the dark denizens of Sol’s sultry plains and the fair rivals of descending flakes of virgin snow, melting with envy on the peerless breast of fair Circassia’s ten-fold white-washed daughters.
Over the left. Decidedly in the ascendant of the sinister.

From the nobleman who is selected to move the address in the House of Lords, it would seem that the Whigs, tired of any further experiments in turning their coats, are about to try what effect they can produce with an old Spencer.

As the weather is to decide the question of the corn-laws, the rains that have lately fallen may be called, with truth, the reins of government.



The extraordinary attachment which the Whigs have displayed for office has been almost without parallel in the history of ministerial fidelity. Zoologists talk of the local affection of cats, but in what animal shall we discover such a strong love of place as in the present government? Lord John is a very badger in the courageous manner in which he has resisted the repeated attacks of the Tory terriers. The odds, however, are too great for even his powers of defence; he has given some of the most forward of the curs who have tried to drag him from his burrow some shrewd bites and scratches that they will not forget in a hurry; but, overpowered by numbers, he must “come out” at last, and yield the victory to his numerous persecutors, who will, no doubt, plume themselves upon their dexterity at drawing a badger.



The dramatic world has been in a state of bustle all the week, and parties are going about declaring—not that we put any faith in what they say—that Macready has already given a large sum for a manuscript. If he has done this, we think he is much to blame, unless he has very good reasons, as he most likely has, for doing so; and if such is the case, though we doubt the policy of the step, there can be no question of his having acted very properly in taking it. His lease begins in October, when, it is said, he will certainly open, if he can; but, as he positively cannot, the reports of his opening are rather premature, to say the least of them. For our parts, we never think of putting any credit in what we hear, but we give everything just as it reaches us.


Tin is twopence a hundredweight dearer at Hamburgh than at Paris, which gives an exchange of 247 mille in favour of the latter capital.

A good deal of conversation has been excited by a report of its being intended by some parties in the City to establish a Bank of Issue upon equitable principles. The plan is a novel one, for there is to be no capital actually subscribed, it being expected that sufficient assets will be derived from the depositors. Shares are to be issued, to which a nominal price will be attached, and a dividend is to be declared immediately.

The association for supplying London with periwinkles does not progress very rapidly. A wharf has been taken; but nothing more has been done, which is, we believe, caused by the difficulty found in dealing with existing interests.


The Tories are coming into office, and the Parliament House is surrounded with scaffolds!


Want places, in either of the above lines, three highly practical and experienced hands, fully capable and highly accomplished in the arduous duties of “looking after any quantity of loaves and fishes.” A ten years’ character can be produced from their last places, which they leave because the concern is for the present disposed of to persons equally capable. No objection to look after the till. Wages not so much an object as an extensive trade, the applicants being desirous of keeping their hands in. Apply to Messrs. Russell, Melbourne, and Palmerston, Downing-street Without.

“It is very odd,” said Sergeant Channell to Thessiger, “that Tindal should have decided against me on that point of law which, to me, seemed as plain as A B C.” “Yes,” replied Thessiger, “but of what use is it that it should have been A B C to you, if the judge was determined to be D E F to it?”


The Belfast Vindicator has a story of a sailor who pledged a sixpence for threepence, having it described on the duplicate ticket as “a piece of silver plate of beautiful workmanship,” by which means he disposed of the ticket for two-and-sixpence. The Tories are so struck with this display of congenial roguery, that they intend pawning their “BOB,” and having him described as “a rare piece of vertu(e) première qualité” in the expectation of securing a crown by it.


Mr. Muntz requests us to state, in answer to numerous inquiries as to the motives which induce him to cultivate his beard, that he is actuated purely by a spirit of economy, having, for the last few years, grown his own mattresses, a practice which he earnestly recommends to the attention of all prudent and hirsute individuals. He finds, by experience, that nine square inches of chin will produce, on an average, about a sofa per annum. The whiskers, if properly attended to, may be made to yield about an easy chair in the same space of time; whilst luxuriant moustachios will give a pair of anti-rheumatic attrition gloves every six months. Mr. M. recommends, as the best mode of cultivation for barren soils, to plough with a cat’s-paw, and manure with Macassar.

The Earl of Stair has been created Lord Oxenford. Theodore Hook thinks that the more appropriate title for a Stair, in raising him a step higher, would have been Lord Landing-place, or Viscount Bannister.

[pg 70]


The Augean task of cleansing the Treasury has commenced, and brooms and scrubbing-brushes are at a premium—a little anticipative, it is true, of the approaching turn-out; but the dilatory idleness and muddle-headed confusion of those who will soon be termed its late occupiers, rendered this a work of absolute time and labour. That the change in office had long been expected, is evident from the number of hoards discovered, which the unfortunate employés had saved up against the rainy day arrived. The routing-out of this conglomeration was only equalled in trouble by the removal of the birdlime with which the various benches were covered, and which adhered with most pertinacious obstinacy, in spite of every effort to get rid of it. From one of the wicker baskets used for the purpose of receiving the torn-up letters and documents, the following papers were extracted. We contrived to match the pieces together, and have succeeded tolerably well in forming some connected epistles from the disjointed fragments. We offer no comment, but allow them to speak for themselves. They are selected at random from dozens of others, with which the poor man must have been overwhelmed during the past two months:—


MY LORD,—In the present critical state of your lordship’s situation, it behoves every lover of his country and her friends, to endeavour to assuage, as much as possible, the awkward predicament in which your lordship and colleagues will soon be thrown. My dining-rooms in Broad-street, St. Giles’s, have long been held in high estimation by my customers, for

The rear end of a bull, with a braided tail and striped stockings.


and I can offer you an excellent basin of leg-of-beef soup, with bread and potatoes, for threepence. Imitated by all, equalled by none.

N.B. Please observe the address—Broad-street, St. Giles’s.


A widow lady, superintendent of a boarding-house, in an airy and cheerful part of Kentish Town, will be happy to receive Lord Melbourne as an inmate, when an ungrateful nation shall have induced his retirement from office. Her establishment is chiefly composed of single ladies, addicted to backgammon, birds, and bible meetings, who would, nevertheless, feel delighted in the society of a man of Lord Melbourne’s acknowledged gallantry. The dinner-table is particularly well furnished, and a rubber is generally got up every evening, at which Lord M. could play long penny points if he wished it.

Address S.M., Post-office, Kentish Town.


Grosjean, Restaurateur, Castle-street, Leicester-square, a l’honneur de prévenir Milord Melbourne qu’il se trouvera bien servi à son établissement. Il peut commander un bon potage an choux, trois plats, avec pain à discretion, et une pinte de demi-et-demi; enfin, il pourra parfaitement avoir ses sacs soufflés44. French idiom—“He will be well able to blow his bags out!”—PUNCH, with the assistance of his friend in the show—the foreign gentleman. pour un schilling. La société est très comme-il-faut, et on ne donne rien au garçon.


(Rose-coloured paper, scented. At first supposed to be from a lady of the bedchamber, but contradicted by the sequel.)

Flattering deceiver, and man of many loves,

My fond heart still clings to your cherished memory. Why have I listened to the honied silver of your seducing accents? Your adored image haunts me night and day. How is the treasury?—can you still spare me ten shillings?



JOHN MARVAT respectfully begs to offer to the notice of Lord Melbourne his Bachelor’s Dispatch, or portable kitchen. It will roast, bake, boil, stew, steam, melt butter, toast bread, and diffuse a genial warmth at one and the same time, for the outlay of one halfpenny. It is peculiarly suited for lamb, in any form, which requires delicate dressing, and is admirably adapted for concocting mint-sauce, which delightful adjunct Lord Melbourne may, ere long, find some little difficulty in procuring.

High Holborn.


May it plese my Lord,—i have gest time to Rite and let you kno’ wot a sad plite we are inn, On account off your lordship’s inwitayshun to queen Wictory and Prince Allbut to come and Pick a bit with you, becos There is nothink for them wen they comes, and the Kitchin-range is chok’d up with the sut as has falln down the last fore yeers, and no poletry but too old cox, which is two tuff to be agreerble; But, praps, we Can git sum cold meet from the in, wot as bin left at the farmers’ markut-dinner; and may I ask you my lord without fear of your

An official-looking man nabs another.


on the reseat of this To send down sum ham and beef to me—two pound will be Enuff—or a quarter kitt off pickuld sammun, if you can git it, and I wish you may; and sum german silver spoons, to complement prince Allbut with; and, praps, as he and his missus knos they’ve come to Take pot-luck like, they won’t be patickler, and I think we had better order the beer from the Jerry-shop, for owr own Is rayther hard, and the brooer says, that a fore and a harf gallon, at sixpence A gallon, won’t keep no Time, unless it’s drunk; and so we guv some to the man as brort the bushel of coles, and he sed It only wanted another Hop, and then it woud have hopped into water; and John is a-going to set some trimmers in The ditches to kitch some fish; and, praps, if yure lordship comes, you may kitch sum too, from

Yure obedient Humbl servent and housekeeper,



MY LORD,—Probably your cellars will be full of choke-damp when the door is opened, from long disuse and confined air. I have men, accustomed to descend dangerous wells and shafts, who will undertake the job at a moderate price. Should you labour under any temporary pecuniary embarrassment in paying me, I shall be happy to take it out in your wine, which I should think had been some years in bottle. Your Lordship’s most humble servant,

Dealer in Marine Stores.


I’ve wander’d on the distant shore,

I’ve braved the dangers of the deep,

I’ve very often pass’d the Nore—

At Greenwich climb’d the well-known steep;

I’ve sometimes dined at Conduit House,

I’ve taken at Chalk Farm my tea,

I’ve at the Eagle talk’d with Rouse—

But I have NOT forgotten thee!

“I’ve stood amid the glittering throng”

Of mountebanks at Greenwich fair,

Where I have heard the Chinese gong

Filling, with brazen voice, the air.

I’ve join’d wild revellers at night—

I’ve crouch’d beneath the old oak tree,

Wet through, and in a pretty plight,

But, oh! I’ve NOT forgotten thee!

I’ve earn’d, at times, a pound a week—

Alas! I’m earning nothing now;

Chalk scarcely shames my whiten’d cheek,

Grief has plough’d furrows in my brow.

I only get one meal a day,

And that one meal—oh, God!—my tea;

I’m wasting silently away,

But I have NOT forgotten thee!

My days are drawing to their end—

I’ve now, alas! no end in view;

I never had a real friend—

I wear a worn-out black surtout,

My heart is darken’d o’er with woe,

My trousers whiten’d at the knee,

My boot forgets to hide my toe—

But I have NOT forgotten thee!


The business habits of her gracious Majesty have long been the theme of admiration with her loving subjects. A further proof of her attention to general affairs, and consideration for the accidents of the future, has occurred lately. The lodge at Frogmore, which was, during the lifetime of Queen Charlotte, an out-of-town nursery for little highnesses, has been constructed (by command of the Queen) into a Royal Eccalleobion for a similar purpose.

A man takes a chicken into a cellar.


[pg 71]





“A clever fellow, that Horseleech!” “When Vampyre is once drawn out, what a great creature it is!” These, and similar ecstatic eulogiums, have I frequently heard murmured forth from muzzy mouths into tinged and tingling ears, as I have been leaving a company of choice spirits. There never was a greater mistake. Horseleech, to be candid, far from being a clever fellow, is one of the most barren rascals on record. Vampyre, whether drawn out or held in, is a poor creature, not a great creature—opaque, not luminous—in a word, by nature, a very dull dog indeed.

But you see the necessity of appearing otherwise.—Hunger may be said to be a moral Mechi, which invents a strop upon which the bluntest wits are sharpened to admiration. Believe me, by industry and perseverance—which necessity will inevitably superinduce—the most dreary dullard that ever carried timber between his shoulders in the shape of a head, may speedily convert himself into a seeming Sheridan—a substitutional Sydney Smith—a second Sam Rogers, without the drawback of having written Jacqueline.

Take it for granted that no professed diner-out ever possessed a particle of native wit. His stock-in-trade, like that of Field-lane chapmen, is all plunder. Not a joke issues from his mouth, but has shaken sides long since quiescent. Whoso would be a diner-out must do likewise.

The real diner-out is he whose card-rack or mantelpiece (I was going to say groans, but) laughingly rejoices in respectful well-worded invitations to luxuriously-appointed tables. I count not him, hapless wretch! as one who, singling out “a friend,” drops in just at pudding-time, and ravens horrible remnants of last Tuesday’s joint, cognizant of curses in the throat of his host, and of intensest sable on the brows of his hostess. No struggle there, on the part of the children, “to share the good man’s knee;” but protruded eyes, round as spectacles, and almost as large, fixed alternately upon his flushed face and that absorbing epigastrium which is making their miserable flesh-pot to wane most wretchedly.

To be jocose is not the sole requisite of him who would fain be a universal diner-out. Lively with the light—airy with the sparkling—brilliant with the blithe, he must also be grave with the serious—heavy with the profound—solemn with the stupid. He must be able to snivel with the sentimental—to condole with the afflicted—to prove with the practical—to be a theorist with the speculative.

To be jocose is his most valuable acquisition. As there is a tradition that birds may be caught by sprinkling salt upon their tails, so the best and the most numerous dinners are secured by a judicious management of Attic salt.

I fear me that the works of Josephus, and of his imitators—of that Joseph and his brethren, I mean, whom a friend of mine calls “The Miller and his men”—I fear me, I say, that these are well-nigh exhausted. Yet I have known very ancient jokes turned with advantage, so as to look almost equal to new. But this requires long practice, ere the final skill be attained.

Etherege, Sedley, Wycherley, and Vanbrugh are very little read, and were pretty fellows in their day; I think they may be safely consulted, and rendered available. But, have a care. Be sure you mingle some of your own dulness with their brighter matter, or you will overshoot the mark. You will be too witty—a fatal error. True wits eat no dinners, save of their own providing; and, depend upon it, it is not their wit that will now-a-days get them their dinner. True wits are feared, not fed.

When you tell an anecdote, never ascribe it to a man well known. The time is gone by for dwelling upon—“Dean Swift said”—“Quin, the actor, remarked”—“The facetious Foote was once”—“That reminds me of what Sheridan”—“Ha! ha! Sydney Smith was dining the other day with”—and the like. Your ha! ha!—especially should it precede the name of Sam Rogers—would inevitably cost you a hecatomb of dinners. It would be changed into oh! oh! too surely, and too soon. Verbum sat.

I would have you be careful to sort your pleasantries. Your soup jokes (never hazard that one about Marshal Turenne, it is really too ancient,) your fish, your flesh, your fowl jests—your side-shakers for the side dishes—your puns for the pastry—your after-dinner excruciators.

Sometimes, from negligence (but be not negligent) or ill-luck, which is unavoidable, and attends the best directed efforts, you sit down to table with your stock ill arranged or incomplete, or of an inferior quality. Your object is to make men laugh. It must be done. I have known a pathetic passage, quoted timely and with a happy emphasis from a popular novel—say, “Alice, or the Mysteries”—I have known it, I say, do more execution upon the congregated amount of midriff, than the best joke of the evening. (There is one passage in that “thrilling” performance, where Alice, overjoyed that her lover is restored to her, is represented as frisking about him like a dog around his long-absent proprietor, which, whenever I have taken it in hand, has been rewarded with the most vociferous and gleesome laughter.)

And this reminds me that I should say a word about laughers. I know not whether it be prudent to come to terms with any man, however stentorian his lungs, or flexible his facial organs, with a view to engage him as a cachinnatory machine. A confederate may become a traitor—a rival he is pretty certain of becoming. Besides, strive as you may, you can never secure an altogether unexceptionable individual—one who will “go the whole hyaena,” and be at the same time the entire jackal. If he once start “lion” on his own account, furnished with your original roar, with which you yourself have supplied him, good-bye to your supremacy. “Farewell, my trim-built wherry”—he is in the same boat only to capsise you.

“And the first lion thinks the last a bore,”

and rightly so thinks. No; the best and safest plan is to work out your own ends, independent of aid which at best is foreign, and is likely to be formidable.

I may perhaps resume this subject more at large at a future time. My space at present is limited, but I feel I have hardly as yet entered upon the subject.


Ye banks and braes o’ Buckingham,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair,

When I am on my latest legs,

And may not bask amang ye mair!

And you, sweet maids of honour,—come,

Come, darlings, let us jointly mourn,

For your old flame must now depart,

Depart, oh! never to return!

Oft have I roam’d o’er Buckingham,

From room to room, from height to height;

It was such pleasant exercise,

And gave me such an appetite!

Yes! when the dinner-hour arrived,

For me they never had to wait,

I was the first to take my chair,

And spread my ample napkin straight.

And if they did not quickly come,

After the dinner-bell had knoll’d,

I just ran up my private stairs,

To say the things were getting cold!

But now, farewell, ye pantry steams,

(The sweets of premiership to me),

Ye gravies, relishes, and creams,

Malmsey and Port, and Burgundy!

Full well I mind the days gone by,—

‘Twas nought but sleep, and wake, and dine;

Then John and Pal sang o’ their luck,

And fondly sae sang I o’ mine!

But now, how sad the scene, and changed!

Johnny and Pal are glad nae mair!

Oh! banks and braes o’ Buckingham!

How can you bloom sae fresh and fair!


(From our own Correspondent.)

This delightful watering-place is filling rapidly. The steam-boats bring down hundreds every day, and in the evening take them all back again. Mr. Jones has engaged a lodging for the week, and other families are spoken of. A ball is also talked about; but it is not yet settled who is to give it, nor where it is to be given. The promenading along the wooden pier is very general at the leaving of the packets, and on their arrival a great number of persons pass over it. There are whispers of a band being engaged for the season; but, as there will not be room on the pier for more than one musician, it has been suggested to negotiate with the talented artist who plays the drum with his knee, the cymbals with his elbow, the triangle with his shoulder, the bells with this head, and the Pan’s pipes with his mouth—thus uniting the powers of a full orchestra with the compactness of an individual. An immense number of Margate slippers and donkeys have been imported within the last few days, and there is every probability of this pretty little peninsula becoming a formidable rival to the old-established watering-places.

[pg 72]




Perhaps it was the fashion at the court of Queen Anne, for young gentlemen who had attained the age of sixteen to marry and be given in marriage. At all events, some conjecture of the sort is necessary to make the plot of the piece we are noticing somewhat probable—that being the precise circumstance upon which it hinges. The Count St. Louis, a youthful attaché of the French embassy, becomes attached, by a marriage contract, to Lady Bell, a maid of honour to Queen Anne. The husband at sixteen, of a wife quite nineteen, would, according to the natural course of things, be very considerably hen-pecked; and St. Louis, foreseeing this, determines to begin. Well, he insists upon having “article five” of the marriage contract cancelled; for, by this stipulation, he is to be separated from his wife, on the evening of the ceremony (which fast approaches), for five years. He storms, swears, and is laughed at; somebody sends him a wedding present of sugar-plums—everybody calls him a boy, and makes merry at his expense—the wife treats him with contempt, and plays the scornful. The hobble-de-hoy husband, fired with indignation, determines to prove himself a man.

At the court of Queen Anne this seems to have been an easy matter. St. Louis writes love-letters to several maids of honour and to a citizen’s wife, finishing the first act by invading the private apartments of the maiden ladies belonging to the court of the chaste Queen Anne.

The second act discovers him confined to his apartments by order of the Queen, having amused himself, while the intrigues begun by the love-letters are hatching, by running into debt, and being surrounded by duns. The intrigues are not long in coming to a head, for two ladies visit him separately in secret, and allow themselves to be hid in those never-failing adjuncts to a piece of dramatic intrigue—a couple of closets, which are used exactly in the same manner in “Foreign Affairs,” as in all the farces within the memory of man—ex. gr.:—The hero is alone; one lady enters cautiously. A tender interchange of sentiment ensues—a noise is heard, and the lady screams. “Ah! that closet!” Into which exit lady. Then enter lady No. 2. A second interchange of tender things—another noise behind. “No escape?” “None! and yet, happy thought, that closet.” Exit lady No. 2, into closet No. 2.

This is exactly as it happens in “Foreign Affairs.” The second noise is made by the husband of one of the concealed ladies, and the lover of the other. Here, out of the old “closet” materials, the dramatist has worked up one of the best situations—to use an actor’s word—we ever remember to have witnessed. It cannot be described; but it is really worth all the money to go and see it. Let our readers do so. The “Affairs” end by the boy fighting a couple of duels with the injured men; and thus, crowning the proof of his manhood, gets his wife to tolerate—to love him.

The piece was, as it deserved to be, highly successful; it was admirably acted by Mr. Webster as one of the injured lovers—Mr. Strickland and Mrs. Stirling, as a vulgar citizen and citizeness—by Miss P. Horton as Lady Bell—and even by a Mr. Clarke, who played a very small part—that of a barber—with great skill. Lastly, Madlle. Celeste, as the hero, acquitted herself to admiration. We suppose the farce is called “Foreign Affairs” out of compliment to this lady, who is the only “Foreign Affair” we could discover in the whole piece, if we except that it is translated from the French, which is, strictly, an affair of the author’s.


If, dear readers, you have a taste for refined morality and delicate sentiment, for chaste acting and spirited dialogue, for scenery painted on the spot, but like nothing in nature except canvas and colour—go to the Victoria and see “Mary Clifford.” It may, perhaps, startle you to learn that the incidents are faithfully copied from the “Newgate Calendar,” and that the subject is Mother Brownrigg of apprentice-killing notoriety; but be not alarmed, there is nothing horrible or revolting in the drama—it is merely laughable.

“Mary Clifford, or the foundling apprentice girl,” is very appropriately introduced to the auditor, first outside the gates of that “noble charity-school,” taking leave of some of her accidental companions. Here sympathy is first awakened. Mary is just going out to “place,” and instead of saying “good bye,” which we have been led to believe is the usual form of farewell amongst charity-girls, she sings a song with such heart-rending expression, that everybody cries except the musicians and the audience. To assist in this lachrymose operation, the girls on the stage are supplied with clean white aprons—time out mind a charity-girl’s pocket-handkerchief. In the next scene we are introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Brownrigg’s domestic arrangements, and are made acquainted with their private characters—a fine stroke of policy on the part of the author; for one naturally pities a poor girl who can sing so nicely, and can get the corners of so many white aprons wetted on leaving her last place, when one sees into whose hands she is going to fall. The fact is, the whole family are people of taste—peculiar, to be sure, and not refined. Mrs. B. has a taste for starving apprentices—her son, Mr. Jolin B., for seducing them—and Mr. B. longs only for a quiet life, a pot of porter, and a pipe. Into the bosom of this amiable family Mary Clifford enters; and we tremble for her virtue and her meals! not, alas, in vain, for Mr. John is not slow in commencing his gallantries, which are exceedingly offensive to Mary, seeing that she has already formed a liaison with a school-fellow, one William Clipson, who happily resides at the very next door with a baker. During the struggles that ensue she calls upon her “heart’s master,” the journeyman baker. But there is another and more terrible invocation. In classic plays they invoke “the gods”—in Catholic I ones, “the saints”—the stage Arab appeals to “Allah”—the light comedian swears “by the lord Harry”—but Mary Clifford adds a new and impressive invocative to the list. When young Brownrigg attempts to kiss, or his mother to flog her, she casts her eyes upward, kneels, and placing her hands together in an attitude of prayer, solemnly calls upon—“the governors of the Foundling Hospital!!” Nothing can exceed the terrific effect this seems to produce upon her persecutors! They release her instantly—they slink back abashed and trembling—they hide their diminished heads, and leave their victim a clear stage for a soliloquy or a song.

We really must stop here, to point out to dramatic authors the importance of this novel form of conjuration. When the history of Fauntleroy comes to be dramatised, the lover will, of course, be a banker’s clerk: in the depths of distress and despair into which he will have to be plunged, a prayer-like appeal to “the Governor and Company of the Bank of England,” will, most assuredly, draw tears from the most insensible audience. The old exclamations of “Gracious powers!”—“Great heavens!”—“By heaven, I swear!” &c. &c., may now be abandoned; and, after “Mary Clifford,” Bob Acres’ tasteful system of swearing may not only be safely introduced into the tragic drama, but considerably augmented.

But to return. Dreading lest Miss Mary should really “go and tell” the illustrious governors, she is kept a close prisoner, and finishes the first act by a conspiracy with a fellow-apprentice, and an attempt to escape.

Mr. Brownrigg, we are informed, carried on business at No. 12, Fetter-lane, in the oil, paint, pickles, vinegar, plumbing, glazing, and pepper-line; and, in the next act, a correct view is exhibited of the exterior of his shop, painted, we are told, from the most indisputable authorities of the time. Here, in Fetter, lane, the romance of the tale begins:—A lady enters, who, being of a communicative disposition, begins, unasked, unquestioned, to tell the audience a story—how that she married in early life—that her husband was pressed to sea a day or two after the wedding—that she in due time became a mother, and (affectionate creature!) left the dear little pledge at the door of the Foundling Hospital. That was sixteen years ago. Since then fortune has smiled, and she wants her baby back again; but on going to the hospital, says, that they informed her that her daughter has been just “put apprentice” in the very house before which she tells the story—part of it as great a fib as ever was told; for children once inside the walls of that “noble charity,” never know who left them there; and any attempt to find each other out, by parent or child, is punished with the instant withdrawal of the omnipotent protection of the awful “governors.” This lady, who bears all the romance of the piece upon her own shoulders, expects to meet her long-lost husband at the Ship, in Wapping, and instead of seeking her daughter, repairs thither, having done all the author required, by emptying her budget of fibs.

The next scene is harrowing in the extreme. The bills describe it as Mrs. Brownrigg’s “wash-house, kitchen, and skylight”—the sky-light forming a most impressive object. Poor Mary Clifford is chained to the floor, her face begrimed, her dress in rags, and herself exceedingly hungry. Here the heroine describes the weakness of her body with energy and stentorian eloquence, but is interrupted by Mr. Clipson, whose face appears framed and glazed in the broken sky-light. A pathetic dialogue ensues, and the lover swears he will rescue his mistress, or “perish in the attempt,” “calling upon Mr. Owen, the parish overseer,” to make known her sufferings. The Ship, in Wapping, is next shown; and Toby Bensling, alias Richard Clifford, enters to inform his hearers that he is the missing father of the injured foundling, and has that moment stepped ashore, after a short voyage, lasting sixteen years! He is on his way to the “Admiralty,” to receive some pay—the more particularly, we imagine, as they always pay sailors at Somerset House—and then to look after his wife. But she saves him the trouble by entering with Mr. William Clipson. The usual “Whom do I see?”—“Can it be?”—“After so long an absence!” &c. &c., having been duly uttered and begged to, they all go to see after Mary, find her in a cupboard in Mrs. B.’s back-parlour, and—the act-drop falls.

We must confess we approach a description of the third act with diffidence. Such intense pathos, we feel, demands words of more sombre sound—ink of a darker hue, than we can command. The third scene is, in particular, too extravagantly touching for ordinary nerves to witness. Mary Clifford is in bed—French bedstead (especially selected, perhaps, because such things were not thought of in the days of Mother Brownrigg) stands exactly in the middle of the stage—a chest of drawers is placed behind, and a table on each side, to balance the picture. The lover leans over the head, the mother sits at the foot, the father stands at the side: Mary Clifford is insane, with lucid intervals, and is, moreover, dying. The consequence is, she has all the talk to herself, which consists of a discourse concerning the great “governors,” her cruel mistress, and her naughty young master, interlarded with insane ejaculations, always considered stage property, such as, “Ah, she comes!” “Nay, strike me not—I am guiltless!” Again, “Villain! what do you take me for?—unhand me!” and all that. Then the dying part comes, and she sees an angel in the flies, and informs it that she is coming soon (here it is usual for a lady to be removed from the gallery in strong hysterics), and keeps her word by letting her arm fall upon the bed-clothes and shutting her eyes, whereupon somebody says that she is dead, and the prompter whistles for the scene to be changed.

In the last scene, criminal justice takes its course. Mrs. Brownrigg, having been sentenced to the gallows, is seen in the condemned cell; her son by her side, and the fatal cart in the back-ground. Having been brought up genteelly, she declines the mode of conveyance provided for her journey to Tyburn with the utmost volubility. Being about to be hanged merely does not seem to affect her so poignantly as the disgraceful “drag” she is doomed to take her last journey in. She swoons at the idea; and the curtain falls to end her wicked career, and the sufferings of an innocent audience.


VOL. 1.

[pg 73]

AUGUST 28, 1841.




A man balances another on his head and forms the letter T

The following is extracted from the Parliamentary Guide for 18—:—“APPLEBITE, ISAAC (Puddingbury). Born March 25, 1780; descended from his grandfather, and has issue.” And upon reference to a monument in Puddingbury church, representing the first Mrs. Applebite (who was a housemaid) industriously scrubbing a large tea-urn, whilst another figure (supposed to be the second Mrs. Applebite) is pointing reproachfully to a little fat cherub who is blowing himself into a fit of apoplexy from some unassignable cause or another—I say upon reference to this monument, upon which is blazoned forth all the stock virtues of those who employ stonemasons, I find, that in July, 18—, the said Isaac was gathered unto Abraham’s bosom, leaving behind him—a seat in the House of Commons—a relict—the issue aforesaid, and £50,000 in the three per cents.

The widow Applebite had so arranged matters with her husband, that two-thirds of the above sum were left wholly and solely to her, as some sort of consolation under her bereavement of the “best of husbands and the kindest of fathers.” (Vide monument.) Old Isaac must have been a treasure, for his wife either missed him so much, or felt so desirous to learn if there was another man in the world like him, that, as soon as the monument was completed and placed in Puddingbury chancel, she married a young officer in a dashing dragoon regiment, and started to the Continent to spend the honeymoon, leaving her son—

AGAMEMNON COLLUMPSION APPLEBITE (the apoplectic “cherub” and the “issue” alluded to in the Parliamentary Guide), to the care of himself.

A.C.A. was the pattern of what a young man ought to be. He had 16,000 and odd pounds in the three per cents., hair that curled naturally, stood five feet nine inches without his shoes, always gave a shilling to a waiter, lived in a terrace, never stopped out all night (but once), and paid regularly every Monday morning. Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite was a happy bachelor! The women were delighted to see him, and the men to dine with him: to the one he gave bouquets; to the other, cigars: in short, everybody considered A.C.A. as A1; and A.C.A. considered that A1 was his proper mark.

It is somewhat singular, but no man knows when he is really happy: he may fancy that he wants for nothing, and may even persuade himself that addition or subtraction would be certain to interfere with the perfectitude of his enjoyment. He deceives himself. If he wishes to assure himself of the exact state of his feelings, let him ask his friends; they are disinterested parties, and will find out some annoyance that has escaped his notice. It was thus with Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite. He had made up his mind that he wanted for nothing, when it was suddenly found out by his friends that he was in a state of felicitous destitution. It was discovered simultaneously, by five mamas and eighteen daughters, that Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite must want a wife; and that his sixteen thousand and odd pounds must be a source of undivided anxiety to him. Stimulated by the most praiseworthy considerations, a solemn compact was entered into by the aforesaid five mamas, on behalf of the aforesaid eighteen daughters, by which they were pledged to use every means to convince Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite of his deplorable condition; but no unfair advantage was to be taken to ensure a preference for any particular one of the said eighteen daughters, but that the said Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite should be left free to exercise his own discretion, so far as the said eighteen daughters were concerned, but should any other daughter, of whatever mama soever, indicate a wish to become a competitor, she was to be considered a common enemy, and scandalized accordingly.

Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite, about ten o’clock on the following evening, was seated on a sofa, between Mrs. Greatgirdle and Mrs. Waddledot (the two mamas deputed to open the campaign), each with a cup of very prime Mocha coffee, and a massive fiddle-pattern tea-spoon. On the opposite side of the room, in a corner, was a very large cage, in the sole occupancy of a solitary Java sparrow.

“My poor bird looks very miserable,” sighed Mrs. Greatgirdle, (the hostess upon this occasion.)

“Very miserable!” echoed Mrs. Waddledot; and the truth of the remark was apparent to every one.

The Java sparrow was moulting and suffering from a cutaneous disorder at the same time; so what with the falling off, and scratching off of his feathers, he looked in a most deplorable condition; which was rendered more apparent by the magnitude of his cage. He seemed like the last debtor confined in the Queen’s Bench.

“He has never been himself since the death of his mate.” (Here the bird scarified himself with great violence.) “He is so restless; and though he eats very well, and hops about, he seems to have lost all care of his person, as though he would put on mourning if he had it.”

“Is there no possibility of dyeing his feathers?” remarked Agamemnon Collumpsion, feeling the necessity of saying something.

“It is not the inky cloak, Mr. Applebite,” replied Mrs. Greatgirdle, “that truly indicates regret; but it’s here,” (laying her hand upon her left side): “no—there, under his liver wing, that he feels it, poor bird! It’s a shocking thing to live alone.”

“And especially in such a large cage,” said Mrs. Waddledot. “Your house is rather large, Mr. Applebite?” inquired Mrs. Greatgirdle.

“Rather, ma’am,” replied Collumpsion.

“Ain’t you very lonely?” said Mrs. Waddledot and Mrs. Greatgirdle both in a breath.

“Why, not—”

“Very lively, you were going to say,” interrupted Mrs. G.

Now Mrs. G. was wrong in her conjecture of Collumpsion’s reply. He was about to say, “Why, not at all;” but she, of course, knew best what he ought to have answered.

“I often feel for you, Mr. Applebite,” remarked Mrs. Waddledot; “and think how strange it is that you, who really are a nice young man—and I don’t say so to flatter you—that you should have been so unsuccessful with the ladies.”

Collumpsion’s vanity was awfully mortified at this idea.

“It is strange!” exclaimed Mrs. G “I wonder it don’t make you miserable. There is no home, I mean the ‘Sweet, sweet home,’ without a wife. Try, try again, Mr. Applebite,” (tapping his arm as she rose;) “faint heart never won fair lady.”

“I refused Mr. Waddledot three times, but I yielded at last; take courage from that, and 24, Pleasant Terrace, may shortly become that Elysium—a woman’s home,” whispered Mrs. W., as she rolled gracefully to a card-table; and accidentally, of course, cut the ace of spades, which she exhibited to Collumpsion with a very mysterious shake of the head.

Agamemnon returned to 24, Pleasant Terrace, a discontented man. He felt that there was no one sitting up for him—nothing but a rush-light—the dog might bark as he entered, but no voice was there to welcome him, and with a heavy heart he ascended the two stone steps of his dwelling.

He took out his latch-key, and was about to unlock the door, when a loud knocking was heard in the next street. Collumpsion paused, and then gave utterance to his feelings. “That’s music—positively music. This is my house—there’s my name on the brass-plate—that’s my knocker, as I can prove by the bill and receipt; and, yet, here I am about to sneak in like a burglar. Old John sha’n’t go to bed another night; I’ll not indulge the lazy scoundrel any longer, Yet the poor old fellow nursed me when a child. I’ll compromise the matter—I’ll knock, and let myself in.” So saying, Collumpsion thumped away at the door, looked around to see that he was unobserved, applied his latch-key, and slipped into his house just as old John, in a state of great alarm and undress, was descending the stairs with a candle and a boot-jack.


We read in the Glasgow Courier of an enormous salmon hooked at Govan, which measured three feet, three inches in length. The Morning Herald mentions several gudgeons of twice the size, caught, we understand, by Alderman Humphery, and conveyed to Town per Blackwall Railway.

[pg 74]
A man thumbs his nose while carrying a Chinaman on his back



August 28, 1841.

We have received expresses from the Celestial Empire by our own private electro-galvanic communication. As this rapid means of transmission carries dispatches so fast that we generally get them even before they are written, we are enabled to be considerably in advance of the common daily journals; more especially as we have obtained news up to the end of next week.

The most important paper which has come to hand is the Macao Sunday Times. It appears that the fortifications for surrounding Pekin are progressing rapidly, but that the government have determined upon building the ramparts of japanned canvas and bamboo rods, instead of pounded rice, which was thought almost too fragile to resist the attacks of the English barbarians. Some handsome guns, of blue and white porcelain, have been placed on the walls, with a proportionate number of carved ivory balls, elaborately cut one inside the other. These, it is presumed, will split upon firing, and produce incalculable mischief and confusion. Within the gates a frightful magazine of gilt crackers, and other fireworks, has been erected; which, in the event of the savages penetrating the fortifications, will be exploded one after another, to terrify them into fits, when they will be easily captured. This precaution has been scarcely thought necessary by some of the mandarins, as our great artist, Wang, has covered the external joss-house with frantic figures that, must strike terror to every barbarian. Gold paper has also been kept constantly burning, on altars of holy clay, at every practicable point of the defences, which it is hardly thought they will have the hardihood to approach, and the sacred ducks of Fanqui have been turned loose in the river to retard the progress of the infidel fleet.

During the storm of last week the portcullis, which hail been placed in the northern gate, and was composed of solid rice paper, with cross-bars of chop-sticks, was much damaged. It is now under repair, and will be coated entirely with tea-chest lead, to render it perfectly impregnable. The whole of the household troops and body-guard of the emperor have also received new accoutrements of tin-foil and painted isinglass. They have likewise been armed with varnished bladders, containing peas and date stones, which produce a terrific sound upon the least motion.

An Englishman has been gallantly captured this morning, in a small boat, by one of our armed junks. He will eat his eyes in the Palace-court this afternoon; and then, being enclosed in soft porcelain, will be baked to form a statue for the new pagoda at Bo-Lung, the first stone of which was laid by the late emperor, to celebrate his victory over the rude northern islanders.


The last order of the government, prohibiting the exportation of tea and rhubarb, has been issued by the advice of Lin, who translates the English newspapers to the council. It is affirmed in these journals, that millions of these desert tribes have no other beverage than tea for their support. As their oath prohibits any other liquor, they will be driven to water for subsistence, and, unable to correct its unhealthy influence by doses of rhubarb, will die miserably. In anticipation of this event, large catacombs are being erected near their great city, on the authority of Slo-Lefe-Tee, who visited it last year, and intends shortly to go there again. The rhubarb prohibition will, it is said, have a great effect upon the English market for plums, pickled salmon, and greengages; and the physicians, or disciples of the great Hum, appear uncertain as to the course to be pursued.

The emperor has issued a chop to the Hong merchants, forbidding them to assist or correspond with the invaders, under pain of having their finger-nails drawn out and rings put in their noses. Howqua resists the order, and it is the intention of Lin, should he remain obstinate, to recommend his being pounded up with broken crockery and packed in Chinese catty packages, to be forwarded, as an example, to the Mandarin Pidding, of the wild island.

An English flag, stolen by a deserter from Chusan, will be formally insulted to-morrow in the market-place, by the emperor and his court. Dust will be thrown at it, accompanied by derisive grimaces, and it will be subsequently hoisted, in scorn, to blow, at the mercy of the winds, upon the summit of the palace, within sight of the barbarians.



August 30.

The Sultan got very fuddled last night, with forbidden juice, in the harem, and tumbled down the ivory steps leading from the apartment of the favourite, by which accident he seriously cut his nose. Every guard is to be bastinadoed in consequence, and the wine-merchant will be privately sewn up in a canvas-bag and thrown into the Bosphorus this evening.

A relation of Selim Pacha, despatched by the Sultan to collect taxes in Beyrout, was despatched by the Syrians a few hours after his arrival.

The periodical conflagration of the houses, mosques, and synagogues, in Smyrna, took place with great splendour on the 30th ult., and the next will be arranged for the ensuing month, when everybody suspected of the plague will receive orders from the government to remain in their dwellings until they are entirely consumed. By this salutary arrangement, it is expected that much improvement will take place in the public health.

The inundation of the Nile has also been very favourable this year, The water has risen higher than usual, and carried off several hundred poor people. The Board of Guardians of the Alexandria Union are consequently much rejoiced.



“The air hath bubbles as the water hath.”

Huzza! huzza! there goes the balloon—

’Tis up like a rocket, and off to the moon!

Now fading from our view,

Or dimly seen;

Now lost in the deep blue

Is Mr. Green!

Pray have a care,

In your path through the air,

And mind well what you do;

For if you chance to slip

Out of your airy ship,

Then down you come, and all is up with you.


Two thousand and thirty-five remarkably fine calves, from their various rural pasturages at Smithfield. Some of the heads of the party have since been seen in the very highest society.


“What will you take?” said Peel to Russell, on adjourning from the School of Design. “Anything you recommend.” “Then let it be your departure,” was the significant rejoinder.


“French agents are said to be sowing discontent in Syria.”—Sunday Times.

[pg 75]


Having advised you in our last paper of “Dress in general,” we now proceed to the important consideration of


a subject of such paramount interest and magnitude, that we feel an Encyclopædia would be barely sufficient for its full developement; and it is our honest conviction that, until professorships of this truly noble art are instituted at the different universities, the same barbarisms of style will be displayed even by those of gentle blood, as now too frequently detract from the Augustan character of the age.

To take as comprehensive a view of this subject as our space will admit, we have divided it into the quality, the cut, the ornaments, and the pathology.


comprises the texture, colour, and age of the materials.

Of the texture there are only two kinds compatible with the reputation of a gentleman—the very fine and the very coarse; or, to speak figuratively—the Cachmere and the Witney blanket.

The latter is an emanation from the refinement of the nineteenth century, for a prejudice in favour of “extra-superfine” formerly existed, as the coarser textures, now prevalent, were confined exclusively to common sailors, hackney-coachmen, and bum-bailiffs. These frivolous distinctions are happily exploded, and the true gentleman may now show in Saxony, or figure in Flushing—the one being suggestive of his property, and the other indicative of his taste. These remarks apply exclusively to woollens, whether for coats or trousers.

It is incumbent on every gentleman to have a perfect library of waistcoats, the selection of which must be regulated by the cost of the material, as it would be derogatory, in the highest degree, to a man aspiring to the character of a distingué, to decorate his bosom with a garment that would by any possibility come under the denomination of “these choice patterns, only 7s. 6d.” There are certain designs for this important decorative adjunct, which entirely preclude them from the wardrobes of the élite—the imaginative bouquets upon red-plush grounds, patronised by the ingenious constructors of canals and rail-roads—the broad and brilliant Spanish striped Valencias, which distinguish the savans or knowing ones of the stable—the cotton (must we profane the word!) velvet impositions covered with botanical diagrams done in distemper, and monopolized by lawyers’ clerks and small professionals—the positive or genuine Genoa velvet, with violent and showy embellishments of roses, dahlias, and peonies, which find favour in the eyes of aldermen, attorneys, and the proprietors of four-wheel chaises, are all to be avoided as the fifth daughter of a clergyman’s widow.

It is almost superfluous to add, that breeches can only be made of white leather or white kerseymere, for any other colour or material would awaken associations of the dancing-master, the waiter, the butler, or the bumpkin, or, what is equally to be dreaded, “the highly respectables” of the last century.

The dressing-gown is a portion of the costume which commands particular attention; for though no man “can appear as a hero to his valet,” he must keep up the gentleman. This can only be done by the dressing-gown. To gentlemen who occupy apartments, the robe de chambre, if properly selected, is of infinite advantage; for an Indian shawl or rich brocaded silk (of which this garment should only be constructed), will be found to possess extraordinary pacific properties with the landlady, when the irregularity of your remittances may have ruffled the equanimity of her temper, whilst you are

A man lays under a running spigot.


whereas a gray Duffield, or a cotton chintz, would be certain to induce deductions highly prejudicial to the respectability of your character, or, what is of equal importance, to the duration of your credit.

The colour of your materials should be selected with due regard to the species of garment and the tone of the complexion. If the face be of that faint drab which your friends would designate pallid, and your enemies sallow, a coat of pea-green or snuff-brown must be scrupulously eschewed, whilst black or invisible green would, by contrast, make that appear delicate and interesting, which, by the use of the former colours, must necessarily seem bilious and brassy.

The rosy complexionist must as earnestly avoid all sombre tints, as the inelegance of a healthful appearance should never be obtrusively displayed by being placed in juxta-position with colours diametrically opposite, though it is almost unnecessary to state that any one ignorant enough to appear of an evening in a coat of any other colour than blue or black (regimentals, of course, excepted), would certainly be condemned to a quarantine in the servant’s hall. There are colours which, if worn for trousers by the first peer of the realm, would be as condemnatory of his character as a gentleman, as levanting on the settling-day for the Derby.

The dark drab, which harmonises with the mud—the peculiar pepper-and-salt which is warranted not to grow gray with age—the indescribable mixtures, which have evidently been compounded for the sake of economy, must ever be exiled from the wardrobe and legs of a gentleman.

The hunting-coat must be invariably of scarlet, due care being taken before wearing to dip the tips of the tails in claret or port wine, which, for new coats, or for those of gentlemen who do not hunt, has been found to give them an equally veteran appearance with the sweat of the horse.

Of the age it is only necessary to state, that a truly fashionable suit should never appear under a week, or be worn longer than a month from the time that it left the hands of its parent schneider. Shooting-coats are exceptions to the latter part of this rule, as a garment devoted to the field should always bear evidence of long service, and a new jacket should be consigned to your valet, who, if he understands his profession, will carefully rub the shoulders with a hearth-stone and bole-ammonia, to convey the appearance of friction and the deposite of the rust of the gun1.1. Gentlemen who are theoretical, rather than practical sportsmen, would find it beneficial to have a partridge carefully plucked, and the feathers sparingly deposited in the pockets of the shooting-jacket usually applied to the purposes of carrying game. Newgate Market possesses all the advantages of a preserved manor.

Of the cut, ornaments, and pathology of dress, we shall speak next week, for these are equally essential to ensure

A man crashes thru a window.



We are informed by the Times of Saturday, that at the late Conservative enactment at D.L., not only his Royal Highness Prince Albert, but the infant Princess Royal, was “drunk, with the usual honours.”—[Proh pudor!—PUNCH.]


Sibthorp, meeting Peel in the House of Commons, after congratulating him on his present enviable position, finished the confab with the following unrivalled conundrum:—“By the bye, which of your vegetables does your Tamworth speech resemble!”—“Spinach,” replied Peel, who, no doubt, associated it with gammon.—“Pshaw,” said the gallant Colonel, “your rope inions (your opinions), to be sure!” Peel opened his mouth, and never closed it till he took his seat at the table.


Sir Francis Burdett, the superannuated Tory tool, proposed the Conservative healths; and Toole the second, as toast-master, announced them to the assemblage.

[pg 76]



“Are the two ponies ready?”


“And the ass?”

“All right!”

“And you’ve, all five of you, got your fi’pennies for Tony Dolan, the barber, at Kells?”

“Every one of us.”

“Then be off; there’s good boys! Ride and tie like Christians, and don’t be going double on the brute beasts; for a bit of a walk now and then will just stretch your legs. Be back at five to dinner; and let us see what bucks you’ll look with your new-trimmed curls. Stay, there’s another fi’penny; spend that among you, and take care of yourselves, my little jewels!”

Such were the parting queries and instructions of my kind old uncle to five as roaring, mischievous urchins as ever stole whisky to soak the shamrock on St. Patrick’s day. The chief director, schemer, and perpetrator of all our fun and devilry, was, strange to say, “my cousin Bob:” the smallest, and, with one exception, the youngest of the party. But Bob was his grandmother’s “ashey pet”—his mother’s “jewel”—his father’s “mannikin”—his nurse’s “honey”—and the whole world’s “darlin’ little devil of a rogue!” The expression of a face naturally arch, beaming with good humour, and radiant with happy laughter, was singularly heightened by a strange peculiarity of vision, which I am at a loss to describe. It was, if the reader can idealise the thing, an absolute “beauty,” which, unfortunately, can only be written about by the appliances of some term conveying the notion of a blemish. The glances from his bright eyes seemed to steal out from under their long fringe, the most reckless truants of exulting mirth. No matter what he said, he looked a joke. Now for his orders:—

“Aisy with you, lads. Cousin Harry, take first ride on St. Patrick (the name of the ass)—here’s a leg up. The two Dicks can have Scrub and Rasper. Jack and Billy, boys, catch a hold of the bridles, or devil a ha’p’worth of ride and tie there’ll be in at all, if them Dicks get the start—Shanks’ mare will take you to Kells. Don’t be galloping off in that manner, but shoot aisy! Remember, the ass has got to keep up with you, and I’ve got to keep up with the ass. That’s the thing—steady she goes! It’s an elegant day, and no hurry in life. Spider! come here, boy—that’s right. Down, sir! down, you devil, or wipe your paws. Bad manners to you—look at them breeches! Never mind, there’s a power of rats at Tony Carroll’s barn—it’s mighty little out o’ the way, and may be we’ll get a hunt. What say you?”

“A hunt, a hunt, by all manes! there’s the fun of it! Come on, lads—here’s the place!—turn off, and go to work! Wait, wait! get a stick a-piece, and break the necks of ’em! Hurrah!—in Spider!—find ’em boy! Good lad! Tare an ouns, you may well squeak! Good dog! good dog! that’s a grandfather!—we’ll have more yet; the family always come to the ould one’s berrin’. I’ve seen ’em often, and mighty dacent they behave. Damn Kells and the barber, up with the boords and go to work!—this is something like sport! Houly Paul, there’s one up my breeches—here’s the tail of him—he caught a hould of my leather-garter. Come out of that, Spider! Spider, here he is—that’s it—give him another shake for his impudence—serve him out! Hurrah!”

“Fast and furious” grew our incessant urging on of the willing Spider, for his continued efforts at extermination. At the end of two hours, the metamorphosed barn was nearly stripped of its flooring—nine huge rats lay dead, as trophies of our own achievements—the panting Spider, “by turns caressing, and by turns caressed,” licking alternately the hands and faces of all, as we sat on the low ledge of the doorway, wagging his close-cut stump of tail, as if he were resolved, by his unceasing exertions, to get entirely rid of that excited dorsal ornament.

“This is the rael thing,” said Bob.

“So it is,” said Dick; “but”—

“But what?”

“Why, devil a ha’p’orth of Kells or hair-cutting there’s in it.”

“Not a taste,” chimed in Jack.

“Nothing like it,” echoed Will.

“What will we do?” said all at once. There was a short pause—after which the matter was resumed by Dick, who was intended for a parson, and therefore rather given to moralising.

“Life,” quoth Dick—“life’s uncertain.”

“You may say that,” rejoined Bob; “look at them rats.”

“Tony Dowlan’s a hard-drinking man, and his mother had fits.”

“Of the same sort,” said Bob.

“Well, then,” continued Dick, “there’s no knowing—he may be dead—if so, how could he cut our hair?”

Here Dick, like Brutus, paused for a reply. Bob produced one.

“It’s a good scheme, but it won’t do; the likes of him never does anything he’s wanted to. He’s the contrariest ould thief in Ireland! I wish mama hadn’t got a party; we’d do well enough but for that. Never mind, boys, I’ve got it. There’s Mikey Brian, he’s the boy!

“What for?”

“To cut the hair of the whole of us.”

He can’t do it.”

“Can’t! wait, a-cushla, till I tell you, or, what’s better, show you. Come now, you devils. Look at the heels (Rasper’s and Scrub’s) of them ponies! Did ever you see anything like them!—look at the cutting there—Tony Dowlan never had the knack o’ that tasty work in his dirty finger and thumb—and who done that? Why Mikey Brian—didn’t I see him myself; and isn’t he the boy that can ‘bang Bannaker’ at anything! Oh! he’ll cut us elegant!—he’ll do the squad for a fi’penny—and then, lads, there’s them five others will be just one a-piece to buy gut and flies! Come on, you Hessians!”

No sooner proposed than acceded to—off we set, for the eulogised “Bannaker banging Mikey Brian.”

A stout, handsome boy he was—rising four-and-twenty—a fighting, kissing, rollicking, ball-playing, dancing vagabone, as you’d see in a day’s march—such a fellow as you only meet in Ireland—a bit of a gardener, a bit of a groom, a bit of a futboy, and a bit of a horse-docthor.

We reached the stables by the back way, and there, in his own peculiar loft, was Mikey Brian, brushing a somewhat faded livery, in which to wait upon the coming quality.

Bob stated the case, as far as the want of our locks’ curtailment went, but made no mention of the delay which occasioned our coming to Mikey; on the contrary, he attributed the preference solely to our conviction of his superior abilities, and the wish to give him a chance, as he felt convinced, if he had fair play, he’d be engaged miles round, instead of the hopping old shaver at Kells.

“I’m your man, Masther Robert.”

“Who’s first?”

“I am—there’s the fi’penny—that’s for the lot!”

“Good luck to you, sit down—will you have the Currah thoro’bred-cut?”

“That’s the thing,” said Bob.

“Then, young gentlement, as there ain’t much room—and if you do be all looking on, I’ll be bothered—just come in one by one.”

Out we went, and, in an inconceivably short space, Bob emerged.

Mikey advising: “Master Robert, dear, keep your hat on for the life of you, for fear of cowld.” A few minutes finished us all.

“This is elegant,” said Bob. “Mikey, it will be the making of you; but don’t say a word till you hear how they’ll praise you at dinner.”

“Mum!” said Mikey, and off we rushed.

I felt rather astonished at the ease with which my hat sat; while those of the rest appeared ready to fall over their noses. Being in a hurry, this was passed over. The second dinner-bell rang—we bolted up for a brief ablution—our hats were thrown into a corner, and, as if by one consent, all eyes were fixed upon each other’s heads!

Bob gave tongue: “The Devil’s skewer to Mikey Brian! and bad luck to the Currah thoro’bred cut! Not the eighth part of an inch of ‘air there is amongst the set of us. What will the master say? Never mind; we’ve got the fi’pennies! Come to dinner!—by the Puck we are beauties!”

We reached the dining-room unperceived; but who can describe the agony of my aunt Kate, when she clapped her eyes upon five such close-clipped scarecrows. She vowed vengence of all sorts and descriptions against the impudent, unnatural, shameful monster! Terms which Mikey Brian, in the back-ground, appropriated to himself, and with the utmost difficulty restrained his rising wrath from breaking out.

“What,” continued aunt Kate, “what does he call this?”

“It’s the thoro’bred Currah-cut, ma’am,” said Bob, with one of his peculiar glances at Mikey and the rest.

“And mighty cool wearing, I’ll be bail,” muttered Mikey.

“Does he call that hair-cutting?” screamed my aunt.

“That, and nothing but it,” quietly retorted Bob, passing his hand over his head; “you can’t deny the cutting, ma’am.”

“The young gentlemen look elegant,” said Mikey.

“I’m told it’s all the go, ma’am,” said Bob.

“Wait!” said my aunt, with suppressed rage; “wait till I go to Kells.”

This did not happen for six weeks; our aunt’s anger was mollified as our locks were once more human. Upon upbraiding “Tony Knowlan” the murder came out. A hearty laugh ensured our pardon, and Mikey Brian’s; and the story of the “thoro’bred Currah-cut” was often told, as the means by which “we all got a fi’penny bit a-piece.”—FUSBOS.

There is a portrait of a person so like him, that, the other day, a friend who called took no notice whatever of the man, further than saying he was a good likeness, but asked the portrait to dinner, and only found out his mistake when he went up to shake hands with it at parting.

An American hearing that there was a fire in his neighbourhood, and that it might possibly consume his house, took the precaution to bolt his own door; that he might be, so far at least, beforehand with the devouring element.


The peace, happiness, and prosperity of England, are threatened by Peel; in Ireland, the picture is reversed: the safety of that country is endangered by Re-peal. It would be hard to say which is worst.


Jane is a constant wench (so Sibthorp says);

For in how many shops you see Jean stays!


The Count’s fashioner sent in, the other day, his bill, which was a pretty considerable time overdue, accompanied by the following polite note:—

“Sir,—Your bill having been for a very long time standing, I beg that it may be settled forthwith.


To which Snip received the following reply:—

“Sir,—I am very sorry that your bill should have been kept standing so long. Pray request it to sit down.


[pg 77]


It was in the year 1808, that myself and seven others resolved upon taking chambers in Staples’ Inn. Our avowed object was to study, but we had in reality assembled together for the purposes of convivial enjoyment, and what were then designated “sprees.” Our stock consisted of four hundred and twelve pounds, which we had drawn from our parents and guardians under the various pretences of paying fees and procuring books for the advancement of our knowledge in the sublime mysteries of that black art called Law. In addition to our pecuniary resources, we had also a fair assortment of wearing-apparel, and it was well for us that parental anxiety had provided most of us with a change of garments suitable to the various seasons. For a long time everything went on riotously and prosperously. We visited the Theatres, the Coal-hole, the Cider-cellars, and the Saloon, and became such ardent admirers of the “Waterford system of passing a night and morning,” that scarcely a day came without a draft upon the treasury for that legal imposition upon the liberty of the subject—the five-shilling fine; besides the discharge of promissory notes as compensation for trifling damages done to the heads and property of various individuals.

About a month after the formation of our association we were all suffering severely from thirsty head-aches, produced, I am convinced, by the rapid consumption of thirteen bowls of whiskey-punch on the preceding night. The rain was falling in perpendicular torrents, and the whole aspect of out-of-door nature was gloomy and sloppy, when we were alarmed by the exclamation of Joseph Jones (a relation of the Welsh Joneses), who officiated as our treasurer, and upon inquiring the cause, were horror-stricken to find that we had arrived at our last ten-pound note, and that the landlord had sent an imperative message, requiring the immediate settlement of our back-rent. It is impossible to paint the consternation depicted on every countenance, already sufficiently disordered by previous suffering and biliary disarrangement.

I was the first to speak; for being the son of a shabby-genteel father, I had witnessed in my infancy many of those schemes to raise the needful, to which ambitious men with limited incomes are so frequently driven. I therefore bid them be of good heart, for that any pawnbroker in the neighbourhood would readily advance money upon the superfluous wardrobe which we possessed. This remark was received with loud cheers, which, I have no doubt, would have been much more vehement but from the fatal effects of the whiskey-punch.

The landlord’s claim was instantly discharged, and after several pots of strong green tea, rendered innocuous by brandy, we sallied forth in pursuit of what we then ignorantly conceived to be pleasure.

I will not pause to particularise the gradual diminution of our property, but come at once to that period when, having consumed all our superfluities, it become a serious subject of consideration, what should next be sacrificed.

I will now proceed to make extracts from our general diary, merely premising that our only attendant was an asthmatic individual named Peter.

Dec. 2, 1808.—Peter reported stock—eight coats, eight waistcoats, eight pairs of trousers, two ounces of coffee, half a quartern loaf, and a ha’p’orth of milk. The eight waistcoats required for dinner. Peter ordered to pop accordingly—proceeds 7s. 6d. Invested in a small leg of mutton and half-and-half.

Dec. 3.—Peter reported stock—coats idem, trousers idem—a mutton bone—rent due—a coat and a pair of trousers ordered for immediate necessities—lots drawn—Jones the victim. Moved the court to grant him his trousers, as his coat was lined with silk, which would furnish the trimmings—rejected. Peter popped the suit, and Jones went to bed. All signed an undertaking to redeem Jones with the first remittance from the country. Proceeds 40s. Paid rent, and dined on à-la-mode beef and potatoes—beer limited to one quart. Peter hinted at wages, and was remonstrated with on the folly and cruelty of his conduct.

Dec. 4.—Peter reported stock—seven coats, seven pairs of trousers, and a gentleman in bed. Washerwoman called—gave notice of detaining linen unless settled with—two coats and one pair of trousers ordered for consumption. Lots drawn—Smith the victim for coat and trousers—Brown for the continuations only. Smith retired to bed—Brown obtained permission to sit in a blanket. Proceeds of the above, 38s.—both pairs of trousers having been reseated. Jones very violent, declaring it an imposition, and that every gentleman who had been repaired, should enter himself so on the books. The linen redeemed, leaving—nothing for dinner.

Dec. 5.—Peter reported stock—four coats, and five pairs of trousers. Account not agreeing, Peter was called in—found that Williams had bolted—Jones offered to call him out, if we would dress him for the day—Smith undertook to negotiate preliminaries on the same conditions—Williams voted not worth powder and shot in the present state of our finances. A coat and two pair of continuations ordered for supplies—lots drawn—Black and Edwards the victims. Black retired to bed, and Edwards to a blanket—proceeds, 20s. Jones, Smith, and Black, petitioned for an increased supply of coals—agreed to. Dinner, a large leg of mutton and baked potatoes. Peter lodged a detainer against the change, as he wanted his hair cut and a box of vegetable pills—so he said.

Dec. 6.—Peter reported stock—three coats, three pairs of trousers, quarter of a pound of mutton, and one potato. Landlord sent a note remonstrating against using the beds all day, and applying the blankets to the purposes of dressing-gowns. Proposed, in consequence of this impertinent communication, that the payment of the next week’s rent be disputed—carried nem. con. A coat and a pair of trousers ordered for the day’s necessities—Peter popped as usual—proceeds, 10s. 6d.—coals bought—ditto a quire of paper, and the et cets. for home correspondence. Blue devils very prevalent.

Dec. 7.—Peter reported stock—two coats, two pairs of trousers, and five gentlemen in bed. Smith hinted at the “beauties of Burke“—Peter brought a note for Jones—everybody in ecstacy—Jones’s jolly old uncle from Glamorganshire had arrived in town. Huzza! safe for a 20l. Busker (that’s myself) volunteered his suit—Jones dressed and off in a brace of shakes—caught Peter laughing—found it was a hoax of Jones’s to give us the slip—would have stripped Peter, only his clothes were worth nothing—calculated the produce of the remaining suit at—

Buttons a breakfast.
Two sleeves one pint of porter.
Body four plates of à-la-mode.
Trousers (at per leg) half a quartern loaf.

Caught an idea.—wrote an anonymous letter to the landlord, and told him that an association had been formed to burke Colonel Sibthorp—his lodgers the conspirators—that the scheme was called the “Lie-a-bed plot”—poverty with his lodgers all fudge—men of immense wealth—get rid of them for his own sake—old boy very nervous, having been in quod for smuggling—gave us warning—couldn’t go if we would. Landlord redeemed our clothes. Ha! ha!—did him brown.

The above is a statement of what I suffered during my minority. I have now the honour to be a magistrate and a member of Parliament.



Urge it no more! I must not wed

One who is poor, so hold your prattle;

My lips on love have ne’er been fed,

With poverty I cannot battle.

My choice is made—I know I’m right—

Who wed for love starvation suffer;

So I will study day and night

To please and win a rich OLD BUFFER.

Romance is very fine, I own;

Reality is vastly better;

I’m twenty—past—romance is flown—

To Cupid I’m no longer debtor.

Wealth, power, and rank—I ask no more—

Let the world frown, with these I’ll rough her—

Give me an equipage and four,

Blood bays, a page, and—rich OLD BUFFER.

An opera-box shall be my court,

Myself the sovereign of the women;

There moustached loungers shall resort,

Whilst Elssler o’er the stage is skimming.

If any rival dare dispute

The palm of ton, my set shall huff her;

I’ll reign supreme, make envy mute,

When once I wed a rich OLD BUFFFER!

“The heart”—“the feelings”—pshaw! for nought

They go, I grant, though quite enchanting

In valentines by school-girls wrought:

Nonsense! by me they are not wanting.

A note! and, as I live, a ring!

“Pity the sad suspense I suffer!”

All’s right. I knew to book I’d bring

Old Brown. I’ve caught—



A writer in a morning paper, eulogising the Licensed Victuallers’ fête at Vauxhall Gardens, on Tuesday evening, bursts into the following magnificent flight:—“Wit has been profanely said, like the Pagan, to deify the brute” (the writer will never increase the mythology); “but here,” (that is, in the royal property,) “while intellect and skill” (together with Roman candles) “exhibit their various manifestations, Charity” (arrack punch and blue fire) “throw their benign halo over the festive scene” (in the circle and Widdicomb), “and not only sanctify the enjoyment” (of ham and Green’s ascent), “but improve” (the appetite) “and elevate” (the victuallers) “the feelings” (and the sky-rockets) “of all who participate in it” (and the sticks coming down). “This is, truly an occasion when every licensed victualler should be at his post” (with a stretcher in waiting).

[pg 78]


As the coming session of Parliament is likely to be a busy one—for PUNCH—we have engaged some highly talented gentlemen expressly to report the fun in the House. The public will therefore have the benefit of all the senatorial brilliancy, combined with our own peculiar powers of description. Sibthorp—(scintillations fly from our pen as we trace the magic word)—shall, for one session at least, have justice done to his Sheridanic mind. Muntz shall be cut with a friendly hand, and Peter Borthwick feel that the days of his histrionic glories are returned, when his name, and that of “Avon’s swan,” figured daily in the “Stokum-cum-Pogis Gazette.” Let any member prove himself worthy of being associated with the brilliant names which ornament our pages, and be certain we will insure his immortality. We will now proceed to our report of



This morn at crow-cock,

Great Doctor Locock

Decided that her Majesty had better

Remain at home, for (as I read the letter)

He thought the opening speech

Would be “more honoured in the breach

Than the observance.” So here I am,

To read a royal speech without a flam.

Her Majesty continues to receive

From Foreign Powers good reasons to believe

That, for the universe, they would not tease her,

But do whate’er they could on earth to please her.

A striking fact,

That proves each act

Of us, the Cabinet, has been judicious,

Though of our conduct some folks are suspicious.

Her Majesty has also satisfaction

To state the July treaty did succeed

(Aided, no doubt, by Napier’s gallant action),

And that in peace the Sultan smokes his weed.

That France, because she was left out,

Did for a little while—now bounce—now pout,

Is in the best of humours, and will still

Lend us her Jullien, monarch of quadrille!

And as her Majesty’s a peaceful woman,

She hopes we shall get into rows with no man.

Her Majesty is also glad to say,

That as the Persian troops have march’d away,

Her Minister has orders to resume

His powers at Teheran, where he’s ta’en a room.

Her Majesty regrets that the Chinese

Are running up the prices of our teas:

But should the Emperor continue crusty,

Elliot’s to find out if his jacket’s dusty.

Her Majesty has also had the pleasure

(By using a conciliatory measure)

To settle Spain and Portugal’s division

About the Douro treaty’s true provision.

Her Majesty (she grieves to say) ’s contrived to get,

Like all her predecessors, into debt—

In Upper Canada, which, we suppose,

By this time is a fact the Council knows,

And what they think, or say, or write about it,

You’ll he advised of, and the Queen don’t doubt it,

But you’ll contrive to make the thing all square,

So leaves the matter to your loyal care.


Her Majesty, I’m proud to say, relies

On you with confidence for the supplies;

And, as there’s much to pay, she begs to hint

She hopes sincerely you’ll not spare the Mint.


The public till,

I much regret to say, is looking ill;

For Canada and China, and the Whigs—no, no—

Some other prigs—have left the cash so-so:

But as our soldiers and our tars, brave lads,

Won’t shell out shells till we shell out the brads,

Her Majesty desires you’ll be so kind

As to devise some means to raise the wind,

Either by taxing more or taxing less,

Relieving or increasing our distress;

Or by increasing twopennies to quarterns,

Or keeping up the price which “Commons shortens;”

By making weavers’ wages high or low,

Or other means, but what we do not know.

But the one thing our royal mistress axes,

Is, that you’ll make the people pay their taxes.

The last request, I fear, will cause surprise—

Her Majesty requests you to be wise.

If you comply at once, the world will own

It is the greatest miracle e’er known.


Man is the only animal that cooks his dinner before he eats it. All other species of the same genus are content to take the provisions of nature as they find them; but man’s reason has designed pots and roasting-jacks, stewpans and bakers’ ovens; thus opening a wide field for the exercise of that culinary ingenuity which has rendered the names of Glasse and Kitchiner immortal. Of such importance is the gastronomic art to the well-being of England, that we question much if the “wooden walls,” which have been the theme of many a song, afford her the same protection as her dinners. The ancients sought, by the distribution of crowns and flowers, to stimulate the enterprising and reward the successful; but England, despising such empty honours and distinctions, tempts the diffident with a haunch of venison, and rewards the daring with real turtle.

If charity seeks the aid of the benevolent, she no longer trusts to the magic of oratory to “melt the tender soul to pity,” and untie the purse-strings; but, grown wise by experience, she sends in her card in the shape of “a guinea ticket, bottle of wine included;” and thus appeals, if not to the heart, at least to its next-door neighbour—the stomach.

The hero is no longer conducted to the temple of Victory amid the shouts of his grateful and admiring countrymen, but to the Freemason’s, the Crown and Anchor, or the Town Hall, there to have his plate heaped with the choicest viands, his glass tilled from the best bins, and “his health drank with three times three, and a little one in.”

The bard has now to experience “the happiest moment of his life” amid the jingling of glasses, the rattle of dessert plates, and the stentorian vociferations of the toast-master to “charge your glasses, gentlemen—Mr. Dionysius Dactyl, the ornament of the age, with nine times nine,” and to pour out the flood of his poetic gratitude, with half a glass of port in one hand and a table-napkin in the other.

The Cicero who has persuaded an enlightened body of electors to receive £10,000 decimated amongst them, and has in return the honour of sleeping in “St. Stephen’s,” and smoking in “Bellamy’s,” or, to be less figurative, who has been returned as their representative in Parliament, receives the foretaste of his importance in a “public dinner,” which commemorates his election; or should he desire to express “the deep sense of his gratitude,” like Lord Mahon at Hertford, he cannot better prove his sincerity than by the liberal distribution of invitations for the unrestrained consumption of mutton, and the unlimited imbibition of “foreign wines and spirituous liquors.”

If a renegade, like Sir Francis Burdett, is desirous of making his apostacy the theme of general remark—of surprising the world with an exhibition of prostrated worth—let him not seek the market-cross to publish his dishonour, whilst there remains the elevated chair at a dinner-table. Let him prove himself entitled to be ranked as a man, by the elaborate manner in which he seasons his soup or anatomises a joint. Let him have the glass and the towel—the one to cool the tongue, which must burn with the fulsome praises of those whom he has hitherto decried, and the other as a ready appliance to conceal the blush which must rush to the cheek from the consciousness of the thousand recollections of former professions awakened in the minds of every applauder of his apostacy. Let him have a Toole to give bold utterance to the toasts which, in former years, would have called forth his contumely and indignation, and which, even now, he dare only whisper, lest the echo of his own voice should be changed into a curse. Let him have wine, that his blood may riot through his veins and drive memory onward. Let him have wine, that when the hollow cheers of his new allies ring in his ears he may be incapable of understanding their real meaning; or, when he rises to respond to the lip-service of his fellow bacchanals, the fumes may supply the place of mercy, and save him from the abjectness of self-degradation. Burdett! the 20th of August will never be forgotten! You have earned an epitaph that will scorch men’s eyes—

“To the last a renegade.”22. “Siege of Corinth.”

Who that possesses the least reflection ever visited a police-office without feeling how intimately it was connected with the cook-shop! The victims to the intoxicating qualities of pickled salmon, oyster-sauce, and lobster salad, are innumerable; for where one gentleman or lady pleads guilty to too much wine, a thousand extenuate on the score of indigestion. We are aware that the disorganisation of the digestive powers is very prevalent—about one or two in the morning—and we have no doubt the Conservative friends of Captain Rous, who patriotically contributed five shillings each to the Queen, and one gentleman (a chum of our own at Cheam, if we mistake not) a sovereign to the poor-box, were all doubtlessly suffering from this cause, combined with their enthusiasm for the gallant Rous, and—proh pudor!—Burdett.

How much, then, are we indebted to our cooks! those perspiring professors of gastronomy and their valuable assistants—the industrious scullery-maids. Let not the Melbourne opposition to this meritorious class, be supported by the nation at large; for England would soon cease to occupy her present proud pre-eminence, did her rulers, her patriots, and her heroes, sit down to cold mutton, or the villanously dressed “joints ready from 12 to 5.” Justice is said to be the foundation of all national prosperity—we contend that it is repletion—that Mr. Toole, the toast-master, is the only embodiment of fame, and that true glory consists of a gratuitous participation in “Three courses and a dessert!”


Great Bulwer’s works fell on Miss Basbleu’s head.

And, in a moment, lo! the maid was dead!

A jury sat, and found the verdict plain—

“She died of milk and water on the brain.”

[pg 79]


A man gives a smaller man a haircut.


[pg 81]


[The bronze statue of Napoleon which was last placed on the summit of the grand column at Boulogne with extraordinary ceremony, has been turned, by design or accident, with its back to England.]

Upon its lofty column’s stand,

Napoleon takes his place;

His back still turned upon that land

That never saw his face.


The letters V.P.W. scratched by some person on the brow of the statue of Napoleon while it lay on the ground beside the column, which were supposed to stand for the insulting words Vaincu par Wellington, have given great offence to the French. We have authority for contradicting this unjust explanation. The letters are the work of an ambitious Common Councilman of Portsoken Ward, who, wishing to associate himself with the great Napoleon, scratched on the bronze the initials of his name—V.P.W.—VILLIAM PAUL WENABLES.


“O fly with me, lady, my gallant destrere

Is as true as the brand by my side;

Through flood and o’er moorland his master he’ll bear,

With the maiden he seeks for a bride.”

This, this was the theme of the troubadour’s lay,

And thus did the lady reply:—

“Sir knight, ere I trust thee, look hither and say,

Do you see any green in my eye?”

“O, doubt me not, lady, my lance shall maintain

That thou’rt peerless in beauty and fame;

And the bravest should eat of the dust of the plain,

Who would quaff not a cup to thy name.”

“I doubt not thy prowess in list or in fray,

For none dare thy courage belie;

And I’ll trust thee, though kindred and priest say me nay—

When you see any green in my eye!”



Mr. Solomons begs to announce to reporters of newspapers, that he has constructed, at a very great expense, several sets of new glasses, which will enable the wearer to see as small or as great a number of auditors, at public conferences and political meetings, as may suit his purpose. Mr. Solomons has also invented a new kind of ear-trumpet, which will enable a reporter to hear only such portions of an harangue as may be in accordance with his political bias; or should there be nothing uttered by any speaker that may suit his purpose, these ear-trumpets will change the sounds of words and the construction of sentences in such a way as to be incontrovertible, although every syllable should be diverted from its original meaning and intention. They have also the power of larding a speech with “loud cheers,” or “strong disapprobation.”

These valuable inventions have been in use for some years by Mr. Solomons’ respected friend, the editor of the Times; but no publicity has been given to them, until Mr. S. had completely tested their efficacy. He has now much pleasure in subjoining, for the information of the public, the following letter, of the authenticity of which Mr. S. presumes no one can entertain a doubt.


It is with much pleasure that I am enabled, my dear Solomons, to give my humble testimony in favour of your new political glasses and ear-trumpet. By their invaluable aid I have been enabled, for some years, to see and hear just what suited my purpose. I have recommended them to my protégé, Sir Robert Peel, who has already tried the glasses, and, I am happy to state, does not see quite so many objections to a fixed duty as he did before using these wonderful illuminators. The gallant Sibthorp (at my recommendation) carried one of your ear-trumpets to the House on Friday last, and states that he heard his honoured leader declare, “that the Colonel was the only man who ought to be Premier—after himself.”

If these testimonies are of any value to you, publish them by all means, and believe me.

Yours faithfully,
Printing House Square.

Mr. S. begs to state, that though magnifying and diminishing glasses are no novelty, yet his invention is the only one to suit the interest of parties without principle.


“What sentimental character does the re-elected Speaker remind you of?”—Ans. by Croker: “P(shaw!) Lefevre, to be sure.”


We regret to state that the second ball at the Boulogne fête was simply remarkable from “its having gone off without any disturbance.” Where were the national guards?


A corresponedent of the Times forwards the alarming intelligence that at the Boulogne Races the stakes never fill! Sibthorp, the gifted Sib, ever happy at expedients, ingeniously recommends a trial of the chops.



“Ah! Julia, time all tilings destroys,

The heart, the blood, the pen;

But come, I’ll re-enact young joy

And be myself again.

“Yet stay, sweet Julia, how is this

Thine are not lips at all;

Your face is plastered, and you kiss,

Like Thisbe—through a wall.”


  1. The capital of this Company is to consist of £0,000,001; one-half of it to be vested in Aldgate Pump, and the other moiety in the Dogger Bank.

  2. Shares, at £50 each, will be issued to any amount; and interest paid thereon when convenient.

  3. A board, consisting of twelve directors, will be formed; but, to save trouble, the management of the Company’s affairs will be placed in the hands of the secretary.

  4. The duties of trustees, auditor, and treasurer, will also be discharged by the secretary.

  5. Each shareholder will he presented with a gratuitous copy of the Company’s regulations, printed on fine foolscap.

  6. Individuals purchasing annuities of this company, will be allowed a large-rate of interest on paper for their money, calculated on an entirely novel sliding-scale. Annuitants will be entitled to receive their annuities whenever they can get them.

  7. The Company’s office will be open at all hours for the receipt of money; but it is not yet determined at what time the paying branch of the department will come into operation.

  8. The secretary will be allowed the small salary of £10,000 a-year.

  9. In order to simplify the accounts, there will be no books kept. By this arrangement, a large saving will be effected in the article of clerks, &c.

  10. The annual profits of the company will be fixed at 20 per cent., but it is expected that there will be no inquiry made after dividends.

  11. All monies received for and by the company, to be deposited in the breeches-pocket of the secretary, and not to be withdrawn from thence without his special sanction.

  12. The establishment to consist of a secretary and porter.

  13. The porter is empowered to act as secretary in the absence of that officer; and the secretary is permitted to assist the porter in the arduous duties of his situation.

*∗* Applications for shares or annuities to be made to the secretary of the Provident Annuity Company, No. 1, Thieves Inn.


Our reporter has just forwarded an authentic statement, in which he vouches, with every appearance of truth, that “Lord Melbourne dined at home on Wednesday last.” The neighbourhood is in an agonising state of excitement.


(Particularly exclusive.)

Our readers will be horrified to learn the above is not the whole extent of this alarming event. From a private source of the highest possible credit, we are informed that his “Lordship also took tea.”


Great Heavens! when will our painful duties end? We tremble as we write,—may we be deceived!—but we are compelled to announce the agonising fact—“he also supped!”


(From our own reporter on the spot!)

DEAR SIR,—“The dinner is fatally true! but, I am happy to state, there are doubts about the tea, and you may almost wholly contradict the supper.”


“I have only time to say, things are not so bad! The tea is disproved, and the supper was a gross exaggeration.

“N.B. My horse is dead!”


Hurrah! Glorious news! There is no truth in the above fearful rumour; it is false from beginning to end, and, doubtless, had its vile origin from some of the “adverse faction,” as it is clearly of such a nature as to convulse the country. To what meanness will not these Tories stoop, for the furtherance of their barefaced schemes of oppression and pillage! The facts they have so grossly distorted with their tortuous ingenuity and demoniac intentions, are simply these:—A saveloy was ordered by one of the upper servants (who is on board wages, and finds his own kitchen fire), the boy entrusted with its delivery mistook the footman for his lordship. This is very unlikely, as the man is willing to make an affidavit he had “just cleaned himself,” and therefore, it is clear the boy must have been a paid emissary. But the public will be delighted to learn, to prevent the possibility of future mistakes—“John” has been denuded of his whiskers—the only features which, on a careful examination, presented the slightest resemblance to his noble master. In fact, otherwise the fellow is remarkably good-looking.

[pg 82]



It being now an established axiom that every member goes into Parliament for the sole purpose of advancing his own private interest, and not, as has been ignorantly believed, for the benefit of his country or the constituency he represents, it becomes a matter of vast importance to those individuals who have not had the advantage of long experience in the house, to be informed of the mode usually adopted by honourable members in the discharge of their legislative duties. With this view the writer, who has, for the last thirty years, done business on both sides of the house, and always with the strictest regard to the main chance, has collected a number of hints for the guidance of juvenile members, of which the following are offered as a sample:—

HINT 1.—It is a vulgar error to imagine that a man, to be a member of Parliament, requires either education, talents, or honesty: all that it is necessary for him to possess is—impudence and humbug!

HINT 2.—When a candidate addresses a constituency, he should promise everything. Some men will only pledge themselves to what their conscience considers right. Fools of this sort can never hope to be

A man gets kicked out of a door by many feet.


HINT 3.—Oratory is a showy, but by no means necessary, accomplishment in the house. If a member knows when to say “Ay” or “No,” it is quite sufficient for all useful purposes.

HINT 4.—If, however, a young member should be seized with, the desire of speaking in Parliament, he may do so without the slighest regard to sense, as the reporters in the gallery are paid for the purpose of making speeches for honourable members; and on the following morning he may calculate on seeing, in the columns of the daily papers, a full report of his splendid

A young woman tells her swain 'I'll ask my Ma!'


HINT 5.—A knowledge of the exact time to cry “Hear, hear!” is absolutely necessary. A severe cough, when a member of the opposite side of the house is speaking, is greatly to be commended; cock-crowing is also a desirable qualification for a young legislator, and, if judiciously practised, cannot fail to bring the possessor into the notice of his party.

HINT 6.—The back seats in the gallery are considered, by several members, as the most comfortable for taking a nap on.

HINT 7.—If one honourable member wishes to tell another honourable member that he is anything but a gentleman, he should be particular to do so within the walls of the house—as, in that case, the Speaker will put him under arrest, to prevent any unpleasant consequences arising from his hasty expressions.

HINT 8.—If a member promise to give his vote to the minister, he must in honour do so—unless he happen to fall asleep in the smoking-room, and so gets shut out from the division of the house.

HINT 9.—No independent member need trouble himself to understand the merits of any question before the house. He may, therefore, amuse himself at Bellamy’s until five minutes before the Speaker’s bell rings for a division.


“The health of the Earl of Winchilsea and the Conservative members of the House of Peers,” was followed, amid intense cheering, with the glee of

“Swearing death to traitor slaves!”—Times.


Several scientific engineers have formed themselves into a company, and are about applying for an Act of Parliament to enable them to take a lease of Joe Hume, for the purpose of opposing the Archimedean Screw. Public feeling is already in favour of the “Humedean,” and the “Joe” shares are rising rapidly.


One of the expedients adopted by the cheap-knowledge-mongers to convey so-called “information” to the vulgar, has been, we flatter ourselves, successfully imitated in our articles on the Stars and the Thermometer. They are by writers engaged expressly for the respective subjects, because they will work cheaply and know but little of what they are writing about, and therefore make themselves the better understood by the equally ignorant. We do hope that they have not proved themselves behindhand in popular humbug and positive error, and that the blunders in “the Thermometer”33. One of these blunders the author must not be commended for; it is attributable to a facetious mistake of the printer. In giving the etymology of the Thermometer, it should have been “measure of heat,” and not “measure of feet.” We scorn to deprive our devil of a joke so worthy of him. are equally as amusing as those of the then big-wig who wrote the treatise on “Animal Mechanics,” published by our rival Society for Diffusing Useful Knowledge.

Another of their methods for obtaining cheap knowledge it is now our intention to adopt. Having got the poorest and least learned authors we could find (of course for cheapness) for our former pieces of information, we have this time engaged a gentleman to mystify a few common-place subjects, in the style of certain articles in the “Penny Cyclopædia.” As his erudition is too profound for ordinary comprehensions—as he scorns gain—as the books he has hitherto published (no, privated) have been printed at his own expense, for the greater convenience of reading them himself, for nobody else does so—as, in short, he is in reality a cheap-knowledge man, seeing that he scorns pay, and we scorn to pay him—we have concluded an engagement with him for fourteen years.

The subject on which we have directed him to employ his vast scientific acquirements, is one which must come home to the firesides of the married and the bosoms of the single, namely, the art of raising a flame; in humble imitation of some of Young’s Knights’ Thoughts, which are directed to the object of lightening the darkness of servants, labourers, artisans, and chimney-sweeps, and in providing guides to the trades or services of which they are already masters or mistresses. We beg to present our readers with


A maid kisses a man through a fence.




Take a small cylindrical aggregation of parallelopedal sections of the ligneous fibre (vulgarly denominated a bundle of fire-wood), and arrange a fractional part of the integral quantity rectilineally along the interior of the igneous receptacle known as a grate, so as to form an acute angle (of, say 25°) with its base; and one (of, say 65°) with the posterior plane that is perpendicular to it; taking care at the same time to leave between each parallelopedal section an insterstice isometrical with the smaller sides of any one of their six quadrilateral superficies, so as to admit of the free circulation of the atmospheric fluid. Superimposed upon this, arrange several moderate-sized concretions of the hydro-carburetted substance (vulgo coal), approximating in figure as nearly as possible to the rhombic dodecahedron, so that the solid angles of each concretion may constitute the different points of contact with those immediately adjacent. Insert into the cavity formed by the imposition of the ligneous fibre upon the inferior transverse ferruginous bar, a sheet of laminated lignin, or paper, compressed by the action of the digits into an irregular spheroid.

These preliminary operations having been skilfully performed, the process of combustion may be commenced. For this purpose, a smaller woody paralleloped—the extremities of which have been previously dipped in sulphur in a state of liquefaction—must be ignited and applied to the laminated lignin, or waste paper, and so elevate its temperature to a degree required for its combustion, which will be communicated to the ligneous superstructure; this again raises the temperature of the hydro-carburet concretion, and liberates its carburetted hydrogen in the form of gas; which gas, combining with the oxygen of the atmosphere, enters into combustion, and a general ignition ensues. This, in point of fact, constitutes what is popularly termed—“lighting a fire.”


In an action lately tried at the Cork Assizes, a lady obtained fifteen hundred pounds damages, for a breach of promise of marriage, against a faithless lover. Lady Morgan sends us the following trifle on the subject:—

What! fifteen hundred!—’tis a sum severe;

The fine by far the injury o’erreaches.

For one poor breach of promise ’tis too dear—

’Twould be sufficient for a pair of breaches!

[pg 83]


Several designing individuals, whose talents for drawing on paper are much greater than those of Charles Kean for drawing upon the stage, met together at Somerset House, on Monday last, to distribute prizes among their scholars. Prince Albert presided, gave away the prizes with great suavity, and made a speech which occupied exactly two seconds and a-half.

The first prize was awarded to Master Palmerston, for a successful design for completely frustrating certain commercial views upon China, and for his new invention of auto-painting. Prize: an order upon Truefit for a new wig.

Master John Russell was next called up.—This talented young gentleman had designed a gigantic “penny loaf;” which, although too immense for practical use, yet, his efforts having been exclusively directed to fanciful design, and not to practical possibility, was highly applauded. Master Russell also evinced a highly precocious talent for drawing—his salary. Prize: a splendidly-bound copy of the New Marriage Act.

The fortunate candidate next upon the list, was Master Normanby. This young gentleman brought forward a beautiful design for a new prison, so contrived for criminals to be excluded from light and society, in any degree proportionate with their crimes. This young gentleman was brought up in Ireland, but there evinced considerable talent in drawing prisoners out of durance vile. He was much complimented on the salutary effect upon his studies, which his pupilage at the school of design had wrought. Prize: an order from Colburn for a new novel.

Master Melbourne, who was next called up, seemed a remarkably fine boy of his age, though a little too old for his short jacket. He had signalised himself by an exceedingly elaborate design for the Treasury benches. This elicited the utmost applause; for, by this plan, the seats were so ingeniously contrived, that, once occupied, it would be a matter of extreme difficulty for the sitter to be absquatulated, even by main force. Prize: a free ticket to the licensed victuallers’ dinner.

The Prince then withdrew, amidst the acclamations of the assembled multitude.


There is always much difference of opinion existing as to the number of theatres which ought to be licensed in the metropolis. Our friend Peter Borthwick, whose mathematical acquirements are only equalled by his “heavy fathers,” has suggested the following formula whereby to arrive at a just conclusion:—Take the number of theatres, multiply by the public-houses, and divide by the dissenting chapels, and the quotient will be the answer. This is what Peter calls

A man stands at a crossroads marked 'Fixed Duty' and 'Sliding Scale'



LADY B—— (who, it is rumoured, has an eye to the bedchamber) was interrogating Sir Robert Peel a little closer than the wily minister in futuro approved of. After several very evasive answers, which had no effect on the lady’s pertinacity, Sir Robert made her a graceful bow, and retired, humming the favourite air of—

An artist is unhappy with a portrait.



It is asserted that a certain eminent medical man lately offered to a publisher in Paternoster-row a “Treatise on the Hand,” which the worthy bibliopole declined with a shake of the head, saying, “My dear sir, we have got too many treatises on our hands already.”


The Commerce states “the cost of the mansion now building for Mr. Hope, in the Rue St. Dominique, including furniture and objects of art, is estimated at six hundred thousand pounds!”—[If this is an attribute of Hope, what is reality?—ED. PUNCH.]


We perceive that the severity of the summer has prevented the entire banishment of furs in the fashionable quartiers of the metropolis. We noticed three fur caps, on Sunday last, in Seven Dials. Beavers are, however, superseded by gossamers; the crowns of which are, among the élite of St. Giles’s, jauntily opened to admit of ventilation, in anticipation of the warm weather. Frieze coats are fast giving way to pea-jackets; waistcoats, it is anticipated, will soon be discarded, and brass buttons are completely out of vogue.

We have not noticed so many highlows as Bluchers upon the understandings of the promenaders of Broad-street. Ancle-jacks are, we perceive, universally adopted at the elegant soirées dansantes, nightly held at the “Frog and Fiddle,” in Pye-street, Westminster.


We understand that Sir M.A. Shee is engaged in painting the portraits of Sir Willoughhy Woolston Dixie and Mr. John Bell, the lately-elected member for Thirsk, which are intended for the exhibition at the Royal Academy. If Folliot Duff’s account of their dastardly conduct in the Waldegrave affair be correct, we cannot imagine two gentlemen more worthy the labours of the

Three judges at the bench.



We have been informed, on authority upon which we have reason to place much reliance, that several distinguished members of the upper and lower houses of Parliament intend moving for the following important returns early in the present session:—


Lord Palmerston will move for a return of all the papillote papers contained in the red box at the Foreign Office.

The Duke of Wellington will move for a return of the Tory taxes.

The Marquis of Downshire will move for a return of his political honesty.

Lord Melbourne will move for a return of place and power.

The Marquis of Westmeath will move for a return of the days when he was young.

The Marquis Wellesley will move for a return of the pap-spoons manufactured in England for the last three years.


Sir Francis Burdett will move for a return of his popularity in Westminster.

Lord John Russell will move that the return of the Tories to office is extremely inconvenient.

Captain Rous will move for a return of the number of high-spirited Tories who were conveyed on stretchers to the different station-houses, on the night of the ever-to-be-remembered Drury-lane dinner.

Sir E.L. Bulwer will move for a return of all the half-penny ballads published by Catnach and Co. during the last year.

Morgan O’Connell will move for a return of all the brogues worn by the bare-footed peasantry of Ireland.

Colonel Sibthorp will move for a return of his wits.

Peter Borthwick will move for a return of all the kettles convicted of singing on the Sabbath-day.

Sir Robert Peel will move for a return of all the ladies of the palace—to the places from whence they came.

Ben D’Israeli will move for a return of all the hard words in Johnson’s Dictionary.


The Sunday Times states, that “several of the heads of the Conservative party held a conference at Whitehall Gardens!” Heads and conferences have been cut short enough at the same place ere now!


A joke Col. Sibthorp to the journal sent—

Appropriate heading—”Serious Accident.”


The match at cricket, between the Chelsea and Greenwich Pensioners, was decided in favour of the latter. Captain Rous says, no great wonder, considering the winners bad the majority of legs on their side. The Hyllus affair has made him an authority.

[pg 84]





N.B.—PUNCH is delighted to perceive, from the style of this critique, that, though anonymously sent, it is manifestly from the pen of the elegant critic of the Morning Post.

A couple at the opera, in an O-shaped frame.

On a review of the events of the past season, the souvenirs it presents are not calculated to elevate the character of the arts di poeta and di musica, of which the Italian Opera is composed. The only decided nouveautés which made their appearance, were “Fausta,” and “Roberto Devereux,” both of them jejune as far as regards their libretto and the composita musicale. The latter opera, however, serving as it did to introduce a pleasing rifacciamento of the lamented Malibran, in her talented sister Pauline (Madame Viardot), may, on that account, be remembered as a pleasing reminiscence of the past season.

The evening of Saturday, Aug. 21st, will long be remembered by the habitués of the Opera. From exclusive sources (which have been opened to us at a very considerable expense) we are enabled to communicate—malheureusement—that with the close of the saison de 1841, the corps opératique loses one of its most brilliant ornaments. That memorable epocha was chosen by Rubini for making a graceful congé to a fashionable audience, amidst an abundance of tears—shed in the choicest Italian—and showers of bouquets. The subjects chosen for representation were apropos in the extreme; all being of a triste character, namely, the atta terzo of “Marino Faliero,” the finale of “Lucia di Lammermoor,” and the last parte of “La Sonnambula:” these were the chosen vehicles for Rubini’s soirée d’adieu.

As this tenor primissimo has, in a professional regarde, disappeared from amongst us—as the last echoes of his voix magnifique have died away—as he has made a final exit from the public plafond to the coulisses of private life—we deem it due to future historians of the Italian Opera de Londres, to record our admiration, our opinions, and our regrets for this great artiste.

Signor Rubini is in stature what might be denominated juste milieu; his taille is graceful, his figure pleasing, his eyes full of expression, his hair bushy: his comport upon the stage, when not excited by passion, is full of verve and brusquerie, but in passages which the Maestro has marked “con passione” nothing can exceed the elegance of his attitudes, and the pleasing dignity of his gestures. After, par exemple, the recitativi, what a pretty empressement he gave (alas! that we must now speak in the past tense!) to the tonic or key-note, by locking his arms in each other over his poitrine—by that after expansion of them—that clever alto movement of the toes—that apparent embracing of the fumes des lampes—how touching! Then, while the sinfonia of the andante was in progress, how gracefully he turned son dos to the delighted auditors, and made an interesting promenade au fond, always contriving to get his finely-arched nose over the lumières at the precise point of time (we speak in a musical sense) where the word “voce” is marked in the score. His pantomime to the allegri was no less captivating; but it was in the stretta that his beauty of action was most exquisitely apparent; there, worked up by an elaborate crescendo (the motivo of which is always, in the Italian school, a simple progression of the diatonic scale), the furor with which this cantratice hurried his hands into the thick clumps of his picturesque perruque, and seemed to tear its cheveux out by the roots (without, however, disturbing the celebrated side-parting a single hair)—the vigour with which he beat his breast—his final expansion of arms, elevation of toes, and the impressive frappe of his right foot upon the stage immediately before disappearing behind the coulisses—must be fresh in the souvenir of our dilettanti readers.

But how shall we parle concerning his voix? That exquisite organ, whose falsetto emulated the sweetness of flutes, and reached to A flat in altissimo—the voce media of which possessed an unequalled aplomb, whose deep double G must still find a well-in-tune echo in the tympanum of every amateur of taste. That, we must confess, as critics and theoretical musicians, causes us considerable embarras for words to describe. Who that heard it on Saturday last, has yet recovered the ravishing sensation produced by the thrilling tremour with which Rubini gave the Notte d’Orrore, in Rossini’s “Marino Faliero?” Who can forget the recitativo con andante et allegro, in the last scene of “La Sonnambula;” or the burst of anguish con expressivissimo, when accused of treason, while personating his favourite rôle in “Lucia di Lammermoor?” Ah! those who suffered themselves to be detained from the opera on Saturday last by mere illness, or other light causes, will, to translate a forcible expression in the “Inferno” of Dante, “go down with sorrow to the grave.” To them we say, Rubini est parti—gone!—he has sent forth his last ut—concluded his last re—his ultimate note has sounded—his last billet de banque is pocketed—he has, to use an emphatic and heart-stirring mot, “coupé son bâton!

It is due to the sentimens of the audience of Saturday, to notice the evident regret with which they received Rubini’s adieux; for, towards the close of the evening, the secret became known. Animated conversazioni resounded from almost every box during many of his most charming piano passages (and never will his sotto-voce be equalled)—the beaux esprits of the pit discussed his merits with audible goût; while the gallery and upper stalls remained in mute grief at the consciousness of that being the dernière fois they would ever be able to hear the sublime voce-di-testa of Italy’s prince of tenori.

Although this retirement will make the present clôture of the opera one of the most memorable événemens in les annales de l’opéra, yet some remarks are demanded of us upon the other artistes. In “Marino Faliero,” Lablache came the Dodge with remarkable success. Madlle. Loewe, far from deserving her bas nom, was the height of perfection, and gave her celebrated scena in the last-named opera avec une force superbe. Persiani looked remarkably well, and wore a most becoming robe in the rôle of Amina.

Of the danseuses we have hardly space to speak. Cerito exhibited the “poetry of motion” with her usual skill, particularly in a difficult pas with Albert. The ballet was “Le Diable Amoureux,” and the stage was watered between each act.


It seems that the English Opera-house has been taken for twelve nights, to give “a free stage and fair play” to “EVERY ENGLISH LIVING DRAMATIST.” Considering that the Council of the Dramatic Authors’ Theatre comprises at least half-a-dozen Shakspeares in their own conceit, to say nothing of one or two Rowes (soft ones of course), a sprinkling of Otways, with here and there a Massinger, we may calculate pretty correctly how far the stage they have taken possession of is likely to be free, or the play to be fair towards Every English living Dramatist.

It appears that a small knot of very great geniuses have been, for some time past, regularly sending certain bundles of paper, called Dramas, round to the different metropolitan theatres, and as regularly receiving them back again. Some of these geniuses, goaded to madness by this unceremonious treatment, have been guilty of the insanity of printing their plays; and, though the “Rejected Addresses” were a very good squib, the rejected Dramas are much too ponderous a joke for the public to take; so that, while in their manuscript form, they always produced speedy returns from the managers, they, in their printed shape, caused no returns to the publishers. It is true, that a personal acquaintance of some of the authors with Nokes of the North Eastern Independent, or some other equally-influential country print, may have gained for them, now and then, an egregious puff, wherein the writers are said to be equal to Goëthe, a cut above Sheridan Knowles, and the only successors of Shakspeare; but we suspect that “the mantle of the Elizabethan poets,” which is said to have descended on one of these gentry, would, if inspected, turn out to be something more like Fitzball’s Tagiioni or Dibdin Pitt’s Macintosh.

No one can suspect PUNCH of any prestige in favour of the restrictions laid upon the drama—for our own free-and-easy habit of erecting our theatre in the first convenient street we come to, and going through our performance without caring a rush for the Lord Chamberlain or the Middlesex magistrates, must convince all who know us, that we are for a thoroughly free trade in theatricals; but, nevertheless, we think the Great Unactables talk egregious nonsense when they prate about the possibility of their efforts working “a beneficial alteration in a law which presses so fatally on dramatic genius.” We think their tom-foolery more likely to induce restrictions that may prevent others from exposing their mental imbecility, than to encourage the authorities to relax the laws that might hinder them from doing so. The boasted compliance with legal requisites in the mode of preparing “Martinuzzi” for the stage is not a new idea, and we only hope it may be carried out one-half as well as in the instances of “Romeo and Juliet as the Law directs,” and “Othello according to Act of Parliament.” There is a vaster amount of humbug in the play-bill of this new concern, than in all the open puffs that have been issued for many years past from all the regular establishments. The tirade against the law—the announcement of alterations in conformity with the law—the hint that the musical introductions are such as “the law may require”—mean nothing more than this—“if the piece is damned, it’s the law; if it succeeds, it’s the author’s genius!” Now, every one who has written for the illegitimate stage, and therefore PUNCH in particular, knows very well that the necessity for the introduction of music into a piece played at one of the smaller theatres is only nominal—that four pieces of verse are interspersed in the copy sent to the licenser, but these are such matters of utter course, that their invention or selection is generally left to the prompter’s genius. The piece is, unless essentially musical, licensed with the songs and acted without—or, at least, there is no necessity whatever for retaining them. Why, therefore, should Mr. Stephens drag “solos, duets, choruses, and other musical arrangements,” into his drama, unless it is that he thinks they will give it a better chance of success? while, in the event of failure, he reserves the right of turning round upon the law and the music, which he will declare were the means of damning it.

A set of briefless barristers—all would-be Erskines, Thurlows, or Eldons, at the least—might as well complain of the system that excludes them from the Woolsack, and take a building to turn it into a Court of Chancery on their own account, as that these luckless scribblers, all fancying the Elizabethan mantle has fallen flop upon their backs, should set themselves up for Shakspeares on their own account, and seize on a metropolitan theatre as a temple for the enshrinement of their genius.

If PUNCH has dealt hardly with these gentlemen, it is because he will bear “no brother near the throne” of humbug and quackery. Like a steward who tricks his master, but keeps the rest of the servants honest, PUNCH will gammon the public to the utmost of his skill, but he will take care that no one else shall exercise a trade of which he claims by prescription the entire monopoly.


VOL. 1.

[pg 85]

SEPTEMBER 5, 1841.


A man on a horse charges through a laurel wreath in the shape of an O

Our consideration must now be given to those essentials in the construction of a true gentleman—the cut, ornaments, and pathology of his dress.


is to the garment what the royal head and arms are to the coin—the insignia that give it currency. No matter what the material, gold or copper, Saxony or sackcloth, the die imparts a value to the one, and the shears to the other.

Ancient Greece still lives in its marble demi-gods; the vivifying chisel of Phidias was thought worthy to typify the sublimity of Jupiter; the master-hand of Canova wrought the Parian block into the semblance of the sea-born goddess, giving to insensate stone the warmth and etheriality of the Paphian paragon; and Stultz, with his grace-bestowing shears, has fashioned West of England broad-cloths, and fancy goods, into all the nobility and gentility of the “Blue Book,” the “Court Guide,” the “Army, Navy, and Law Lists, for 1841.”

Wondrous and kindred arts! The sculptor wrests the rugged block from the rocky ribs of his mother earth;—the tailor clips the implicated “long hogs11. The first growth of wool. from the prolific backs of the living mutton;—the toothless saw, plied by an unweayring hand, prepares the stubborn mass for the chisel’s tracery;—the loom, animated by steam (that gigantic child of Wallsend and water), twists and twines the unctuous and pliant fleece into the silky Saxony.

The sculptor, seated in his studio, throws loose the reins of his imagination, and, conjuring up some perfect ideality, seeks to impress the beautiful illusion on the rude and undigested mass before him. The tailor spreads out, upon his ample board, the happy broadcloth; his eyes scan the “measured proportions of his client,” and, with mystic power, guides the obedient pipe-clay into the graceful diagram of a perfect gentleman. The sculptor, with all the patient perseverance of genius, conscious of the greatness of its object, chips, and chips, and chips, from day to day; and as the stone quickens at each touch, he glows with all the pride of the creative Prometheus, mingled with the gentler ecstacies of paternal love. The tailor, with fresh-ground shears, and perfect faith in the gentility and solvency of his “client,” snips, and snips, and snips, until the “superfine” grows, with each abscission, into the first style of elegance and fashion, and the excited schneider feels himself “every inch a king,” his shop a herald’s college, and every brown paper pattern garnishing its walls, an escutcheon of gentility.

But to dismount from our Pegasus, or, in other words, to cut the poetry, and come to the practice of our subject, it is necessary that a perfect gentleman should be cut up very high, or cut down very low—i.e., up to the marquis or down to the jarvey. Any intermediate style is perfectly inadmissible; for who above the grade of an attorney would wear a coat with pockets inserted in the tails, like salt-boxes; or any but an incipient Esculapius indulge in trousers that evinced a morbid ambition to become knee-breeches, and were only restrained in their aspirations by a pair of most strenuous straps. We will now proceed to details.

The dressing-gown should be cut only—for the arm holes; but be careful that the quantity of material be very ample—say four times as much as is positively necessary, for nothing is so characteristic of a perfect gentleman as his improvidence. This garment must be constructed without buttons or button-holes, and confined at the waist with cable-like bell-ropes and tassels. This elegant déshabille had its origin (like the Corinthian capital from the Acanthus) in accident. A set of massive window-curtains having been carelessly thrown over a lay figure, or tailor’s torso, in Nugee’s studio, in St. James’s-street, suggested to the luxuriant mind of the Adonisian D’Orsay, this beautiful combination of costume and upholstery. The eighteen-shilling chintz great-coats, so ostentatiously put forward by nefarious tradesmen as dressing-gowns, and which resemble pattern-cards of the vegetable kingdom, are unworthy the notice of all gentlemen—of course excepting those who are so by act of Parliament. Although it is generally imagined that the coat is the principal article of dress, we attach far greater importance to the trousers, the cut of which should, in the first place, be regulated by nature’s cut of the leg. A gentleman who labours under either a convex or a concave leg, cannot be too particular in the arrangement of the strap-draught. By this we mean that a concave leg must have the pull on the convex side, and vice versa, the garment being made full, the effects of bad nursing are, by these means, effectually “repealed.”22. Baylis. This will be better understood if the reader will describe a parallelogram, and draw therein the arc of a circle equal to that described by his leg, whether knock-kneed or bandy.

If the leg be perfectly straight, then the principal peculiarity of cut to be attended to, is the external assurance that the trousers cannot be removed from the body without the assistance of a valet.

The other considerations should be their applicability to the promenade or the equestriade. We are indebted to our friend Beau Reynolds for this original idea and it is upon the plan formerly adopted by him that we now proceed to advise as to the maintenance of the distinctions.

Let your schneider baste the trousers together, and when you have put them on, let them be braced to their natural tension; the schneider should then, with a small pair of scissors, cut out all the wrinkles which offend the eye. The garment, being removed from your person, is again taken to the tailor’s laboratory, and the embrasures carefully and artistically fine-drawn. The process for walking or riding trousers only varies in these particulars—for the one you should stand upright, for the other you should straddle the back of a chair. Trousers cut on these principles entail only two inconveniences, to which every one with the true feelings of a gentleman would willingly submit. You must never attempt to sit down in your walking trousers, or venture to assume an upright position in your equestrians, for compound fractures in the region of the os sacrum, or dislocations about the genu patellæ are certain to be the results of such rashness, and then

A valet shakes a brush at a gentlemen cuddling a housemaid.



Thou hast humbled the proud,

For my spirit hath bow’d

More humbly to thee than it e’er bow’d before;

But thy pow’r is past,

Thou hast triumph’d thy last,

And the heart you enslaved beats in freedom once more!

I have treasured the flow’r

You wore but an hour,

And knelt by the mound where together we’ve sat;

But thy-folly and pride

I now only deride—

So, fair Isabel, take your change out of that!

That I loved, and how well,

It were madness to tell

To one who hath mock’d at my madd’ning despair.

Like the white wreath of snow

On the Alps’ rugged brow,

Isabel, I have proved thee as cold as thou’rt fair!

’Twas thy boast that I sued,

That you scorn’d as I woo’d—

Though thou of my hopes were the Mount Ararat;

But to-morrow I wed

Araminta instead—

So, fair Isabel, take your change out of that!


The ponds in St. James’s Park were on last Monday drawn with nets, and a large quantity of the fish preserved there carried away by direction of the Chief Commissioner of Woods and Forests. Our talented correspondent, Ben D’Israeli, sends us the following squib on the circumstance:—

“Oh! never more,” Duncannon cried,

“The spoils of place shall fill our dishes!

But though we’ve lost the loaves we’ll take

Our last sad haul amongst the fishes.”


Lord Coventry declared emphatically that the sons, the fathers, and the grandfathers were all satisfied with the present corn laws. Had his lordship thought of the Herald, he might have added, “and the grandmothers also.”


If the enthusiastic individual who distinguished himself on the O.P. side of third row in the pit of “the late Theatre Royal English Opera House,” but now the refuge for the self-baptised “Council of Dramatic Literature,” can be warranted sober, and guaranteed an umbrella, in the use of which he is decidedly unrivalled, he is requested to apply to the Committee of management, where he will hear of something to his “advantage.”

[pg 86]
A man looks in a pond and sees Shakspere


  1. “The Hungarian Daughter,” a Dramatic Poem, by George Stephens, 8vo., pp. 294. London: 1841.
  2. “Introductory(!) Preface to the above,” pp. 25.
  3. “Supplement to the above;” consisting of “Opinions of the Press,” on various Works by George Stephens, 8vo., pp. 8.
  4. “Opinions of the Press upon the ‘Dramatic Merits’ and ‘Actable Qualities’ of the Hungarian Daughter,” 8vo., closely printed, pp. 16.

The blind and vulgar prejudice in favour of Shakspeare, Massinger, and the elder dramatic poets—the sickening adulation bestowed upon Sheridan Knowles and Talfourd, among the moderns—and the base, malignant, and selfish partiality of theatrical managers, who insist upon performing those plays only which are adapted to the stage—whose grovelling souls have no sympathy with genius—whose ideas are fixed upon gain, have hitherto smothered those blazing illuminati, George Stephens and his syn—Syncretcis; have hindered their literary effulgence from breaking through the mists hung before the eyes of the public, by a weak, infatuated adherence to paltry Nature, and a silly infatuation in favour of those who copy her.

At length, however, the public blushes (through its representative, the provincial press, and the above-named critical puffs,) with shame—the managers are fast going mad with bitter vexation, for having, to use the words of that elegant pleonasm, the introductory preface, “by a sort of ex officio hallucination,” rejected this and some twenty other exquisite, though unactable dramas! It is a fact, that since the opening of the English Opera House, Mr. Webster has been confined to his room; Macready has suspended every engagement for Drury-lane; and the managers of Covent Garden have gone the atrocious length of engaging sibilants and ammunition from the neighbouring market, to pelt the Syncretics off the stage! Them we leave to their dirty work and their repentance, while we proceed to our “delightful task.”

To prove that the “mantle of the Elizabethan poets seems to have fallen upon Mr. Stephens” (Opinions, p. 11), that the “Hungarian Daughter” is quite as good as Knowles’s best plays (Id. p. 4, in two places), that “it is equal to Goethe” (Id. p. 11), that “in after years the name of Mr. S. will be amongst those which have given light and glory to their country” (Id. p. 10); to prove, in short, the truth of a hundred other laudations collected and printed by this modest author, we shall quote a few passages from his play, and illustrate his genius by pointing out their beauties—an office much needed, particularly by certain dullards, the magazine of whose souls are not combustible enough to take fire at the electric sparks shot forth up out of the depths of George Stephens’s unfathomable genius!

The first gem that sparkles in the play, is where Isabella, the Queen Dowager of Hungary, with a degree of delicacy highly becoming a matron, makes desperate love to Castaldo, an Austrian ambassador. In the midst of her ravings she breaks off, to give such a description of a steeple-chase as Nimrod has never equalled.

ISABELLA (hotly). “Love rides upon a thought,

And stays not dully to inquire the way,

But right o’erleaps the fence unto the goal.”

To appreciate the splendour of this image, the reader must conceive Love booted and spurred, mounted upon a thought, saddled and bridled. He starts. Yo-hoiks! what a pace! He stops not to “inquire the way”—whether he is to take the first turning to the right, or the second to the left—but on, on he rushes, clears the fence cleverly, and wins by a dozen lengths!

What soul, what mastery, what poetical skill is here! We triumphantly put forth this passage as an instance of the sublime art of sinking in poetry not to be matched by Dibdin Pitt or Jacob Jones. Love is sublimed to a jockey, Thought promoted to a race-horse!—“Magnificent!”

But splendid as this is, Mr. Stephens can make the force of bathos go a little further. The passage continues (“a pause” intervening, to allow breathing ime, after the splitting pace with which Love has been riding upon Thought) thus:—

“Are your lips free? A smile will make no noise.

What ignorance! So! Well! I’ll to breakfast straight!”


ISABELLA. “Ha! ha! These forms are air—mere counterfeits

Of my imaginous heart, as are the whirling

Wainscot and trembling floor!”

The idea of transferring the seat of imagination from the head to the heart, and causing it to exhibit the wainscot in a pirouette, and the floor in an ague, is highly Shakesperesque, and, as the Courier is made to say at page 3 of the Opinions, “is worthy of the best days of that noble school of dramatic literature in which Mr. Stephens has so successfully studied.”

This well-deserved praise—the success with which the author has studied, in a school, the models of which were human feelings and nature,—we have yet to illustrate from other passages. Mr. Stephens evinces his full acquaintance with Nature by a familiarity with her convulsions: whirlwinds, thunder, lightning, earthquakes, and volcanoes—are this gentleman’s playthings. When, for instance, Rupert is going to be gallant to Queen Isabella, she exclaims:—

“Dire lightnings! Scoundrel! Help!”

Martinuzzi conveys a wish for his nobles to laugh—an order for a sort of court cachinnation—in these pretty terms:—

Blow it about, ye opposite winds of heaven,

Till the loud chorus of derision shake

The world with laughter!”

When he feels uncomfortable at something he is told in the first act, the Cardinal complains thus:—

“Ha! earthquakes quiver in my flesh!”

which the Britannia is so good as to tell us is superior to Byron; while the Morning Herald kindly remarks, that “a more vigorous and expressive line was never penned. In five words it illustrates the fiercest passions of humanity by the direst convulsion of nature:” (Opinions, p. 7) a criticism which illustrates the fiercest throes of nonsense, by the direst convulsions of ignorance.

Castaldo, being anxious to murder the Cardinal with, we suppose, all “means and appliances to boot,” asks of heaven a trifling favour:—

“Heaven, that look’st on,

Rain thy broad deluge first! All-teeming earth

Disgorge thy poisons, till the attainted air

Offend the sense! Thou, miscreative hell,

Let loose calamity!”

But it is not only in the “sublime and beautiful that Mr. Stephens’s genius delights” (vide Opinions, p. 4); his play exhibits sentiments of high morality, quite worthy of the “Editor of the Church of England Quarterly Review,” the author of “Lay Sermons,” and other religious works. For example: the lady-killer, Castaldo, is “hotly” loved by the queen-mother, while he prefers the queen-daughter. The last and Castaldo are together. The dowager overhears their billing and cooing, and thus, with great moderation, sends her supposed daughter to ——. But the author shall speak for himself:—

“Ye viprous twain!

Swift whirlwinds snatch ye both to fire as endless

And infinite as hell! May it embrace ye!

And burn—burn limbs and sinews, souls, until

It wither ye both up—both—in its arms!”

Elegant denunciation!—“viprous,” “hell,” “sinews and souls.” Has Goethe ever written anything like this? Certainly not. Therefore the “Monthly” is right at p. 11 of the Opinions. Stephens must be equal, if not superior, to the author of “Faust.”

One more specimen of delicate sentiment from the lips of a virgin concerning the lips of her lover, will fully establish the Syncretic code of moral taste:—

CZERINA (faintly). “Do breathe heat into me:

Lay thy warm breath unto my bloodless lips:

I stagger; I—I must—”

CASTALDO. “In mercy, what?”

CZERINA. “Wed!!!”

The lady ends, most maidenly, by fainting in her lover’s arms.

A higher flight is elsewhere taken. Isabella urges Castaldo to murder Martinuzzi, in a sentence that has a powerful effect upon the feelings, for it makes us shudder as we copy it—it will cause even our readers to tremble when they see it. The idea of using blasphemy as an instrument for shocking the minds of an audience, is as original as it is worthy of the sort of genius Mr. Stephens possesses. Alluding to a poniard, Isabella says:—

“Sheath it where God and nature prompt your hand!”

That is to say, in the breast of a cardinal!!

The vulgar, who set up the common-place standards of nature, probability, moral propriety, and respect for such sacred names as they are careful never to utter, except with reverence, will perhaps condemn Mr. Stephens (the aforesaid “Editor of the Church of England Quarterly Review,” and author of other religious works) with unmitigated severity. They must not be too hasty. Mr. Stephens is a genius, and cannot, therefore, be held accountable for the meaning [pg 87]of his ravings, be they even blasphemous; more than that he is a Syncretic genius, and his associates, by the designation they have chosen, by the terms of their agreement, are bound to cry each other up—to defend one another from the virulent attacks of common sense and plain reason. They are sworn to stick together, like the bundle of rods in Æsop’s fable.

A bundle of rods tied with a banner marked 'KANT'


Mr. Stephens, their chief, the god of their idolatry, is, consequently, more mad, or, according to their creed, a greater genius, than the rest; and evidently writes passages he would shudder to pen, if he knew the meaning of them. Upon paper, therefore, the Syncretics are not accountable beings; and when condemned to the severest penalties of critical law, must be reprieved on the plea of literary insanity.

It may be said that we have descended to mere detail to illustrate Mr. Stephens’ peculiar genius—that we ought to treat of the grand design, or plot of the Hungarian Daughter; but we must confess, with the deepest humility, that our abilities are unequal to the task. The fable soars far beyond the utmost flights of our poor conjectures, of our limited comprehension. We know that at the end there are—one case of poisoning, one ditto of stabbing with intent, &c., and one ditto of sudden death. Hence we conclude that the play is a tragedy; but one which “cannot be intended for an acting play” (preliminary preface, p.1,)—of course as a tragedy; yet so universal is the author’s genius, that an adaptation of the Hungarian Daughter, as a broad comedy, has been produced at the “Dramatic Authors’ Theatre,” having been received with roars of laughter!

The books before us have been expensively got up. In the Hungarian Daughter, “rivers of type flow through meadows of margin,” to the length of nearly three hundred pages. Mr. Stephens is truly a most spirited printer and publisher of his own works.

But the lavish outlay he must have incurred to obtain such a number of favourable notices—so many columns of superlative praise—shows him to be, in every sense—like the prince of puffers, George Robins—“utterly regardless of expense.” The works third and fourth upon our list, doubtless cost, for the copyright alone, in ready money, a fortune. It is astonishing what pecuniary sacrifices genius will make, when it purloins the trumpet of Fame to puff itself into temporary notoriety.


The Whigs, who long

Were bold and strong,

On Monday night went dead.

The jury found

This verdict sound—

Destroy’d by low-priced bread.”


It is with the most rampant delight that we rush to announce, that a special warrant has been issued, appointing our friend and protégé, the gallant and jocular Sibthorp, to the important office of beadle and crier to the House of Commons—a situation which has been created from the difficulty which has hitherto been found in inducing strangers to withdraw during a division of the House. This responsible office could not have been conferred upon any one so capable of discharging its onerous duties as the Colonel. We will stake our hump, that half-a-dozen words of the gallant Demosthenes would, at any time have the effect of

People are tossed off of their benches.




The return match between the Reform and Carlton Clubs has been the theme of general conversation during the past week. Some splendid play was exhibited on the occasion, and, although the result has realised the anticipations of the best judges, it was not achieved without considerable exertion.

It will be remembered that, the last time these celebrated clubs met, the Carlton men succeeded in scoring one notch more than their rivals; who, however, immediately challenged them to a return match, and have been diligently practising for success since that time.

The players assembled in Lord’s Cricket Ground on Tuesday last, when the betting was decidedly in favour of the Cons, whose appearance and manner was more confident than usual; while, on the contrary, the Rads seemed desponding and shy. On tossing up, the Whigs succeeded in getting first innings, and the Tories dispersed themselves about the field in high glee, flattering themselves that they would not be out long.

Wellington, on producing the ball—a genuine Duke—excited general admiration by his position. Ripon officiated as bowler at the other wicket. Sibthorp acted as long-stop, and the rest found appropriate situations. Lefevre was chosen umpire by mutual consent.

Spencer and Clanricarde went in first. Spencer, incautiously trying to score too many notches for one of his hits, was stumped out by Ripon, and Melbourne succeeded him. Great expectations had been formed of this player by his own party, but he was utterly unable to withstand Wellington’s rapid bowling, which soon sent him to the right-about. Clanricarde was likewise run out without scoring a notch.

Lansdowne and Brougham were now partners at the wickets; but Lansdowne did not appear to like his mate, on whose play it is impossible to calculate. Coventry, the short slip, excited much merriment, by a futile attempt to catch this player out, which terminated in his finding himself horizontal and mortified. Wellington, having bowled out Lansdowne, resigned his ball to Peel, who took his place at the wicket with a smile of confidence, which frightened the bat out of the hands of Phillips, the next Rad.

Dundas and Labouchere were now the batmen. Labouchere is a very intemperate player. One of Sandon’s slow balls struck his thumb, and put him out of temper, whereupon he hit about at random, and knocked down his wicket. Wakley took his bat, but apparently not liking his position, he hit up and caught himself out.

O’Connell took his place with a lounging swagger, but his first ball was caught by the immortal Sibthorp, who uttered more puns on the occasion than the oldest man present recollected to have heard perpetrated in any given time. Russell—who, by the bye, excavated several quarts of ‘heavy’ during his innings—was the last man the Rads had to put in. He played with care, and appeared disposed to keep hold of the bat as long as possible. He was, however, quietly disposed of by one of Peel’s inexorable balls.

Thus far the game has proceeded. The Cons have yet to go in. The general opinion is, that they will not remain in so long as the Rads, but that they will score their notches much quicker. Indeed, it was commonly remarked, that no players had ever remained in so long, and had done so little good withal, as the Reformites.

Betting is at 100 to 5 in favour of the Carlton men, and anxiety is on tip-toe to know the result of the next innings.

The Tories are exulting in their recent victory over the poor Whigs, whom they affirm have been tried, and found wanting. A trial, indeed, where all the jurors were witnesses for the prosecution. One thing is certain, that the country, as usual, will have to pay the costs, for a Tory verdict will be certain to carry them. The Whigs should prepare a motion for a new trial, on the plea that the late decision was that of

A crowd of people in a jury box.



“Kiss the broad moon.”—MARTINUZZI.

Go kiss the moon!—that’s more, sirs, than I can dare;

’Tis worse than madness—hasn’t she her man there?


The Morning Advertiser has a paragraph containing a report of an extraordinary indisposition under which a private of the Royal Guards is now suffering. It appears he lately received a violent kick from a horse, on the back of his head: since which time his hair has become so sensitive, that he cannot bear any one to approach him or touch it. On some portion being cut off by stratagem, he evinced the utmost disgust, accompanied with a volley of oaths. This may be wonderful in French hair, but it is nothing to the present sufferings of the Whigs in England.

[pg 88]


Punch having been chosen by the unanimous voice of the public—the arbiter elegantiarum in all matters relating to science, literature, and the fine arts—and from his long professional experience, being the only person in England competent to regulate the public amusements of the people, the Lord Mayor of London has confided to him the delicate and important duty of deciding upon the claims of the several individuals applying for licenses to open show-booths during the approaching Bartholomew Fair. Punch, having called to his assistance Sir Peter Laurie and Peter Borthwick, proceeded, on last Saturday, to hold his inquisition in a highly-respectable court in the neighbourhood of West Smithfield.

The first application was made on behalf of Richardson’s Booth, by two individuals named Melbourne and Russell.

PUNCH.—On what grounds do you claim?

MEL.—On those of long occupancy and respectability, my lord.

RUSS.—We employs none but the werry best of actors, my lud—all “bould speakers,” as my late wenerated manager, Muster Richardson, used to call ‘em.

MEL.—We have the best scenery and decorations, the most popular performances—

RUSS.—Hem! (aside to MEL.)—Best say nothing about our performances, Mel.

PUNCH.—Pray what situations do you respectively hold in the booth?

MEL.—I am principal manager, and do the heavy tragedy business. My friend, here, is the stage-manager and low comedy buffer, who takes the kicks, and blows the trumpet of the establishment.

PUNCH.—What is the nature of the entertainments you have been in the habit of producing?

RUSS.—Oh! the real legitimate drammar—“A New Way to Pay Old Debts,” “Raising the Wind,” “A Gentleman in Difficulties,” “Where shall I dine?” and “Honest Thieves.” We mean to commence the present season with “All in the wrong,” and “His Last Legs.”

PUNCH.—Humph! I am sorry to say I have received several complaints of the manner in which you have conducted the business of your establishment for several years. It appears you put forth bills promising wonders, while your performances have been of the lowest possible description.

RUSS.—S’elp me, Bob! there ain’t a word of truth in it. If there’s anything we takes pride on, ’tis our gentility.

PUNCH.—You have degraded the drama by the introduction of card-shufflers and thimble-rig impostors.

RUSS.—We denies the thimble-rigging in totum, my lud; that was brought out at Stanley’s opposition booth.

PUNCH.—At least you were a promoter of state conjuring and legerdemain tricks on the stage.

RUSS.—Only a little hanky-panky, my lud. The people likes it; they loves to be cheated before their faces. One, two, three—presto—begone. I’ll show your ludship as pretty a trick of putting a piece of money in your eye and taking it out of your elbow, as you ever beheld. Has your ludship got such a thing as a good shilling about you? ’Pon my honour, I’ll return it.

PUNCH.—Be more respectful, sir, and reply to my questions. It appears further, that several respectable persons have lost their honesty in your booth.

RUSS.—Very little of that ’ere commodity is ever brought into it, my lud.

PUNCH.—And, in short, that you and your colleagues’ hands have been frequently found in the pockets of your audience.

RUSS.—Only in a professional way, my lud—strictly professional.

PUNCH.—But the most serious charge of all is that, on a recent occasion, when the audience hissed your performances, you put out the lights, let in the swell-mob, and raised a cry of “No Corn Laws.”

RUSS.—Why, my lud, on that p’int I admit there was a slight row.

PUNCH.—Enough, sir. The court considers you have grossly misconducted yourself, and refuses to grant you license to perform.

MEL.—But, my lord, I protest I did nothing.

PUNCH.—So everybody says, sir. You are therefore unfit to have the management of (next to my own) the greatest theatre in the world. You may retire.

MEL. (to RUSS.)—Oh! Johnny, this is your work—with your confounded hanky-panky.

RUSS.—No—’twas you that did it; we have been ruined by your laziness. What is to become of us now?

MEL.—Alas! where shall we dine?

The next individual who presented himself, to obtain a license for the Carlton Club Equestrian Troop, was a strange-loooking character, who gave his name as Sibthorp.

PUNCH.—What are you, sir?

SIB.—Clown to the ring, my lord, and principal performer on the Salt-box. I provide my own paint and pipe-clay, make my own jokes, and laugh at them too. I do the ground and lofty tumbling, and ride the wonderful donkey—all for the small sum of fifteen bob a-week.

PUNCH.—You have been represented as a very noisy and turbulent fellow.

SIB.—Meek as a lamb, my lord, except when I’m on the saw-dust; there I acknowledge, I do crow pretty loudly—but that’s in the way of business,—and your lordship knows that we public jokers must pitch it strong sometimes to make our audience laugh, and bring the browns into the treasury. After all, my lord, I am not the rogue many people take me for,—more the other way, I can assure you, and

“Though to my share some human errors fall,

Look in my face, and you’ll forget them all.”

PUNCH.—A strong appeal, I must confess. You shall have your license.

The successful claimant having made his best bow to Commissioner Punch, withdrew, whistling the national air of

A woman attacks her husband.


A fellow named Peel, who has been for many years in the habit of exhibiting as a quack-doctor, next applied for liberty to vend his nostrums at the fair. On being questioned as to his qualifications, he shook his head gravely, and, without uttering a word, placed the following card in the hands of Punch.



Professor of Political Chemistry and Conservative Medicine to the



Inventor of the People’s Patent Sliding Stomach-pump;—of the Poor Man’s anti-Breakfast and Dinner Waist-belt;—and of the new Royal extract of Toryism, as prescribed for, and lately swallowed by,


Sir Rhubarb begs further to state, that he practises national tooth-drawing and bleeding to an unlimited extent; and undertakes to cure the consumption of bread without the use of


N.B.—No connexion with the corn doctor who recently vacated the concern now occupied by Sir R.P.

Hours of attendance, from ten till four each day, at his establishment, Downing-street.—A private entrance for M.P.’s round the corner.

Ben D’Israeli, the proprietor of the Learned Pig, applied for permission to exhibit his animal at the fair. A license was unhesitatingly granted by his lordship, who rightly considered that the exhibition of the extraordinary talents of the pig and its master, would do much to promote a taste for polite literature amongst the Smithneld “pennyboys.”

A poor old man, who called himself Sir Francis Burdett, applied for a license to exhibit his wonderful Dissolving Views. The most remarkable of which were—“The Hustings in Covent-garden—changing to Rous’s dinner in Drury-lane”—and “The Patriot in the Tower—changing to the Renegade in the Carlton.” It appeared that the applicant was, at one time, in a respectable business, and kept “The Old Glory,” a favourite public-house in Westminster, but, falling into bad company, he lost his custom and his character, and was reduced to his present miserable occupation. Punch, in pity for the wretched petitioner, and fully convinced that his childish tricks were perfectly harmless, granted him a license to exhibit.

Licenses were also granted to the following persons in the course of the day:—

Sir E.L. Bulwer, to exhibit his own portrait, in the character of Alcibiades, painted by himself.

Doctor Bowring, to exhibit six Tartarian chiefs, caught in the vicinity of the Seven Dials, with songs, translated from the original Irish Calmuc, by the Doctor.

Emerson Tennent, to exhibit his wonderful Cosmorama, or views of anywhere and everywhere; in which the striking features of Ireland, Greece, Belgium, and Whitechapel will be so happily confounded, that the spectator may imagine he beholds any or all of these places at a single glance.

Messrs. Stephens, Heraud, and Co., to exhibit, gratis, a Syncretic Tragedy, with fireworks and tumbling, according to law, between the acts; to be followed by a lecture on the Unactable Drama.


At the recent fracas in Pall Mall, between Captain Fitzroy and Mr. Shepherd, the latter, like his predecessor of old, the “Gentle Shepherd,” performed sundry vague evolutions with a silver-mounted cane, and requested Captain Fitzroy to consider himself horsewhipped. Not entertaining quite so high an opinion of his adversary’s imaginative powers, the Captain floored the said descendant of gentleness, thereby ably illustrating the precise difference of the “real and ideal.”

[pg 89]




A man holds a bass drum on his back in the shape of a P

Poor old John’s alarm was succeeded by astonishment, for without speaking a word, Agamemnon bounced into his bed-chamber. He thought the room the most miserable-looking room he had ever entered, though the floor was covered with a thick Turkey carpet, a bright fire was blazing in the grate, and everything about seemed fashioned for comfort. He threw himself into an easy chair, and kicking off one of his pumps, crossed his legs, and rested his elbow on the table. He looked at his bed—it was a French one—a mountain of feathers, covered with a thick, white Marseilles quilt, and festooned over with a drapery of rich crimson damask.

“I’ll have a four-post to-morrow,” growled Collumpsion; “French beds are mean-looking things, after all. Stuffwell has the fellow-chair to this—one chair does look strange! I wonder it has never struck me before; but it is surprising—what—strange ide—as a man—has”—and Collumpsion fell asleep.

It was broad day when Collumpsion awoke; the fire had gone out, and his feet were as cold as ice. He (as he is married there’s no necessity for concealment)—he swore two or three naughty oaths, and taking off his clothes, hurried into bed in the hope of getting warm.

“How confoundedly cold I am—sitting in that chair all night, too—ridiculous. If I had had a—I mean, if I hadn’t been alone, that wouldn’t have happened; she would have waked me.” She—what the deuce made him use the feminine pronoun!

At two o’clock he rose and entered his breakfast-room. The table was laid as usual—one large cup and saucer, one plate, one egg-cup, one knife, and one fork! He did not know wherefore, but he felt to want the number increased. John brought up a slice of broiled salmon and one egg. Collumpsion got into a passion, and ordered a second edition. The morning was rainy, so Collumpsion remained at home, and employed himself by kicking about the ottoman, and mentally multiplying all the single articles in his establishment by two.

The dinner hour arrived, and there was the same singular provision for one. He rang the bell, and ordered John to furnish the table for another. John obeyed, though not without some strong misgiving of his master’s sanity, as the edibles consisted of a sole, a mutton chop, and a partridge. When John left the room at his master’s request, Collumpsion rose and locked the door. Having placed a chair opposite, he resumed his seat, and commenced a series of pantomimic gestures, which were strongly confirmatory of John’s suspicions. He seemed to be holding an inaudible conversation with some invisible being, placing the choicest portion of the sole in a plate, and seemingly desiring John to deliver it to the unknown. As John was not there, he placed it before himself, and commenced daintily and smilingly picking up very minute particles, as though he were too much delighted to eat. He then bowed and smiled, and extending his arm, appeared to fill the opposite glass, and having actually performed the same operation with his own, he bowed and smiled again, and sipped the brilliant Xeres. He then rang the bell violently, and unlocking the door, rushed rapidly back to his chair, as though he were fearful of committing a rudeness by leaving it. The table being replenished, and John again dismissed the room, the same pantomime commenced. The one mutton chop seemed at first to present an obstacle to the proper conduct of the scene; but gracefully uncovering the partridge, and as gracefully smiling towards the invisible, he appeared strongly to recommend the bird in preference to the beast. Dinner at length concluded, he rose, and apparently led his phantom guest from the table, and then returning to his arm-chair, threw himself into it, and, crossing his hands upon his breast, commenced a careful examination of the cinders and himself. His rumination ended in a doze, and his doze in a dream, in which he fancied himself a Brobdignag Java sparrow during the moulting season. His cage was surrounded by beautiful and blooming girls, who seemed to pity his condition, and vie with each other in proposing the means of rendering him more comfortable. Some spoke of elastic cotton shirts, linsey-wolsey jackets, and silk nightcaps; others of merino hose, silk feet and cotton tops, shirt-buttons and warming-pans; whilst Mrs. Greatgirdle and Mrs. Waddledot sang an echo duet of “What a pity the bird is alone.”

“A change came o’er the spirit of his dream.”

He thought that the moulting season was over, and that he was rejoicing in the fulness of a sleeky plumage, and by his side was a Java sparrowess, chirping and hopping about, rendering the cage as populous to him as though he were the tenant of a bird-fancier’s shop. Then—he awoke just as Old John was finishing a glass of Madeira, preparatory to arousing Collumpsion, for the purpose of delivering to him a scented note, which had just been left by the footman of Mrs. Waddledot.

It was lucky for John that A.C.A. had been blessed with pleasant dreams, or his attachment to Madeira might have occasioned his discharge from No. 24, Pleasant-terrace.

The note was an invitation to Mrs. Waddledot’s opera-box for that evening. The performance was to be Rossini’s “La Cenerentola,” and as Collumpsion recollected the subject of the opera, his heart fluttered in his bosom. A prince marrying a cinder-sifter for love! What must the happy state be—or rather what must it not be—to provoke such a condescension!

Collumpsion never appeared to such advantage as he did that evening; he was dressed to a miracle of perfection—his spirits were so elastic that they must have carried him out of the box into “Fop’s-alley,” had not Mrs. Waddledot cleverly surrounded him by the detachment from the corps of eighteen daughters, which had (on that night) been placed under her command.

Collumpsion’s state of mind did not escape the notice of the fair campaigners, and the most favourable deductions were drawn from it in relation to the charitable combination which they had formed for his ultimate good, and all seemed determined to afford him every encouragement in their power. Every witticism that he uttered elicited countless smiles—every criticism that he delivered was universally applauded—in short, Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite was voted the most delightful beau in the universe, and Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite gave himself a plumper to the same opinion.

On the 31st of the following month, a string of carriages surrounded St. George’s Church, Hanover-square, and precisely at a quarter to twelve, A.M., Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite placed a plain gold ring on the finger of Miss Juliana Theresa Waddledot, being a necessary preliminary to the introduction of our hero, the “Heir of Applebite.”


“I wonder if Brougham thinks as much as he talks,”

Said a punster perusing a trial:

“I vow, since his lordship was made Baron Vaux,

He’s been Vaux et præterea nihil!


Our great ancestor, Joe Miller, has recorded, in his “Booke of Jestes,” an epitaph written upon an amateur corn-cutter, named Roger Horton, who,

“Trying one day his corn to mow off,

The razor slipp’d, and cut his toe off.”

The painful similarity of his fate with that of another corn experimentalist, has given rise to the following:—


In Minto quies.

Beneath this stone lies Johnny Russell,

Who for his place had many a tussel.

Trying one day the corn to cut down,

The motion fail’d, and he was put down.

The benches which he nearly grew to,

The Opposition quickly flew to;

The fact it was so mortifying,

That little Johnny took to dying.


Some difficulty has arisen as to the production of Knowles’s new play at the Haymarket Theatre. Mr. Charles Kean and Miss Helen Faucit having objected to hear the play read, “because their respective parts had not been previously submitted to them.”—Sunday Times.—[We are of opinion that they were decidedly right. One might as well expect a child to spell without learning the alphabet, as either of the above persons to understand Knowles, unless enlightened by a long course of previous instruction.]

[pg 90]


[From a MS. drama called the “COURT OF VICTORIA.”

Scene in Windsor Castle.

[Her Majesty discovered sitting thoughtfully at an escrutoire.


LORD CHAMBERLAIN.—May it please your Majesty, a letter from the Duke of Wellington.

THE QUEEN (opens the letter.)—Oh! a person for the vacant place of Premier—show the bearer in, my lord. [Exit LORD CHAMBERLAIN.

THE QUEEN (muses).—Sir Robert Peel—I have heard that name before, as connected with my family. If I remember rightly, he held the situation of adviser to the crown in the reign of Uncle William, and was discharged for exacting a large discount on all the state receipts; yet Wellington is very much interested in his favour.

Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN, who ushers in SIR ROBERT, and then retires. As he is going—]

LORD CHAMBERLAIN (aside).—If you do get the berth, Sir Robert, I hope you’ll not give me warning.


SIR ROBERT (looking demurely).—Hem!

[The Queen regards him very attentively.]

THE QUEEN (aside).—I don’t much like the looks of the fellow—that affectation of simplicity is evidently intended to conceal the real cunning of his character. (Aloud). You are of course aware of the nature and the duties of the situation which you solicit?

SIR ROBERT.—Oh, yes, your Majesty; I have filled it before, and liked it very much.

THE QUEEN.—It’s a most responsible post, for upon your conduct much of the happiness of my other servants depends.

SIR ROBERT.—I am aware of that, your Majesty; but as no one can hope to please everybody, I will only answer that one half shall be perfectly satisfied.

THE QUEEN.—You have recently returned from Tamworth?

SIR ROBERT.—Yes, your Majesty.

THE QUEEN.—We will dispense with forms. At Tamworth, you have been practising as a quack doctor?

SIR ROBERT.—Yes, madam; I was brought up to doctoring, and am a professor of sleight-of-hand.

THE QUEEN.—What have you done in the latter art to entitle you to such a distinction?

SIR ROBERT.—I have performed some very wonderful changes. When I was out of place, I had opinions strongly opposed to Catholic emancipation; but when I got into service I changed them in the course of a few days.

THE QUEEN.—I have heard that you boast of possessing a nostrum for the restoration of the public good. What is it?

SIR ROBERT.—Am I to consider myself “as regularly called in?”

THE QUEEN.—That is a question I decline answering at present.

SIR ROBERT.—Then I regret that I must also remain silent.

THE QUEEN (aside).—The wily fox! (aloud)—Are you aware that great distress exists in the country?

SIR ROBERT.—Oh, yes! I have heard that there are several families who keep no man-servant, and that numerous clerks, weavers, and other artisans, occupy second-floors.

THE QUEEN.—I have heard that the people are wanting bread.

SIR ROBERT.—Ha, ha! that was from the late premier, I suppose. He merely forgot an adjective—it is cheap bread that the people are clamouring for.

THE QUEEN.—And why can they not have it?

SIR ROBERT.—I have consulted with the Duke of Richmond upon the subject, and he says it is impossible.

THE QUEEN.—But why?

SIR ROBERT.—Wheat must be lower before bread can be cheaper.


SIR ROBERT.—And rents must be less if that is the case, and—


SIR ROBERT.—And that the landowners won’t agree to.


SIR ROBERT.—And, then, I can’t keep my place a day.

THE QUEEN.—Then the majority of my subjects are to be rendered miserable for the advantage of the few?

SIR ROBERT.—That’s the principle of all good governments. Besides, cheap bread would be no benefit to the masses, for wages would be lower.

THE QUEEN.—Do you really believe such would be the case?

SIR ROBERT.—Am I regularly called in?

THE QUEEN.—You evade a direct answer, I see. Granting such to be your belief, your friends and landowners would suffer no injury, for their incomes would procure them as many luxuries.

SIR ROBERT.—Not if they were to live abroad, or patronise foreign manufactures: and should wages be higher, what would they say to me after all the money they have expended in bri—I mean at the Carlton Club, if I allow the value of their “dirty acres” to be reduced.

THE QUEEN.—Pray, what do you call such views?

SIR ROBERT.—Patriotism.

THE QUEEN.—Charity would be a better term, as that is said to begin at home. How long were you in your last place?

SIR ROBERT.—Not half so long as I wished—for the sake of the country.

THE QUEEN.—Why did you leave?

SIR ROBERT.—Somebody said I was saucy—and somebody else said I was not honest—and somebody else said I had better go.

THE QUEEN.—Who was the latter somebody?

SIR ROBERT.—My master.

THE QUEEN.—Your exposure of my late premier’s faults, and your present application for his situation, result from disinterestedness, of course?

SIR ROBERT.—Of course, madam.

THE QUEEN.—Then salary is not so much an object as a comfortable situation.

SIR ROBERT.—I beg pardon; but I’ve been out of place ten years, and have a small family to support. Wages is, therefore, some sort of a consideration.

THE QUEEN.—I don’t quite like you.

SIR ROBERT (glancing knowingly at the Queen).—I don’t think there is any one that you can have better.

THE QUEEN.—I’m afraid not.

SIR ROBERT.—Then, am I regularly called in?

THE QUEEN.—Yes, you can take your boxes to Downing-street.

[Exeunt ambo.


Mr. Muntz, we understand, intends calling the attention of Parliament, at the earliest possible period, to the state of the crops.

Lord Palmerston intends proposing, that a looking-glass for the use of members should be placed in the ante-room of the House, and that it shall be called the New Mirror of Parliament.

Mr. T. Duncombe intends moving that the plans of Sir Robert Peel be immediately submitted to the photographic process, in order that some light may be thrown upon them as soon as possible.

The Earl of Coventry intends suggesting, that every member of both Houses be immediately supplied with a copy of the work called “Ten Minutes’ Advice on Corns,” in order to prepare Parliament for a full description of the Corn Laws.


Colonel Sibthorp has expressed his intention of becoming the blue-faced monkey at the Zoological Gardens with his countenance, on next Wednesday.

Lord Melbourne has received visits of condolence on his retirement from office, from Aldgate pump—Canning’s statue in Palace-yard—the Three Kings of Brentford—and the Belle Sauvage, Ludgate-hill.

Her Royal Highness the Princess, her two nurses, and a pap-spoon, took an airing twice round the great hall of the palace, at one o’clock yesterday.

The Burlington Arcade will be thrown open to visitors to-morrow morning. Gentlemen intending to appear there, are requested to come with tooth-picks and full-dress walking-canes.

Sir Francis Burdett’s top-boots were seen, on last Saturday, walking into Sir Robert Peel’s house, accompanied by the legs of that venerable turner.

His Grace the Duke of Wellington inspected all the passengers in Pall Mall, from the steps of the United Service Club-house, and expressed himself highly pleased with the celerity of the ‘busses and cabs, and the effective state of the pedestrians generally.

His Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex has, in the most unequivocal manner, expressed his opinion on the state of the weather—which he pronounces to be hot! hot! all hot!


A good deal of merriment was caused in the House of Commons, by Mr. Bernal and Commodore Napier addressing the members as “gentlemen.” This may be excusable in young members, but the oldest parliamentary reporter has no recollection of the term being used by any one who had sat a session in the House. “Too much familiarity,” &c.

[pg 91]


A woman sits at a desk while a gentleman looks on.


[pg 93]



When the Whig Ministry had run,

Nor left behind a mother’s son,

The Tories, at their leader’s call,

Came thronging round him, one and all,

Exulting, braying, cringing, coaxing,

Expert at humbugging and hoaxing;

By turns they felt an honest zeal

For private good and public weal;

Till all at once they raised such yells,

As rung in Apsley House the bells:

And as they sought snug berths to get

In Bobby Peel’s new cabinet,

Each, for interest ruled the hour,

Would prove his taste for place and power.

First Follett’s hand, his skill to try,

Upon the seals bewilder’d laid;

But back recoil’d—he scarce knew why—

Of Lyndhurst’s angry scowl afraid.

Next Stanley rush’d with frenzied air;

His eager haste brook’d no delay:

He rudely seized the Foreign chair,

And bade poor Cupid trudge away.

With woeful visage Melbourne sate—

A pint of double X his grief beguiled;

And inly pondering o’er his fate,

He bade th’ attendant pot-boy “draw it mild.”

But thou, Sir Jamie Graham—prig;

What was thy delighted musing?

Now accepting, now refusing,

Till on the Admiralty pitch’d,

Still would that thought his speech prolong;

To gain the place for which he long had itch’d,

He call’d on Bobby still through all the song;

But ever as his sweetest theme he chose,

A sovereign’s golden chink was heard at every close,

And Pollock grimly smiled, and shook his powder’d wig.

And longer had he droned—but, with a frown

Brougham impatient rose;

He threw the bench of snoring bishops down,

And, with a withering look,

The Whig-denouncing trumpet took,

And made a speech so fierce and true,

Thrashing, with might and main, both friend and foe;

And ever and anon he beat,

With doubled fist his cushion’d seat;

And though sometimes, each breathless pause between,

Astonished Melbourne at his side,

His moderating voice applied,

Yet still he kept his stern, unalter’d mien,

While battering the Whigs and Tories black and blue.

Thy ravings, Goulburn, to no theme were fix’d.

Not ev’n thy virtue is without its spots;

With piety thy politics were mix’d,

And now they courted Peel, now call’d on Doctor Watts.

With drooping jaw, like one half-screw’d,

Lord Johnny sate in doleful mood,

And for his Secretarial seat,

Sent forth his howlings sad, but sweet

Lost Normanby pour’d forth his sad adieu;

While Palmerston, with graceful air,

Wildly toss’d his scented hair;

And pensive Morpeth join’d the sniv’lling crew.

Yet still they lingered round with fond delay,

Humming, hawing, stopping, musing,

Tory rascals all abusing,

Till forced to move away.

But, oh! how alter’d was the whining tone

When, loud-tongued Lyndhurst, that unblushing wight,

His gown across his shoulders flung,

His wig with virgin-powder white,

Made an ear-splitting speech that down to Windsor rung,

The Tories’ call, that Billy Holmes well knew,

The turn-coat Downshire and his Orange crew;

Wicklow and Howard both were seen

Brushing away the wee bit green;

Mad Londonderry laugh’d to hear,

And Inglis scream’d and shook his ass’s ear

Last Bobby Peel, with hypocritic air,

He with modest look came sneaking:

First to “the Home” his easy vows addrest,—

But soon he saw the Treasury’s red chair,

Whose soft inviting seat he loved the best.

They would have thought, who heard his words,

They saw in Britain’s cause a patriot stand,

The proud defender of his land,

To aw’d and list’ning senates speaking;—

But as his fingers touch’d the purse’s strings,

The chinking metal made a magic sound,

While hungry placemen gather’d fast around:

And he, as if by chance or play,

Or that he would their venal votes repay,

The golden treasures round upon them flings.


Upon the first interview of the Queen with Sir Robert Peel, her Majesty was determined to answer only in monosyllables to all he said; and, in fact, to make her replies an echo, and nothing more, to whatever he said to her. The following dialogue, which we have thrown into verse for the purpose of smoothing it—the tone of it, as spoken, having been on one side, at least, rather rough—ensued between the illustrious persons alluded to.

HE.—Before we into minor details go,

Do I possess your confidence or no?


HE.—You shall not vex me, though your treatment’s rough;

No, madam, I am made of sterner stuff.


HE.—Really, if thus your minister you flout,

A single syllable he can’t get out.

SHE.—Get out!

HE.—But try me, madam; time indeed will show

Unto what lengths to serve you I would go.


HE.—We both have power,—’tis doubtful which is greater;

These crooked words had better be made straighter.

SHE.—Traighter (Traitor.)

HE.—Farewell! and never in this friendly strain

(My proffer’d aid foregone) I breathe again!

SHE.—Gone. I breathe again!


I cannot rove with thee, where zephyrs float—

Sweet sylvan scenes devoted to the loves!—

For, oh! I have not got one decent coat,

Nor can I sport a single pair of gloves.

Gladly I’d wander o’er the verdant lawn,

Where graze contentedly the fleecy flock;

But can I show myself in gills so torn,

Or brave the public gaze in such a stock?

I know thou’lt answer me that love is blind,

And faults in one it worships can’t perceive;

It must be sightless, truly, not to find

The hole that’s gaping in my threadbare sleeve.

Farewell, my love—for, oh! by heaven, we part,

And though it cost me all the pangs of hell.

The herd shall not on thee inflict a smart,

By calling after us—“There goes a swell!”


During the clear-out on Wednesday last in Downing-street, a small chest, strongly secured, was found among some models of balloting-boxes. It had evidently been forgotten for some years, and upon opening it, was found to contain the Whig promises of 1832. They were immediately conveyed to Lord Melbourne, who appeared much astonished at these resuscitation of the

A man is covered with children.


[pg 94]


“It is somewhat remarkable,” observe the journals of the past week, “that the medical division of this scientific meeting has not contributed one single paper this year in furtherance of its object, although the communications from that section have usually been of a highly important character.”

The journals may think it somewhat remarkable—we do not at all; for here, as in every other event of the day, a great deal depends upon being “behind the curtain;” and as the greater portion of our life is passed in that locality, we are always to be relied upon for authenticity in our statements. The plain truth is, that the papers were inadvertently lost, and rather than lead to some unpleasant disclosures, in which the eminent professor to whom they were entrusted would have been deeply implicated, it was thought best to say nothing about them. By chance they fell into the hands of the manager of one of our perambulating theatres, who was toiling his way from the west of England to Egham races, and having deposited them in his portable green-room, under the especial custody of the clown, the doctor, and the overbearing parochial authority, he duly remitted them to our office. We have been too happy in giving them a place in our columns, feeling an honest pride in thus taking the lead of the chief scientific publications of the day. It will be seen that they are drawn up as a report, all ready for publication, according to the usual custom of such proceedings, where every one knows beforehand what they are to dispute or agree with.

Dr. Splitnerve communicated a remarkable case of Animal Magnetism:—Eugene Doldrum, aged 21, a young man of bilious and interesting temperament, having been mesmerized, was rendered so keenly magnetic, as to give rise to a most remarkable train of phenomena. On being seated upon a music-stool, he immediately becomes an animated compass, and turns round to the north. Knives and forks at dinner invariably fly towards him, and he is not able to go through any of the squares, in consequence of being attracted firmly to the iron railings. As most of the experiments took place at the North London Hospital, Euston-square was his chief point of attraction, and when he was removed, it was always found necessary to break off the railings and take them away with him. This accounted for the decrepit condition of the fleur de lys that surround the inclosure, which was not, as generally supposed, the work of the university pupils residing in Gower-place. Perfect insensibility to pain supervened at the same time, and his friends took advantage of this circumstance to send him, by way of delicate compliment, to a lying-in lady, in the style of a pedestrian pin-cushion, his cheeks being stuck full of minikin pins, on the right side, forming the words “Health to the Babe,” and on the left, “Happiness to the Mother.”

Dr. Mortar read a talented paper on the cure of strabismus, or squinting, by dividing the muscles of the eye. The patient, a working man, squinted so terribly, that his eyes almost got into one another’s sockets; and at times he was only able to see by looking down the inside of his nose and out at the nostrils. The operation was performed six weeks ago, when, on cutting through the muscles, its effects were instantly visible: both the eyes immediately diverging to the extreme outer angles of their respective orbits.

Dr. Sharpeye inquired if the man did not find the present state of his vision still very perplexing.

Dr. Mortar replied, that so far from injuring his sight, it had proved highly beneficial, as the patient had procured a very excellent situation in the new police, and received a double salary, from the power he possessed of keeping an eye upon both sides of the road at the same time.

A cross-eyed woman


An elaborate and highly scientific treatise was then read by Dr. Sexton, upon a disease which had been very prevalent in town during the spring, and had been usually termed the influenza. He defined it as a disease of convenience, depending upon various exciting causes acting upon the mind. For instance:—

Mrs. A——, a lady residing in Belgrave-square, was on the eve of giving a large party, when, upon hearing that Mr. A—— had made an unlucky speculation in the funds, the whole family were seized with influenza so violently, that they were compelled to postpone the reunion, and live upon the provided supper for a fortnight afterwards.

Miss B—— was a singer at one of our large theatres, and had a part assigned to her in a new opera. Not liking it, she worried herself into an access of influenza, which unluckily seized her the first night the opera was to have been played.

But the most marked case was that of Mr. C——, a clerk in a city house of business, who was attacked and cured within three days. It appeared that he had been dining that afternoon with some friends, who were going to Greenwich fair the next day, and on arriving at home, was taken ill with influenza, so suddenly that he was obliged to despatch a note to that effect to his employer, stating also his fear that he should be unable to attend at his office on the morrow. Dr. Sexton said he was indebted for an account of the progress of his disease to a young medical gentleman, clinical clerk at a leading hospital, who lodged with the patient in Bartholomew-close. The report had been drawn up for the Lancet, but Dr. S. had procured it by great interest.

MAY 30, 1841, 11 P.M.—Present symptoms:—Complains of his employer, and the bore of being obliged to be at the office next morning. Has just eaten a piece of cold beef and pickles, with a pint of stout. Pulse about 75, and considerable defluxion from the nose, which he thinks produced by getting a piece of Cayenne pepper in his eye. Swallowed a crumb, which brought on a violent fit of coughing. Wishes to go to bed.

MAY 31, 9 A.M.—Has passed a tolerable night, but appears restless, and unable to settle to anything. Thinks he could eat some broiled ham if he had it; but not possessing any, has taken the following:

℞— Infus. coffee lbj
Sacchari ʒiij
Lactis Vaccæ ℥j
Ft. mistura, poculum mane sumendum.

A plaster ordered to be applied to the inside of the stomach, consisting of potted bloater spread upon bread and butter.

Eleven, A.M.—Appears rather hotter since breakfast. Change of air recommended, and Greenwich decided upon.

Half-past 11.—Complains of the draught and noise of the second-class railway carriages, but is otherwise not worse. Thinks he should like “a drain of half-and-half.” Has blown his nose once in the last quarter of an hour.

Two, P.M.—Since a light dinner of rump steaks and stout, a considerable change has taken place. He appears labouring under cerebral excitement and short pipes, and says he shall have a regular beanish day, and go it similar to bricks. Calls the waiter up to him in one of the booths, and has ordered “a glass of cocktail with the chill off and a cinder in it.”

Three, P.M.—Has sallied out into the fair, still much excited, calling every female he meets “Susan,” and pronouncing the s’s with a whistling accent. Expresses a desire to ride in the ships that go round and round.

Half-past 3.—The motion of the ships has tended considerably to relieve his stomach. Pulse slow and countenance pale, with a desire for a glass of ale. Has entered a peepshow, and is now arguing with the exhibitor upon the correctness of his view of the siege of “St. Jane Daker!” which he maintains was a sea-port, and not a field with a burning windmill, as represented in the view.

Eight, P.M.—After rambling vaguely about the fair all the afternoon, he has decided upon taking a hot-air bath in Algar’s Crown and Anchor booth. Evidently delirious. Has put on a false nose, and purchased a tear-coat rattle. Appears labouring under violent spasmodic action of the muscles of his legs, as he dances “Jim along Josey,” when he sets to his partner in a country dance of eighty couple.

Half-past 10, P.M.—Has just intimated that he does not see the use of going home, as you can always go there when you can go nowhere else. Is seated straddling across one of the tables, on which he is beating time to the band with a hooky stick. Will not allow the state of his pulse to be ascertained, but says we may feel his fist if we like.

Eleven.—Considerable difficulty experienced in getting the patient to the railroad, but we at last succeeded. After telling every one in the carriage “that he wasn’t afraid of any of them,” he fell into a deep stertorous sleep. On arriving at home, he got into bed with his boots on, and passed a restless night, turning out twice to drink water between one and four.

JUNE.—10, A.M.—Has just returned from his office, his employer thinking him very unfit for work, and desiring him to lay up for a day or two. Complains of being “jolly seedy,” and thinks he shall go to Greenwich again to get all right.

A thrilling paper upon the “Philosophy of death,” was then read by Professor Wynne Slow. After tracing the origin of that fatal attack, which it appears the earliest nations were subject to, the learned author showed profound research in bringing forward the various terms applied to the act of dying by popular authors. [pg 95]Amongst the principal, he enumerated “turning your toes up,” “kicking the bucket,” “putting up your spoon,” “slipping your wind,” “booking your place,” “breaking your bellows,” “shutting up your shop,” and other phrases full of expression.

The last moments of remarkable characters were especially dwelt upon, in connexion, more especially, with the drama, which gives us the best examples, from its holding a mirror up to nature. It appeared that at Astley’s late amphitheatre, the dying men generally shuffled about a great deal in the sawdust, fighting on their knees, and showing great determination to the last, until life gave way; that at the Adelphi the expiring character more frequently saw imaginary demons waiting for him, and fell down, uttering “Off, fiends! I come to join you in your world of flames!” and that clowns and pantaloons always gave up the ghost with heart-rending screams and contortions of visage, as their deaths were generally violent, from being sawn in half, having holes drilled in them with enormous gimlets, or being shot out of cannon; but that, at the same time, these deaths were not permanent.


Our foreign expresses have reached us via Billingsgate, and are full of interesting matter. Captain Fitz-Flammer is in prison at Boulogne, for some trifling misunderstanding with a native butcher, about the settlement of an account; but we trust no time will be lost by our government in demanding his release at the hands of the authorities. The attempt to make it a private question is absurd; and every Englishman’s blood will simmer, if it does not actually boil, at the intelligence. Fitz-Flammer was only engaged in doing that which many of our countrymen visit Boulogne expressly to do, and it is hard that he should have been intercepted in his retreat, after accomplishing his object. To live at the expense of a natural enemy is certainly a bold and patriotic act, which ought to excite sympathy at home, and protection abroad. The English packet, the City of Boulogne, has turned one of its imitation guns directly towards the town, which, we trust, will have the effect of bringing the French authorities to reason.

It is expected that the treaty will shortly be signed, by which Belgium cedes to France a milestone on the north frontier; while the latter country returns to the former the whole of the territory lying behind a pig-stye, taken possession of in the celebrated 6th vendemiaire, by the allied armies. This will put an end to the heart-burnings that have long existed on either side of the Rhine, and will serve to apply the sponge at once to a long score of national animosities.

Our letters from the East are far from encouraging. The Pasha has had a severe sore-throat, and the disaffected have taken advantage of the circumstance. Ibrahim had spent the two last nights in the mountains, and was unfurling his standard, when our express left, in the very bosom of the desert. Mehemet Ali was still obstinate, and had dismissed his visier for impertinence. The whole of Servia is in a state of revolt, and the authorities have planted troops along the entire line, the whole of whom have gone over to the enemy. It is said there must be further concessions, and a new constitution is being drawn up; but it is not expected that any one will abide by it. Mehemet attempted to throw himself upon the rock of Nungab, with a tremendous force, but those about him wisely prevented him from doing so.

We have received China (tea) papers to the 16th. There is nothing in them.


“The Duke of Wellington,” says a correspondent of the Times, “left his umbrella behind him at a fancy fair, held for charitable purposes, between Twickenham and Teddington. On discovering it, Lady P. immediately said, ‘Who will give twenty guineas for the Duke’s umbrella?’ A purchaser was soon found; and when the fact was communicated to his Grace, he good-naturedly remarked, ‘I’ll soon supply you with umbrellas, if you can sell them with so much advantage to the charity.’” We trust his Grace’s benevolent disposition will not induce him to carry this offer into execution. We should extremely regret to see the Hero of Waterloo in Leicester-square, of a rainy night, vending second-hand parapluies. The same charitable impulse will doubtlessly induce other fashionable hawkers at fancy fairs to pick his Grace’s pockets. We are somewhat curious to know what a Wellington bandana would realise, especially were it the produce of some pretty lady P.’s petty larceny. “Charity,” it is said, “covereth a multitude of sins.” What must it do with an umbrella? We fear that Lady P. will some day figure in the “fashionable departures.”

A man picks another's pocket




The production upon the stage of a tragedy “not intended for an acting play,” as a broad travestie, is a novel and dangerous experiment—one, however, which the combined genius of the Dramatic Authors’ Council has made, with the utmost success. The “Hungarian Daughter” was, under the title of “Martinuzzi,” received, on its first appearance, with bursts of applause and convulsions of laughter!

The plot of this piece our literary reviewer has expressed himself unable to unravel. We are in the same condition; all we can promise is some account of the scenes as they followed each other; of the characters, the sentiments, the poetry, and the rest of the fun.

The play opens with an elderly gentleman, in a spangled dressing-gown, who commences business by telling us the time of day, poetically clapping a wig upon the sun, by saying, he

“Shakes day about, like perfume from his hair,”

which statement bears out the after sentence, that “the wisdom he endures is terrible!” An Austrian gentleman—whose dress made us at first mistake him for Richard III. on his travels—arrives to inform the gentleman en déshabille—no other than Cardinal Martinuzzi himself—that he has come from King Ferdinand, to ask if he will be so good as to give up some regency; which the Cardinal, however, respectfully declines doing. A gentleman from Warsaw is next announced, and Castaldo retires, having incidentally declared a passion for the reigning queen of Hungary.

Mr. Selby, as Rupert from Warsaw, then appears, in a dress most correctly copied from the costume of the knave of clubs. Being a Pole, he stirs up the Cardinal vigorously enough to provoke some exceedingly intemperate language, chiefly by bringing to his memory a case of child-stealing, to which Martinuzzi was, before he had quite sown his wild oats, particeps criminis. This case having got into the papers (which Rupert had preserved), the Cardinal wants to obtain them, but offers a price not long enough for the Pole, who, declaring that Martinuzzi carries it “too high” to be trusted with them, vanishes. Mr. Morley afterwards comes forward to sing a song according to Act of Parliament, and the scene changes for Miss Collect to comply, a second time, with the 25th of George II.

In the following scene, the Queen Dowager of Hungary, Isabella, introduces herself to the audience, to inform them that the Austrian gentleman, Castaldo, is

“the mild,

Pity-fraught object of her fondness.”

He appears. She makes several inflammatory speeches, which he seems determined not to understand, for he is in love with the virgin queen; and maidens before dowagers is evidently his sensible motto.

The second act opens with the queen junior stating her assurance, that if she lives much longer she will die, and that when she is quite dead, she will hate Martinuzzi33. “Czerina. When I am dead—which will be soon—I feel,
If I much longer on my throne remain,
I shall abhor the name of Martinuzzi.”
. As, however, she means to hate when she is deceased, she will make the most of her time while alive, by devoting herself to courtship and Castaldo: for a very tender love-scene ensues, at the end of which the lady elopes, to leave the lover a clear stage for some half-dozen minutes’ ecstatics, appropriately ended by his arrest, ordered by Martinuzzi. Why, it is not stated, the officer not even producing the copy of a writ.

In the next scene, Isabella is visited by Rupert, who disinterestedly presents the dowager with the papers for nothing, which he was before offered an odd castle and snug estate for, by Martinuzzi. This is accounted for on no other supposition, than the proverbial gallantry of gentlemen from Warsaw.

Martinuzzi, possessing a ward whom he is anxious should wed the queen, opens the third act by declaring he will “precipitate the match,” and so the author considerately sends Czerina to him, to talk the matter over. But the young lady gets into a passion, and the Cardinal declares he can make nothing of her, in the following passage:—

“Fool! I can make thee nothing but a laugh.”

A sentiment to which the audience gave a most vociferous echo. The damsel is angry that she may not have the man she has chosen, and threatens to faint, but defers that operation till her lover’s arms are near enough to receive her; which they happen to be just in time, for Martinuzzi retires and Castaldo comes on. Czerina, to be quite sure, exclaims, “Are these thy arms?” (sic) and finally faints in the lover’s embrace, so as to exhibit a picturesque cuddle.

Queen Isabella is discovered, in the second scene of this act, perusing the much vaunted “papers” with intense interest. Unluckily Castaldo chooses that moment to complain, that Martinuzzi will not let him marry her rival. The queen, being by no means a temperate person, and wondering at his impudence in telling her such a tale, raves thus:—

“My soul’s on fire I’m choked, and seem to perish;

But will suppress my scream

Probably for fear of compromising Castaldo, who is alone with her; and she ends the act by requesting the Austrian to murder Martinuzzi; to which he is so obliging as to consent, the more so, as an order comes from the Secretary of State for foreign affairs, of his own government, to “cut off” (sic) the Regent.

The fourth act is enlivened by a masquerade and a murder. The gentleman from Warsaw having abused the hospitality of his host by getting drunk, is punished by one of Martinuzzi’s attendants with a mortal stab; and having, in the agonies of death, made a careful survey of all the sofas in the apartment, suits himself with the softest, and dies in great comfort.

[pg 96]

After this, the masquerade proceeds with spirit. Isabella mixes in the festive scene, disguised in a domino, made of black sticking-plaster. Czerina overhears that she is a usurper and a changeling, and expresses her surprise in a line most unblushingly stolen from Fitz-Ball and the other poetico-melo-dramatists:—

“Merciful Heavens! do my ears deceive me?”

The festivities conclude with an altercation between Martinuzzi and Isabella, carried on with much vigour on both sides. The lady accuses the gentleman of inebriation, and he owns the soft impeachment, fully bearing it out by several incoherent speeches.

This was one of the most successful scenes in the comedy. The death of Rupert, Mr. Morley’s song about “The sea,” the quarrel (which was about the great pivot of the plot, “the papers,” inscribed, says Martinuzzi,

“With ink that’s brew’d in the infernal Styx,”)

were all received with uproarious bursts of laughter.

In the fifth act, we behold Martinuzzi and the usurping young Queen making matters up at a railway pace. She has it all her own way. If she choose, she may marry Castaldo, retire into private life, be a “farm-house thrall,” and keep a “dairy;” for which estate she has previously expressed a decided predilection44. Acting play, published in the theatre, p. 32..

But it is the next scene that the author seems to have reserved for putting forth his strongest powers of burlesque and broad humour. Isabella and Castaldo are together; the latter feels a little afraid to murder Martinuzzi, but is impelled to the deed by a thousand imaginary torches, which he fears will hurry his “moth-like soul” into their “blinding sun-beams,” till it (the soul) is scorched “into cinders.”

Castaldo appears, in truth, a very bad barber of murders; for, as he is rushing out to

“Strike the tyrant down—in crimson streams

Rend every nerve,”

Isabella has the shrewdness to discover that he is without a weapon. Important omission! The incipient assassin exclaims—

“Oh! that I had my sword!”

but at that moment (clever, dramatic contrivance!)

[Enter CZERINA, with a drawn sword.]

“CZERINA. There’s one! Thine own!”

Far from being grateful for this opportune supply of ways and means for murder. Castaldo calls the bilbo a “fated aspic,” upon the edge of which his “eye-balls crack to look,” and makes a raving exit from the stage, to a roaring laugh from the audience.

It is quite clear to Isabella, from his extreme carelessness about his tools, that Castaldo is not safely to be trusted with a job which requires so much tact and business-like exactitude as the capital offence. She therefore “shows a phial,” which she intends, “occasion suiting,” for “Martinuzzi’s bane;” thereby hinting that, if Castaldo fail with his steel medicine, she is ready with a surer potion.

The next scene, being the last, was ushered in with acclamations. The stage, as is always in that case made and provided, was full. There is a young gentleman on a throne, and Czerina beside it, having been somehow ungallantly deposed. Martinuzzi expresses a wish to drink somebody’s health, and this being the “fitting opportunity” mentioned by the author in the scene preceeding, Isabella empties the phial of her wrath into the beverage, and the Cardinal quenches his thirst with a most intemperate draught. It is now duly announced, that Castaldo is, “with naked sword, approaching.” That gentleman appears, and makes a speech long enough for any man who has had such plain warning of what is to happen—even a cardinal encumbered with a spangled dressing-gown—to get a mile out of his way. The speech quite ended, he goes to work, and with “this from King Ferdinand,” thrusts at Martinuzzi. Czerina, however, throws herself, with great skill, on the point of the sword, and dies. Another long harangue from Castaldo—which, as he is evidently broken-winded from exertion, is pronounced in tiny snatches—and he dies with a “ha!” for want—like many greater men—of breath.

Meanwhile, the poison makes Martinuzzi exceedingly uncomfortable in the stomachic regions. He is quite sure

“That hath been done to me which sends me star-ward!”

but in his progress thither he evidently loses his way; for he ends the play by inquiring—


The sublimity of which query is manifestly insisted on by the author, by his having it printed in capitals.

When the curtain fell, there arose an uproarious shout for the author; but instead of “the mantle of the Elizabethan poets,” which, it has been said, he commonly wears, the most attractive garment that met the view was an expansive white waistcoat. This latter exhibition concluded the entertainments, strictly so called; for though a farce followed, it turned out a terrible bore.


If the advance of musical science is to be effected by indecent tableaux vivans—by rattling peas against sieves, and putting out the lights (appropriately enough) when Beethoven is being murdered—by the most contemptible class of compositions that ever was put upon score-paper, and noised forth from an ill-disciplined band—if these be the means towards improving musical taste, Monsieur Jullien is undoubtedly the harmonic regenerator of this country. He is a great man—great in his own estimation—great to the ends of his moustachios and the tips of his gloves—a great composer, and a great charlatan—ex. gr.:—

The overture to the promenade concerts usually consists of a pantomime entirely new to an English audience. Monsieur Jullien having made his appearance in the orchestra, seats himself in a conspicuous situation, to indulge the ladies with the most favourable view of his elegant person, and the splendid gold-chainery which is spread all over his magnificent waistcoat. A servant in livery then appears, and presents him with a pair of white kid gloves. The illustrious conductor, having taken some time to thrust them upon a very large and red hand, leisurely takes up his baton, rises, grins upon the expectant musicians, lifts his arm, and—the first chord is struck!

Quadrilles are the staple of the evening—those composed by Monsieur Jullien always, of course, claiming precedence and preference. These are usually interspersed with solos on the flageolet, to contrast with obligati for the ophecleido; the drummers—side, long, and double—are seldom inactive; the trombones and trumpets have no sinecure, and there is always a great mortality amongst the fiddle-strings. Eight bars of impossible variation is sure to be succeeded by sixteen of the deafening fanfare of trumpets, combined with smashing cymbalism, and dreadful drumming.

The public have a taste for headaches, and Jullien has imported a capital recipe for creating them; they applaud—he bows; and musical taste goes—in compliment to the ex-waiter’s genuine profession of man-cook—to pot.

But the ci-devant cuisinier is not content with comparatively harmless, plain-sailing humbug; he must add some sauce piquante to his musical hashes. He cannot rest with merely stunning English ears, but must shock our morals, At the bals masqués, the French dancers, and the hardly mentionable cancan, were hooted back to their native stews under the Palais Royal; but he provides substitutes for them in the tableaux vivans now exhibiting. This, because a more insidious, is a safer introduction. The living figures are dressed to imitate plaster-of-Paris, and are so arranged as to form groups, called in the bills “classical;” but for which it would be difficult to find originals. In short, the whole thing is a feeler thrown out to see how far French impudence and French epicureanism in vice may carry themselves. It shall not be our fault if they do not experience an ignominious downfall, and beat a speedy retreat, to the tune of the “Rogue’s March,” arranged as a quadrille!



“Some men are born to greatness, some men achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”—SHAKSPEARE.

Reader, should you doubt the above assertion, in the true showman phraseology, just “Walk up! walk up!” to Madame Tussaud’s, the real Temple of Fame, and let such doubts vanish for ever; convince yourselves that the mighty attribute not more survives from good than evil deeds, though, like poverty, it makes its votaries acquainted with the strangest of strange bedfellows! The regal ermine and the murderer’s fustian alike obtain their enviable niche.

The likeness of departed majesty, robed in the matchless splendour of a ruler’s state, redolent with all the mimic glories of a king’s insignia, the modelled puppet from the senseless clay, that wore in life the imperial purple, and moved a breathing thing, chief actor in its childish mummeries, may here be seen shining in tinselled pomp, in glittering contrast to the blood-stained shirt through which the dagger of Ravaillac reached the bosom of the murdered Henry.

The “Real Robes” of the dead George give value to his waxen image! The heart’s-blood of the slaughtered Henry immortalises the linen bearing its hideous stain. The daring leader of France’s countless hosts—the wholesale slaughterer of unnumbered thousands—ambition’s mightiest son—now ruling kingdoms and now ruled by one—once more than king—in death the captive of his hated foes—“the great Napoleon!” shares the small space with the enshrined Fieschi!

The glorious triumphs of the mighty Wellington are here no better passports than the foul murders of the atrocious Burke; the subtle Talleyrand, the deep deviser of political schemes, ruler of rulers, and master mover of the earth’s great puppets, is not one jot superior to the Italian mountebank, whose well-skilled hand drew tones from catgut rivalling even the ideal trumpet of great Fame herself!

By some strange anomaly, success and failure alike render the candidates admissible—no matter the littleness of the source from whence they sprung. Lord Melbourne’s “premiership” gave shape to the all but Promethean wax. The failure of John Frost, his humble follower, secured his right to Fame’s posthumous honours. All partiality is here forgotten. The titled premier, in the haunts of men, may boast his monarch’s palace as his home. The suffering felon, though iron binds his limbs, and eats into his heart—though slow approaching, but sure-coming death, makes the broad world for him a living grave, here he stands, as one among the great ones of the show! The amiability of Albert, that “excellent Prince,” and therefore “most excellent young man,” is ingeniously contrasted with the vices of a Greenacre, and the villany of a Hare. The stern endurance and unflinching perseverance of the zealous and single-hearted Calvin is deprived of its exclusiveness by the more exciting and equally famous Sir William Courtenay (alias Thom).

The thrilling recollection of the “poet peer,” and “peerless poet,” the highly-imaginative and unrivalled Byron, whose flood of song, poured out in one continuous stream of varied passion-breathing fancy, is calmed by gazing on “dull life’s antipodes,” the bandaged remnant of a dried-up mummy!

Poor Mary Stuart! the beautiful, the murdered Queen of Scots, is only parted from the “Maiden Queen,” who sealed her doom, by the interposition of the blood-stained ruthless wretch (England’s Eighth Harry), to whom “Bess” owed her birth!

Pitt, Fox, and Canning are matched with Courvoisier, Gould, and Collins.

Liston is vis à vis to Joe Hume, while Louis Philippe but shares attention with the rivalling models of the Bastille and Guillotine!

Verily, there is a moral in all this, “an we could but find it out.”


VOL. 1.

SEPTEMBER 12, 1841.

[pg 97]



Two wrestling men form the letter A.

After the ceremony, the happy pair set off for Brighton.”

There is something peculiarly pleasing in the above paragraph. The imagination instantly conjures up an elegant yellow-bodied chariot, lined with pearl drab, and a sandwich basket. In one corner sits a fair and blushing creature partially arrayed in the garments of a bride, their spotless character diversified with some few articles of a darker hue, resembling, in fact, the liquid matrimony of port and sherry; her delicate hands have been denuded of their gloves, exhibiting to the world the glittering emblem of her endless hopes. In the other, a smiling piece of four-and-twenty humanity is reclining, gazing upon the beautiful treasure, which has that morning cost him about six pounds five shillings, in the shape of licence and fees. He too has deprived himself of the sunniest portions of his wardrobe, and has softened the glare of his white ducks, and the gloss of his blue coat, by the application of a drab waistcoat. But why indulge in speculative dreams when we have realities to detail!

Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite and his beauteous Juliana Theresa (late Waddledot), for three days, experienced that—

“Love is heaven, and heaven is love.”

His imaginary dinner-party became a reality, and the delicate attentions which he paid to his invisible guest rendered his Juliana Theresa’s life—as she exquisitely expressed it—

“A something without a name, but to which nothing was wanting.”

But even honey will cloy; and that sweetest of all moons, the Apian one, would sometimes be better for a change. Juliana passed the greater portion of the day on the sofa, in the companionship of that aromatic author, Sir Edward; or sauntered (listlessly hanging on Collumpsion’s arm) up and down the Steine, or the no less diversified Chain-pier. Agamemnon felt that at home at least he ought to be happy, and, therefore, he hung his legs over the balcony and whistled or warbled (he had a remarkably fine D) Moore’s ballad of—

“Believe me, if all those endearing young charms;”

or took the silver out of the left-hand pocket of his trousers, and placed it in the right-hand receptacle of the same garment. Nevertheless, he was continually detecting himself yawning or dozing, as though “the idol of his existence” was a chimera, and not Mrs. Applebite.

The time at length arrived for their return to town, and, to judge from the pleasure depicted in the countenances of the happy pair, the contemplated intrusion of the world on their family circle was anything but disagreeable. Old John, under the able generalship of Mrs. Waddledot, had made every requisite preparation for their reception. Enamelled cards, superscribed with the names of Mr. and Mrs. Applebite, and united together with a silver cord tied in a true lover’s knot, had been duly enclosed in an envelope of lace-work, secured with a silver dove, flying away with a square piece of silver toast. In company with a very unsatisfactory bit of exceedingly rich cake, this glossy missive was despatched to the whole of the Applebite and Waddledot connexion, only excepting the eighteen daughters who Mrs. Waddledot had reason to believe would not return her visit.

The meeting of the young wife and the wife’s mother was touching in the extreme. They rushed into each other’s arms, and indulged in plentiful showers of “nature’s dew.”

“Welcome! welcome home, my dear Juliana!” exclaimed the doting mother. “It’s the first time, Mr. A., that she ever left me since she was 16, for so long a period. I have had all the beds aired, and all the chairs uncovered. She’ll be a treasure to you, Mr. A., for a more tractable creature was never vaccinated;” and here the mother overcame the orator, and she wept again.

“My dear mother,” said Agamemnon, “I have already had many reasons to be grateful for my happy fortune. Don’t you think she is browner than when we left town?”

“Much, much!” sobbed the mother; “but the change is for the better.”

“I’m glad you think so, for Aggy is of the same opinion,” lisped the beautiful ex-Waddledot. “Tell ma’ the pretty metaphor you indulged in yesterday, Aggy.”

“Why, I merely remarked,” replied Collumpsion, blushing, “that I was pleased to see the horticultural beauties of her cheek superseded by such an exquisite marine painting. It’s nothing of itself, but Juley’s foolish fondness called it witty.”

The arrival of the single sister of Mrs. Applebite, occasioned another rush of bodies and several gushes of tears; then titterings succeeded, and then a simultaneous burst of laughter, and a rapid exit. Agamemnon looked round that room which he had furnished in his bachelorhood. A thousand old associations sprung up in his mind, and a vague feeling of anticipated evil for a moment oppressed him. The bijouterie seemed to reproach him with unkindness for having placed a mistress over them, and the easy chair heaved as though with suppressed emotion, at the thought that its luxurious proportions had lost their charms. Collumpsion held a mental toss-up whether he repented of the change in his condition; and, as faithful historians, we are compelled to state that it was only the entrance, at that particular moment, of Juliana, that induced him to cry—woman.

On the following day the knocker of No. 24 disturbed all the other numerals in Pleasant-terrace; and Mr. and Mrs. A. bowed and curtsied until they were tired, in acknowledgment of their friends’ “wishes of joy,” and, as one unlucky old gentleman expressed himself, “many happy returns of the day.”

It was a matter of surprise to many of the said friends, that so great an alteration as was perceptible in the happy pair, should have occurred in such a very short space of time.

“I used to think Mr. Applebite a very nice young man,” said Miss—mind, Miss Scragbury—“but, dear me, how he’s altered.”

“And Mrs. Applebite used to be a pretty girl,” rejoined her brother Julius; “but now (Juliana had refused him three times)—but now she’s as ill-looking as her mother.”

“I’d no idea this house was so small,” said Mrs. Scragmore. “I’m afraid the Waddledots haven’t made so great a catch, after all. I hope poor Juley will be happy, for I nursed her when a baby, but I never saw such an ugly pattern for a stair-carpet in my born days;” and with these favourable impressions of their dear friends the Applebites, the Scragmores descended the steps of No. 24, Pleasant-terrace, and then ascended those of No. 5436 hackney-coach.

About ten months after their union, Collumpsion was observed to have a more jaunty step and smiling countenance, which—as his matrimonial felicity had been so frequently pronounced perfect—puzzled his friends amazingly. Indeed, some were led to conjecture, that his love for Juliana Theresa was not of the positive character that he asserted it to be; for when any inquiries were made after her health, his answer had invariably been, of late, “Why, Mrs. A.—is—not very well;” and a smile would play about his mouth, as though he had a delightful vision of a widower-hood. The mystery was at length solved, by the exhibition of sundry articles of a Lilliputian wardrobe, followed by an announcement in the Morning Post, under the head of

“BIRTHS.—Yesterday morning, the lady of Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite, Esq., of a son and heir.”

Pleasant-terrace was strawed from one end to the other; the knocker of 24 was encased in white kid, a doctor’s boy was observed to call three times a-day, and a pot-boy twice as often.

Collumpsion was in a seventh heaven of wedded bliss. He shook hands with everybody—thanked everybody—invited everybody when Mrs. A. should be better, and noted down in his pocket-book what everybody prescribed as infallible remedies for the measles, hooping-cough, small-pox, and rashes (both nettle and tooth)—listened for hours to the praises of vaccination and Indian-rubber rings—pronounced Goding’s porter a real blessing to mothers, and inquired the price of boys’ suits and rocking-horses!

In this state of paternal felicity we must leave him till our next.


It is rumoured that Macready is desirous of disposing of his “manners” previous to becoming manager, when he will have no further occasion for them. They are in excellent condition, having been very little used, and would be a desirable purchase for any one expecting to move within the sphere of his management.


A point impossible for mind to reach—

To find the meaning of a royal speech.


The late Queen of the Sandwich Islands, and the first convert to Christianity in that country, was called Keopalani, which means—“the dropping of the clouds from Heaven.”


This name’s the best that could be given,

As will by proof be quickly seen;

For, “dropping from the clouds of Heaven,”

She was, of course, the raining Queen.


Our gallant friend Sibthorp backed himself on the 1st of September to bag a hundred leverets in the course of the day. He lost, of course; and upon being questioned as to his reason for making so preposterous a bet, he confessed that he had been induced to do so by the specious promise of an advertisement, in which somebody professed to have discovered “a powder for the removal of superfluous hairs.”

[pg 98]



Chaos returns! no soul’s in town!

And darkness reigns where lamps once brightened;

Shutters are closed, and blinds drawn down—

Untrodden door-steps go unwhitened!

The echoes of some straggler’s boots

Alone are on the pavement ringing

While ’prentice boys, who smoke cheroots,

Stand critics to some broom-girl’s singing.

I went to call on Madame Sims,

In a dark street, not far from Drury;

An Irish crone half-oped the door.

Whose head might represent a fury.

“At home, sir?” “No! (whisper)—but I’ll presume

To tell the truth, or know the raison.

She dines—tays—lives—in the back room,

Bekase ’tis not the London saison.”

From thence I went to Lady Bloom’s,

Where, after sundry rings and knocking,

A yawning, liveried lad appear’d,

His squalid face his gay clothes mocking

I asked him, in a faltering tone—

The house was closed—I guess’d the reason—

“Is Lady B.’s grand-aunt, then, gone?”—

“To Ramsgate, sir!—until next season!”

I sauntered on to Harry Gray’s,

The ennui of my heart to lighten;

His landlady, with, smirk and smile,

Said, “he had just run down to Brighton.”

When home I turned my steps, at last,

A tailor—whom to kick were treason—

Pressed for his bill;—I hurried past,

Politely saying—CALL NEXT SEASON!


We concluded our last article with a brief dissertation on the cut of the trousers; we will now proceed to the consideration of coats.

“The hour must come when such things must be made.”

For this quotation we are indebted to

A man carries a book titled 'Poems'


There are three kinds of coats—the body, the surtout, and the great.

The body-coat is again divided into classes, according to their application, viz.—the drawing-room, the ride, and the field.

The cut of the dress-coat is of paramount importance, that being the garment which decorates the gentleman at a time when he is naturally ambitious of going the entire D’Orsay. There is great nicety required in cutting this article of dress, so that it may at one and the same moment display the figure and waistcoat of the wearer to the utmost advantage. None but a John o’Groat’s goth would allow it to be imagined that the buttons and button-holes of this robe were ever intended to be anything but opposite neighbours, for a contrary conviction would imply the absence of a cloak in the hall or a cab at the door. We do not intend to give a Schneiderian dissertation upon garments; we merely wish to trace outlines; but to those who are anxious for a more intimate acquaintance with the intricacies and mysteries of the delightful and civilising art of cutting, we can only say, Vide Stultz.11. Should any gentleman avail himself of this hint, we should feel obliged if he would mention the source from whence it was derived, having a small account standing in that quarter, for tailors have gratitude.

The riding-coat is the connecting link between the DRESS and the rest of the great family of coats, as one button, and one only of this garment, may be allowed to be applied to his apparent use.

It is so cut, that the waistcoat pockets may be easy of access. Any gentleman who has attended races or other sporting meetings must have found the convenience of this arrangement; for where the course is well managed, as at Epsom, Ascot, Hampton, &c., by the judicious regulations of the stewards, the fingers are generally employed in the distribution of those miniature argentine medallions of her Majesty so particularly admired by ostlers, correct card-vendors, E.O. table-keepers, Mr. Jerry, and the toll-takers on the road and the course. The original idea of these coats was accidentally given by John Day, who was describing, on Nugee’s cutting-board, the exact curvature of Tattenham Corner.

The shooting-jacket should be designed after a dovecot or a chest of drawers; and the great art in rendering this garment perfect, is to make the coat entirely of pockets, that part which covers the shoulders being only excepted, from the difficulty of carrying even a cigar-case in that peculiar situation.

The surtout (not regulation) admits of very little design. It can only be varied by the length of the skirts, which may be either as long as a fireman’s, or as short as Duvernay’s petticoats. This coat is, in fact, a cross between the dress and the driving, and may, perhaps, be described as a Benjamin junior.

Of the Benjamin senior, there are several kinds—the Taglioni, the Pea, the Monkey, the Box, et sui generis.

The three first are all of the coal-sackian cut, being, in fact, elegant elongated pillow-cases, with two diminutive bolsters, which are to be filled with arms instead of feathers. They are singularly adapted for concealing the fall in the back, and displaying to the greatest advantage those unassuming castors designated “Jerrys,” which have so successfully rivalled those silky impostors known to the world as

Side view of a man with a broad-brimmed hat.


The box-coat has, of late years, been denuded of its layers of capes, and is now cut for the sole purpose, apparently, of supporting perpendicular rows of wooden platters or mother-of-pearl counters, each of which would be nearly large enough for the top of a lady’s work-table. Mackintosh-coats have, in some measure, superseded the box-coat; but, like carters’ smock-frocks, they are all the creations of speculative minds, having the great advantage of keeping out the water, whilst they assist you in becoming saturated with perspiration. We strongly suspect their acquaintance with India-rubber; they seem to us to be a preparation of English rheumatism, having rather more of the catarrh than caoutchouc in their composition. Everybody knows the affinity of India-rubber to black-lead; but when made into a Mackintosh, you may substitute the lum for the plumbago.

We never see a fellow in a seal-skin cap, and one of these waterproof pudding-bags, but we fancy he would make an excellent model for

A bearded man.


The ornaments and pathology will next command our attention.

A friend insulted us the other day with the following:—“Billy Black supposes Sam Rogers wears a tightly-laced boddice. Why is it like one of Milton’s heroes?” Seeing we gave it up, he replied—“Because Sam’s-on-agony-stays.”—(Samson Agonistes.)

[pg 99]



This morning, at an early hour, we were thrown into the greatest consternation by a column of boys, who poured in upon us from the northern entrance, and, taking up their-station near the pump, we expected the worst.

8 o’clock.—The worst has not yet happened. An inhabitant has entered the square-garden, and planted himself at the back of the statue; but everything is in STATUE QUO.

5 minutes past 8.—The boys are still there. The square-keeper is nowhere to be found.

10 minutes past 8.—The insurgents have, some of them, mounted on the fire-escape. The square-keeper has been seen. He is sneaking round the corner, and resolutely refuses to come nearer.

¼ past 8.—A deputation has waited on the square-keeper. It is expected that he will resign.

20 minutes past 8.—The square-keeper refuses to resign.

22 minutes past 8.—The square-keeper has resigned.

25 minutes past 8.—The boys have gone home.

½ past 8.—The square-keeper has been restored, and is showing great courage and activity. It is not thought necessary to place him under arms; but he is under the engine, which can he brought into play at a moment’s notice. His activity is surprising, and his resolution quite undaunted.

9 o’clock.—All is perfectly quiet, and the letters are being delivered by the general post-man as usual. The inhabitants appear to be going to their business, as if nothing had happened. The square-keeper, with the whole of his staff (a constable’s staff), may be seen walking quietly up and down. The revolution is at an end; and, thanks to the fire-engine, our old constitution is still preserved to us.



My dear Friend.—You are aware how long I have been longing to go up in a balloon, and that I should certainly have some time ago ascended with Mr. Green, had not his terms been not simply a cut above me, but several gashes beyond my power to comply with them. In a word, I did not go up with the Nassau, because I could not come down with the dust, and though I always had “Green in my eye,” I was not quite so soft as to pay twenty pounds in hard cash for the fun of going, on

A black man in armor.


nobody knows where, and coming down Heaven knows how, in a field belonging to the Lord knows who, and being detained for goodness knows what, for damage.

Not being inclined, therefore, for a nice and expensive voyage with Mr. Green, I made a cheap and nasty arrangement with Mr. Hampton, the gentleman who courageously offers to descend in a parachute—a thing very like a parasol—and who, as he never mounts much above the height of ordinary palings, might keep his word without the smallest risk of any personal inconvenience.

It was arranged and publicly announced that the balloon, carrying its owner and myself, should start from the Tea-gardens of the Mitre and Mustard Pot, at six o’clock in the evening; and the public were to be admitted at one, to see the process of inflation, it being shrewdly calculated by the proprietor, that, as the balloon got full, the stomachs of the lookers on would be getting empty, and that the refreshments would go off while the tedious work of filling a silken bag with gas was going on, so that the appetites and the curiosity of the public would be at the same time satisfied.

The process of inflation seemed to have but little effect on the balloon, and it was not until about five o’clock that the important discovery was made, that the gas introduced at the bottom had been escaping through a hole in the top, and that the Equitable Company was laying it on excessively thick through the windpipes of the assembled company.

Six o’clock arrived, and, according to contract, the supply of gas was cut off, when the balloon, that had hitherto worn such an appearance as just to give a hope that it might in time be full, began to present an aspect which induced a general fear that it must very shortly be empty. The audience began to be impatient for the promised ascent, and while the aeronaut was running about in all directions looking for the hole, and wondering how he should stop it up, I was requested by the proprietor of the gardens to step into the car, just to check the growing impatience of the audience. I was received with that unanimous shout of cheering and laughter with which a British audience always welcomes any one who appears to have got into an awkward predicament, and I sat for a few minutes, quietly expecting to be buried in the silk of the balloon, which was beginning to collapse with the greatest rapidity. The spectators becoming impatient for the promised ascent, and seeing that it could not be achieved, determined, as enlightened British audiences invariably do, that if it was not to be done, it should at all events be attempted. In vain did Mr. Hampton come forward to apologise for the trifling accident; he was met by yells, hoots, hisses, and orange-peel, and the benches were just about to be torn up, when he declared, that under any circumstances, he was determined to go up—an arrangement in which I was refusing to coincide—when, just as he had got into the car, all means of getting out were withdrawn from under us—the ropes were cut, and the ascent commenced in earnest.

The majestic machine rose slowly to the height of about eight feet, amid the most enthusiastic cheers, when it rolled over among some trees, amid the most frantic laughter. Mr. Hampton, with singular presence of mind, threw out every ounce of ballast, which caused the balloon to ascend a few feet higher, when a tremendous gust of easterly wind took us triumphantly out of the gardens, the palings of which we cleared with considerable nicety. The scene at this moment was magnificent; the silken monster, in a state of flabbiness, rolling and fluttering above, while below us were thousands of spectators, absolutely shrieking with merriment. Another gust of wind carried us rapidly forward, and, bringing us exactly in a level with a coach-stand, we literally swept, with the bottom of our car, every driver from off his box, and, of course, the enthusiasm of a British audience almost reached its climax. We now encountered the gable-end of a station-house, and the balloon being by this time thoroughly collapsed, our aerial trip was brought to an abrupt conclusion. I know nothing more of what occurred, having been carried on a shutter, in a state of

A man hangs from a fence by his trousers.


to my own lodging, while my companion was left to fight it out with the mob, who were so anxious to possess themselves of some memento of the occasion, that the balloon was torn to ribbons, and a fragment of it carried away by almost every one of the vast multitude which had assembled to honour him with their patronage.

I have the honour to be, yours, &c.


A country gentleman informs us that he was horror-stricken at the sight of an apparently organised band, wearing fustian coats, decorated with curious brass badges, bearing exceedingly high numbers, who perched themselves behind the Paddington omnibuses, and, in the most barefaced and treasonable manner, urged the surrounding populace to open acts of daring violence, and wholesale arson, by shouting out, at the top of their voices, “O burn, the City, and the Bank.”


“We have lordlings in dozens,” the Tories exclaim,

“To fill every place from the throng;

Although the cursed Whigs, be it told to our shame,

Kept us poor lords in waiting too long.”


The Honourable Sambo Sutton begs us to state, that he is not the Honourable —— Sutton who is announced as the Secretary for the Home Department. He might have been induced to have stepped into Lord Cottenham’s shoes, on his

An Eskimo runs from a polar bear. There are seals lying on the ground.



Feargus O’Connor passed his word last week at the London Tavern.


At the late collision between the Beacon brig and the Topaz steamer, one of the passengers, anticipating the sinking of both vessels, and being strongly embued with the great principle of self-preservation, immediately secured himself the assistance of the anchor! Did he conceive “Hope” to have been unsexed, or that that attribute originally existed as a “floating boy?”

[pg 100]


“The Loves of Giles Scroggins and Molly Brown:” an Epic Poem. London: CATNACH.

The great essentials necessary for the true conformation of the sublimest effort of poetic genius, the construction of an “Epic Poem,” are numerically three; viz., a beginning, a middle, and an end. The incipient characters necessary to the beginning, ripening in the middle, and, like the drinkers of small beer and October leaves, falling in the end.

The poem being thus divided into its several stages, the judgment of the writer should emulate that of the experienced Jehu, who so proportions his work, that all and several of his required teams do their own share and no more—fifteen miles (or lengths) to a first canto, and five to a second, is as far from right as such a distribution of mile-stones would be to the overworked prads. The great fault of modern poetasters arises from their extreme love of spinning out an infinite deal of nothing. Now, as “brevity is the soul of wit,” their productions can be looked upon as little else than phantasmagorial skeletons, ridiculous from their extreme extenuation, and in appearance more peculiarly empty, from the circumstance of their owing their existence to false lights. This fault does not exist with all the master spirits, and, though “many a flower is born to blush unseen,” we now proceed to rescue from obscurity the brightest gem of unfamed literature.

Wisdom is said to be found in the mouths of babes and sucklings. So is the epic poem of Giles Scroggins. Is wisdom Scroggins, or is Scroggins wisdom? We can prove either position, but we are cramped for space, and therefore leave the question open. Now for our author and his first line—

“Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown.”

Beautiful condensation! Is or is not this rushing at once in medias res? It is; there’s no paltry subterfuge about it—no unnecessary wearing out of “the waning moon they met by”—“the stars that gazed upon their joy”—“the whispering gales that breathed in zephyr’s softest sighs”—their “lover’s perjuries to the distracted trees they wouldn’t allow to go to sleep.” In short, “there’s no nonsense”—there’s a broad assertion of a thrilling fact—

“Giles Scroggins courted Molly Brown.”

So might a thousand folks; therefore (the reader may say) how does this establish the individuality of Giles Scroggins, or give an insight to the character of the chosen hero of the poem? Mark the next line, and your doubts must vanish. He courted her; but why? Ay, why? for the best of all possible reasons—condensed in the smallest of all possible space, and yet establishing his perfect taste, unequalled judgment, and peculiarly-heroic self-esteem—he courted her because she was

“The fairest maid in all the town.”

Magnificent climax! overwhelming reason! Could volumes written, printed, or stereotyped, say more? Certainly not; the condensation of “Aurora’s blushes,” “the Graces’ attributes,” “Venus’s perfections,” and “Love’s sweet votaries,” all, all is more than spoken in the emphatic words—

“The fairest maid in all the town.”

Nothing can go beyond this; it proves her beauty and her disinterestedness. The fairest maid might have chosen, nay, commanded, even a city dignitary. Does the so? No; Giles Scroggins, famous only in name, loves her, and—beautiful poetic contrivance!—we are left to imagine he does “not love unloved.” Why should she reciprocate? inquires the reader. Are not truth and generosity the princely paragons of manly virtue, greater, because unostentatious? and these perfect attributes are part and parcel of great Giles. He makes no speeches—soils no satin paper—vows no vows—no, he is above such humbug. His motto is evidently deeds, not words. And what does he do? Send a flimsy epistle, which his fair reader pays the vile postage for? Not he; he

Gave a ring with posy true!”

Think of this. Not only does he “give a ring,” but he annihilates the suppositionary fiction in which poets are supposed to revel, and the ring’s accompaniment, though the child of a creative brain—the burning emanation from some Apollo-stricken votary of “the lying nine,” imbued with all his stern morality, is strictly “true.” This startling fact is not left wrapped in mystery. The veriest sceptic cannot, in imagination, grave a fancied double meaning on that richest gift. No—the motto follows, and seems to say—Now, as the champion of Giles Scroggins, hurl I this gauntlet down; let him that dare, uplift it! Here I am—

“If you loves I, as I loves you!”

Pray mark the syncretic force of the above line. Giles, in expressing his affection, felt the singular too small, and the vast plural quick supplied the void—Loves must be more than love.

“If you loves I, as I loves you,

No knife shall cut our loves in two!”

This is really sublime! “No knife!” Can anything exceed the assertion? Nothing but the rejoinder—a rejoinder in which the talented author not only stands proudly forward as a poet, but patriotically proves the amor propriæ, which has induced him to study the staple manufactures of his beloved country! What but a diligent investigation of the cutlerian process could have prompted the illustration of practical knowledge of the Birmingham and Sheffield artificers contained in the following exquisitely explanatory line. But—pray mark the but

“But scissors cut as well as knives!”

Sublime announcement! startling information! leading us, by degrees, to the highest of all earthly contemplations, exalting us to fate and her peculiar shears, and preparing us for the exquisitely poetical sequel contained in the following line:—

“And so unsartain’s all our lives.”

Can anything exceed this? The uncertainty of life evidently superinduced the conviction of all other uncertainties, and the sublime poet bears out the intenseness of his impressions by the uncertainty of his spelling! Now, reader, mark the next line, and its context:—

“The very night they were to wed!”

Fancy this: the full blossoming of all their budding joys, anticipations, death, and hope’s accomplishment, the crowning hour of their youth’s great bliss, “the very night they were to wed,” is, with extra syncretic skill, chosen as the awful one in which

“Fate’s scissors cut Giles Scroggins’ thread!”

Now, reader, do you see the subtle use of practical knowledge? Are you convinced of the impotent prescription from knives only? Can you not perceive in “Fate’s scissors” a parallel for the unthought-of host “that bore the mighty wood of Dunsinane against the blood-stained murderer of the pious Duncan?” Does not the fatal truth rush, like an unseen draught into rheumatic crannies, slick through your soul’s perception? Are you not prepared for this—to be resumed in our next?



Lord Lyndhurst is to have the seals; but it is not yet decided who is to be entrusted with the wafer-stamps. Gold-stick has not been appointed, and there are so many of the Conservatives whose qualities peculiarly fit them for the office of stick, that the choice will be exceedingly embarrassing.

Though the Duke of Wellington does not take office, an extra chair has been ordered, to allow of his having a seat in the Cabinet. And though Lord Melbourne is no longer minister, he is still to be indulged with a lounge on the sofa.

If the Duke of Beaufort is to be Master of the Horse, it is probable that a new office will be made, to allow Colonel Sibthorp to take office as Comptroller of the Donkeys: and it is said that Horace Twiss is to join the administration as Clerk of the Kitchen.

It was remarked, that after Sir Robert Peel had kissed hands, the Queen called for soap and water, for the purpose of washing them.

The Duchess of Buccleugh having refused the office of Mistress of the Robes, it will not be necessary to make the contemplated new appointment of Keeper of the Flannel Petticoats.

The Grooms of the Bedchamber are, for the future, to be styled Postilions of the Dressing-room; because, as the Sovereign is a lady, instead of a gentleman, it is thought that the latter title, for the officers alluded to, will be more in accordance with propriety. For the same excellent reason, it is expected that the Knights of the Bath will henceforth be designated the Chevaliers of the Foot-pan.

Prince Albert’s household is to be entirely re-modelled, and one or two new offices are to be added, the want of which has hitherto occasioned his Royal Highness much inconvenience. Of these, we are only authorised in alluding, at present, to Tooth-brush in Ordinary, and Shaving-pot in Waiting. There is no foundation for the report that there is to be a Lord High Clothes-brush, or Privy Boot-jack.


The following letter has been addressed to us by a certain party, who, as our readers will perceive, has been one of the sufferers by the late clearance made in a fashionable establishment at the West-end:—

DEAR PUNCH.—As you may not be awair of the mallancoly change wich as okkurred to the pore sarvunts here, I hassen to let you no—that every sole on us as lost our plaices, and are turnd owt—wich is a dredful klamity, seeing as we was all very comfittible and appy as we was. I must say, in gustis to our Missus, that she was very fond of us, and wouldn’t have parted with one of us if she had her will: but she’s only a O in her own howse, and is never aloud to do as she licks. We got warning reglar enuff, but we still thort that somethink might turn up in our fever. However, when the day cum that we was to go, it fell upon us like a thunderboat. You can’t imagine the kunfewshion we was all threw into—every body packing up their little afares, and rummidging about for any trifele that wasn’t worth leaving behind. The sarvunts as is cum in upon us is a nice sett; they have been a long wile trying after our places, and at last they have suckseeded in underminding us; but it’s my oppinion they’ll never be able to get through the work of the house;—all they cares for is the vails and purkussites. I forgot to menshun that they hadn’t the decency to wait till we was off the peremasses, wich I bleave is the etticat in sich cases, but rushed in on last Friday, and tuck possession of all our plaices before we had left the concirn. I leave you to judge by this what a hurry they was to get in. There’s one comfurt, however, that is—we’ve left things in sich a mess in the howse, that I don’t think they’ll ever be able to set them to rites again. This is all at present from your afflickted friend,


“I declare I never knew a flatter companion than yourself,” said Tom of Finsbury, the other evening, to the lion of Lambeth. “Thank you, Tom,” replied the latter; “but all the world knows that you’re a flatter-er.” Tom, in nautical phrase, swore, if he ever came athwart his Hawes, that he would return the compliment with interest.

[pg 101]


—“Here, methinks,

Truth wants no ornament.”—ROGERS.

We have the happiness to know a gentleman of the name of Tom, who officiates in the capacity of ostler. We have enjoyed a long acquaintance with him—we mean an acquaintance a long way off—i.e. from the window of our dormitory, which overlooks A—s—n’s stables. We believe we are the first of our family, for some years, who has not kept a horse; and we derive a melancholy gratification in gazing for hours, from our lonely height, at the zoological possessions of more favoured mortals.

“The horse is a noble animal,” as a gentleman once wittily observed, when he found himself, for the first time in his life, in a position to make love; and we beg leave to repeat the remark—“the horse is a noble animal,” whether we consider him in his usefulness or in his beauty; whether caparisoned in the chamfrein and demi-peake of the chivalry of olden times, or scarcely fettered and surmounted by the snaffle and hog-skin of the present; whether he excites our envy when bounding over the sandy deserts of Arabia, or awakens our sympathies when drawing sand from Hampstead and the parts adjacent; whether we see him as romance pictures him, foaming in the lists, or bearing, “through flood and field,” the brave, the beautiful, and the benighted; or, as we know him in reality, the companion of our pleasures, the slave of our necessities, the dislocator of our necks, or one of the performers at our funeral; whether—but we are not drawing a “bill in Chancery.”

With such impressions in favour of the horse, we have ever felt a deep anxiety about those to whom his conduct and comfort are confided.

The breeder—we envy.

The breaker—we pity.

The owner—we esteem.

The groom—we respect.


The ostler—we pay.

Do not suppose that we wish to cast a slur upon the latter personage, but it is too much to require that he who keeps a caravansera should look upon every wayfarer as a brother. It is thus with the ostler: his feelings are never allowed to twine

“Around one object, till he feels his heart

Of its sweet being form a deathless part.”

No—to rub them down, give them a quartern and three pen’orth, and not too much water, are all that he has to connect him with the offspring of Childers, Eclipse, or Pot-8-o’s; ergo, we pay him.

My friend Tom is a fine specimen of the genus. He is about fifteen hands high, rising thirty, herring-bowelled, small head, large ears, close mane, broad chest, and legs à la parentheses ( ). His dress is a long brown-holland jacket, covering the protuberance known in Bavaria by the name of pudo, and in England by that of bustle. His breeches are of cord about an inch in width, and of such capacious dimensions, that a truss of hay, or a quarter of oats, might be stowed away in them with perfect convenience: not that we mean to insinuate they are ever thus employed, for when we have seen them, they have been in a collapsed state, hanging (like the skin of an elephant) in graceful festoons about the mid-person of the wearer. These necessaries are confined at the knee by a transverse row of pearl buttons crossing the genu patella. The pars pendula is about twelve inches wide, and supplies, during conversation or rumination, a resting-place for the thumbs or little fingers. His legs are encased either in white ribbed cotton stockings, or that peculiar kind of gaiter ’yclept kicksies. His feet know only one pattern shoe, the ancle-jack (or highlow as it is sometimes called), resplendent with “Day and Martin,” or the no less brilliant “Warren.” Genius of propriety, we have described his tail before that index of the mind, that idol of phrenologists, his pimple!—we beg pardon, we mean his head. Round, and rosy as a pippin, it stands alone in its native loveliness, on the heap of clothes beneath.

Tom is not a low man; he has not a particle of costermongerism in his composition, though his discourse savours of that peculiar slang that might be considered rather objectionable in the salons of the élite.

The bell which he has the honour to answer hangs at the gate of a west-end livery-stables, and his consequence is proportionate. To none under the degree of a groom does he condescend a nod of recognition—with a second coachman he drinks porter—and purl (a compound of beer and blue ruin) with the more respectable individual who occupies the hammer-cloth on court-days. Tom estimates a man according to his horse, and his civility is regulated according to his estimation. He pockets a gratuity with as much ease as a state pensioner; but if some unhappy wight should, in the plenitude of his ignorance, proffer a sixpence, Tom buttons his pockets with a smile, and politely “begs to leave it till it becomes more.”

With an old meerschaum and a pint of tolerable sherry, we seat ourselves at our window, and hold many an imaginative conversation with our friend Tom. Sometimes we are blest with more than ideality; but that is only when he unbends and becomes jocular and noisy, or chooses a snug corner opposite our window to enjoy his otium—confound that phrase!—we would say his indolence and swagger—

“A pound to a hay-seed agin’ the bay.”

Hallo! that’s Tom! Yes—there he comes laughing out of “Box 4,” with three others—all first coachmen. One is making some very significant motions to the potboy at the “Ram and Radish,” and, lo! Ganymede appears with a foaming tankard of ale. Tom has taken his seat on an inverted pail, and the others are grouped easily, if not classically, around him.

One is resting his head between the prongs of a stable-fork; another is spread out like the Colossus of Rhodes; whilst a gentleman in a blue uniform has thrown himself into an attitude à la Cribb, with the facetious intention of “letting daylight into the wittling department” of the pot-boy of the “Ram and Radish.”

Tom has blown the froth from the tankard, and (as he elegantly designates it) “bit his name in the pot.” A second has “looked at the maker’s name;” and another has taken one of those positive draughts which evince a settled conviction that it is a last chance.

Our friend has thrust his hands into the deepest depths of his breeches-pocket, and cocking one eye at the afore-named blue uniform, asks—

Will you back the bay?”

The inquiry has been made in such a do-if-you-dare tone, that to hesitate would evince a cowardice unworthy of the first coachman to the first peer in Belgrave-square, and a leg of mutton and trimmings are duly entered in a greasy pocket-book, as dependent upon the result of the Derby.

“The son of Tros, fair Ganymede,” is again called into requisition, and the party are getting, as Tom says, “As happy as Harry Stockracy.”

“I’ve often heerd that chap mentioned,” remarks the blue uniform, “but I never seed no one as know’d him.”

“No more did I,” replies Tom, “though he must be a fellow such as us, up to everything.”

All the coachmen cough, strike an attitude, and look wise.

“Now here comes a sort of chap I despises,” remarks Tom, pointing to a steady-looking man, without encumbrance, who had just entered the yard, evidently a coachman to a pious family; “see him handle a hoss. Smear—smear—like bees-waxing a table. Nothing varminty about him—nothing of this sort of thing (spreading himself out to the gaze of his admiring auditory), but I suppose he’s useful with slow cattle, and that’s a consolation to us as can’t abear them.” And with this negative compliment Tom has broken up his conversazione.

I once knew a country ostler—by name Peter Staggs—he was a lower species of the same genus—a sort of compound of my friend Tom and a waggoner—the delf of the profession. He was a character in his way; he knew the exact moment of every coach’s transit on his line of road, and the birth, parentage, and education of every cab, hack, and draught-horse in the neighbourhood. He had heard of a mane-comb, but had never seen one; he considered a shilling for a “feed” perfectly apocryphal, as he had never received one. He kept a rough terrier-dog, that would kill anything in the country, and exhibited three rows of putrified rats, nailed at the back of the stable, as evidences of the prowess of his dog. He swore long country oaths, for which he will be unaccountable, as not even an angel could transcribe them. In short, he was a little “varminty,” but very little.

We will conclude this “lytle historie” with the epitaph of poor Peter Staggs, which we copied from a rail in Swaffham churchyard.


Poor Peter Staggs now rests beneath this rail,

Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale;

For twenty years he did the duties well,

Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the ‘Bell.’

But Death stepp’d in, and order’d Peter Staggs

To feed his worms, and leave the farmers’ nags.

The church clock struck one—alas! ’twas Peter’s knell,

Who sigh’d, ‘I’m coming—that’s the ostler’s bell!’”

Peace to his manes!


“If you won’t turn, I will,” as the mill-wheel said to the stream.

“Why did not Wellington take a post in the new Cabinet?” asked Dicky Sheil of O’Connell.—“Bathershin!” replied the head of the tail, “the Duke is too old a soldier to lean on a rotten stick.”

Lord Morpeth intends proceeding to Canada immediately. The object of his journey is purely scientific; he wishes to ascertain if the Fall of Niagara be really greater than the fall of the Whigs.


“When is Peel not Peel?”—“When he’s candi(e)d.”


We have heard of the very dead being endowed, by galvanic action, with the temporary powers of life, and on such occasions the extreme force of the apparatus has ever received the highest praise. The Syncretic march of mind rectifies the above error—with them, weakness is strength. Fancy the alliterative littleness of a “Stephens” and a “Selby,” as the tools from which the drama must receive its glorious resuscitation!


(Extracted from the “Stranger’s Guide to London.”)

Bedlam, the celebrated receptacle for lunatics, is situated in St. George’s-fields, within five minutes’ walk of the King’s Bench. There is also another noble establishment in the neighbourhood of Finsbury-square, where the unhappy victims of extraordinary delusions are treated with the care and consideration their several hallucinations require.

[pg 102]


At length, PEEL is called in “in a regular way.” Being assured of his quarterly fee, the state physician may now, in the magnanimity of his soul, prescribe new life for moribund John Bull. Whether he has resolved within himself to emulate the generous dealing of kindred professors—of those sanative philosophers, whose benevolence, stamped in modest handbills, “crieth out in the street,” exclaiming “No cure no pay,”—we know not; certain we are, that such is not the old Tory practice. On the contrary, the healing, with Tory doctors, has ever been in an inverse ratio to the reward. Like the faculty at large, the Tories have flourished on the sickness of the patient. They have, with Falstaff, “turned diseases to commodity;” their only concern being to keep out the undertaker. Whilst there’s life, there’s profit,—is the philosophy of the Tory College; hence, poor Mr. Bull, though shrunk, attenuated,—with a blister on his head, and cataplasms at his soles,—has been kept just alive enough to pay. And then his patience under Tory treatment—the obedience of his swallow! “Admirable, excellent!” cried a certain doctor (we will not swear that his name was not PEEL), when his patient pointed to a dozen empty phials. “Taken them all, eh? Delightful! My dear sir, you are worthy to be ill.” JOHN BULL having again called in the Tories, is “worthy to be ill;” and very ill he will be.

The tenacity of life displayed by BULL is paralleled by a case quoted by LE VAILLANT. That naturalist speaks of a turtle that continued to live after its brain was taken from its skull, and the cavity stuffed with cotton. Is not England, with spinning-jenny PEEL at the head of its affairs, in this precise predicament? England may live; but inactive, torpid; unfitted for all healthful exertion,—deprived of its grandest functions—paralyzed in its noblest strength. We have a Tory Cabinet, but where is the brain of statesmanship?

Now, however, there are no Tories. Oh, no! Sir ROBERT PEEL is a Conservative—LYNDHURST is a Conservative—all are Conservative. Toryism has sloughed its old skin, and rejoices in a new coat of many colours; but the sting remains—the venom is the same; the reptile that would have struck to the heart the freedom of Europe, elaborates the self-same poison, is endowed with the same subtilty, the same grovelling, tortuous action. It still creeps upon its belly, and wriggles to its purpose. When adders shall become eels, then will we believe that Conservatives cannot be Tories.

When folks change their names—unless by the gracious permission of the Gazette—they rarely do so to avoid the fame of brilliant deeds. It is not the act of an over-sensitive modesty that induces Peter Wiggins to dub himself John Smith. Be certain of it, Peter has not saved half a boarding-school from the tremendous fire that entirely destroyed “Ringworm House”—Peter has not dived into the Thames, and rescued some respectable attorney from a death hitherto deemed by his friends impossible to him. It is from no such heroism that Peter Wiggins is compelled to take refuge in John Smith from the oppressive admiration of the world about him. Certainly not. Depend upon it, Peter has been signalised in the Hue and Cry, as one endowed with a love for the silver spoons of other men—as an individual who, abusing the hospitality of his lodgings, has conveyed away and sold the best goose feathers of his landlady. What then, with his name ripe enough to drop from the tree of life, remains to Wiggins, but to subside into Smith? What hope was there for the well-known swindler, the posted pickpocket, the callous-hearted, slug-brained Tory? None: he was hooted, pelted at; all men stopped the nose at his approach. He was voted a nuisance, and turned forth into the world, with all his vices, like ulcers, upon him. Well, Tory adopts the inevitable policy of Wiggins; he changes his name! He comes forth, curled and sweetened, and with a smile upon his mealy face, and placing his felon hand above the vacuum on the left side of his bosom—declares, whilst the tears he weeps would make a crocodile blush—that he is by no means the Tory his wicked, heartless enemies would call him. Certainly not. His name is—Conservative! There was, once, to be sure, a Tory—in existence;

“But he is dead, and nailed in his chest!”

He is a creature extinct, gone with the wolves annihilated by the Saxon monarch. There may be the skeleton of the animal in some rare collections in the kingdom; but for the living creature, you shall as soon find a phoenix building in the trees of Windsor Park, as a Tory kissing hands in Windsor Castle!

The lie is but gulped as a truth, and Conservative is taken into service. Once more, he is the factotum to JOHN BULL. But when the knave shall have worn out his second name—when he shall again be turned away—look to your feather-beds, oh, JOHN! and foolish, credulous, leathern-eared Mr. BULL—be sure and count your spoons!

Can it be supposed that the loss of office, that the ten years’ hunger for the loaves and fishes endured by the Tory party, has disciplined them into a wiser humanity? Can it be believed that they have arrived at a more comprehensive grasp of intellect—that they are ennobled by a loftier consideration of the social rights of man—that they are gifted with a more stirring sympathy for the wants that, in the present iniquitous system of society, reduce him to little less than pining idiotcy, or madden him to what the statutes call crime, and what judges, sleek as their ermine, preach upon as rebellion to the government—the government that, in fact, having stung starvation into treason, takes to itself the loftiest praise for refusing the hangman—a task—for appeasing Justice with simple transportation?

Already the Tories have declared themselves. In the flush of anticipated success, PEEL at the Tamworth election denounced the French Revolution that escorted Charles the Tenth—with his foolish head still upon his shoulders—out of France, as the “triumph of might over right.” It was the right—the divine right of Charles—(the sacred ampoule, yet dropping with the heavenly oil brought by the mystic dove for Clovis, had bestowed the privilege)—to gag the mouth of man; to scourge a nation with decrees, begot by bigot tyranny upon folly—to reduce a people into uncomplaining slavery. Such was his right: and the burst of indignation, the irresistible assertion of the native dignity of man, that shivered the throne of Charles like glass, was a felonious might—a rebellious, treasonous potency—the very wickedness of strength. Such is the opinion of Conservative PEEL! Such the old Tory faith of the child of Toryism!

Since the Tamworth speech—since the scourging of Sir ROBERT by the French press—PEEL has essayed a small philanthropic oration. He has endeavoured to paint—and certainly in the most delicate water-colours—the horrors of war. The premier makes his speech to the nations with the palm-branch in his hand—with the olive around his brow. He has applied arithmetic to war, and finds it expensive. He would therefore induce France to disarm, that by reductions at home he may not be compelled to risk what would certainly jerk him out of the premiership—the imposition of new taxes. He may then keep his Corn Laws—he may then securely enjoy his sliding scale. Such are the hopes that dictate the intimation to disarm. It is sweet to prevent war; and, oh! far sweeter still to keep out the Wigs!

The Duke of WELLINGTON, who is to be the moral force of the Tory Cabinet, is a great soldier; and by the very greatness of his martial fame, has been enabled to carry certain political questions which, proposed by a lesser genius, had been scouted by the party otherwise irresistibly compelled to admit them. (Imagine, for instance, the Marquis of Londonderry handling Catholic Emancipation.) Nevertheless, should “The follies of the Wise”—a chronicle much wanted—be ever collected for the world, his Grace of Wellington will certainly shine as a conspicuous contributor. In the name of famine, what could have induced his Grace to insult the misery at this moment, eating the hearts of thousands of Englishmen? For, within these few days, the Victor of Waterloo expressed his conviction that England was the only country in which “the poor man, if only sober and industrious, WAS QUITE CERTAIN of acquiring a competency!” And it is this man, imbued with this opinion, who is to be hailed as the presiding wisdom—the great moral strength—the healing humanity of the Tory Cabinet. If rags and starvation put up their prayer to the present Ministry, what must be the answer delivered by the Duke of Wellington? “YE ARE DRUNKEN AND LAZY!”

If on the night of the 24th of August—the memorable night on which this heartless insult was thrown in the idle teeth of famishing thousands—the ghosts of the victims of the Corn Laws,—the spectres of the wretches who had been ground out of life by the infamy of Tory taxation, could have been permitted to lift the bed-curtains of Apsley-House,—his Grace the Duke of Wellington would have been scared by even a greater majority than ultimately awaits his fellowship in the present Cabinet. Still we can only visit upon the Duke the censure of ignorance. “He knows not what he says.” If it be his belief that England suffers only because she is drunken and idle, he knows no more of England than the Icelander in his sledge: if, on the other hand, he used the libel as a party warfare, he is still one of the “old set,”—and his “crowning carnage, Waterloo,” with all its greatness, is but a poor set-off against the more lasting iniquities which he would visit upon his fellow-men. Anyhow, he cannot—he must not—escape from his opinion; we will nail him to it, as we would nail a weasel to a barn-door; “if Englishmen want competence, they must be drunken—they must be idle.” Gentlemen Tories, shuffle the cards as you will, the Duke of Wellington either lacks principle or brains.

Next week we will speak of the Whigs; of the good they have done—of the good they have, with an instinct towards aristocracy—most foolishly, most traitorously, missed.


[pg 103]


Red Riding Hood (the Queen) faces a wolf (Peel) in the Royal Preserve of Mount Peelion.


[pg 105]




Who Kill’d Cock Russell?

I, said Bob Peel,

The political eel,

I kill’d Cock Russell.

Who saw him die?

We, said the nation,

At each polling station,

We saw him die.

Who caught his place?

I, for I can lie,

Said turn-about Stanley,

I caught his place.

Who’ll make his shroud?

We, cried the poor

From each Union door,

We’ll make his shroud.

Who’ll dig his grave?

Cried the corn-laws, The fool

Has long been our tool,

We’ll dig his grave.

Who’ll be the parson?

I, London’s bishop,

A sermon will dish up,

I’ll be the parson.

Who’ll be the clerk?

Sibthorp, for a lark,

If you’ll all keep it dark,

He’ll be the clerk.

Who’ll carry him to his grave?

The Chartists, with pleasure,

Will wait on his leisure,

They’ll carry him to his grave.

Who’ll carry the link?

Said Wakley, in a minute,

I must be in it,

I’ll carry the link.

Who’ll be chief mourners?

We, shouted dozens

Of out-of-place cousins,

We’ll be chief mourners.

Who’ll bear the pall?

As they loudly bewail,

Both O’Connell and tail,

They’ll bear the pall.

Who’ll go before?

I, said old Cupid,

I’ll still head the stupid,

I’ll go before.

Who’ll sing a psalm?

I, Colonel Perceval,

(Oh, Peel, be merciful!)

I’ll sing a psalm.

Who’ll throw in the dirt?

I, said the Times,

In lampoons and rhymes,

I’ll throw in the dirt.

Who’ll toll the bell?

I, said John Bull,

With pleasure I’ll pull,—

I’ll toll the bell.

All the Whigs in the world

Fell a sighing and sobbing,

When wicked Bob Peel

Put an end to their jobbing.


Collected and elaborated expressly for “PUNCH,” by Tiddledy Winks, Esq., Hon. Sec., and Editor of the Peckham Evening Post and Camberwell-Green Advertiser.

Previously to placing the results of my unwearied application before the public, I think it will be both interesting and appropriate to trace, in a few words, the origin of this admirable society, by whose indefatigable exertions the air-pump has become necessary to the domestic economy of every peasant’s cottage; and the Budelight and beer-shops, optics and out-door relief, and Daguerrotypes and dirt, have become subjects with which they are equally familiar.

About the close of last year, a few scientific labourers were in the habit of meeting at a “Jerry” in their neighbourhood, for the purpose of discussing such matters as the comprehensive and plainly-written reports of the British Association, as furnished by the Athenæum, offered to their notice, in any way connected with philosophy or the belles lettres. The numbers increasing, it was proposed that they should meet weekly at one another’s cottages, and there deliver a lecture on any scientific subject; and the preliminary matters being arranged, the first discourse was given “On the Advantage of an Air-gun over a Fowling-piece, in bringing Pheasants down without making a noise.” This was so eminently successful, that the following discourses were delivered in quick succession:—

On the Toxicological Powers of Coculus Indicus in Stupifying Fish.

On the Combustion of Park-palings and loose Gate-posts.

On the tendency of Out-of-door Spray-piles to Spontaneous Evaporation, during dark nights.

On the Comparative Inflammatory properties of Lucifer Matches, Phosphorus Bottles, Tinder-boxes, and Congreves, as well as Incandescens Short Pipes, applied to Hay in particular and Ricks in general.

On the value of Cheap Literature, and Intrinsic Worth (by weight) of the various Publications of the Society for the Confusion of Useless Knowledge.

The lectures were all admirably illustrated, and the society appeared to be in a prosperous state. At length the government selected two or three of its most active members, and despatched them on a voyage of discovery to a distant part of the globe. The institution now drooped for a while, until some friends of education firmly impressed with the importance of their undertaking, once more revived its former greatness, at the same time entirely reorganizing its arrangements. Subscriptions were collected, sufficient to erect a handsome turf edifice, with a massy thatched roof, upon Timber Common; a committee was appointed to manage the scientific department, at a liberal salary, including the room to sit in, turf, and rushlights, with the addition, on committee nights, of a pint of intermediate beer, a pipe, and a screw, to each member. Gentlemen fond of hearing their own voices were invited to give gratuitous discourses from sister institutions: a museum and library were added to the building already mentioned, and an annual meeting of illuminati was agreed upon.

Amongst the papers contributed to be read at the evening meetings of the society, perhaps the most interesting was that communicated by Mr. Octavius Spiff, being a startling and probing investigation as to whether Sir Isaac Newton had his hat on when the apple tumbled on his head, what sort of an apple it most probably was, and whether it actually fell from the tree upon him, or, being found too hard and sour to eat, had been pitched over his garden wall by the hand of an irritated little boy. I ought also to make mention of Mr. Plummycram’s “Narrative of an Ascent to the summit of Highgate-hill,” with Mr. Mulltour’s “Handbook for Travellers from the Bank to Lisson-grove,” and “A Summer’s-day on Kennington-common.” Mr. Tinhunt has also announced an attractive work, to be called “Hackney: its Manufactures, Economy, and Political Resources.”

It is the intention of the society, should its funds increase, to take a high place next year in the scientific transactions of the country. Led by the spirit of enterprise now so universally prevalent, arrangements are pending with Mr. Purdy, to fit up two punts for the Shepperton expedition, which will set out in the course of the ensuing summer. The subject for the Prize Essay for the Victoria Penny Coronation Medal this year is, “The possibility of totally obliterating the black stamp on the post-office Queen’s heads, so as to render them serviceable a second time;” and, in imitation of the learned investigations of sister institutions, the Copper Jinks Medal will also be given to the author of the best essay upon “The existing analogy between the mental subdivision of invisible agencies and circulating decompositions.”—(To be continued.)

[pg 106]



“Be still, my mighty soul! These ribs of mine

Are all too fragile for thy narrow cage.

By heaven! I will unlock my bosom’s door.

And blow thee forth upon the boundless tide

Of thought’s creation, where thy eagle wing

May soar from this dull terrene mass away,

To yonder empyrean vault—like rocket (sky)—

To mingle with thy cognate essences

Of Love and Immortality, until

Thou burstest with thine own intensity,

And scatterest into millions of bright stars,

Each one a part of that refulgent whole

Which once was ME.”

Thus spoke, or thought—for, in a metaphysical point of view, it does not much matter whether the passage above quoted was uttered, or only conceived—by the sublime philosopher and author of the tragedy of “Martinuzzi,” now being nightly played at the English Opera House, with unbounded success, to overflowing audiences22. Has this paragraph been paid for as an advertisement?—PRINTER’S DEVIL.—Undoubtedly.—ED.. These were the aspirations of his gigantic mind, as he sat, on last Monday morning, like a simple mortal, in a striped-cotton dressing-gown and drab slippers, over a cup of weak coffee. (We love to be minute on great subjects.) The door opened, and a female figure—not the Tragic muse—but Sally, the maid of-all-work, entered, holding in a corner of her dingy apron, between her delicate finger and thumb, a piece of not too snowy paper, folded into an exact parallelogram.

“A letter for you, sir,” said the maid of-all-work, dropping a reverential curtsey.

George Stephens, Esq. took the despatch in his inspired fingers, broke the seal, and read as follows:—

Surrey Theatre.

SIR,—I have seen your tragedy of “Martinuzzi,” and pronounce it magnificent! I have had, for some time, an idea in my head (how it came there I don’t know), to produce, after the Boulogne affair, a grand Inauguration of the Statue of Shakspere, on the stage of the Surrey, but not having an image of him amongst our properties, I could not put my plan into execution. Now, sir, as it appears that you are the exact ditto of the bard, I shouldn’t mind making an arrangement with you to undertake the character of our friend Billy on the occasion. I shall do the liberal in the way of terms, and get up the gag properly, with laurels and other greens, of which I have a large stock on hand; so that with your popularity the thing will be sure to draw. If you consent to come, I’ll post you in six-feet letters against every dead wall in town.


When the author of the “magnificent poem” had finished reading the letter he appeared deeply moved, and the maid of-all-work saw three plump tears roll down his manly cheek, and rest upon his shirt collar. “I expected nothing less,” said he, stroking his chin with a mysterious air. “The manager of the Surrey, at least, understands me—he appreciates the immensity of my genius. I will accept his offer, and show the world—great Shakspere’s rival in myself.”

Having thus spoken, the immortal dramatist wiped his hands on the tail of his dressing-gown, and performed a pas seul “as the act directs,” after which he dressed himself, and emerged into the open air.

The sun was shining brilliantly, and Phoebus remarked, with evident pleasure, that his brother had bestowed considerable pains in adorning his person. His boots shone with unparalleled splendour, and his waistcoat—

[We omit the remainder of the inventory of the great poet’s wardrobe, and proceed at once to the ceremony of the Inauguration at the Surrey Theatre.]

Never on any former occasion had public curiosity over the water been so strongly excited. Long before the doors of the theatre were opened, several passengers in the street were observed to pause before the building, and regard it with looks of profound awe. At half-past six, two young sweeps and a sand-boy were seen waiting anxiously at the gallery entrance, determined to secure front seats at any personal sacrifice. At seven precisely the doors were opened, and a tremendous rush of four persons was made to the pit; the boxes had been previously occupied by the “Dramatic Council” and the “Syncretic Society.” The silence which pervaded the house, until the musicians began to tune their violins in the orchestra, was thrilling; and during the performance of the overture, expectation stood on tip-toe, awaiting the great event of the night.

At length the curtain slowly rose, and we discovered the author of “Martinuzzi” elevated on a pedestal formed of the cask used by the celebrated German tub-runner (a delicate compliment, by the way, to the genius of the poet). On this appropriate foundation stood the great man, with his august head enveloped in a capacious bread-bag. At a given signal, a vast quantity of crackers were let off, the envious bag was withdrawn, and the illustrious dramatist was revealed to the enraptured spectators, in the statuesque resemblance of his elder, but not more celebrated brother, WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. At this moment the plaudits were vigorously enthusiastic. Thrice did the flattered statue bow its head, and once it laid its hand upon its grateful bosom, in acknowledgment of the honour that was paid it. As soon as the applause had partially subsided, the manager, in the character of Midas, surrounded by the nine Muses, advanced to the foot of the pedestal, and, to use the language of the reporters of public dinners, “in a neat and appropriate speech,” deposed a laurel crown upon the brows of Shakspere&rsq