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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:45:39 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:45:39 -0700 |
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diff --git a/14920-h/14920-h.htm b/14920-h/14920-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..45bd907 --- /dev/null +++ b/14920-h/14920-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2571 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta name="generator" content= +"HTML Tidy for Mac OS X (vers 1st August 2004), see www.w3.org" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= +"text/html; charset=us-ascii" /> +<title>Punch, or the London Charivari. July 24, 1841.</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[*/ + +<!-- + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + p {text-align: justify;} + blockquote {text-align: justify;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center;} + pre {font-size: 0.7em;} + + hr {text-align: center; width: 50%;} + html>body hr {margin-right: 25%; margin-left: 25%; width: 50%;} + hr.full {width: 100%;} + html>body hr.full {margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 0%; width: 100%;} + hr.short {text-align: center; width: 20%;} + html>body hr.short {margin-right: 40%; margin-left: 40%; width: 20%;} + ul {list-style-type:none;} + .note {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + + span.pagenum + {position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 91%; font-size: 8pt;} + + .poem + {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem p.i4 {margin-left: 2em;} + .poem p.i6 {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem p.i8 {margin-left:4em;} + .poem p.i10 {margin-left:5em;} + .poem p.cen {text-align:center;} + +.figure, .figcenter, .figright, .figleft {padding: 1em; margin: 0; text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em;} +.figure img, .figcenter img, .figright img, .figleft img {border: none;} +.figure p, .figcenter p, .figright p, .figleft p {margin: 0; text-indent: 1em;} +.figcenter>p {text-align:center;} +.figcenter {margin: auto;} +.figright {float: right; width:25%;} +.figleft, .dropcap {float: left;width:25%;} + span.sidenote {position: absolute; right: 1%; left: 80%; font-size: .7em;text-align:left;text-indent:0em;} + sup{font-size:.7em;} + a:link{text-decoration:none;} +.hide {display: none;} + --> +/*]]>*/ +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 1, +July 24, 1841, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 1, July 24, 1841 + +Author: Various + +Release Date: February 7, 2005 [EBook #14920] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** + + + + +Produced by Syamanta Saikia, Jon Ingram, Barbara Tozier and the PG +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + +</pre> + +<h1>PUNCH,<br /> +OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1> +<h2>VOL. 1.</h2> +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page13" name="page13"></a>[pg +13]</span> +<h2>JULY 24, 1841.</h2> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>A MODEST METHOD OF FORMING A NEW BUDGET</h2> +<h3>SO AS TO PROVIDE FOR THE DEFICIENCY OF THE REVENUE.</h3> +<div class="dropcap"><a href="images/002-01.png"><img src= +"images/002-01.png" alt= +"A building (with the words More Ton Dyer) and a sail forming the letter P" +id="img002-01" name="img002-01" width="100%" /></a></div> +<p><span class="hide">P</span>oor 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>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:—</p> +<p>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.)</p> +<p>For murdering a father or a mother—a good sum.</p> +<p>For ditto, a grand ditto, or a great-grand ditto—not so +much: their leases, it is presumed, being about to fall in.</p> +<p>Uncles, aunts, cousins, friends, companions, and the community +in general—in proportion.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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!”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>After all, you see, Mr. Dyer’s idea was not altogether +original.</p> +<p>Your affectionate friend,<br /> +CHRISTOPHER SLY.<br /> +<em>Pump</em> Court.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>WHIG-WAGGERIES.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>The Whigs must go: to reign instead</p> +<p class="i2">The Tories will be call’d;</p> +<p>The Whigs should ne’er be at the head—</p> +<p class="i2"><em>Dear me, I’m getting bald</em>!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>The Whigs! they pass’d that Poor Law Bill;</p> +<p class="i2">That’s true, beyond a doubt;</p> +<p>The poor they’ve treated very ill—</p> +<p class="i2"><em>There, kick that beggar out</em>!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>The Whigs about the sugar prate!</p> +<p class="i2">They do not care one dump</p> +<p>About the blacks and their sad state—</p> +<p class="i2"><em>Just please to pass the lump</em>!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Those niggers, for their sufferings here,</p> +<p class="i2">Will angels be when dying;</p> +<p>Have wings, and flit above us—dear—</p> +<p class="i2"><em>Why, how those blacks are flying</em>!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>The Whigs are in a state forlorn;</p> +<p class="i2">In fact, were ne’er so low:</p> +<p>They make a fuss about the corn—</p> +<p class="i2"><em>My love, you’re on my toe</em>!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>The Whigs the timber duty say</p> +<p class="i2">They will bring down a peg;</p> +<p>More wooden-pated blockheads they!</p> +<p class="i2"><em>Fetch me my wooden leg</em>!</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>COURT CIRCULAR.</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.”</p> +<p>Despatches yesterday arrived at the house of Reuben Martin, +enclosing a post order for three-and six-pence.</p> +<p>The Signor and Deaf Burke walked out at five o’clock. They +after wards tossed for a pint of half-and-half.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>AN AN-TEA ANACREONTIC.—No. 2.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Rundell! pride of Ludgate Hill!</p> +<p>I would task thine utmost skill;</p> +<p>I would have a bowl from thee</p> +<p>Fit to hold my Howqua tea.</p> +<p>And oh! leave it not without</p> +<p>Ivory handle and a spout.</p> +<p>Where thy curious hand must trace</p> +<p>Father Mathew’s temperate face,</p> +<p>So that he may ever seem</p> +<p>Spouting tea and breathing steam.</p> +<p>On its sides do not display</p> +<p>Fawns and laughing nymphs at play</p> +<p>But portray, instead of these,</p> +<p>Funny groups of fat Chinese:</p> +<p>On its lid a mandarin,</p> +<p>Modelled to resemble Lin.</p> +<p>When completed, artisan,</p> +<p>I will pay you—if I can.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page14" name="page14"></a>[pg +14]</span> +<h2>SPORTING.</h2> +<h3>THE KNOCKER HUNT.</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <em>vinous</em> +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:—</p> +<blockquote> +<p>1840.</p> +<p style="padding-left:-1em;margin-left:1em;text-indent:-1em;">Nov. +12—Dined with Captain ——. Capital +spread—exquisite <em>liqueurs</em>—magnificent +wines—unparalleled cigars—drank <em>my</em> four +bottles—should have made it five, but found I had eaten +something which disagreed with me—Home at four.</p> +<p><em>State of Knocker</em>.—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.</p> +<p style="padding-left:-1em;margin-left:1em;text-indent:-1em;">Nov. +13.—Supped with Charley B——. Brandy, <em>genuine +cognac</em>—Cigars <em>principè</em>. ESTIMATED +CONSUMPTION: brandy and water, eighteen glasses—cigars, two +dozen—porter with a cabman, two pots.</p> +<p><em>State of Knocker</em>.—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.</p> +<p>N.B. Found I had used my own thumb for a sounding-plate, and had +bruised my nail awfully.</p> +<p style="padding-left:-1em;margin-left:1em;text-indent:-1em;">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.</p> +<p style="padding-left:-1em;margin-left:1em;text-indent:-1em;">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.</p> +<p><em>State of Knocker</em>.—Very indistinct—then +became uncommonly like the “governor” in his +nightcap—<em>could</em> 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.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The above examples are sufficient to show the variability of +this singular article.</p> +<p>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!</p> +<p>We will now proceed to the details of an event which PUNCH alone +is worthy to record:—</p> +<p>Notice of a meet having been despatched to all the members of +the “Knocker Hunt,” a splendid field—no +<em>street</em>—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 <em>draw</em> 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.”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“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!”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/002-02.png"><img src= +"images/002-02.png" alt= +"A statue of a gentleman holding a lion-faced door-knocker in the air." +id="img002-02" name="img002-02" width="100%" /></a> +<p style= +"border-width:2pt;border-style:double;margin-left:20%;margin-right:10%;margin-top:-1em;"> +TO HENRY, MARQUESS OF WATERFORD,<br /> +AND HIS JOLLY COMPANIONS IN LOWE,<br /> +THIS STATUE OF ACHILLES,<br /> +CAST FROM KNOCKERS TAKEN IN THE VICINITIES<br /> +OF SACKVILLE-STREET, VIGO-LANE, AND WATERLOO-PLACE,<br /> +IS INSCRIBED<br /> +BY THEIR GENTLEWOMEN.<br /> +PLACED ON THIS SPOT<br /> +ON THE FIRST DAY OF APRIL, MDCCCXLII.<br /> +BY COMMAND OF<br /> +COLONEL ROWAN.</p> +</div> +<p><em>Mem</em>. 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.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page15" name="page15"></a>[pg +15]</span> +<h4>STENOTYPOGRAPHY.</h4> +<p>Our <em>printer’s devil</em>, 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 <em>unique</em>.</p> +<h2>SERAPHINA POPPS;</h2> +<h3>OR, THE BEAUTY OF BLOOMSBURY.</h3> +<p>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 <img src= +"images/002-03.png" alt="hand" id="img002-03" name="img002-03" +height="14" /> <img src="images/002-03.png" alt="hand" id= +"img002-03-2" name="img002-03-2" height="14" />.</p> +<p>She grew up as most little girls do, who live long enough, and +became the universal !<a id="notetag1" title="Admiration." name= +"notetag1" href="#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>1</sup></a> of all who knew +her, for</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>“None but herself could be her ||.”<a id="notetag2" +title="Parallel." name="notetag2" href= +"#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>2</sup></a></p> +</div> +</div> +<p>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 ?<a id="notetag3" title="Note of Interrogation." name= +"notetag3" href="#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>3</sup></a>; for, at this very +critical .<a id="notetag4" title="Period." name="notetag4" href= +"#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>4</sup></a>, an unamiable young man, named +Augustus St. Tomkins, who possessed considerable £. <em>s.</em> <em>d.</em> had +become a suitor for her <img src="images/002-03.png" alt="hand" +id="img002-03-3" name="img002-03-3" height="14" />. She loved +Fitzorphandale +<a id="notetag5" title="More than." name="notetag5" +href="#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>5</sup></a> 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.”</p> +<p>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 ¶<a id="notetag6" title="Paragraph." name="notetag6" +href="#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>6</sup></a> 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.</p> +<p>Although Augustus St. Tomkins was a <img src= +"images/002-04.png" alt="Freemason" id="img002-04" name= +"img002-04" height="34" /><a id="notetag7" title="Freemason." +name="notetag7" href="#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>7</sup></a>, 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 −<a id="notetag8" title="Less than." name= +"notetag8" href="#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>8</sup></a> somebody else, or +she did not love him at all. This conviction only ×<a id= +"notetag9" title="Multiplied." name="notetag9" href= +"#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>9</sup></a> his worst feelings, and he resolved +that no ℈℈<a id="notetag10" title="Scruples." name= +"notetag10" href="#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>10</sup></a> of conscience +should stand between him and his desires.</p> +<p>On the following day, Fitzorphandale had invited Seraphina to a +pic-nic party. He had opened the &<a id="notetag11" title= +"Hampers-and." name="notetag11" href= +"#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>11</sup></a> placed some boiled beef and +^^<a id="notetag12" title="Carets." name="notetag12" href= +"#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>12</sup></a> on the verdant grass, when +Seraphina exclaimed, in the mildest ``´´<a id= +"notetag13" title="Accents." name="notetag13" href= +"#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>13</sup></a>, “I like it well done, +Fitzorphandale!”</p> +<p>As Julian proceeded to supply his beloved one with a +§<a id="notetag14" title="Section." name="notetag14" href= +"#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>14</sup></a> of the provender, St. Tomkins +stood before them with a †<a id="notetag15" title="Dagger." +name="notetag15" href="#FlyBoyNotes"><sup>15</sup></a> in his +<img src="images/002-03.png" alt="hand" id="img002-03-4" name= +"img002-03-4" height="14" />.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h5><a id="FlyBoyNotes" name="FlyBoyNotes">NOTES BY THE +FLY-BOY.</a></h5> +<blockquote>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.</blockquote> +<hr /> +<h3>NEWS OF EXTRAORDINARY INTEREST.</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <em>over-work</em> to make up for the +deficiency.”</p> +<hr /> +<h3>“MORE WAYS THAN ONE,” &c.</h3> +<p>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:—</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="cen">TREASURY.</p> +<p class="cen">FINISHED BY THE WIGS,</p> +<p class="cen">ANNO DOM. MDCCCXLI.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>A CON. BY TOM COOKE.</h3> +<p>Why is the common chord in music like a portion of the +Mediterranean?—Because it’s the E G & C +(Ægean Sea).</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/002-05.png"><img src= +"images/002-05.png" alt= +"Silhouette of a conductor holding a blunt object" id="img002-05" +name="img002-05" width="25%" /></a></div> +<h3>MONSIEUR JULLIEN.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i6">“One!”—crash!</p> +<p class="i6">“Two!”—clash!</p> +<p class="i6">“Three!”—dash!</p> +<p class="i6">“Four!”—smash!</p> +<p class="i6">Diminuendo,</p> +<p class="i6">Now crescendo:—</p> +<p>Thus play the furious band,</p> +<p>Led by the kid-gloved hand</p> +<p>Of Jullien—that Napoleon of quadrille,</p> +<p>Of Piccolo-nians shrillest of the shrill;</p> +<p class="i6">Perspiring raver</p> +<p class="i6">Over a semi-quaver;</p> +<p>Who tunes his pipes so well, he’ll tell you that</p> +<p>The natural key of Johnny Bull’s—A flat.</p> +<p>Demon of discord, with mustaches cloven—</p> +<p>Arch impudent <em>improver</em> of Beethoven—</p> +<p>Tricksy professor of <em>charlatanerie</em>—</p> +<p>Inventor of musical artillery—</p> +<p>Barbarous rain and thunder maker—</p> +<p>Unconscionable money taker—</p> +<p>Travelling about both near and far,</p> +<p>Toll to exact at every <em>bar</em>—</p> +<p class="i2">What brings thee here again,</p> +<p class="i2">To desecrate old Drury’s fane?</p> +<p class="i4">Egregious attitudiniser!</p> +<p class="i4">Antic fifer! com’st to advise her</p> +<p>’Gainst intellect and sense to close her walls?</p> +<p class="i4">To raze her benches,</p> +<p class="i4">That Gallic wenches</p> +<p>Might play their brazen antics at masked balls?</p> +<p class="i4"><em>Ci-devant</em> waiter</p> +<p class="i4">Of a <em>quarante-sous traiteur</em>,</p> +<p>Why did you leave your stew-pans and meat-oven,</p> +<p>To make a fricassee of the great Beet-hoven?</p> +<p>And whilst your piccolos unceasing squeak on,</p> +<p>Saucily serve Mozart with <em>sauce-piquant</em>;</p> +<p>Mawkishly cast your eyes to the cerulean—</p> +<p>Turn Matthew Locke to <em>potage à la julienne</em>!</p> +<p class="i4">Go! go! sir, do,</p> +<p class="i4">Back to the <em>rue</em>,</p> +<p class="i4">Where lately you</p> +<p>Waited upon each hungry feeder,</p> +<p>Playing the <em>garçon</em>, not the leader.</p> +<p class="i4">Pray, put your hat on,</p> +<p class="i4"><em>Coupez votre bâton.</em></p> +<p class="i6">Bah</p> +<p class="i6"><em>Va!!</em></p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>CLAR’ DE KITCHEN.</h3> +<p>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—</p> +<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/002-06.png"><img src= +"images/002-06.png" alt= +"A fashionable couple being tailed by a pair of gentlemen" id= +"img002-06" name="img002-06" width="50%" /></a> +<p>NO FOLLOWERS ALLOWED.</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>A PARTY OF MEDALLERS.</h3> +<p>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 <em>reverse</em>.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page16" name="page16"></a>[pg +16]</span> +<h2>A CHAPTER ON BOOTS.</h2> +<p>“Boots? Boots!” Yes, Boots! we can write upon +boots—we can moralise upon boots; we can convert them, as +<em>Jacques</em> does the weeping stag in “As You Like +It,” (or, whether you like it or not,) into a thousand +similes. First, for—but, “our <em>sole’s</em> in +arms and eager for the fray,” and so we will at once head our +dissertation as we would a warrior’s host with</p> +<h4>WELLINGTONS.</h4> +<div class="figleft"><a href="images/002-07.png"><img src= +"images/002-07.png" alt="A leg wearing a Wellington boot" id= +"img002-07" name="img002-07" width="100%" /></a></div> +<p>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</p> +<h4>BLUCHERS.</h4> +<div class="figleft"><a href="images/002-08.png"><img src= +"images/002-08.png" alt="A leg wearing a Blucher" id="img002-08" +name="img002-08" width="100%" /></a></div> +<p>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?).</p> +<p>They are Wellingtons cut down; so, in point of genius, was their +baptismal sponsor: but these are <em>vilely tied</em>, 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 +<em>fortiter in re</em> for kicking, but not the <em>suaviter in +modo</em> 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 +<em>is</em> 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!</p> +<p>We did not dream <em>his</em> 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!</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <em>genus homo</em> +(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.</p> +<h4>ANKLE-JACKS,</h4> +<div class="figleft"><a href="images/002-09.png"><img src= +"images/002-09.png" alt="A leg wearing an Ankle-Jack" id= +"img002-09" name="img002-09" width="100%" /></a></div> +<p>to indulge in the sporting phraseology of the <em>Racing +Calendar</em>, 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 +<em>vix</em> and <em>pinthils</em>, 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.</p> +<h4>HESSIANS,</h4> +<div class="figleft"><a href="images/002-10.png"><img src= +"images/002-10.png" alt="A leg modelling a Hessian boot" id= +"img002-10" name="img002-10" width="100%" /></a></div> +<p>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 <em>Wellington</em> never did—a weak +point for an enemy to seize and shake at his pleasure.</p> +<p>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 <em>dogs</em>, they have had their +“Day (and Martin’s”) Acts, but both are past. But +woh! ho!</p> +<h4>TOPS! TOPS!! TOPS!!!</h4> +<div class="figleft"><a href="images/002-11.png"><img src= +"images/002-11.png" alt="A booted leg in a stirrup with spurs" id= +"img002-11" name="img002-11" width="100%" /></a></div> +<p>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!</p> +<p>Ay, worse than nothing—a chancery suit without +money—an Old Bailey culprit without an <em>alibi</em>—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!</p> +<p>Tops, you must be “made to measure.” Wellingtons, +Hessians, Bluchers, Ankle-Jacks, and Highlows, can be chosen from, +fitted, and tried on; but <em>you</em> must be measured for, +lasted, back-strapped, top’d, wrinkled and bottomed, +according to order.</p> +<p>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 <em>are</em>, 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 <em>downey</em> 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!</p> +<p>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!</p> +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page17" name="page17"></a>[pg +17]</span>and holding in the noble brute he strides, as a +saftey-valve controls the foaming steam; only loosing him at his +very pleasure.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>FUSBOS.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>HINTS ON MELO-DRAMATIC MUSIC.</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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!</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Music for the entrance of a brigand in the dark, should be slow +and mysterious, with an effective double <em>bass</em> in it.</p> +<p>Ditto, for taking wine—an allegro, movement, with <em>da +capo</em> for the second glass.</p> +<p>Ditto, for taking porter, beer, or any other inferior +swipes—a similar movement, but not <em>con spirito</em>.</p> +<p>Ditto, for the entrance of an attorney—a <em>coda</em> in +one sharp, 6-8 time. If accompanied by a client, an accidental +<em>flat</em> may be introduced.</p> +<p>Ditto, for discovering a lost babby—a simply +<em>affettuoso</em> strain, in a <em>minor</em> key.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Ditto, for concealing a lover in a closet, and the sudden +appearance of the father, guardian, or husband, as the case may +be—a <em>prestissimo</em> movement, with an agitated +<em>cadenza</em>.</p> +<p>Ditto, for taking an oath or affidavit—slow, solemn music, +with a marked emphasis when the deponent kisses the book.</p> +<p>Ditto, for a lover’s vow—a tender, broken +<em>adagio</em>.</p> +<p>Ditto, for kicking a low comedy man—a brisk rapid +<em>stoccato</em> passage, with a running accompaniment on the +kettle-drums.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>THE RISING SUN.</h3> +<p>The residence of Sir Robert Peel has been so besieged of late by +place-hunters, that it has been aptly termed the <em>New Post +Office</em>.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>THE PUNCH CORRESPONDENCE.</h2> +<div class="note">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 +<em>chiffonniers</em>, 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.</div> +<p>Russl Squear, July 14.</p> +<p>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 <em>board</em>, I treat with a +<em>deal</em> of <em>hot-tar</em>, 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</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>“—contrived a double debt to pay,</p> +<p>A <em>paige</em> at night—a <em>tigger</em> all the +day.”</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>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 <em>weight</em> on the ladies, wich is +naterally <em>light</em> 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, <em>edcett +rar</em>, 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 <em>dipped</em> 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 <em>le trou de charbon</em>, 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.</p> +<p>Believe me, my dear Pa,<br /> +Your affeckshnt<br /> +JULIA PUNCH.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>CHARACTERISTIC CORRESPONDENCE.</h3> +<p>The following notes actually passed between two (<em>now</em>) +celebrated comedians:—</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Dear J——, Send me a shilling.</p> +<p class="i6">Yours, B——,</p> +<p class="i2">P.S.—On second thoughts, make it +<em>two</em>.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>To which his friend replied—</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Dear B——, I have but one shilling in the world.</p> +<p class="i6">Yours, J——,</p> +<p class="i2">P.S.—On second thoughts, I want that for +dinner.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<p>A young artist in Picayune takes such perfect likenesses, that a +lady married the portrait of her lover instead of the original.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page18" name="page18"></a>[pg +18]</span> +<h2>PUNCH AND PEEL.</h2> +<h3>Arcades ambo.</h3> +<p>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?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>READER.—What for, Mr. PUNCH?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>READER.—<em>You</em> recollect it, Mr. +PUNCH!—<em>you</em> at the court of King David!</p> +<p>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 +<em>Proverbs</em> given to Solomon are mine. What I have lost by +keeping company with kings, not even Joseph Hume can calculate.</p> +<p>READER.—And are you really in court confidence at this +moment?</p> +<p>PUNCH.—Am I? What! Hav’n’t you heard of the +elections? Have you not heard the shouts <em>Io Punch</em>? +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.</p> +<p>READER.—And you really take office under Peel?</p> +<p>PUNCH.—Ha! ha! ha! A good joke! Peel takes office under +<em>me</em>. 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.</p> +<p>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?</p> +<p>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</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>“There may be wisdom in a papillote”—</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>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?</p> +<p>READER.—Dreadful, soul perturbing suggestion! Go on, Mr. +PUNCH.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>READER.—David Hume says nothing of it.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>READER.—Explain—I can’t see how.</p> +<p>PUNCH.—Then you are very dull. Is not Parliament the +assembled wisdom of the country?</p> +<p>READER.—By a fiction, Mr. PUNCH.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>READER.—Might not some patriots object to the application +of the wisdom of the country to so domestic a purpose?</p> +<p>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?</p> +<p>READER.—Do you think your friend Sir Robert is for statute +rollers?</p> +<p>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 <em>sal +volatile</em>; 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—<em>that</em> 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?</p> +<p>READER.—You are getting warm, Mr. PUNCH—very +warm.</p> +<p>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 “<em>the +battle of the Constitution is to fought in the +bedchamber</em>.”</p> +<p>READER.—I remember it.</p> +<p>PUNCH.—That was a great sentence. Had Sir Robert known his +true fame, he would never after have opened his mouth.</p> +<p>READER.—Has the Queen sent for Sir Robert yet?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>READER.—They say the Queen doesn’t like Sir +Robert.</p> +<p>PUNCH.—I’m also told that her Majesty has a great +antipathy to physic—yet when the Constitution requires +medicine, why—</p> +<p>READER.—Sir Robert must be swallowed.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>READER.—And when, Mr. PUNCH—when you have got rid of +the women, what do you and Sir Robert purpose then?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>READER.—Do tell me this: Who has Peel selected for +Commander of the Forces?</p> +<p>PUNCH.—Who? Colonel Sibthorp.</p> +<p>READER.—And who for Chancellor of the Exchequer?</p> +<p>PUNCH.—Mr. Henry Moreton Dyer!</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page19" name="page19"></a>[pg +19]</span> +<h2>PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. II.</h2> +<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/002-12.png"><img src= +"images/002-12.png" alt= +"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" +id="img002-12" name="img002-12" width="100%" /></a> +<p>HERCULES TEARING THESEUS FROM THE ROCK TO WHICH HE HAD +GROWN.</p> +<p>(MODERNIZED.)</p> +<p>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.</p> +</div> +<p class="hide"><span class="pagenum"><a id="page20" name= +"page20"></a>[pg 20]</span></p> +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page21" name="page21"></a>[pg +21]</span> +<h2>THE ELECTION OF BALLINAFAD.</h2> +<h3>(FROM OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.)</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p style="text-align:right;">BALLINAFAD, 20th JULY.</p> +<p><em>Tuesday Morning, Eight o’clock.</em>—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.</p> +<p><em>Half-past Eight.</em>—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</p> +<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/002-13.png"><img src= +"images/002-13.png" alt= +"A fellow trying to pull a hog from a lake, but the rope broke" id= +"img002-13" name="img002-13" width="50%" /></a> +<p>“GOING THE WHOLE HOG.”</p> +</div> +<p>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.</p> +<p><em>Nine o’clock.</em>—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.</p> +<p><em>Ten o’clock.</em>—State of the poll to this +time:—</p> +<table summary="Ten o'clock poll" style="margin-left:20%;"> +<tr> +<td>Figsby</td> +<td style="padding-left:2em;text-align:right;">19</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>Griggles</td> +<td style="padding-left:2em;text-align:right;">22</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p>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, <em>and took no change</em>. <em>Two legs of +mutton</em> 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.</p> +<p><em>Half-past Twelve o’clock.</em>—State of the poll +to this time:—</p> +<table summary="Half-past Twelve o'clock poll" style= +"margin-left:20%;"> +<tr> +<td>Figsby</td> +<td style="padding-left:2em;text-align:right;">27</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>Griggles</td> +<td style="padding-left:2em;text-align:right;">36</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p>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.</p> +<p><em>Three o’clock.</em>—State of the poll to this +time:—</p> +<table summary="Three o'clock poll" style="margin-left:20%;"> +<tr> +<td>Figsby</td> +<td style="padding-left:2em;text-align:right;">45</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>Griggles</td> +<td style="padding-left:2em;text-align:right;">39</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p><em>Four o’clock</em>—State of the poll up to this +time:—</p> +<table summary="Four o'clock poll" style="margin-left:20%;"> +<tr> +<td>Figsby</td> +<td style="padding-left:2em;text-align:right;">29</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>Griggles</td> +<td style="padding-left:2em;text-align:right;">41</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p>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.</p> +<p><em>Half past Four o’clock.</em>—Figsby has given +Grigglcs the lie on the open hustings. Will Griggles fight?</p> +<p><em>Five o’clock.</em>—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.</p> +<p><em>Half-past Five o’clock.</em>—Two post-chaises +have just dashed by at full speed—I got a glimpse of Tom Daly +smoking a cigar in one of them.</p> +<p><em>Six o’clock.</em>—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.</p> +<p><em>Half-past Six.</em>—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.</p> +<p><em>Seven o’clock.</em>—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!</p> +<hr /> +<h3>EPIGRAM.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Lord Johnny from Stroud thought it best to retreat.</p> +<p>Being certain of getting the sack,</p> +<p>So he ran to the City, and begged for a seat,</p> +<p>Crying, “Please to <em>re-member Poor +Jack</em>!”</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>CONUNDRUMS BY COL. SIBTHORP.</h3> +<p>Why is a tall nobleman like a poker?—Because he’s a +<em>high’un</em> belonging to the <em>great</em>.</p> +<p>Why is a defunct mother like a dog?—Because she’s a +<em>ma-stiff</em>.</p> +<p>When is <em>a horse</em> like <em>a herring?</em>—When +he’s <em>hard rode</em>.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>EPIGRAM ON SEEING AN EXECUTION.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop,</p> +<p>To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop:</p> +<p>“Alas!” cried one as round in air he spun,</p> +<p>“That miserable wretch’s <em>race is +run</em>.”</p> +<p>“True,” said the other drily, “to his +cost,</p> +<p>The race is run—but, by a <em>neck</em> ‘tis +lost.”</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>FASHIONABLE ARRIVALS.</h3> +<p>Lord John Russell has arrived at a conviction—that the +Whigs are not so popular as they were.</p> +<p>Sir Peter Laurie has arrived at the conclusion—that Solon +was a greater man than himself.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>THE POET FOILED.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>To win the maid the poet tries,</p> +<p>And sonnets writes to Julia’s eyes;—</p> +<p>She likes a <em>verse</em>—but cruel whim,</p> +<p>She still appears <em>a-verse</em> to him.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<p>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 +<em>cook</em>, the absurdity would have been too palpable, as +Melbourne has frequently expressed his opposition to sinecures.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>ECCLESIASTICAL TRANSPORTATION.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Now B—y P—l has beat the Whigs,</p> +<p class="i2">The Church can’t understand</p> +<p>Why Bot’ny Bay should be all sea,</p> +<p class="i2">And have no <em>see</em> on land.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>For such a lamentable want</p> +<p class="i2">Our good Archbishop grieves;</p> +’Tis very strange the Tories should +<p class="i2">Remind him <em>of the thieves!</em></p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>EPIGRAM.</h3> +<p>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:—</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>“The <em>light of life</em> comes from above,”</p> +<p>Old Dingdrum snuffling said;</p> +<p>“The <em>light</em> came down on Peggy Dobbs,</p> +<p>And Peggy Dobbs was <em>dead</em>.”</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<p>A man in Kentucky was so absent, that he put himself on the +toasting-fork, and did not discover his mistake until he was +<em>done brown</em>.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>CONSISTENCY.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>No wonder Tory landlords flout</p> +<p class="i2">“Fix’d Duty,” for ’tis +plain,</p> +<p>With them the Anti-Corn-Law Bill</p> +<p class="i2">Must <em>go against the grain.</em></p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<p>The anticipated eruption of Mount Vesuvius is said to have been +prevented by throwing a box of Holloway’s Ointment into the +crater.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page22" name="page22"></a>[pg +22]</span> +<h2>THE SAILOR’S SECRET.</h2> +<p>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.</p> +<p>I sha’n’t say anything about my education; though I +was brought up in</p> +<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/002-14.png"><img src= +"images/002-14.png" alt="A Pirate Boarding Battle" id="img002-14" +name="img002-14" width="50%" /></a> +<p>A FIRST RATE BOARDING-SCHOOL.</p> +</div> +<p>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, <em>Mr.</em> 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 <em>I was mast-headed</em> 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 <em>Master</em> Bellophron Box +again.</p> +<p>Well, now for my story. There was one Tom Johnson on board, a +<em>fok’sell</em> 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.</p> +<p>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 <em>curtailed</em> +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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“What’s the matter?” said the surgeon.</p> +<p>“Nothing particular, sir; on’y Tom’s broke his +legs and his arms by a fall from the yard,” replied a +seaman.</p> +<p>Tom groaned, as though he <em>did</em> consider it something +<em>very</em> particular.</p> +<p>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!”</p> +<p>“It’s all up, sir,” says he; “I must go; +I feel it.”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>“Mr. Box,” groaned Tom, “I’ve a-a-secret +as makes me very uneasy, sir,”</p> +<p>“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.</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>“Mr. Box, dare I trust you, sir? if I could do so, +I’m sartin as how I should soon be easier.”</p> +<p>“Of course,” said I, “of course; out with it, +and I promise never to betray your confidence.”</p> +<p>“Then come, come here,” gasped the suffering wretch; +“give us your hand, sir.”</p> +<p>I instinctively shrunk back with horror!</p> +<p>“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 <em>Belle Sauvage</em>.</p> +<p>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!”</p> +<p>“Pull what out?”</p> +<p>“My secret, Mr. Box; it’s hurting on me!”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/002-15.png"><img src= +"images/002-15.png" alt= +"A silhouette of a bulldog pulling a sailor's pigtail" id= +"img002-15" name="img002-15" width="50%" /></a> +<p>A NAUTICAL TALE.</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.</h3> +<h4>No. II.</h4> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>You say you would find</p> +<p class="i2">But one, and one only,</p> +<p>Who’d feel without you</p> +<p class="i2">That the revel was lonely:</p> +<p>That when you were near,</p> +<p class="i2">Time ever was fleetest,</p> +<p>And deem your loved voice</p> +<p class="i2">Of all music the sweetest.</p> +<p>Who would own her heart thine,</p> +<p class="i2">Though a monarch beset it,</p> +<p>And love on unchanged—</p> +<p class="i2">Don’t you wish you may get it?</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>You say you would rove</p> +<p class="i2">Where the bud cannot wither;</p> +<p>Where Araby’s perfumes</p> +<p class="i2">Each breeze wafteth thither.</p> +<p>Where the lute hath no string</p> +<p class="i2">That can waken a sorrow;</p> +<p>Where the soft twilight blends</p> +<p class="i2">With the dawn of the morrow;</p> +<p>Where joy kindles joy,</p> +<p class="i2">Ere you learn to forget it,</p> +<p>And care never comes—</p> +<p class="i2">Don’t you wish you may get it?</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>“SYLLABLES WHICH BREATHE OF THE SWEET SOUTH.”</h3> +<p>JOEY HUME is about to depart for Switzerland: for, finding his +flummery of no avail at Leeds, we presume he intends to go to +<em>Schaff</em>-hausen, to try the <em>Cant</em>-on.</p> +<h3>MARRIAGE AND CHRISTENING EXTRAORDINARY.</h3> +<p>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 +“<em>Union-Jack</em>.”</p> +<hr /> +<h3>OMINOUS.</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page23" name="page23"></a>[pg +23]</span> +<h2>CROSS READINGS.</h2> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="cen">(REC.)</p> +<p class="i6">If you ever should be</p> +<p class="i6">In a state of <em>ennui</em>,</p> +<p class="i6">Just listen to me,</p> +<p class="i6">And without any fee</p> +<p class="i2">I’ll give you a hint how to set yourself +free.</p> +<p class="i2">Though dearth of intelligence weaken the news,</p> +<p class="i2">And you feel an incipient attack of the blues,</p> +<p class="i2">For amusement you never need be at a loss,</p> +<p class="i2">If you take up the paper and <em>read it</em> +across.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="cen">(INTER ARIA DEMI LOQUI.)</p> +<p class="i6">Here’s the <em>Times</em>, apropos,</p> +<p class="i10">And so,</p> +<p class="i6">With your patience, I’ll show</p> +<p class="i2">What I mean, by perusing a passage or two.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="cen">(ARIA.)</p> +<p>“Hem! Mr. George Robins is anxious to tell,</p> +<p>In very plain prose, he’s instructed to +sell”—</p> +<p>“A vote for the county”—“packed neatly +in straw”—</p> +<p>“Set by Holloway’s Ointment”—“a +limb of the law.”</p> +<p>“The army has had secret orders to seize”—</p> +<p>“As soon as they can”—“the industrious +fleas.”</p> +<p class="i2">For amusement you never need be at a loss,</p> +<p class="i2">If you take a newspaper and read it across.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>“The opera opens with”—“elegant +coats”—</p> +<p>“For silver and gold we exchange foreign +notes”—</p> +<p>“Specific to soften mortality’s +ills”—</p> +<p>“And cure Yorkshire bacon”—“take +Morison’s pills.”</p> +<p>“Curious coincidence”—“steam to +Gravesend.”</p> +<p>“Tale of deep interest”—“money to +lend”—</p> +<p>“Louisa is waiting for William to send.”</p> +<p class="i2">For amusement you never need be at a loss,</p> +<p class="i2">If you take a newspaper and read it across.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>“For relief of the Poles”—“an astounding +feat!”—</p> +<p>“A respectable man”—“for a water will +eat”—</p> +<p>“The Macadamised portion of Parliament-street.”</p> +<p>“Mysterious occurrence!”—“expected +<em>incog</em>.”</p> +<p>“To be viewed by cards only”—“a terrible +fog.”</p> +<p>“At eight in the morning the steam carriage +starts”—</p> +<p>“Takes passengers now”—“to be finished +in parts.”</p> +<p class="i2">For amusement you never need be at a loss,</p> +<p class="i2">If you take a newspaper and read it across.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>“Left in a cab, and”—“the number not +known”</p> +<p>“A famous prize ox, weighing 200 stone”—</p> +<p>“He speaks with a lisp”—“has a delicate +shape”—</p> +<p>“And had <em>on</em>, when he quitted, a Macintosh +cape.”</p> +<p>“For China direct, a fine”—“dealer in +slops.”</p> +<p>“To the curious in shaving”—“new way to +dress chops.”</p> +<p>“Repeal of the corn”—“was roasted for +lunch”—</p> +<p>“Teetotal beverage “—“Triumph of +PUNCH!”</p> +<p class="i2">For amusement you never need be at a loss,</p> +<p class="i2">If you take a newspaper and read it across.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>A CON. BY DUNCOMBE.</h3> +<p>“Why are four thousand eight hundred and forty yards of +land obtained on credit like a drinking +song?”—“Because it’s +<em>an-acre-on-tic</em>.”—“I think I had you +there!”</p> +<hr /> +<h3>A WOOD CUT.</h3> +<p>A correspondent of one of the morning papers exultingly +observes, that the <em>wood-blocks</em> which are about being +removed from Whitehall are in <em>excellent condition</em>. If this +is an allusion to the present ministry, we should say, +emphatically, NOT.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>REVENGE IS SWEET.</h3> +<p>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 <em>send in their +bills</em>. Mr. Duncombe declares that this is a mode of revenge he +never would condescend to adopt.</p> +<hr /> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>If Farren, cleverest of men,</p> +<p class="i2">Should go to the right about,</p> +<p>What part of town will he be then?—</p> +<p class="i2">Why, <em>Farren-done-without!</em></p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>“WHAT HO! APOTHECARY.”</h3> +<p>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.”</p> +<hr /> +<h3>QUESTION BY THE DISOWNED OF NOTTINGHAM.</h3> +<p>Why do men who are about to fight a duel generally choose a +<em>field</em> for the place of action?</p> +<h3>ANSWER BY COLONEL SIBTHORP.</h3> +<p>I really cannot tell; unless it be for the purpose of allowing +the balls to <em>graze</em>.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>REVIEW.</h3> +<p class="note"><em>Two Prize Essays</em>. By LORD MELBOURNE and +SIR ROBERT PEEL. 8 vols. folio. London: Messrs. SOFTSKIN and +TINGLE, Downing-street.</p> +<p>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 +<em>statesmanlike</em> volumes never issued from the press; in +fact, the books may be regarded as typical of <em>all</em> +statesmen. The subject, or rather the line of argument, is thus +designated by the respective writers:—</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>We are quite unable to enter into a review of these very costly +productions, an estimate of the <em>value</em> 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 <em>acknowledgment</em>.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>TO THE LAUGHTER-LOVING PUBLIC.</h3> +<p>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 <em>bon mots</em>, 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.</p> +<p>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</p> +<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/002-16.png"><img src= +"images/002-16.png" alt= +"A group of shadows leaping off of a bench" id="img002-16" name= +"img002-16" width="50%" /></a> +<p>RESERVED SEATS!</p> +</div> +<p>N.B.—Light jokes booked, and forwarded free of expense. +Heavy articles not admitted at any price.</p> +<p>∴ Wanted an epigrammatic porter, who can carry on a smart +dialogue, and occasionally deliver light jokes.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>CHANT.</h3> +<h4>TO OLD FATHER TIME.</h4> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Time—old Time—whither away?</p> +<p>Linger a moment with us, I pray;</p> +<p>Too soon thou spreadest thy wings for flight;</p> +<p class="i4">Dip, boy, dip</p> +<p class="i4">In the bowl thy lip,</p> +<p>And be jolly, old Time, with us to-night.</p> +<p class="i10">Dip, dip, &c.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Time—old Time—thy scythe fling down;</p> +<p>Garland thy pate with a myrtle crown,</p> +<p>And fill thy goblet with rosy wine;—</p> +<p class="i4">Fill, fill up,</p> +<p class="i4">The joy-giving cup,</p> +Till it foams and flows o’er the brim like mine. +<p class="i10">Fill, fill, &c.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Time—old Time—sighing is vain,</p> +<p>Pleasure from thee not a moment can gain;</p> +<p>Fly, old greybeard, but leave us your glass</p> +<p class="i4">To fill as we please,</p> +<p class="i4">And drink at our ease,</p> +<p>And count by our brimmers the hours as they pass.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page24" name="page24"></a>[pg +24]</span> +<h2>THE DRAMA</h2> +<h3>ROMEO AND JULIET.</h3> +<p>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, +“<em>shal-la-bella!</em>”</p> +<p>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!</p> +<p>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 <em>act</em> 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.</p> +<p>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 <em>every</em> word. Wallack is an honest +performer; <em>he</em> 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?</p> +<p>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.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>MY FRIEND THE CAPTAIN.</h3> +<p>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 <em>un</em>furnished 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.</p> +<p>The ancient natural historian has divided the <em>genus +homo</em> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>Mr. Brown’s career advances prosperously; he makes love in +the dark to his supposed cousin <em>pro</em> 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.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p>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 <em>corner</em>, from whose merit several +equally successful broad-pieces have been issued.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>LITERARY QUERIES AND REPLIES</h3> +<h4>BY DISTINGUISHED PERSONAGES.</h4> +<hr class="short" /> +<h4>QUESTION BY SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BART,</h4> +<p>“What romance is that which outght to be most admired in +the kitchen?”</p> +<h4>ANSWER BY THEODORE HOOK.</h4> +<p>“Don Quixote; because it was written by +<em>Cervantes</em>—(servantes).—Rather low, Sir +Ned.”</p> +<h4>QUESTION BY LADY BLESSINGTON,</h4> +<p>“When is a lady’s neck not a neck?”</p> +<h4>ANSWER BY LADY MORGAN.</h4> +<p>“For shame now!—When it is a <em>little bare</em> +(bear), I suppose.”</p> +<hr /> +<h3>A SPEECH FROM THE HUSTINGS.</h3> +<p>The following is a correct report of a speech made by one of the +candidates at a recent election in the north of England.</p> +<p>THOMAS SMITH, Esq., then presented himself, and +said—“ * * *<br /> + +* * * * * crisis * * * *<br /> + +* * * * * * * * * important<br /> + +dreadful * * * * * industry * * *<br /> + + * * * enemies * * slaves * *<br /> + +independence * * * * * * freedom<br /> + +* * * * * firmly * * * *<br /> + +gloriously * * * * contested * * *<br /> + +* * * support * * * * victory,<br /> + +Hurrah!——”</p> +<p>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.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>FASHIONABLE MOVEMENTS.</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<hr /> +<h3>EPIGRAM ON A VERY LARGE WOMAN.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2">“All flesh is grass,” so do the +Scriptures say;</p> +<p class="i2">But grass, when cut and dried, is turned to hay;</p> +<p>Then, lo; if Death to thee his scythe should take,</p> +<p>God bless us! what a haycock thou wouldst make.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<p>An author that lived somewhere has such a <em>brilliant</em> +wit, that he contracted to light the parish with it, and did +it.</p> +<p>“Our church clock,” say the editors of a down-cast +paper, “<em>keeps time</em> so well that we <em>get</em> a +day out of every week by it.”</p> +<p>A man in Kentucky has a horse which is so slow, that his hind +legs always get first to his journey’s end.</p> +<hr class="full" /> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. +1, July 24, 1841, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** + +***** This file should be named 14920-h.htm or 14920-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/9/2/14920/ + +Produced by Syamanta Saikia, Jon Ingram, Barbara Tozier and the PG +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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