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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.



FOR THE WEEK ENDING OCTOBER 30, 1841.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE GREAT CREATURE.

That "great creature," like some other "great creatures," happened, as
almanacs say, "about this time" to be somewhat "out at elbows;"--not in
the way of costume, for the very plenitude of his wardrobe was the cause
which produced this effect, inasmuch as the word "received" in the
veritable autograph of Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy could nowhere be
discovered annexed to the bills thereof: a slight upon their powers of
penmanship which roused their individual, collective, and coparcenary ires
to such a pitch, that they, Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy, through the
medium of their Attorneys-at-law, Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, of
Furnival's Inn, forwarded a writ to the unfortunate Hannibal Fitzflummery
Fitzflam,--the which writ in process of time, being the legal seed, became
ripened into a very vigorous execution, and was consigned to the care of a
gentleman holding a _Civil_ employment with a _Military_ title, viz. that
of "_Officer_" to the Sheriff of Middlesex, with strict injunctions to the
said--anything but _Civil_ or _Military_--nondescript "officer," to secure
and keep the person of Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam till such time as
the debt due to Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy, and the legal charges of
Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, should be discharged, defrayed, and
liquidated.

Frequent were the meetings of Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles and their
man-trap, and as frequent their disappointments:--Fitzflam always gave
them the double! Having procured leave of absence from the Town Managers,
and finding the place rather too hot to hold him, he departed for the
country, and, as fate would have it, arrived at the inn then occupied by
Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk.

In this out-of-the-way place he fondly imagined he had never been heard
of. Judge then of his surprise, after his dinner and pint of wine, at the
following information.

_Fitz._ "Waiter."

"Yes, sar."

"Who have you in the house?"

"Fust of company, sar;--alwaist, sar."

"Oh! of course;--any one in particular?"

"Yes, sar, very particular: one gentleman very particular, indeed. Has his
bed warmed with brown sugar in the pan, and drinks asses' milk, sar, for
breakfast!"

"Strange fellow! but I mean any one of name?"

"Yes, sar, a German, sar; with a name so long, sar, it take all the indoor
servants and a stable-helper to call him up of a morning."

"You don't understand me. Have you any public people here?"

"Yes, sar--great man from town, sar--belongs to the Theatre--Mr. Fitzflam,
sar--quite the gentleman, sar."

"Thank you for the compliment" (_bowing low_).

"No compliment at all, sar; would you like to see him, sar?--sell you a
ticket, sar; or buy one of you, sar."

"What?"

"House expected to be full, sar--sure to sell it again, sar."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"The play, sar--Fitzflam, sar!--there's the bill, sar, and (_bell rings_)
there's the bell, sar. Coming." (_Exit Waiter_.)

The first thing that suggested itself to the mind of Mr. Hannibal
Fitzflummery Fitzflam was the absolute necessity of insisting upon that
insane waiter's submitting to the total loss of his well-greased locks,
and enveloping his outward man in an extra-strong strait-waistcoat; the
next was to look at the bill, and there he saw--"horror of horrors!"--the
name, "the bright ancestral name"--the name he bore, bursting forth in all
the reckless impudence of the largest type and the reddest vermilion!

Anger, rage, and indignation, like so many candidates for the exalted
mutton on a greased pole, rushed tumultuously over each other's heads,
each anxious to gain the "ascendant" in the bosom of Mr. Hannibal
Fitzflummery Fitzflam. To reduce a six-and-ninepenny gossamer to the
fac-simile of a bereaved muffin in mourning by one vigorous blow wherewith
he secured it on his head, grasp his ample cane and three half-sucked
oranges (in case it should come to pelting), and rush to the theatre, was
the work of just twelve minutes and a half. In another brief moment,
payment having been tendered and accepted, Fitzflam was in the boxes,
ready to expose the swindle and the swindler!

The first act was over, and the audience were discussing the merits of the
supposed Roscius.

"He _is_ a sweet young man," said a simpering damsel to a red-headed
Lothario, with just brains enough to be jealous, and spirit enough to damn
the player.

"I don't see it," responded he of the Rufusian locks.

"Such _dear_ legs!"

"_Dear_ legs--_duck_ legs you mean, miss!"

"And _such_ a voice!"

"Voice! I'll holler with him for all he's worth."

"Ha' done, do!"

"I shan't: Fitzflam's--an--umbug!"

"Sir!" exclaimed Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitz of "that ilk."

"And Sir to you!" retorted "the child of earth with the golden hair."

"I suppose I'm a right to speak my mind of that or any other chap I pays
to laugh at!"

"It's a tragedy, James."

"All the funnier when sich as him comes to play in them."

"Hush! the curtain's up."--So it was; and "Bravo! bravo!" shouted the
ladies, and "Hurrah!" shouted the gentlemen. Never had Mr. Hannibal
Fitzflummery Fitzflam seen such wretched acting, or heard such
enthusiastic applause. Round followed round, until, worked up to frenzy at
the libel upon his name, and, as he thought, his art, he vociferously
exclaimed, "Ladies and gentlemen, that man's a d--d impostor! ("Turn him
out! throw him over! break his neck!" shouted the gods. "Shame shame!"
called the boxes. "You're drunk," exclaimed the pit to a man.) I repeat
that man is--("_Take that_!"--an apple in Fitzflam's eye.) I say he is
another ("There it is!"--in his other eye) person
altogether--a--("Boxkeeper!") Nothing of the sort; a--("Constable!") I'll
take--("Take that fellow out!") Allow me to be--("Off! off!") I
am--("'Out! out!") Let me request.--("Order! order!--hiss! hiss!--oh!
oh!--ah! ah!--phit! phit!--Booh!--booh!--wooh!--oh!--ah!")"

Here Mr. Fitzfunk came forward, and commenced bowing like a mandarin,
while the gentleman who had blacked Fitzflam's eye desisted from forcing
him out of the box, to hear the "great creature" speak. Fitzfunk
commenced, "Ahem--Ladies and gentlemen, surrounded as I am by all sorts
of--(Bravos from all parts of the house.) Friends! Friends in the
boxes!--("Bravo!" from boxes, with violent waving of handkerchiefs.)
Friends in the pit!--("Hurrah!" and sundry excited hats performing
extraordinary aerial gyrations.) And last, not least in my dear love,
friends in the gallery!--(Raptures of applause; five minutes' whistling;
three chandeliers and two heads broken; and the owners of seventeen corns
_stamped_ up to frenzy!) Need I fear the malice of an individual? ("Never!
never!" from all parts of the house.) Could I deceive you, an enlightened
public? ("No! no! impossible! all fudge!") Would I attempt such a thing?
("No! no! by no manner of means!") I am, ladies and gentlemen--("Fitzflam!
Fitzflam!") I bow to your judgment. I have witnesses; shall I produce
them?" "No," said two of his most enthusiastic supporters, scrambling out
of the pit, and getting on the stage; "Don't trouble yourself; we know
you; (_Omnes_. "Hurrah!" To Fitzflam in boxes--"Shame! shame!") _we_ will
swear to you; (_Omnes_, " Fitzflam for ever!") and--we don't care who
knows it--(_Omnes_. "Noble fellows!") we arrest you at the suit of
Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy, Regent's-quadrant, tailors. Attorneys,
Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, of Furnival's Inn. Plaintiff claims
54l. debt and 65l. costs; so come along, will you!"

It was an exceedingly fortunate thing for the representatives of the
Sheriff of Middlesex that their exit was marked by more expedition than
elegance; for as soon as their real purpose was known, Fitzflam (as the
audience supposed Fitzfunk to be) would have been rescued _vi et armis_.
As it was, they hurried him to a back room at the inn, and carefully
double-locked the door. It was also rather singular that from the moment
of the officer's appearance, the gentleman in the boxes whose doubts had
caused the disturbance immediately owned himself in the wrong, apologised
for his mistake, and withdrew. As the tragedy could not proceed without
Fitzfunk, the manager proposed a hornpipe-in-fetters and general dance by
the characters; instead of the last act which was accepted, and loudly
applauded and encored by the audience.

Seated in his melancholy apartment, well guarded by the bailiff, certain
of being discovered and perhaps punished as an impostor, or compelled to
part with all his earnings to pay for coats and continuations he had never
worn, the luckless Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk gave way to deep
despondency, and various "ahs!" and "ohs!" A tap at the door was followed
by the introduction of a three-cornered note addressed to himself. The
following were its contents:--

"Sir,--It appears from this night's adventure _my name_ has heretofore
been useful to you, and on the present occasion your impersonation of it
has been useful to me. We are thus far quits. _I_, as the 'real Simon
Pure,' will tell you what to do. Protest you _are not the man_. Get
witnesses to hear you say so; and when taken to London (as you will be)
and the men are undeceived, threaten to bring an action against the
Sheriff unless those harpies, Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, give you
20l. for yourself, and a receipt in full for the debt and costs. Keep my
secret; I'll keep yours. Burn this.--H.F.F."

No sooner read than done; and all came to pass as the note predicted.
Gallowsworthy and Pickles grumbled, but were compelled to pay. Fitzflam
and Fitzfunk became inseparable. Fitzflam was even heard to say, he
thought in time Fitzfunk would make a decent walking gentleman; and
Fitzfunk was always impressed with an opinion that _he_ was the man of
talent, and that Fitzflam would never have been able to succeed in
"starring it" where he had been "_The Great Creature_."

FUSBOS.

N.B.--The author of this paper has commenced adapting it for stage
representation.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE DESIRE OF PLEASING.

"May I be married, ma?" said a lovely girl of fifteen to her mother the
other morning. "Married!" exclaimed the astonished matron; "what put such
an idea into your head?" "Little Emily, here, has never seen a wedding;
and I'd like to amuse the child," replied the obliging sister, with
fascinating _naivete_.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE.

CHAPTER VIII.

[Illustration: A]A serious accident to the double-bass was the
extraordinary occurrence alluded to in our last chapter. It appeared that,
contrary to the _usual_ custom of the class of musicians that attend
evening parties, the operator upon the double-bass had early in the
evening shown slight symptoms of inebriety, which were alarmingly
increased during supper-time by a liberal consumption of wine, ale, gin,
and other compounds. The harp, flageolet, and first violin, had prudently
abstained from drinking--at their own expense, and had reserved their
thirstiness for the benefit of the bibicals of the "founder of the feast,"
and, consequently, had only attained that peculiar state of sapient
freshness which invariably characterises quadrille bands after supper, and
had, therefore, overlooked the rapid obfuscation of their more imprudent
companion in their earnest consideration of themselves.

Bacchus has long been acknowledged to be the cicerone of Cupid; and
accordingly the God of Wine introduced the God of Love into the bosom of
the double-bass, who, with a commendable feeling of sociality, instantly
invited the cook to join the party. Now Susan, though a staid woman, and
weighing, moreover, sixteen stone, was fond of a "hinnocent bit of
nonsense," kindly consented to take just a "sip of red port wine" with the
performer upon catgut cables; and everything was progressing _allegro_,
when Cupid wickedly stimulated the double-bass to chuck Susan's double
chin, and then, with the frenzy of a Bacchanal, to attempt the
impossibility of encircling the ample waist of his Dulcinea. This was
carrying the joke a _leetle_ too far, and Susan, equally alarmed for her
reputation and her habit-shirt, struggled to free herself from the embrace
of the votary of Apollo; but the fiddler was not to be so easily disposed
of, and he clung to the object of his admiration with such pertinacity
that Susan was compelled to redouble her exertions, which were ultimately
successful in embedding the double-bass in the body of his instrument. The
crash was frightful, and Susan, having vainly endeavoured to free herself
from the incubus which had fastened upon her, proceeded to scream most
lustily as an overture to a faint. These sounds reached the supper-room,
and occasioned the diversion in John's favour; a simultaneous rush was
instantly made to the quarter from whence they proceeded, as the whole
range of accidents and offences flashed across the imaginations of the
affrighted revellers.

Mrs. Waddledot decided that the china tea-service was no more. Mrs.
Applebite felt certain that "the heir" had tumbled into the tea-urn, or
had cut another tooth very suddenly. The gentlemen were assured that a
foray had taken place upon the hats and cloaks below, and that cabs would
be at a premium and colds at a discount. The ladies made various
applications of the rest of the catalogue; whilst old John wound up the
matter by the consolatory announcement that he "know'd the fire hadn't
been put out by the _in_gines in the morning."

The general alarm was, however, converted into general laughter when the
real state of affairs was ascertained; and Susan having been recovered by
burning feathers under her nose, and pouring brandy down her throat,
preparations were made for the disinterment of the double-bass. To all
attempts to effect such a laudable purpose, the said double-bass offered
the most violent opposition, declaring he should never be so happy again,
and earnestly entreated Susan to share his heart and temporary residence.

Her refusal of both seemed to cause him momentary uneasiness, for hanging
his head upon his breast he murmured out--

  "Now she has left me her loss to deplore;"

and then burst into a loud huzza that rendered some suggestions about the
police necessary, which Mr. Double-bass treated with a contempt truly
royal. He then seemed to be impressed with an idea that he was the index
to a "Little Warbler;" for at the request of no one he proceeded to
announce the titles of all the popular songs from the time of Shield
downwards. How long he would have continued this vocal category is
uncertain; but as exertion seemed rather to increase than diminish his
boisterous merriment, the suggestions respecting the police were ordered
to be adopted, and accordingly two of the force were requested to remove
him from the domicile where he was creating so much discord in lieu of
harmony.

Double-bass still continued deaf to all entreaties for silence and
progression, and when a stretcher was mentioned grew positively furious,
and insisted that, as he had a conveyance of his own, he should be taken
to whatever destination they chose to select for him on, or rather in,
that vehicle. Accordingly a rattle was sprung, and duly answered by two or
three more of those alphabetical gentlemen who emanate from Scotland-yard,
by whose united efforts the refractory musician was carried out in
triumph, firmly and safely seated in his own ponderous instrument, loudly
insisting that he should be conveyed

[Illustration: WITH CARE--THIS SIDE UP.]

The interruption occasioned by this interesting occurrence was productive
of a general clearance of 24, Pleasant-place; and the apartments which
were so lately filled with airy sylphs and trussed Adonises presented a
strange jumble of rough coats, dingy silk cloaks, very _passe_ bonnets,
and numerous heads enveloped in faded white handkerchiefs. Everything
began to look miserable; candles were seen in all directions flickering
with their inevitable destiny; bouquets were thrown carelessly upon the
ground; and the very faintest odour of a cigar found its way from the
street-door into the drawing-room. Then came the hubbub of struggling
jarvies; the hoarse, continued inquiries of those peculiar beings that
emerge from some unknown quarter of the great metropolis, and "live and
move and have their being" at the doorsteps of party-giving people. What
tales could those benighted creatures tell of secret pressures of hands,
whispered sentences of sweet words, which have led in after-days to many a
blissful union! What sighs must have fallen upon their ears as they have
rolled up the steps and slammed to the doors of the vehicle which bore
away the idol of the evening! But they have no romance--no ambition but to
call "My lord duke's coach."

Then came the desolate stillness of the "banquet-hall deserted;" the
consciousness that the hour of grandeur had passed away. There was nothing
to break the stillness but Mrs. Applebite counting up the spoons, and Mrs.
Waddledot re-decanting the remainders.

       *       *       *       *       *


BURKE'S HERALDRY.

Our amiable friend and classical correspondent, Deaf Burke--"mind,
yes"--has lately mounted a coat-of-_arms_, "Dexter and Sinister;" a Nose
gules and Eye sable; three annulets of Ropes in chief, supported by two
Prize-fighters proper. Motto,--

[Illustration: KNOCK AND RING.]

       *       *       *       *       *


A SUGGESTION

For the formation of a Society for the relief of foreigners afflicted with
a short pocket and a long beard.

Mr. Muntz to be immediately waited upon by a body of the unhappy
sufferers, and requested to give his countenance and assistance to the
establishment of an INSTITUTION FOR THE GRATUITOUS SHAVING OF DESTITUTE
AND HIRSUTE FOREIGNERS.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE GOLD SNUFF-BOX.

[Illustration: M]My aunt, Mrs. Cheeseman, is the very reverse of her
husband. He is a plain, honest creature, such as we read of in full-length
descriptions by some folks, but equally comprehensive, though shortly done
by others, under the simple name of John Bull--as ungarnished in his
dress, as in his speech and action; whereas Mrs. Cheeseman, as I have just
told you, is the counterpart of plainness; she has trinkets out of number,
brooches, backed with every kind of hair, from "the flaxen-headed cow-boy"
to the deep-toned "Jim Crow." Then her rings--they _are_ the surprise of
her staring acquaintances; she has them from the most delicate Oriental
fabric to the massiveness of dog's collars.

Uncle Cheeseman says Mrs. C. thinks of nothing else; no sporting
gentleman, handsomely furnished, in the golden days of pugilism, ever
looked upon a ring with more delightful emotions. At going to bed, she
bestows the same affectionate gaze upon them that mothers do upon their
slumbering progeny; nor is that care and affection diminished in the
morning: her very imagination is a ring, seeing that it has neither
beginning nor end--her tender ideas are encircled by the four magical
letters R--I--N--G. Even at church, we are told, she divides her time
between sleeping and secret polishing. It has just occurred to me, that I
might have saved you and myself much trouble had I at once told you that
aunt Cheeseman is a regular _Ring-worm_.

But, to my uncle--the only finery sported by him (and I hardly think it
deserving that word), besides a silver watch, sound and true as the owner,
and the very prototype of his bulk and serenity, was a gold snuff-box, a
large and handsome one, which he did not esteem for its intrinsic weight;
he had a "lusty pride" in showing that it was a prize gained in some
skilful agricultural contest. I am sorry at not recollecting what was
engraven on it; but being a thorough Cockney, and knowing nothing more of
the plough and harrow than that I have somewhere observed it as a tavern
sign, must plead for my ignorance in out-o'-town matters.

You can remember, no doubt, the day the Queen went to dine with the City
Nabobs at Guildhall. Cheeseman hurried impatiently to London for the sole
purpose of _seeing_ the sight, and upon finding my liking for the
spectacle as powerful as his own, declared I was the only sensible child
my mother ever had, and adding that as he was well able to push his way
through a Lunnon crowd, if my father and mother were willing, under his
protection I should see this grand affair. Not the slightest objection was
put in opposition to my uncle's proposal, consequently the next day,
November the 9th, 1837, uncle Cheeseman and I formed integral portions of
the huge mass of spectators which reached from St. James's to the City.

After slipping off the pavement a score of times (and in some instances
opportunely enough to be shoulder-grazed by a passing coach-wheel),
stunning numberless persons by explosions of oaths for clumsy collisions
and unintentional performances upon his tenderest corn, we reached the
corner of St. Paul's churchyard.

Having secured by a two-shilling bargain about three feet of a form,
which, I suppose, upon any other day than a general holiday like the
present was the _locus in quo_ for little dears whose young ideas were
taught to shoot at threepence a week, uncle took breath, and a pinch of
snuff together: he smiled as I observed, that he'd be sure to take a
refresher when her Majesty passed; and though he shook his head and
designated me a sly young rogue, I could clearly perceive that he was
plotting to perform, as if by chance, what I had predicated as a
certainty; and although nineteen persons out of twenty would have marked
(in this instance) his puerility, I doubt not but that the same number are
(at some periods of their existence) innocent victims to the like
weakness, whether it be generated in a snuff-box or a royal diploma.

By-and-by, a murmur from the distance, which succeeded a restless motion
among the crowd (like a leafy agitation of trees coming as a kind of
_courier en avant_ to announce the regular hurricane), broke gradually,
and at last uproariously upon us; straining our necks and eyes in the
attractive direction. Uncle grasped me by the arm, and though he spoke not
a word, he fairly stared, "Here it comes." Now the thick tide of the
moving portion of the spectators began to sweep past us, as they hedged in
the soldiery and carriages; then came the shouting, accompanied by various
kinds of squeezing, tearing, and stumbling; some screaming compliments to
her Majesty, and in the same breath dispensing more violent compliments in
an opposite direction, and of a decidedly different tendency. Shoes were
trodden off, and bonnets crushed out of all fashion; coats were curtailed;
samples of their quality were either seen dangling at the heels of the
wearer, or were ignominiously trodden under foot; and many superfine
Saxony trousers were double-milled without mercy.

Whilst we were pluming ourselves upon the snugness of our situations, and
the attendant good fortune of being easy partners in the business of the
day, and thus freed from the vexations and perplexities so largely
distributed in our view, I was hindered from communicating my happiness
upon these points, for at this moment down went my uncle Cheeseman, and as
suddenly up flew his arms above his head, like Boatswain Smith at the
height of exhortation on Tower Hill. I was surprised, and so appeared my
unfortunate relation, who superadded an additional mixture of indignation
as I caught a glimpse or two of his chameleon-like visage; for at the first
sight I could have most honestly sworn it to have been white--at the
second as crimson as the sudden consciousness of helpless injury could
make it. Nevertheless, he sailed away from me in this extraordinary
attitude for a short distance, when suddenly, as he lowered his arms, I
observed sundry hands descend quickly, and, as I thought, kindly, lest he
should lose his hat, upon the crown of it, until it encased more of his
head than could be deemed either fashionable or comfortable. Presently,
however, he was again seen viciously elbowing and writhing his way back to
me, which after immense exertions he performed, in the full receipt of
numerous anathemas and jocular insults. As he neared me, I inquired what
he had been doing; why he had left me for such a short, difficult, and
unprofitable journey--which queries, innocently playful as they were,
appeared to produce a choking sensation, accompanied by a full-length
stare at me; but his naturally kind heart was not kept long closed against
me, and I gleaned the melancholy fact from his indignation, which was
continually emitted in such short gusts as, "The villains"--"The
scoundrels"--"And done so suddenly"--"The only thing I prized,"--"Well,
this is a lesson for me." As we returned home, uncle displayed a wish to
thrust himself everywhere into the densest mass; there was a morbid
carelessness in his manner that he had hitherto never shown; he was
evidently another man, a fallen creature; his pride, his existence, the
very theme of all his joys, his gold snuff-box, had departed for ever, and
his heart was in that box: what would Mrs. Cheeseman say? He had been
cleaned out to the very letter--ay, that letter--it perhaps contained
matters of moment.

I have since that affair upon several occasions heard the poor fellow
declare that much as he was heart-broken at the loss of his box, his
feelings were lacerated to a greater degree when, in a curtain lecture, my
staid, correct, frosty-hearted, jewel-hugging aunt said, "Cheeseman, it
was a judgment for such conduct to a wife. In that letter, which you
treated with such contumely, I strictly cautioned you not to take that
valuable box about with you, if your madness for sight-seeing should lead
you into a mob. Let this be a warning to you; and be sure that though
woman be the weaker vessel, she is oftentimes the deepest." We believe it.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PENSIVE PEEL.

It is an unfounded calumny of the enemies of Sir Robert Peel to say that
he has gone into the country to amuse himself--shooting, feasting, eating,
and drinking--while the people are starving in the streets and highways.
_We_ know that the heart of the compassionate _old rat_ bleeds for the
distresses of the nation, and that he is at this moment living upon bread
and water, and studying Lord John Russell's hints on the Corn-laws, in

[Illustration: THE MONASTERY OF LA TRAPPE.]

       *       *       *       *       *


DOMESTIC ECONOMY.

  Said Stiggins to his wife one day,
    "We've nothing left to eat;
  If things go on in this queer way,
    We shan't make _both ends meet._"

  The dame replied, in words discreet,
    "We're not so badly fed,
  If we can make but _one_ end _meat_,
    And make the other _bread_."

       *       *       *       *       *


<DW65> PECULIARITIES.

Perhaps no race of people on the face of the habitable globe are so
strongly imbued with individual peculiarities as the free and slave <DW64>
population of the United States. Out-heroding Herod in their monstrous
attempts of imitating and exceeding the fashions of the whites, the
emulative "<DW54>s" may be seen on Sundays occupying the whole extent of
the Broadway pavement, dressed in fashions carried to the very sublime of
the ridiculous. Whatever is the order of the day, the highest _ton_ among
the whites is instantly adopted, with the most ludicrous exaggeration, by
the blacks: if small brims be worn by the beaus of the former, they
degenerate to nothing on the skulls of the latter; if width be the order
of the day, the <DW52> gentlemen rush out in unmeasurable umbrellas of
felt, straw, and gossamer. A long-tailed white is, in comparison, but a
docked black. Should muslin trip from a carriage, tucked or flounced to
the knee, the same material, sported by a sable belle, will take its next
Sunday out fur-belowed from hip to heel. Parasols are parachutes; sandals,
black bandages; large bonnets, straw sheds, and small ones, nonentities.
So it is with colours: green becomes more green, blue more blue, orange
more orange, and crimson more flaming, when sported by these ebon slaves
of deep-rooted vanity.

The spirit of imitation manifests itself in all their actions: hence it is
by no means an uncommon occurrence to see a tall, round-shouldered,
woolly-headed, buck-shinned, and inky-complexioned "Free <DW65>,"
sauntering out on Sunday, shading his huge weather-proof face from the
rays of the encroaching sun under a carefully-carried silk umbrella! And
again, as in many of the places of worship the whole congregation cannot
be accommodated with seats, many of the members supply their own; so these
sable gentry may be frequently seen progressing to church with a small
stool under their arms: and in one instance, rather than be disappointed,
or obliged to stand,--a solemn-looking specimen of the species actually
provided himself with a strong brick-bat, and having carefully covered it
with his many and bright- bandana, preserved his gravity, and,
still more strange, his balance, with an irresistible degree of
mirth-creating composure.

Their laziness and unequivocal antipathy to work is as true as proverbial.
We know an instance of it in which the master ordered his sable "help" to
carry a small box from the steam pier to the Astor-House Hotel, where his
newly-married wife, an English lady, was waiting for it; judge of her
surprise to see the dark gentleman arrive followed by an Irish lad bearing
the freight intended for himself.

"Dar," said the domineering conductor; "dar, dat will do; put da box down
dar. Now, Missis, look here, jist give dat chap a shillin."

"A shilling! What for?"

"Cos he bring up dar plunder from de bay."

"Why didn't you bring it yourself?"

"Look here. Somehow I rader guess I should ha let dar box fall and
smashiated de contents, so I jist give dat white trash de job jest to let
de poor crittur arn a shillin."

Remonstrance was vain, so the money was paid; the lady declaring, for the
future, should he think proper to employ a deputy, it must be at his own
expense. The above term "white trash" is the one commonly employed to
express their supreme contempt for the "low Irish wulgar set."

Their dissensions among themselves are irresistibly comic. Threatening
each other in the most outrageous manner; pouring out invectives,
anathemas, and denunciations of the most deadly nature; but nine times in
ten letting the strife end without a blow; affording in their quarrels an
apt illustration of

  "A tale full of sound and fury,
  Told by an idiot, signifying nothing."

Suppose an affront, fancied or real, put by one on another, the common
commencement of ireful expostulations generally runs as follows:--

"Look here! you d--m black <DW65>; what you do dat for, Sar?"

"Hoo you call black, Sar? D--m, as white as you, Sar; any day, Sar. You
<DW65>, Sar!"

"Look here agin; don't you call me a <DW65>, Sar. Now, don't you do it."

"Why not?"

"Neber mind; I've told you on it, so don't you go to do it no more, you
mighty low black, cos if you do put my dander up, and make me wrasey, I
rader guess I'll smash in your <DW65>'s head, like a bust-up egg-shell.
Ise a ring-tailed roarer, I tell you!"

"Reckon I'm a Pottomus. Don't you go to put my steam up; d--d if don't
bust and scald you out. I'm nothing but a snorter--a pretty considerable
tarnation long team, and a couple of horses to spare; so jest be quiet, I
tell you, or I'll use you up uncommon sharp."

"You use me up! Yoo, yoo! D--m! You and your wife and some <DW65>
children, all ob you, was sold for a hundred and fifty dollars less than
this <DW65>."

"Look here, don't you say dat agin; don't you do it; I tell you, don't you
do it, or I'll jist give you such an almighty everlasting shaking, dat you
shall pray for a cold ague as a holiday. I'm worth considerable more
dollars dan sich a low black man as you is worth cents. Why, didn't dey
offer to give you away, only you such dam trash no one would take you, so
at last you was knocked down to a blind man."

"What dat? Here! Stand clear dar behind, and get out ob de way in front,
I'm jist going to take a run and butt dat <DW65> out of de State. Let me
go, do you hear? Golly, if you hadn't held me he'd a been werry small
pieces by dis time. D--m, I'll break him up."

"Yoo, yoo! Your low buck-shins neber carry your black head fast enough to
catch dis elegant <DW65>. You jist run; you'll find I'm nothing but an
alligator. You hab no more chance dan a black slug under de wheels of a
plunder-train carriage. You is unnoticeable by dis gentleman."

"Dar dat good, gentleman! Golly, dat good! Look here, don't you neber
speak to me no more."

"And look here, <DW65>, don't you neber speak to me."

"See you d--m fust, black man."

"See you scorched fust, <DW65>."

"Good day, trash."

"Good mornin, dirt!"

So generally ends the quarrel; but about half-an-hour afterwards the Trash
and Dirt will generally be found lauding each other to the skies, and
cementing a new six hours' friendship over some brandy punch or a mint
julep.

       *       *       *       *       *


SONGS OF THE SEEDY.--No. VI.

  You bid me rove, Mary,
  In the shady grove, Mary,
     With you to the close of even;
  But I can't, my dear,
  For I must, I swear,
     Be off at a quarter to seven.

  Nay, do not start, Mary;
  Nor let your heart, Mary,
     Be disturb'd in its innocent purity;
  I'm sure that _you_
  Wouldn't have me do
     My friend--my bail--my security!

  That tearful eye, Mary,
  Seems to ask me why, Mary,
     I can wait till sunset on'y.
  Ah! turn not away;
  I am out for the day
     On a _Fleet_ and fleeting _pony_.

  Your wide open mouth, Mary,
  With its breath like the south, Mary,
     Seems to ask for an explanation.
  Well, though not of the schools,
  I live within _rules_,
     And am subject to observation.

  But come to my arms, Mary;
  Let no dread alarms, Mary,
     In our present happiness warp us!
  I've not the least doubt
  Of soon getting out,
     By a writ of _habeas corpus_.

  Away with despair, Mary;
  Let us cast in the air, Mary,
     His dark and gloomy fetters.
  Why _should_ we be rack'd,
  When we think of the Act
     For relieving Insolvent Debtors.

       *       *       *       *       *


A MAYOR'S NEST.

Our friend the Sir Peter Laureate wishes to know whether the work upon
"Horal Surgery" is not a new-invented description of almanack, as it is
announced as

[Illustration: CURTIS ON THE EAR[1]]

    [1] _Qy_. Year.--Printer's Devil.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT.

5.--OF HIS MATURITY, AND LATIN EXAMINATION.

The second season arrives, and our pupil becomes "a medical student" in
the fullest sense of the word. He has an indistinct recollection that
there are such things as wards in the hospital as well as in a key or the
city, and a vague wandering, like the morning's impression of the dreams
of the preceding night, that in the remote dark ages of his career he took
some notes upon the various lectures, the which have long since been
converted into pipe-lights or small darts, which, twisted up and propelled
from between the forefingers of each hand, fly with unerring aim across
the theatre at the lecturer's head, the slumbering student, or any other
object worth aiming at--an amusing way of beguiling the hour's lecture,
and only excelled by the sport produced, if he has the good luck to sit in
a sunbeam, from making a tournament of "Jack-o'-lanthorns" on the ceiling.
His locker in the lobby of the dissecting-room has long since been devoid
of apron, sleeves, scalpels, or forceps; but still it is not empty. Its
contents are composed of three bellpull-handles, a valuable series of
shutter-fastenings, two or three broken pipes, a pewter "go" (which, if
everybody had their own, would in all probability belong to Mr. Evans, of
Covent Garden Piazza), some scraps of biscuit, and a round knocker, which
forcibly recalls a pleasant evening he once spent, with the accompanying
anecdotes of how he "bilked the pike" at Waterloo Bridge, and poor Jones
got "jug'd" by mistake.

It must not, however, be supposed that the student now neglects visiting
the dissecting-room. On the contrary, he is unremitting in his attendance,
and sometimes the first there of a morning, more especially when he has,
to use his own expression, been "going it rather fast than otherwise" the
evening before, and comes to the school very early in the morning to have
a good wash and refresh himself previously to snatching a little of the
slumber he has forgotten to take during the night, which he enjoys very
quietly in the injecting-room down stairs, amidst a heterogeneous
assemblage of pipkins, subjects, deal coffins, sawdust, inflated stomachs,
syringes, macerating tubs, and dried preparations. The dissecting-room is
also his favourite resort for refreshment, and he broils sprats and red
herrings on the fire-shovel with consummate skill, amusing himself during
the process of his culinary arrangements by sawing the corners off the
stone mantel-piece, throwing cinders at the new man, or seeing how long it
takes to bore a hole through one of the stools with a red-hot poker.
Indeed, these luckless pieces of furniture are always marked out by the
student as the fittest objects on which to wreak his destructive
propensities; and he generally discovers that the readiest way to do them
up is to hop steeple-chases upon them from one end of the room to the
other--a sporting amusement which shakes them to pieces, and irremediably
dislocates all their articulations, sooner than anything else. Of course
these pleasantries are only carried on in the absence of the demonstrator.
Should he be present, the industry of the student is confined to poking
the fire in the stove and then shutting the flue, or keeping down the ball
of the cistern by some abdominal hooks, and then, before the invasion of
smoke and water takes place, quietly joining a knot of new men who are
strenuously endeavouring to dissect the brain and discover the
_hippocampus major_, which they expect to find in the perfect similitude
of a sea-horse, like the web-footed quadrupeds who paw the "reality" in
the "area usually devoted to illusion," or tank, at the Adelphi Theatre.

If one of the professors of his medical school chances to be addicted to
making anti-Martin experiments on animals, or the study of comparative
anatomy, the pursuits offer an endless fund of amusement to the jocose
student. He administers poison to the toxicological guinea-pigs; hunts the
rabbit kept for galvanism about the school; lets loose in the theatre, by
accident, the sparrows preserved to show the rapidly fatal action of
_choke-damp_ upon life; turns the bladders, which have been provided to
tie over bottles, into footballs; and makes daily contributions to the
plate of pebbles taken from the stomach of the ostrich, and preserved in
the museum to show the mode in which these birds assist digestion, until
he quadruples the quantity, and has the quiet satisfaction of seeing
exhibited at lecture, as the identical objects, the heap of small stones
which he has collected from time to time in the garden of the school, or
from any excavation for pipes or paving which he may have passed in his
route from his lodgings.

The second or middle course of the three winter sessions which the medical
student is compelled to go through, is the one in which he most enjoys
himself, and indulges in those little outbreaks of eccentric mirth which
eminently qualify him for his future professional career. During the first
course he studies from novelty--during the last from compulsion; but the
middle one passes in unlimited sprees and perpetual half-and-half. The
only grand project he now undertakes is "going up for his Latin," provided
he had not courage to do so upon first coming to London. For some weeks
before this period he is never seen without an interlined edition of
Celsus and Gregory; not that he debars himself from joviality during the
time of his preparation, but he judiciously combines study with
amusement--never stirring without his translation in his pocket, and even,
if he goes to the theatre, beguiling the time between the pieces by
learning the literal order of a new paragraph. Every school possesses
circulating copies of these works: they have been originally purchased in
some wild moment of industrious extravagance by a new man; and when he
passed, he sold them for five shillings to another, who, in turn, disposed
of them to a third, until they had run nearly all through the school. The
student grinds away at these until he knows them almost by heart, albeit
his translation is not the most elegant. He reads--"_Sanus homo_, a sound
man; _qui_, who; _et_, also; _bene valet_, well is in health; _et_, and;
_suae spontis_, of his own choice; _est_, is," &c. This, however, is quite
sufficient; and, accordingly, one afternoon, in a rash moment, he makes up
his mind to "go up." Arrived at Apothecaries' Hall--a building which he
regards with a feeling of awe far beyond the Bow-street Police Office--he
takes his place amongst the anxious throng, and is at last called into a
room, where two examiners politely request that he will favour them by
sitting down at a table adorned with severe-looking inkstands, long pens,
formal sheets of foolscap, and awfully-sized copies of the light
entertaining works mentioned above. One of the aforesaid examiners then
takes a pinch of snuff, coughs, blows his nose, points out a paragraph for
the student to translate, and leaves him to do it. He has, with a prudent
forethought, stuffed his cribs inside his double-breasted waistcoat, but,
unfortunately, he finds he cannot use them; so when he sticks at a queer
word he writes it on his blotting-paper and shoves it quietly on to the
next man. If his neighbour is a brick, he returns an answer; but if he is
not, our friend is compelled to take shots of the meaning and trust to
chance--a good plan when you are not certain what to do, either at
billiards or Apothecaries' Hall. Should he be fortunate enough to get
through, his schedule is endorsed with some hieroglyphics explanatory of
the auspicious event; and, in gratitude, he asks a few friends to his
lodgings that night, who have legions of sausages for supper, and drink
gin-and-water until three o'clock in the morning. It is not, however,
absolutely necessary that a man should go up himself to pass his Latin. We
knew a student once who, by a little judicious change of appearance--first
letting his hair grow very long, and then cutting it quite short--at one
time patronizing whiskers, and at another shaving himself perfectly
clean--now wearing spectacles, and now speaking through his nose--being,
withal, an excellent scholar, passed a Latin examination for half the men
in the hospital he belonged to, receiving from them, when he had
succeeded, the fee which, in most cases, they would have paid a private
teacher for preparing them.

The medical student does not like dining alone; he is gregarious, and
attaches himself to some dining-rooms in the vicinity of his school,
where, in addition to the usual journals, they take in the Lancet and
Medical Gazette for his express reading. He is here the customer most
looked up to by the proprietor, and is also on excellent terms with
"Harriet," who confidentially tells him that the boiled beef is just up;
indeed, he has been seen now and then to put his arm round her waist and
ask her when she meant to marry him, which question Harriet is not very
well prepared to answer, as all the second season men have proposed to her
successively, and each stands equally well in her estimation, which is
kept up at the rate of a penny _per diem_. But Harriet is not the only
waiting domestic with whom he is upon friendly terms. The Toms, Charleses,
and Henrys of the supper-taverns enjoy equal familiarity; and when Nancy,
at Knight's, brings him oysters for two and asks him for the money to get
the stout, he throws down the shilling with an expression of endearment
that plainly intimates he does not mean to take back the fourpence change
out of the pot. Should he, however, in the course of his wanderings, go
into a strange eating-house, where he is not known, and consequently is
not paid becoming attention, his revenge is called into play, and he
gratifies it by the simple act of pouring the vinegar into the
pepper-castor, and emptying the contents of the salt-cellar into the
water-bottle before he gets up to walk away.

       *       *       *       *       *


EXPRESS FROM AMERICA.

We are authorised to state there is a man in New Orleans so exceedingly
bright, that he uses the palm of his hand for a looking-glass.

       *       *       *       *       *


POLITICS OF THE OUTWARD MAN!

Wisdom is to be purchased only of the tailor. Morality is synonymous with
millinery; whilst Truth herself--pictured by the poetry of the olden day
in angelic nakedness--must now be full-dressed, like a young lady at a
royal drawing-room, to be considered presentable. You may believe that a
man with a gash in his heart may still walk, talk, pay taxes, and perform
all the other duties of a highly civilised citizen; but to believe that
the same man with a hole in his coat can discourse like a reasoning
animal, is to be profoundly ignorant of those sympathetic subtleties
existing between a man's brain and a man's broad-cloth. Party politics
have developed this profound truth--the divine reason of the immortal
creature escapes through ragged raiment; a fractured skull is not so fatal
to the powers of ratiocination as a rent in the nether garments. GOD'S
image loses the divine lustre of its origin with its nap of super-Saxony.
The sinful lapse of ADAM has thrown all his unfortunate children upon the
mercies of the tailor; and that mortal shows least of the original stain
who wraps about it the richest purple and the finest linen. Hence, if you
would know the value of a man's heart, look at his waistcoat.

Philosophers and anatomists have quarrelled for centuries as to the
residence of the soul. Some have vowed that it lived here--some there;
some that, like a gentleman with several writs in pursuit of him, it
continually changed its lodgings; whilst others have lustily sworn that
the soul was a vagrant, with no claim to any place of settlement whatever.
Nevertheless, a vulgar notion has obtained that the soul dwelt on a little
knob of the brain; and that there, like a vainglorious bantam-cock on a
dunghill, it now claps its wings and crows all sorts of triumph--and now,
silent and scratching, it thinks of nought but wheat and barley. The first
step to knowledge is to confess to a late ignorance. We avow, then, our
late benighted condition. We were of the number of sciolists who lodged
the soul in the head of man: we are now convinced that the true dwelling
place of the soul is in the head's antipodes. Let SOLOMON himself return
to the earth, and hold forth at a political meeting; SOLOMON himself would
be hooted, laughed at, voted an ass, a nincompoop, if SOLOMON spoke from
the platform with a hole in his breeches!

PLATO doubtless thought that he had imagined a magnificent theory, when he
averred that every man had within him a spark of the divine flame. But,
silly PLATO! he never considered how easily this spark might be blown out.
At this moment, how many Englishmen are walking about the land utterly
extinguished! Had men been made on the principle of the safety-lamp, they
might have defied the foul breath of the world's opinion--but, alas! what
a tender, thin-skinned, shivering thing is man! His covering--the livery
of original sin, bought with the pilfered apples--is worn into a hole, and
Opinion, that sour-breathed hag, claps her blue lips to the broken web,
gives a puff, and--out goes man's immortal spark! From this moment the
creature is but a carcase: he can eat and drink (when lucky enough to be
able to try the experiment), talk, walk, and no more; yes, we forgot--he
can work; he still keeps precedence of the ape in the scale of
creation--for he can work for those who, thickly clothed, and buttoned to
the throat, have no rent in their purple, no stitch dropped in their
superfine, to expose their precious souls to an annihilating gust, and who
therefore keep their immortal sparks like tapers in burglars'
dark-lanthorns, whereby to rob and spoil with greater certainty!

Gentle reader, think you this a fantastic chapter on holes? If so, then of
a surety you do not read those instructive annals of your country penned
by many a TACITUS of the daily press--by many a profound historian who
unites to the lighter graces of stenography the enduring loveliness of
philosophy.

Some days since a meeting was held in the parish of Saint Pancras of the
"Young Men's Anti-Monopoly Association." The place of gathering, says the
reporter, was "a ruined _penny_ theatre!" It is evident in the brain of
the writer that the small price at which the theatre was ruined made its
infamy: to be blighted for a penny was the shame. Drury Lane and Covent
Garden have been ruined over and over again--but then their ruin, like
PHRYNE'S, has ever been at a large price of admission; hence, like court
harlots, their ruin has been dignified by high remuneration. What,
however, could be expected from a theatre that, with inconceivable
wickedness, suffered itself to be undone for a penny? Let the reporter
answer:--

    "---- FORSTER, Esq., advanced, and, assuming _a teapot position_
    on the stage, moved the first resolution, to the effect 'That the
    bread-tax was the cause of all distress, and that they should use
    their strenuous efforts to remove it.' 'Ladies (there was one old
    woman _in a shocking bad black and white straw bonnet present_)
    and gentlemen (said he), this is a public meeting to all intents
    and purposes.'"

For ourselves we care not for an orator's standing like a teapot, if what
he pours out be something better than mere hot-water or dead small beer.
If, however, we were to typify orators in delf, there are many Tory
talkers whom we would associate with more ignominious shapes of crockery
than that of a teapot--senators who are taken by the handle, and by their
party used for the dirtiest offices.

We now come to the bad old woman whose excess of iniquity was blazoned in
her "bad black and white straw bonnet." This woman might have been an
ASPASIA, a DE STAEL, a Mrs. SOMERVILLE,--nay, the SYBILLA CUMEA herself.
What of that? The "bad" bonnet must sink the large souled Grecian to a
cinder-wench, make the Frenchwoman a trapes from the Palais Royal, our
fair astronomer a gipsy of Greenwich Park, and the fate-foretelling sybil
a crone crawled from the worst garret of Battle-bridge. The head is
nothing; the bonnet's all. Think you that Mrs. Somerville could have
studied herself into reputation, that the moon and stars would have
condescended to smile upon her, if she had not attended their evening
parties in a handsome turban, duly plumed and jewelled?

Come we now to the next recorded atrocity:--

    "There jumped now upon the stage _a red-haired, laughing-hyena
    faced, fustian-coated biped_, exclaiming--'My name is Wall! I have
    a substantive amendment to move to the resolution now
    proposed--('Go off, off! ooh, ooh, ooh! turn him out, out, out!')
    We are met in a place where religion is taught (groans). Well,
    then, we are met where they "teach the young idea how to
    shoot"'--(laughter, groans, and 'Go on, Wall.') Turning to the
    young _gents_ on the platform, 'You,' quoth Mr. Wall, 'have not
    read history: you clerks at 16s. a week, with your gold chains and
    pins.'"

Red hair was first made infamous by JUDAS ISCARIOT; hence the reporter not
only shows the intensity of his Christianity, but his delicate knowledge
of human character, by the fine contempt cast upon the felon locks of the
speaker. Red hair is doubtless the brand of Providence; the mark set upon
guilty man to give note and warning to his unsuspicious fellow-creatures.
Like the scarlet light at the North Foreland, it speaks of shoals, and
sands, and flats. The emperor Commodus, who had all his previous life
rejoiced in flaxen locks, woke, the morning after his first contest in the
arena, a red-haired man! But then, with a fine knowledge of the wholesome
prejudices of the world, he turned the curse upon his head into a beauty;
for he--powdered it with gold-dust. Could Mr. WALL, of the penny theatre,
induce the Master of the Mint to play his _coiffeur_, how would the
reporter fall on his knees and worship the divinity!

Mr. WALL, being of the opposite faction, in addition to the unpowdered
ignominy of his hair, has also the face of a hyena! This fact opens a
question too vast for our one solitary page. We lack at least the
amplitude of a quarto to prove that all men are fashioned, even in the
womb, with features that shall hereafter beautifully harmonise with the
politics of the grown creature. Now WALL, being ordained a poor man and a
Chartist, is endowed with a "laughing hyena" countenance. He even loses
the vantage ground of our common humanity, and is sunk by his poverty and
his politics to the condition of a beast, and of a most unamiable beast
into the bargain. However, the vast enfolding iniquity is yet to be
displayed and duly shuddered at; for _WALL_, the biped hyena, wears--a
fustian coat!

As journalists, we trust we have our common share--which is no little--of
human vanity. Nevertheless, with the highest private opinion of our own
powers, we feel we can add nothing to the picture drawn by the reporter.
The fustian coat, with a tongue in every button-hole, discourses on its
own inwoven infamy.

We recognise with great pleasure a growing custom on the part of political
reporters to merge the orators and listeners at public meetings in their
several articles of dress. This practice has doubtless originated in a
most philosophical consideration of the sympathies between the outer and
the inner man, and has its source in the earliest records of human life.
The patriarchs rent their garments in token of the misery that lacerated
their souls: then rags and tatters were ennobled by sorrow--there was a
deep sentiment in sackcloth and ashes. We have, however, improved upon the
ignorance of primitive days; and though we still admit the covering of man
to be typical of his condition of mind, we wisely keep our respect for
super-Saxony, and expend contempt and ridicule on corduroy and fustian. We
yet hope to see the day when certain political meetings will be briefly
reported as follow:--

    "Faded Blue Coat, with tarnished Brass Buttons, took the chair.

    "Velveteen Jacket moved the first resolution, which was seconded
    by Check Shirt and Ankle-jacks.

    "Brown Great Coat, with holes in elbows, moved the second
    resolution--seconded by Greasy Drab Breeches and Dirty Leather
    Gaiters.

    "After thanks to Blue Coat had been moved by Brown Surtout and
    Crack under both Arms, the Fustian Jackets departed."

Would not this be quite sufficient? Knowing the philosophy of appearance
in England, might we not by our imagination supply a truer speech to every
orator than could be taken down by the most faithful reporter?

Q.

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S PENCILLINGS.--No. XVI.

[Illustration: THE NEW PARLIAMENTARY MASONS.

"WE HAVE A PLAN, WHICH, FROM ITS ORIGINALITY, SHOULD DRAW DOWN UPON US THE
GRATITUDE OF THE NATION.... WE PROPOSE THAT, DURING THE PROROGATION, AT
LEAST, MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT, SHOULD, LIKE BEAVERS, BUILD THEIR OWN
HOUSES."

_Vide_ PUNCH, _No. 14, page 162_.]

       *       *       *       *       *


LIST OF THE PREMIUMS

AWARDED BY THE

HOOKHAM-CUM-SNIVEY LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETY,

FOR THE YEAR 1841.


FIRST PREMIUM.

MANAGEMENT OF LANDED PROPERTY.

To Count D'Orsay, for the most approved Essay on Cultivating a Flower Pot,
and the Expediency of growing Mignionette in preference to Sweet Pea on
the Window-sills--

    _The Pasteboard Medal of the Society._


SECOND PREMIUM.

METHOD OF GROWING PERMANENT WHISKERS.

To Colonel Sibthorp, for a Report of several successful Experiments in
laying down his own Cheeks for a permanent growth of Whisker, with a
description of the most approved Hair-fence worn on the Chin, and the
exact colour adapted to all seasons--

    _The Pasteboard Medal and a Bottle of Balm of Columbia._


THIRD PREMIUM.

IMPROVING THE CONDITION OF THE POOR, BY INVENTING A VALUABLE SUBSTITUTE
FOR MEAT, BREAD, VEGETABLES, AND OTHER MASTICATORY ALIMENT.

To the Poor-Law Commissioners, for their valuable Essay on Cheap Feeding,
and an Account of several Experiments made in the Unions throughout the
Kingdom; by which they have satisfactorily demonstrated that a man may
exist on stewed chips and sawdust--also for their original receipt for
making light, cheap workhouse soup, with a gallon of water and a
gooseberry--

    _The Pasteboard Medal and a Mendicity Ticket._


FOURTH PREMIUM.

QUANTITY OF BRAINS REQUIRED TO MAKE A MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT.

To Peter Borthwick, for his ingenious Treatise, proving logically that a
Member requires no Brains, instancing his own case, where the deficiency
was supplied by the length of his ears--

    _The Pewter Medal, and a Copy of Enfield's Speaker._


FIFTH PREMIUM.

AMOUNT OF CASH REQUIRED BY A GENTLEMAN TO KEEP A WALKING-STICK, A PAIR OF
MOUSTACHES, AND A CIGAR.

To the Society of Law Clerks, for the best Account of how Fifteen
Shillings a week may be managed, to enable the Possessor to "draw it
rather brisk" after office-hours in Regent-street, including board and
lodging for his switch and spurs, and Warren's jet for his Wellingtons--

    _The Tin Medal and a Penny Cuba._


SIXTH PREMIUM.

FATTENING ALDERMEN.

To Sir Peter Laurie, for a Bill of Fare of the various viands demolished
at the Lord Mayors' Dinners for the last ten years--also, for an account
of certain experiments made to ascertain the contents of the Board of
Aldermen at City Feasts, by the application of a new regulating-belt,
called the Gastronometer--

    _A German Silver Medal and a Gravy Spoon._

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S REVIEW.

THE MEMOIRS OF MADAME LAFFARGE.

    The title, I think, will strike. The fashion, you know, now, is to
    do away with old prejudices, and to rescue certain characters from
    the illiberal odium with which custom has marked them. Thus we
    have a generous Israelite, an amiable cynic, and so on. Now, Sir,
    I call my play--_The Humane Footpad_.--SYLVESTER DAGGERWOOD.


Some four or five seasons since, the eccentric Buckstone produced a
three-act farce, which, by dint of its after title--_The School for
Sympathy_--and of much highly comic woe, exhibited in the acting of Farren
and Nisbett, was presented to uproariously-affected audiences during some
score nights. The hinge of the mirth was made to turn upon the
irresistible drollery of one man's running away with another man's wife,
and the outrageous fun of the consequent suicide of the injured husband;
the _bons mots_ being most tragically humorous, and the aphorisms of the
several characters facetiously concatenative of the nouns contained in the
leading name of the piece--"_Love_ and _Murder_."

Now this was a magnificent idea--one of those brilliant efforts which
cannot but tend to lift the theatre in the estimation of every man of
delicacy and education. A new source of attraction was at once
discovered,--a vast fund of available fuel was suddenly found to recruit
the cinerulent embers of the drama withal. It became evident that, after
Joe Miller, the ordinary of Newgate was the funniest dog in the world.
Manslaughter, arson, and the more practical jokes in the Calendar, were
already familiar to the stage; it was a refinement of the Haymarket
authors to introduce those livelier sallies of wit--crim. con. and
felo-de-se. The "immense coalitions" of all manner of crimes and vices in
the subsequent "highway school"--the gradual development of every
unnatural tendency in the youthful Jack Sheppard (another immor-t-al work
by the author of the afore-lauded comedy)--the celebration, by a classic
chaunt, of his reaching the pinnacle of depravity; this was the _ne plus
ultra_ of dramatic invention. Robbers and murderers began to be treated,
after the Catholic fashion, with extreme unction; audiences were
intoxicated with the new drop; sympathy became epidemic; everybody was
bewildered and improved; and nobody went and threw themselves off the
Monument with a copy of the baleful drama in his pocket!

But the magnificence of the discovery was too large to be grasped by even
the gluttonous eye of the managers, The Adelphi might overflow--the Surrey
might quake with reiterated "pitsfull"--still there remained over and
above the feast-crumbs sufficient for the battenings of other than
theatrical appetites. Immediately the press-gang--we beg pardon, the
_press_--arose, and with a mighty throe spawned many monsters. Great
drama! _Greater Press!_ GREATEST PUBLIC!

Now this was all excellent well as far as it went; but still there was
something wanted of more reality than the improvisations of a romancist.
Ainsworth might dip his pen in the grossest epithets; Boz might dabble in
the mysterious dens of Hebrew iniquity; even Bulwer might hash up to us
his recollections of St. Giles's dialogue; and yet it was evident that
they were all the while only "shamming"--only cooking up some dainty dish
according to a _recipe_, or, as it is still frequently pronounced, a
_receipt_,--which last, with such writers, will ever be the guide-post of
their track.

But something more was wanted; and here it is--here, in the Memoirs of
Marie Cappelle.

This lady, perhaps the most remarkable woman of her age, has published a
book--half farce, half novel--in which she treats by turns with the
clap-trap agony of a Bulwer, the quaint sneer of a Dickens, and the
effrontery of an Ainsworth, that serious charge which employed the careful
investigation of the most experienced men in France for many weeks, and
which excited a degree of interest in domestic England almost unexampled
in the history of foreign trials. This work is published by a gentleman
who calls himself "Publisher in ordinary to her Majesty," and may be
procured at any book-seller's by all such as have a guinea and a day's
leisure at the mercy of the literary charlatan who contrived it.

In the strictest confidence we would suggest, that if a treaty could be
ratified with Madame Marie Cappelle Laffarge, we do not doubt that our
nursery--yea, our laundry--maids would learn to spell the precious
sentences, to their own great edification and that of the children placed
under their charge.

       *       *       *       *       *


OUR TRADE REPORT.

Coals are a shade blacker than they were last week, but not quite so
heavy; and turnips are much lighter than they have been known for a very
considerable period.

Great complaints are made of the ticketing system; and persons going to
purchase shawls, as they supposed, at nine-pence three-farthings each, are
disgusted at being referred to a very small one pound sixteen marked very
lightly in pencil immediately before the 9-3/4d., which is very large and
in very black ink. There were several transactions of this kind during the
whole morning.

The depressed state of the Gossamer-market has long been a subject of
conversation among the four-and-niners who frequent the cheap coffee-shops
in the City; but no one knows the cause of what has taken place, nor can
they exactly state what the occurrence is that they are so loudly
complaining of.

Bones continue to fetch a penny for two pounds; but great murmurs are
heard of the difficulty of making up a pound equal to the very liberal
weights which the marine-store keepers use when making their _purchases_;
they, however, make up for it by using much lighter weights when they
sell, which is so far fair and satisfactory.

The arrivals in baked potatoes have been very numerous; fifty cans were
entered outwards on Saturday.

       *       *       *       *       *


RELATIVE GENTILITY.

Two ladies of St. Giles's disputing lately on the respectability of each
other's family, concluded the debate in the following way:--"Mrs. Doyle,
ma'am, I'd have you know that I've an uncle a _bannister_ of the law."
"Much about your _bannister_," retorted Mrs. Doyle; "haven't I a first
cousin a _corridor_ in the navy?"

       *       *       *       *       *


KEEPING IT DARK.

Jim Bones, a free <DW65> of New York, has a child so exceedingly dark that
he cannot be seen on the lightest day.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE GENTLEMAN'S OWN BOOK.

REVENONS A NOS MOUTONS--i.e. (for the benefit of country members) to
return to our mutton, or rather the "trimmings." The ornaments which
notify the pecuniary superiority of the wearer include chains, rings,
studs, canes, watches, and purses. _Chains_ should be of gold, and cannot
be too ostentatiously displayed; for a proper disposition of these
"braveries" is sure to induce the utmost confidence in the highly useful
occupants of Pigot's and Robson's Directory. We have seen some waistcoats
so elaborately festooned, that we would stake our inkstand that the most
unbelieving money-lender would have taken the personal security of the
wearer without hesitation. The perfection to which mosaic-work has arrived
may possibly hold out a strong temptation to the thoughtless to substitute
the shadow for the reality. Do not deceive yourself; an experienced eye
will instantly detect the imposition, though your ornaments may be

[Illustration: FRESH EVERY DAY;]

for, we will defy any true gentleman to preserve an equanimity of
expression under the hint--either visual or verbal--that (to use the
language of the poet) you are "a man of brass."

We have a faint recollection of a class of gentlemen who used to attach an
heterogeneal collection of massive seals and keys to one end of a chain,
and a small church-clock to the other. The chain then formed a pendulum in
front of their small-clothes, and the dignified oscillation of the
appendages was considered to distinguish the gentleman. They were also
used as auxiliaries in argument; for whenever an hiatus occurred in the
discussion, the speaker, by having resort to his watch-chain, could
frequently confound his adversary by commencing a series of rapid
gyrations. But the fashion has descended to merchants, lawyers, doctors,
_et sui generis_, who never drive bargains, ruin debtors, kill patients,
_et cetera_, without having recourse to this imposing decoration.

_Rings_ are the next indicators of superfluous cash. As they are _merely
ornamental_, they should resemble vipers, tapeworms, snakes, toads,
monkey's, death's heads, and similar engaging and pleasing subjects. The
more liberally the fingers are enriched, the greater the assurance that
the hand is never employed in any useful labour, and is consequently only
devoted to the minisitration of indulgences, and the exhibition of those
elegant productions which distinguish the highly-civilised gentleman from
the _highly-tattooed_ savage.

Mourning-rings have an air of extreme respectability; for they are always
suggestive of a legacy, and of the fact that you have been connected with
somebody who was not buried at the expense of the parish.

_Studs_ should be selected with the greatest possible care, and in our
opinion the small gold ones can only be worn by a perfect gentleman; for
whilst they perform their required office, they do not distract the
attention from the quality and whiteness of your linen. Some that we have
seen were evidently intended for cabinet pictures, rifle targets and
breast-plates.

_Pins._--These necessary adjuncts to the cravat of a gentleman have
undergone a singular revolution during late years; but we confess we are
admirers of the present fashion, for if it is desirable to indulge in an
ornament, it is equally desirable that everybody should be gratified by
the exhibition thereof. We presume that it is with this commendable
feeling that pins'-heads (whose smallness in former days became a proverb)
should now resemble the apex of a beadle's staff; and, as though to make
"assurance doubly sure," a plurality is absolutely required for the
decoration of a gentleman. In these times, when political partisanship is
so exceedingly violent, why not make the pins indicative of the opinions
of the wearer, as the waistcoat was in the days of Fox. We could suggest
some very appropriate designs; for instance, the heads of Peel and Wakley,
connected by a _very_ slight link--Sibthorp and Peter Borthwick by a
series of long-car rings--Muntz and D'Israeli cut out of very hard wood,
and united by a hair-chain; and many others too numerous to mention.

       *       *       *       *       *


HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.

PARODIED BY A XX TEETOTALLER.

  To drink, or not to drink? That is the question.
  Whether 'tis nobler inwardly to suffer
  The pangs and twitchings of uneasy stomach,
  Or to take brandy-toddy 'gainst the colic,
  And by imbibing end it? To drink,--to sleep,--
  To snore;--and, by a snooze, to say we end
  The head-ache, and the morning's parching thirst
  That drinking's heir to;--'tis a consummation
  Devoutly to be wish'd. To drink,--to pay,--
  To pay the waiter's bill?--Ay--there's the rub;
  For in that snipe-like bill, a stop may come,
  When we would shuffle off our mortal score,
  Must give us pause. There's the respect
  That makes sobriety of so long date;
  For who could bear to hear the glasses ring
  In concert clear--the chairman's ready toast--
  The pops of out-drawn corks--the "hip hurrah!"
  The eloquence of claret--and the songs,
  Which often through the noisy revel break,
  When a man--might his quietus make
  With a full bottle? Who would sober be,
  Or sip weak coffee through the live-long night;
  But that the dread of being laid upon
  That stretcher by policemen borne, on which
  The reveller reclines,--puzzles me much,
  And makes me rather tipple ginger beer,
  Than fly to brandy, or to--
  [Illustration: --HODGE'S SIN?]
  Thus poverty doth make us Temp'rance men.

       *       *       *       *       *


"TRY OUR BEST SYMPATHY."

It is a fact, when the deputation of the distressed manufacturers waited
upon Sir Robert Peel to represent to him their destitute condition, that
the Right Honourable Baronet declared he felt the deepest sympathy for
them. This is all very fine--but we fear greatly, if Sir Robert should be
inclined to make a commercial speculation of his _sympathy_, that he would
go into the market with

[Illustration: A VERY SMALL STOCK-IN(G) TRADE.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE MAN OF HABIT.

I meet with men of this character very frequently, and though I believe
that the stiff formality of the past age was more congenial than the
present to the formation and growth of these peculiar beings, there are
still a sufficient number of the species in existence for the
philosophical cosmopolite to study and comment upon.

A true specimen of a _man of habit_ should be an old bachelor,--for
matrimony deranges the whole clock-work system upon which he piques
himself. He could never endure to have his breakfast delayed for one
second to indulge "his soul's far dearer part" with a prolonged morning
dream; and he dislikes children, because the noisy urchins make a point of
tormenting him wherever he goes. The Man of Habit has a certain hour for
all the occupations of his life; he allows himself twenty minutes for
shaving and dressing; fifteen for breakfasting, in which time he eats two
slices of toast, drinks two cups of coffee, and swallows two eggs boiled
for two and a half minutes by an infallible chronometer. After breakfast
he reads the newspaper, but lays it down in the very heart and pith of a
clever article on his own side of the question, the moment his time is up.
He has even been known to leave the theatre at the very moment of the
_denouement_ of a deeply-interesting play rather than exceed his limited
hour by five minutes. He will be out of temper all day, if he does not
find his hat on its proper nail and his cane in its allotted corner. He
chooses a particular walk, where he may take his prescribed number of
turns without interruption, for he would prefer suffering a serious
inconvenience rather than be obliged to quicken or slacken his pace to
suit the speed of a friend who might join him. My uncle Simon was a
character of this cast. I could take it on my conscience to assert that,
every night for the forty years preceding his death, he had one foot in
the bed on the first stroke of 11 o'clock, and just as the last chime had
tolled, that he was enveloped in the blankets to his chin. I have known
him discharge a servant because his slippers were placed by his bed-side
for contrary feet; and I have won a wager by betting that he would turn
the corner of a certain street at precisely three minutes before ten in
the morning. My uncle used to frequent a club in the City, of which he had
become the oracle. Precisely at eight o'clock he entered the room--took
his seat in a leather-backed easy chair in a particular corner--read a
certain favourite journal--drank two glasses of rum toddy--smoked four
pipes--and was always in the act of putting his right arm into the sleeve
of his great-coat, to return home, as the clock struck ten. The cause of
my uncle's death was as singular as his life was whimsical. He went one
night to the club, and was surprised to find his seat occupied by a tall
dark-browed man, who smoked a _meerschaum_ of prodigious size in solemn
silence. Numerous hints were thrown out to the stranger that the seat had
by prescriptive right and ancient custom become the property of my uncle;
he either did not or would not understand them, and continued to keep his
possession of the leather-backed chair with the most imperturbable
_sang-froid_. My uncle in despair took another seat, and endeavoured to
appear as if nothing had occurred to disturb him,--but he could not
dissimulate. He was pierced to the heart,--and

[Illustration: "I SAW THE IRON ENTER HIS SOLE."]

My uncle left the club half-an-hour before his time; he returned
home--went to bed without winding his watch--and the next morning he was
found lifeless in his bed.

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S POLITICAL ECONOMY.

The subject of political economy is becoming so general a portion of
education, that it will doubtless soon be introduced at the infant schools
among the other eccentric evolutions or playful whirls of _Mr.
Wilder-spin_. At it is the fashion to comprehend nothing, but to have a
smattering of everything, we beg leave to smatter our readers with a very
thin layer of political economy. In the first place, "political" means
"political," and "economy" signifies "economy," at least when taken
separately; but put them together, and they express all kinds of
extravagance. Political economy contemplates the possibility of labouring
without work, eating without food, and living without the means of
subsistence. Social, or individual economy, teaches to live _within_ our
means; political economy calls upon us to live _without_ them. In the
debates, when more than usual time has been wasted in talking the most
_extravagant_ stuff, ten to one that there has been a good deal of
_political economy_. If you bother a poor devil who is dying of want, and
speak to him about _consumption_, it is probably "political economy" that
you will have addressed to him. If you talk to a man sinking with hunger
about _floating_ capital, you will no doubt have given him the benefit of
a few hints in "political economy:" while, if to a wretch in tattered rags
you broach the theory of _rent_, he must be an ungrateful beast indeed if
he does not appreciate the blessings of "political economy." That "labour
is wealth" forms one of the most refreshing axioms of this delicious
science; and if brought to the notice of a man breaking stones on the
road, he would perhaps wonder where his wealth might be while thinking of
his labour, but he could not question your proficiency in "political
economy." In fact, it is the most political and most economical science in
the world, if it can only be made to achieve its object, which is to
persuade the hard-working classes that they are the richest people in the
universe, for their labour gives value, and value gives wealth; but who
gets the value and the wealth is a consideration that does not fall within
the province of "political economy."

There is another branch of the subject at which we shall merely glance;
but one hint will open up a wide field of observation to the student. The
branch to which we allude is the tremendous extent to which political
economy is carried by those who interfere so much in politics with so very
little political knowledge, and who consequently display a most surprising
share of "political economy,"

As a very little goes a great way, and particularly as the most diminutive
portion of knowledge communicated by ourselves is, like the "one small
pill constituting a dose," much more efficacious than the 40 Number Ones
and 50 Number Twos of the mere quacks, we close for the present our
observations on _Political Economy_.

       *       *       *       *       *


ON THE KEY-VIVE.

There can be no doubt as to the _prima facie_ evidence of the hostile
intentions of the destroyed American steamer, with respect to the
disaffected on Navy Island, as, from the acknowledged inquisitiveness of
the gentler sex, there can be no doubt that _Caroline_ would have a
natural predilection for

[Illustration: PRIVATE (H)EERING.]

       *       *       *       *       *


LAST NEW SAYINGS.

_Come, none of your raillery_; as the stage-coach indignantly said to the
steam-engine.

_That "strain" again_; as the Poor-law Commissioner generously said to the
water-gruel sieve.

_I paid very dear for my whistle_; as the steam-engine emphatically said
to the railroad.

_Peel for ever!_ as the church bells joyously said to Conservative hearts.

       *       *       *       *       *


There is at present a man in New York whose temper is so exceedingly hot
that he invariably reduces all his shirts to tinder.

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S THEATRE.

THE MAID OF HONOUR.

The Adelphi "Correspondent from Paris" has favoured that Theatre with an
adaptation of Scribe's "_Verre d'Eau_," which he has called "The Maid of
Honour."

Everybody must remember that, last year, the trifling affair of the
British Government was settled by the far more momentous consideration of
who should be Ladies of the Bed-chamber. The Parisians, seeing the
dramatic capabilities of this incident, put it into a farce, resting the
whole affair upon the shoulders of a former Queen whose Court was
similarly circumstanced. This is the piece which Mr. Yates has had the
daring to get done into English, and transplanted into Spain, and
interspersed with embroidery, confectionary, and a Spanish sentence; the
last judiciously entrusted to that accomplished linguist, Mr. John
Saunders.

Soon after the rising of the curtain, we behold the figure of Mr. Yates
displayed to great advantage in the dress usually assigned to _Noodle_ and
_Doodle_ in the tragedy of "Tom Thumb." He represents the _Count
Ollivarez_, and the head of a political party--the opposition. The Court
faction having for its chief the _Duchess of Albafurez_, who being
Mistress of the Queen's robes is of course her favourite; for the
millinery department of the country which can boast of a Queen Regnant is
of far higher importance than foreign or financial affairs, justice,
police, or war--consequently, the chief of the wardrobe is far more
exalted and better beloved than a mere Premier or Secretary of State. The
Count is planning an intrigue, the agents of which are to be _Henrico_, a
Court page, and _Felicia_, a court milliner. Not being able to make much
of the page, he turns over a new leaf, and addresses himself to the
dress-maker; so, after a few preliminary hems, he draws out the thread of
his purpose to her, and cuts out an excellent pattern for her guidance,
which if she implicitly follow will assuredly make her a Maid of Honour.

A comedy without mystery is Punch without a joke; Yates without a speech
to the audience on a first night; or Bartley's pathos without a
pocket-handkerchief. The Court page soon opens the book of _imbroglio_. He
is made a Captain of the Queen's Guard by some unknown hand; he has always
been protected by the same unseen benefactor, who, as if to guard him from
every ill that flesh is heir to, showers on him his or her favours upon
condition that he never marries! "Happy man," exclaims the Count. "Not at
all," answers the other, "I am in love with _Felicia_!" Nobody is
surprised at this, for it is a rule amongst dramatists never to forbid the
banns until the banned, poor devil, is on the steps of the altar.
_Henrico_, now a Captain, goes off to flesh his sword; meets with an
insult, and by the greatest good luck kills his antagonist in the
precincts of the palace; so that if he be not hanged for murder, his
fortune is made. The victim is the Count's cousin, to whom he is next of
kin. "Good Heavens!" ejaculates _Ollivarez_, "You have made yourself a
criminal, and me--a Duke! Horrible!"

By the way, this same _Henrico_, as performed by that excellent swimmer
(in the water-piece), Mr. Spencer Forde, forms a very entertaining
character. His imperturbable calmness while uttering the heart-stirring
words, assigned by the author to his own description of the late
affair-of-honourable assassination, was highly edifying to the philosophic
mind. The pleasing and amiable tones in which he stated how irretrievably
he was ruined, the dulcet sweetness of the farewell to his heart's adored,
the mathematical exactitude of his position while embracing her, the cool
deliberation which marked his exit--offered a picture of calm stoicism
just on the point of tumbling over the precipice of destruction not to be
equalled--not, at least, since those halcyon dramatic days when
Osbaldiston leased Covent Garden, and played _Pierre_.

Somehow or other--for one must not be too particular about the wherefores
of stage political intrigues--_Felicia_ is promoted from the office of
making dresses for the Queen to that of putting them on. Behold her a maid
of honour and of all-work; for the Queen takes her into her confidence,
and in that case people at Court have an immense variety of duties to
perform. The Duchess's place is fast becoming a sinecure, and she trembles
for her influence--perhaps, in case of dismissal, for her next quarter's
salary to boot--so she shakes in her shoes.

It is at this stage of the plot that we perceive why the part of _Henrico_
was entrusted to the gentleman who plays it,--the mystery we have alluded
to being by this arrangement very considerably increased; for we now learn
that no fewer than three ladies in the piece are in love with him, namely,
_Felicia_, the Queen, and the Duchess. Now the most penetrating auditor
would never, until actually informed of the fact, for a moment suspect a
Queen, or even a Duchess, of such bad taste; for, as far as our experience
goes, we have generally found that women do not cast their affections to
men who are sheepish, insensible, cold, ungainly, with small voices, and
not more than five feet high. Surprise artfully excited and cleverly
satisfied is the grand aim of the dramatist. How completely is it here
fulfilled! for when we discover that the personator of Henrico is meant
for an Adonis, we _are_ astonished.

The truth is then, that the secret benefactor of this supposed-to-be
irresistible youth has always been the _Duchess Albafurez_, who, learning
from _Ollivarez_ that her pet has new claims upon her heart for having
killed her friend the Duke, determines to assist him to escape, which
however is not at all necessary, for Ollivarez is entrusted with the
warrant for apprehending the person or persons unknown who did the murder.
But could he injure the man who has made him a Duke by a lucky
_coup-d'epee_? No, no. Let him cross the frontier; and, when he is out of
reach, what thundering denunciations will not the possessor of the dukedom
fulminate against the killer of his cousin! It is shocking to perceive how
intimately acquainted old Scribe must be with manners, customs, and
feelings, as they exist at Court.

The necessary passports are placed before the Queen for her signature
(perhaps her Spanish Majesty can't afford clerks); but when she perceives
whom they threaten to banish from behind her chair, she declines honouring
them with her autograph. The Duchess thus learns her secret. "She, too,
love Henrico? Well I never!" About this time a tornado of jealousy may be
expected; but court etiquette prevents it from bursting; and the Duchess
reserves her revenge, the Queen sits down to her embroidery frame, and one
is puzzled to know what is coming next.

This puzzle was not on Monday night long in being resolved. _Ollivarez_
entered, and a child in the gallery commenced crying with that persevering
quality of tone which threatens long endurance. Mr. Yates could not resist
the temptation; and Ollivarez, the newly-created Duke of Medina, promised
the baby a free admission for four, any other night, if it would only
vacate the gallery just then. These terms having been assented to by a
final screech, the infant left the gallery. After an instant's
pause--during which the Manager tapped his forehead, as much as to say,
"Where did I leave off?"--the piece went on.

We had no idea till last night how difficult it was for a Queen to indulge
in a bit of flirtation! A most elaborate intrigue is, it seems, necessary
to procure for her a tender interview with her innamorato. A plan was
invented, whose intricacy would have bothered the inventor of
spinning-jennies, whereby _Henrico_ was to be closeted with her most
Christian Majesty,--its grand accomplishment to take place when the Queen
called for a glass of ice (the original _Scribe_ wrote "water," but the
Adelphi adapter thought ice would be more natural, for fear the piece
should run till Christmas). The Duchess overhears the entire plot, but
fails in frustrating it. Hence we find _Henrico, Felicia_, and the Queen
together, going through a well-contrived and charmingly-conducted scene of
equivoque--the Queen questioning _Henrico_ touching the state of his
heart, and he answering her in reference to _Felicia_, who is leaning over
the embroidery frame behind the Queen, and out of her sight.

This felicitous situation is interrupted by the spiteful Duchess; the
lover escapes behind the window curtains to avoid scandal--is discovered,
and his sovereign's reputation is only saved by the declaration of
Felicia, that the Captain is there on _her_ account. Ollivarez asserts
that they are married, to clench the fib--the Queen sees her folly--the
Duchess is disgraced--all the characters stand in the well-defined
semicircle which is the stage method of writing the word "finis"--Mrs.
Yates speaks a very neat and pointed "tag"--and that's all.

For this two-act Comidetta, dear Yates, we pronounce absolution and
remission of thy sins, so wickedly committed in the washy melo-drama, and
cackling vaudeville, thou hast recently affronted common-sense withal!
Thine own acting as the courtier was natural, except when thou didst
interpolate the dialogue with the baby--a crying sin, believe us. Else,
thy bows were graceful; and thy shoulder-shrugs--are they not chronicled
in the mind's eye of thy most distant admirers? The little touches of
humour that shone forth in the dialogue assigned to thee, were not
exaggerated by the too-oft-indulged-in grimaces--in short, despite thy too
monstrous _chapeau-bras_--which was big enough for a life-boat--thou
lookedst like a Duke, a gentleman, and what in truth thou really art--an
indefatigable _intriguant_. Thy favoured help-mate, too, gave a reality to
the scene by her captivating union of queenly dignity and feminine
tenderness. But most especially fortunate art thou in thy Felicia. Alas
for our hunch and our hatchet nose! but O, alas! and alas! that we have a
Judy! for never did we regret all three so deeply as while Miss Ellen
Chaplin was on the stage. In our favourite scene with the Queen and her
lover, how graceful and expressive were her dumb answers to what ought to
have been Henrico's eloquent declarations, spoken _through_ the Queen. We
charge thee, dear friend, to "call" her on Monday morning at eleven, and
to rehearse unto her what we are going to say. Tell her that as she is
young, a bright career is before her if she will not fall into the sin of
copying some other favourite actress--say, for instance, Mrs.
Yates--instead of our arch-mistress, Nature; say, moreover, that at the
same time, she must be unwearying in acquiring _art_; lastly, inform her,
that Punch has his eye upon her, and will scold her if she become a
backslider and an imitator of other people's faults.

As to poor Mr. _Spencer_ Forde, he, too, is young; and you do wrong, O
Yates! in giving him a part he will be unequal to till he grows big enough
for a coat. A smaller part would, we doubt not, suit him excellently.

Lastly, give our best compliments to Mrs. Fosbroke, to the illustrious Mr.
Freeborn, to Mr. John Saunders, and our especial commendations to thy
scene-painter, thy upholsterer, and the gentleman lamp-lighter thou art so
justly proud of; for each did his and her best to add a charm to "The Maid
of Honour."

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End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol.
1, October 30, 1841, by Various

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