The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, July 24, 1841
    
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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, July 24, 1841

Author: Various

Release date: February 7, 2005 [eBook #14920]
                Most recently updated: December 19, 2020

Language: English

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


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOLUME 1, JULY 24, 1841 ***




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






PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.



FOR THE WEEK ENDING JULY 24, 1841.

       *       *       *       *       *


A MODEST METHOD OF FORMING A NEW BUDGET

SO AS TO PROVIDE FOR THE DEFICIENCY OF THE REVENUE.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your affectionate friend,

CHRISTOPHER SLY.

_Pump_ Court.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


WHIG-WAGGERIES.

  The Whigs must go: to reign instead
    The Tories will be call'd;
  The Whigs should ne'er be at the head--
    _Dear me, I'm getting bald_!

  The Whigs! they pass'd that Poor Law Bill;
    That's true, beyond a doubt;
  The poor they've treated very ill--
    _There, kick that beggar out_!

  The Whigs about the sugar prate!
    They do not care one dump
  About the blacks and their sad state--
    _Just please to pass the lump_!

  Those niggers, for their sufferings here,
    Will angels be when dying;
  Have wings, and flit above us--dear--
    _Why, how those blacks are flying_!

  The Whigs are in a state forlorn;
    In fact, were ne'er so low:
  They make a fuss about the corn--
    _My love, you're on my toe_!

  The Whigs the timber duty say
    They will bring down a peg;
  More wooden-pated blockheads they!
    _Fetch me my wooden leg_!

       *       *       *       *       *


COURT CIRCULAR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


AN AN-TEA ANACREONTIC.--No. 2.

  Rundell! pride of Ludgate Hill!
  I would task thine utmost skill;
  I would have a bowl from thee
  Fit to hold my Howqua tea.
  And oh! leave it not without
  Ivory handle and a spout.
  Where thy curious hand must trace
  Father Mathew's temperate face,
  So that he may ever seem
  Spouting tea and breathing steam.
  On its sides do not display
  Fawns and laughing nymphs at play
  But portray, instead of these,
  Funny groups of fat Chinese:
  On its lid a mandarin,
  Modelled to resemble Lin.
  When completed, artisan,
  I will pay you--if I can.

       *       *       *       *       *


SPORTING.

THE KNOCKER HUNT.


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

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

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

    1840.

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

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

    Nov. 13.--Supped with Charley B----. Brandy, _genuine
    cognac_--Cigars _principè_. ESTIMATED CONSUMPTION: brandy and
    water, eighteen glasses--cigars, two dozen--porter with a cabman,
    two pots.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration:
  TO HENRY, MARQUESS OF WATERFORD,
  AND HIS JOLLY COMPANIONS IN LOWE,
  THIS STATUE OF ACHILLES,
  CAST FROM KNOCKERS TAKEN IN THE VICINITIES
  OF SACKVILLE-STREET, VIGO-LANE, AND WATERLOO-PLACE,
  IS INSCRIBED
  BY THEIR GENTLEWOMEN.
  PLACED ON THIS SPOT
  ON THE FIRST DAY OF APRIL, MDCCCXLII.
  BY COMMAND OF
  COLONEL ROWAN.]

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

       *       *       *       *       *


STENOTYPOGRAPHY.

Our _printer's devil_, with a laudable anxiety for our success, has
communicated the following pathetic story. As a specimen of
stenotypography, or compositor's short-hand, we consider it _unique_.

SERAPHINA POPPS;

OR, THE BEAUTY OF BLOOMSBURY.

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 [Symbol: hand hand].

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

  "None but herself could be her ||."[2]

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

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

Although Augustus St. Tomkins was a [Symbol: Freemason][7], he did not
possess the universal benevolence which that ancient order inculcates; but
revolving in his mind the probable reasons for Seraphina's hesitation, he
came to this conclusion: she either loved him -[8] somebody else, or she
did not love him at all. This conviction only X[9] his worst feelings, and
he resolved that no [Symbol: scruple scruple][10] of conscience should
stand between him and his desires.

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

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

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

    NOTES BY THE FLY-BOY.

    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.

       *       *       *       *       *


NEWS OF EXTRAORDINARY INTEREST.

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


"MORE WAYS THAN ONE," &c.

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:--

  TREASURY.
  FINISHED BY THE WIGS,
  ANNO DOM. MDCCCXLI.

       *       *       *       *       *


A CON. BY TOM COOKE.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


[ILLUSTRATION]

MONSIEUR JULLIEN.

        "One!"--crash!
        "Two!"--clash!
        "Three!"--dash!
        "Four!"--smash!
        Diminuendo,
        Now crescendo:--
  Thus play the furious band,
  Led by the kid-gloved hand
  Of Jullien--that Napoleon of quadrille,
  Of Piccolo-nians shrillest of the shrill;
        Perspiring raver
        Over a semi-quaver;
  Who tunes his pipes so well, he'll tell you that
  The natural key of Johnny Bull's--A flat.
  Demon of discord, with mustaches cloven--
  Arch impudent _improver_ of Beethoven--
  Tricksy professor of _charlatanerie_--
  Inventor of musical artillery--
  Barbarous rain and thunder maker--
  Unconscionable money taker--
  Travelling about both near and far,
  Toll to exact at every _bar_--
    What brings thee here again,
    To desecrate old Drury's fane?
      Egregious attitudiniser!
      Antic fifer! com'st to advise her
  'Gainst intellect and sense to close her walls?
      To raze her benches,
      That Gallic wenches
  Might play their brazen antics at masked balls?
      _Ci-devant_ waiter
      Of a _quarante-sous traiteur_,
  Why did you leave your stew-pans and meat-oven,
  To make a fricassee of the great Beet-hoven?
  And whilst your piccolos unceasing squeak on,
  Saucily serve Mozart with _sauce-piquant_;
  Mawkishly cast your eyes to the cerulean--
  Turn Matthew Locke to _potage à la julienne_!
      Go! go! sir, do,
      Back to the _rue_,
      Where lately you
  Waited upon each hungry feeder,
  Playing the _garçon_, not the leader.
      Pray, put your hat on,
      _Coupez votre bâton._
        Bah
        _Va!!_

       *       *       *       *       *


CLAR' DE KITCHEN.

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--

[ILLUSTRATION: NO FOLLOWERS ALLOWED.]

       *       *       *       *       *


A PARTY OF MEDALLERS.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


A CHAPTER ON BOOTS.

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

[Illustration]

WELLINGTONS.

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

[Illustration]

BLUCHERS.

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

ANKLE-JACKS,

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

[Illustration]

HESSIANS,

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

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

[Illustration]

TOPS! TOPS!! TOPS!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FUSBOS.

       *       *       *       *       *


HINTS ON MELO-DRAMATIC MUSIC.

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

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

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

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

Ditto, for taking wine--an allegro, movement, with _da capo_ for the second
glass.

Ditto, for taking porter, beer, or any other inferior swipes--a similar
movement, but not _con spirito_.

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

Ditto, for discovering a lost babby--a simply _affettuoso_ strain, in a
_minor_ key.

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

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

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

Ditto, for a lover's vow--a tender, broken _adagio_.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


THE RISING SUN.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PUNCH CORRESPONDENCE.

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

Russl Squear, July 14.

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

  "--contrived a double debt to pay,
  A _paige_ at night--a _tigger_ all the day."

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

Believe me, my dear Pa,
Your affeckshnt
JULIA PUNCH.

       *       *       *       *       *


CHARACTERISTIC CORRESPONDENCE.

The following notes actually passed between two (_now_) celebrated
comedians:--

  Dear J----, Send me a shilling.
            Yours, B----,
      P.S.--On second thoughts, make it _two_.

To which his friend replied--

  Dear B----, I have but one shilling in the world.
            Yours, J----,
      P.S.--On second thoughts, I want that for dinner.

       *       *       *       *       *


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

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH AND PEEL.

Arcades ambo.

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

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

READER.--What for, Mr. PUNCH?

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

READER.--_You_ recollect it, Mr. PUNCH!--_you_ at the court of King David!

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

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

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

READER.--And you really take office under Peel?

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

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

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

  "There may be wisdom in a papillote"--

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

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

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

READER.--David Hume says nothing of it.

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

READER.--Explain--I can't see how.

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

READER.--By a fiction, Mr. PUNCH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

READER.--I remember it.

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

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

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

READER.--They say the Queen doesn't like Sir Robert.

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

READER.--Sir Robert must be swallowed.

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

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

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

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

PUNCH.--Who? Colonel Sibthorp.

READER.--And who for Chancellor of the Exchequer?

PUNCH.--Mr. Henry Moreton Dyer!

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S PENCILLINGS.--No. II.

[Illustration: HERCULES TEARING THESEUS FROM THE ROCK TO WHICH HE HAD
GROWN.

(MODERNIZED.)

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.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE ELECTION OF BALLINAFAD.

(FROM OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT.)


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.

BALLINAFAD, 20th JULY.

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

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

[Illustration: "GOING THE WHOLE HOG."]

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

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

_Ten o'clock._--State of the poll to this time:--

    Figsby          19
    Griggles        22

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

_Half-past Twelve o'clock._--State of the poll to this time:--

    Figsby          27
    Griggles        36

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

_Three o'clock._--State of the poll to this time:--

    Figsby          45
    Griggles        39

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

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

_Four o'clock_--State of the poll up to this time:--

    Figsby          29
    Griggles        41

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

_Half past Four o'clock._--Figsby has given Grigglcs the lie on the open
hustings. Will Griggles fight?

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


EPIGRAM.

  Lord Johnny from Stroud thought it best to retreat.
  Being certain of getting the sack,
  So he ran to the City, and begged for a seat,
  Crying, "Please to _re-member Poor Jack_!"

       *       *       *       *       *


CONUNDRUMS BY COL. SIBTHORP.

Why is a tall nobleman like a poker?--Because he's a _high'un_ belonging to
the _great_.

Why is a defunct mother like a dog?--Because she's a _ma-stiff_.

When is _a horse_ like _a herring?_--When he's _hard rode_.

       *       *       *       *       *


EPIGRAM ON SEEING AN EXECUTION.

  One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop,
  To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop:
  "Alas!" cried one as round in air he spun,
  "That miserable wretch's _race is run_."
  "True," said the other drily, "to his cost,
  The race is run--but, by a _neck_ 'tis lost."

       *       *       *       *       *


FASHIONABLE ARRIVALS.

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


THE POET FOILED.

  To win the maid the poet tries,
  And sonnets writes to Julia's eyes;--
  She likes a _verse_--but cruel whim,
  She still appears _a-verse_ to him.

       *       *       *       *       *


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

       *       *       *       *       *


ECCLESIASTICAL TRANSPORTATION.

  Now B--y P--l has beat the Whigs,
    The Church can't understand
  Why Bot'ny Bay should be all sea,
    And have no _see_ on land.

  For such a lamentable want
    Our good Archbishop grieves;
  'Tis very strange the Tories should
    Remind him _of the thieves!_

       *       *       *       *       *


EPIGRAM.

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

  "The _light of life_ comes from above,"
  Old Dingdrum snuffling said;
  "The _light_ came down on Peggy Dobbs,
  And Peggy Dobbs was _dead_."

       *       *       *       *       *


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

       *       *       *       *       *


CONSISTENCY.

  No wonder Tory landlords flout
    "Fix'd Duty," for 'tis plain,
  With them the Anti-Corn-Law Bill
    Must _go against the grain._

       *       *       *       *       *


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

       *       *       *       *       *


THE SAILOR'S SECRET.

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

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

[Illustration: A FIRST RATE BOARDING-SCHOOL.]

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

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

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

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

"What's the matter?" said the surgeon.

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

Tom groaned, as though he _did_ consider it something _very_ particular.

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

"It's all up, sir," says he; "I must go; I feel it."

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

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

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

"Mr. Box," groaned Tom, "I've a-a-secret as makes me very uneasy, sir,"

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

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

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

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

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

I instinctively shrunk back with horror!

"Don't be long, Mr. Box, for every minute makes it worse," and then his
Saracen's Head changed to a feminine expression, and resembled the _Belle
Sauvage_.

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

"Pull what out?"

"My secret, Mr. Box; it's hurting on me!"

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

[Illustration: A NAUTICAL TALE.]

       *       *       *       *       *


SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.

No. II.

  You say you would find
    But one, and one only,
  Who'd feel without you
    That the revel was lonely:
  That when you were near,
    Time ever was fleetest,
  And deem your loved voice
    Of all music the sweetest.
  Who would own her heart thine,
    Though a monarch beset it,
  And love on unchanged--
    Don't you wish you may get it?

  You say you would rove
    Where the bud cannot wither;
  Where Araby's perfumes
    Each breeze wafteth thither.
  Where the lute hath no string
    That can waken a sorrow;
  Where the soft twilight blends
    With the dawn of the morrow;
  Where joy kindles joy,
    Ere you learn to forget it,
  And care never comes--
    Don't you wish you may get it?

       *       *       *       *       *


"SYLLABLES WHICH BREATHE OF THE SWEET SOUTH."

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


MARRIAGE AND CHRISTENING EXTRAORDINARY.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


OMINOUS.

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.

       *       *       *       *       *


CROSS READINGS.

          (REC.)
        If you ever should be
        In a state of _ennui_,
        Just listen to me,
        And without any fee
    I'll give you a hint how to set yourself free.
    Though dearth of intelligence weaken the news,
    And you feel an incipient attack of the blues,
    For amusement you never need be at a loss,
    If you take up the paper and _read it_ across.
        (INTER ARIA DEMI LOQUI.)
        Here's the _Times_, apropos,
          And so,
        With your patience, I'll show
    What I mean, by perusing a passage or two.
          (ARIA.)
  "Hem! Mr. George Robins is anxious to tell,
  In very plain prose, he's instructed to sell"--
  "A vote for the county"--"packed neatly in straw"--
  "Set by Holloway's Ointment"--"a limb of the law."
  "The army has had secret orders to seize"--
  "As soon as they can"--"the industrious fleas."
    For amusement you never need be at a loss,
    If you take a newspaper and read it across.

  "The opera opens with"--"elegant coats"--
  "For silver and gold we exchange foreign notes"--
  "Specific to soften mortality's ills"--
  "And cure Yorkshire bacon"--"take Morison's pills."
  "Curious coincidence"--"steam to Gravesend."
  "Tale of deep interest"--"money to lend"--
  "Louisa is waiting for William to send."
    For amusement you never need be at a loss,
    If you take a newspaper and read it across.

  "For relief of the Poles"--"an astounding feat!"--
  "A respectable man"--"for a water will eat"--
  "The Macadamised portion of Parliament-street."
  "Mysterious occurrence!"--"expected _incog_."
  "To be viewed by cards only"--"a terrible fog."
  "At eight in the morning the steam carriage starts"--
  "Takes passengers now"--"to be finished in parts."
    For amusement you never need be at a loss,
    If you take a newspaper and read it across.

  "Left in a cab, and"--"the number not known"
  "A famous prize ox, weighing 200 stone"--
  "He speaks with a lisp"--"has a delicate shape"--
  "And had _on_, when he quitted, a Macintosh cape."
  "For China direct, a fine"--"dealer in slops."
  "To the curious in shaving"--"new way to dress chops."
  "Repeal of the corn"--"was roasted for lunch"--
  "Teetotal beverage "--"Triumph of PUNCH!"
    For amusement you never need be at a loss,
    If you take a newspaper and read it across.

       *       *       *       *       *


A CON. BY DUNCOMBE.

"Why are four thousand eight hundred and forty yards of land obtained on
credit like a drinking song?"--"Because it's _an-acre-on-tic_."--"I think I
had you there!"

       *       *       *       *       *


A WOOD CUT.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


REVENGE IS SWEET.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


  If Farren, cleverest of men,
    Should go to the right about,
  What part of town will he be then?--
    Why, _Farren-done-without!_

       *       *       *       *       *


"WHAT HO! APOTHECARY."

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."

       *       *       *       *       *


QUESTION BY THE DISOWNED OF NOTTINGHAM.

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


ANSWER BY COLONEL SIBTHORP.

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

       *       *       *       *       *


REVIEW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


TO THE LAUGHTER-LOVING PUBLIC.

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

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

[Illustration: RESERVED SEATS!]

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


CHANT.

TO OLD FATHER TIME.

  Time--old Time--whither away?
  Linger a moment with us, I pray;
  Too soon thou spreadest thy wings for flight;
          Dip, boy, dip
          In the bowl thy lip,
  And be jolly, old Time, with us to-night.
                          Dip, dip, &c.

  Time--old Time--thy scythe fling down;
  Garland thy pate with a myrtle crown,
  And fill thy goblet with rosy wine;--
          Fill, fill up,
          The joy-giving cup,
  Till it foams and flows o'er the brim like mine.
                          Fill, fill, &c.

  Time--old Time--sighing is vain,
  Pleasure from thee not a moment can gain;
  Fly, old greybeard, but leave us your glass
          To fill as we please,
          And drink at our ease,
  And count by our brimmers the hours as they pass.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE DRAMA


ROMEO AND JULIET.

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


MY FRIEND THE CAPTAIN.

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 _un_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.

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *


LITERARY QUERIES AND REPLIES

BY DISTINGUISHED PERSONAGES.


QUESTION BY SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BART,

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

ANSWER BY THEODORE HOOK.

"Don Quixote; because it was written by _Cervantes_--(servantes).--Rather
low, Sir Ned."


QUESTION BY LADY BLESSINGTON,

"When is a lady's neck not a neck?"

ANSWER BY LADY MORGAN.

"For shame now!--When it is a _little bare_ (bear), I suppose."

       *       *       *       *       *


A SPEECH FROM THE HUSTINGS.

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

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

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.

       *       *       *       *       *


FASHIONABLE MOVEMENTS.

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.

       *       *       *       *       *


EPIGRAM ON A VERY LARGE WOMAN.

    "All flesh is grass," so do the Scriptures say;
    But grass, when cut and dried, is turned to hay;
  Then, lo; if Death to thee his scythe should take,
  God bless us! what a haycock thou wouldst make.

       *       *       *       *       *


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

"Our church clock," say the editors of a down-cast paper, "_keeps time_ so
well that we _get_ a day out of every week by it."

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

       *       *       *       *       *







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