PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.

AUGUST 21, 1841.

THE WIFE-CATCHERS.

A LEGEND OF MY UNCLE’S BOOTS.

In Four Chapters.

CHAPTER IV.

The conversation now subsided into
“private and confidential” whispers, from which I could
learn that Miss O’Brannigan had consented to quit her
father’s halls with Terence that very night, and, before the
priest, to become his true and lawful wife.

It had been previously understood that those of the guests who
lived at a distance from the lodge should sleep there that night.
Nothing could have been more favourable for the designs of the
lovers; and it was arranged between them, that Miss Biddy was to
steal from her chamber into the yard, at daybreak, and apprise her
lover of her presence by flinging a handful of gravel against his
window. Terence’s horse was warranted to carry double, and
the lady had taken the precaution to secure the key of the stable
where he was placed.

It was long after midnight before the company began to
separate;—cloaks, shawls, and tippets were called for; a jug
of punch of extra strength was compounded, and a doch an
dhurris¹1. A drink at the
door;—a farewell cup. of the steaming beverage
administered to every individual before they were permitted to
depart. At length the house was cleared of its guests, with the
exception of those who were to remain and take beds there. Amongst
the number were the haberdasher and your uncle. The latter was
shown into a chamber in which a pleasant turf fire was burning on
the hearth.

Although Terence’s mind was full of sweet anticipations
and visions of future grandeur, he could not avoid feeling a
disagreeable sensation arising from the soaked state of his boots;
and calculating that it still wanted three or four hours of
daybreak, he resolved to have us dry and comfortable for his
morning’s adventure. With this intention he drew us off, and
placed us on the hearth before the fire, and threw himself on the
bed—not to sleep—he would sooner have committed
suicide—but to meditate upon the charms of Miss Biddy and her
thousand pounds.

But our strongest resolutions are overthrown by
circumstances—the ducking, the dancing, and the
potteen, had so exhausted Terence, that he unconsciously
shut, first, one eye, then the other, and, finally, he fell fast
asleep, and dreamed of running away with the heiress on his back,
through a shaking bog, in which he sank up to the middle at every
step. His vision was, however, suddenly dispelled by a smart rattle
against his window. A moment was sufficient to recall him to his
senses—he knew it was Miss Biddy’s signal, and, jumping
from the bed, drew back the cotton window-curtains and peered
earnestly out: but though the day had begun to break, it was still
too dark to enable him to distinguish any person on the lawn. In a
violent hurry he seized on your humble servant, and endeavoured to
draw me on; but, alas! the heat of the fire had so shrank me from
my natural dimensions, that he might as well have attempted to
introduce his leg and foot into an eel-skin. Flinging me in a rage
to the further corner of the room, he essayed to thrust his foot
into my companion, which had been reduced to the same shrunken
state as myself. In vain he tugged, swore, and strained; first with
one, and then with another, until the stitches in our sides grinned
with perfect torture; the perspiration rolled down his
forehead—his eyes were staring, his teeth set, and every
nerve in his body was quivering with his exertions—but still
he could not force us on.

“What’s to be done!” he ejaculated in
despairing accents. A bright thought struck him suddenly, that he
might find a pair of boots belonging to some of the other visitors,
with which he might make free on so pressing an emergency. It was
but sending them back, with an apology for the mistake, on the
following day. With this idea he sallied from his room, and groped
his way down stairs to find the scullery, where he knew the boots
were deposited by the servant at night. This scullery was detached
from the main building, and to reach it it was necessary to cross
an angle of the yard. Terence cautiously undid the bolts and
fastenings of the back door, and was stealthily picking his steps
over the rough stones of the yard, when he was startled by a fierce
roar behind him, and at the same moment the teeth of Towser, the
great watch-dog, were fastened in his nether garments. Though very
much alarmed, he concealed his feelings, and presuming on a slight
previous intimacy with his assailant, he addressed him in a most
familiar manner, calling him “poor fellow” and
“old Towser,” explained to him the ungentlemanly
liberty he was taking with his buckskins, and requested him to let
go his hold, as he had quite enough of that sport. Towser was,
however, not to be talked out of his private notions; he foully
suspected your uncle of being on no good design, and replied to
every remonstrance he made with a growl and a shake, that left no
doubt he would resort to more vigorous measures in case of
opposition. Afraid or ashamed to call for help, Terence was kept in
this disagreeable state, nearly frozen to death with cold and
trembling with terror, until the morning was considerably advanced,
when he was discovered by some of the servants, who released him
from the guardianship of his surly captor. Without waiting to
account for the extraordinary circumstances in which he had been
found, he bolted into the house, rushed up to his bed-chamber, and,
locking the door, threw himself into a chair, overwhelmed with
shame and vexation.

But poor Terence’s troubles were not half over. The
beautiful heiress, after having discharged several volleys of sand
and small pebbles against his window without effect, was returning
to her chamber, swelling with indignation, when she was encountered
on the stairs by Tibbins, who, no doubt prompted by the demon of
jealousy, had been watching her movements. He could not have chosen
a more favourable moment to plead his suit; her mortified vanity,
and her anger at what she deemed the culpable indifference of her
lover, made her eager to be revenged on him. It required,
therefore, little persuasion to obtain her consent to elope with
the haberdasher. The key of the stable was in her pocket, and in
less than ten minutes she was sitting beside him in his gig, taking
the shortest road to the priest’s.

I cannot attempt to describe the rage that Terence flew into, as
soon as he learned the trick he had been served; he vowed to be the
death of Tibbins, and it is probable he would have carried his
threat into effect, if the haberdasher had not prudently kept out
of his way until his anger had grown cool.

“So,” said I, addressing the narrator, “you
lost the opportunity of figuring at Miss Biddy’s
wedding?”

“Yes,” replied the ‘wife-catcher;’
“but Terence soon retrieved his credit, for in less than
three months after his disappointment with the heiress, we were
legging it as his wedding with Miss Debby Doolan, a greater fortune
and a prettier girl than the one he had lost: and, by-the-bye, that
reminds me of a funny scene which took place when the bride came to
throw the stocking—hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo!”

Here my friends, the boots, burst into a long and loud fit of
laughter; while I, ignorant of the cause of their mirth, looked
gravely on, wondering when it would subside. Instead, however, of
their laughter lessening, the cachinnations became so violent that
I began to feel seriously alarmed.

“My dear friends!” said I.

“Hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo! hoo!” shouted the pair.

“This excessive mirth may be dangerous”—

A peal of laughter shook their leathern sides, and they rolled
from side to side on their chair. Fearful of their falling, I put
out my hand to support them, when a sense of acute pain made me
suddenly withdraw it. I started, opened my eyes, and discovered
that I had laid hold of the burning remains of the renowned
“wife-catchers,” which I had in my sleep placed upon
the fire.

As I gazed mournfully upon the smoking relics of the ancient
allies of our house, I resolved to record this strange adventure;
but you know I never had much taste for writing, Jack, so I now
confide the task to you. As he concluded, my uncle raised his
tumbler to his lips, and I could perceive a tear sparkling in his
eye—a genuine tribute of regard to the memory of the
venerated “Wife Catchers.”

CORRESPONDENCE EXTRAORDINARY.

EPIGRAMS.

1.—THE CAUSE.

2.—PRIDE.

ENGLISH AND AMERICAN PRODUCE.

We find, by the Times of Saturday, the British
teasel crops in the parish of Melksham have fallen
entirely to the ground, and from their appearance denote a complete
failure. Another paragraph in the same paper speaks quite as
discouragingly of the appearance of the American Teazle at
the Haymarket.

NURSERY EDUCATION REPORT.—No. 2.

THE ROYAL RHYTHMICAL ALPHABET,

To be said or sung by the Infant Princess.

	A stands for Aristocracy, a thing I should admire;
	B stands for a Bishop, who is clothed in soft attire;
	C beginneth Cabinet, where Mamma keeps her tools;
	D doth stand for Downing-street, the “Paradise of Fools;”
	E beginneth England, that granteth the supplies;
	F doth stand for Foreigners, whom I should patronize;
	G doth stand for Gold—good gold!—for which man freedom barters;
	H beginneth Honors—that is, ribbons, stars, and garters;
	I stands for my Income (several thousand pounds per ann.);
	J stands for Johnny Bull, a soft and easy kind of man;
	K beginneth King, who rules the land by “right divine;”
	L’s for Mrs. Lilly, who was once a nurse of mine.
	M beginneth Melbourne, who rules the roast and State;
	N stands for a Nobleman, who’s always good and great.
	O is for the Opera, that I should only grace;
	P stands for the Pension List, for “servants out of place.”
	Q’s the Quarter’s Salary, for which true patriots long;
	R’s for Mrs. Ratsey, who taught me this pretty song;
	S stands for the Speech, which Mummy learns to say;
	T doth stand for Taxes, which the people ought to pay;
	U’s for the Union Work-house, which horrid paupers shun;
	V is for Victoria, “the Bess of forty-one;”
	W stands for War, the “noble game” which Monarchs play;
	X is for the Treble X—Lilly drank three times a day;
	And Y Z’s for the Wise Heads, who admire all I say.

THE GENTLEMAN’S OWN BOOK.

A COMPLETE ENCYCLOPÆDIA OF ALL THE REQUISITES,
DECORATIVE, EDUCATIONAL, AND RECREATIVE, FOR GENTILITY.

INTRODUCTION.

A popular encyclopædia of the requisites for
gentility—a companion to the toilet, the salons, the
Queen’s Bench, the streets, and the police-stations, has long
been felt to be a desideratum by every one aspiring to
good-breeding. The few works which treat on the subject have all
become as obselete as “hot cockles” and
“crambo.” “The geste of King Horne,” the
“ΒΑΣΙΛΙΚΟΝ”
of King Jamie, “Peacham’s Complete Gentleman,”
“The Poesye of princelye Practice,” “Dame Juliana
Berners’ Book of St. Alban’s,” and “The
Jewel for Gentrie,” are now confined to bibliopoles and
bookstalls. Even more modern productions have shared the same fate.
“The Whole Duty of Man” has long been consigned to the
trunk-maker, “Chesterfield’s Letters” are now
dead letters, and the “Young Man” lights his cigar with
his “Best Companion.” It is true, that in lieu of
these, several works have emanated from the press, adapted to the
change of manners, and consequently admirably calculated to supply
their places. We need only instance “The Flash
Dictionary,” “The Book of Etiquette,” “A
Guide to the Kens and Cribs of London,” “The whole Art
of Tying the Cravat,” and “The Hand-book of
Boxing;” but it remains for us to remove the disadvantages
which attend the acquirement of each of these noble arts and
sciences in a detached form.

The possessor of an inquiring and genteel mind has now to wander
for his politeness to Paternoster-row²2. “Book of Etiquette.” Longman and
Co.; to Pierce Egan, for his knowledge of men and manners;
and to Owen Swift, for his knightly accomplishments, and exercises
of chivalry.

We undertake to collect and condense these scattered radii into
one brilliant focus, so that a gentleman, by reading his “own
book,” may be made acquainted with the best means of
ornamenting his own, or disfiguring a policeman’s,
person—how to conduct himself at the dinner-table, or at the
bar of Bow-street—how to turn a compliment to a lady, or
carry on a chaff with a cabman.

These are high and noble objects! A wider field for social
elevation cannot well be imagined. Our plan embraces the
enlightenment and refinement of every scion of a noble house, and
all the junior clerks in the government offices—from the
happy recipient of an allowance of 50£ per month from
“the Governor,” to the dashing acceptor of a salary of
thirty shillings a week from a highly-respectable house in the
City—from the gentleman who occupies a suite of apartments in
the Clarendon, to the lodger in the three-pair back, in an
excessively back street at Somers Town.

With these incentives, we will proceed at once to our great and
glorious task, confident that our exertions will be appreciated,
and obtain for us an introduction into the best circles.

PRELUDE.

We trust that our polite readers will commence the perusal of
our pages with a pleasure equal to that which we feel in sitting
down to write them; for they call up welcome recollections of those
days (we are literary and seedy now!) when our coats emanated from
the laboratory of Stultz, our pantaloons from Buckmaster, and our
boots from Hoby, whilst our glossy beaver—now, alas!
supplanted by a rusty goss—was fabricated by no less a
thatcher than the illustrious Moore. They will remind us of our
Coryphean conquests at the Opera—our triumphs in Rotten
row—our dinners at Long’s and the Clarendon—our
nights at Offley’s and the watch-house—our glorious
runs with the Beaufort hounds, and our exhilarating runs from the
sheriffs’ officers—our month’s sporting on the
heathery moors, and our day rule when rusticating in the Bench!

We are in “the sear and yellow leaf”—there is
nothing green about us now! We have put down our seasoned hunter,
and have mounted the winged Pegasus. The brilliant Burgundy and
sparkling Hock no longer mantle in our glass; but Barclay’s
beer—nectar of gods and coalheavers—mixed with
hippocrene—the Muses’ “cold
without”—is at present our only beverage. The grouse
are by us undisturbed in their bloomy mountain covert. We are now
content to climb Parnassus and our garret stairs. The Albany, that
sanctuary of erring bachelors, with its guardian beadle, are to us
but memories, for we have become the denizens of a roomy attic
(ring the top bell twice), and are only saluted by an Hebe of
all-work and our printer’s devil!

ON DRESS IN GENERAL.—L’habit fait le
moine.—It has been laid down by Brummel, Bulwer, and
other great authorities, that “the tailor makes the
man;” and he would be the most daring of sceptics who would
endeavour to controvert this axiom. Your first duty, therefore, is
to place yourself in the hands of some distinguished schneider, and
from him take out your patent of gentility—for a man with an
“elegant coat” to his back is like a bill at sight
endorsed with a good name; whilst a seedy or ill-cut garment
resembles a protested note of hand labelled “No
effects.” It will also be necessary for you to consult
“The Monthly Book of Fashions,” and to imitate, as
closely as possible, those elegant and artistical productions of
the gifted burin, which show to perfection “What a
piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in
faculties!” &c.—You must not consult your own ease
and taste (if you have any), for nothing is so vulgar as to suit
your convenience in these matters, as you should remember that you
dress to please others, and not yourself. We have heard of some
eccentric individuals connected with noble families, who have
departed from this rule; but they invariably paid the penalty of
their rashness, being frequently mistaken for men of intellect; and
it should not be forgotten, that any exercise of the mind is a
species of labour utterly incompatible with the perfect man of
fashion.

The confiding characters of tailors being generally
acknowledged, it is almost needless to state, that the
faintest indication of seediness will be fatal to your
reputation; and as a presentation at the Insolvent Court is equally
fashionable with that of St. James, any squeamishness respecting
your inability to pay could only be looked upon as a want of moral
courage upon your part, and

UTTERLY UNWORTHY OF A GENTLEMAN.

[The subject of dress in particular will form the
subject of our next chapter.]

IF I HAD A THOUSAND A-YEAR.

A BACHELOR’S LYRIC.

MY UNCLE BUCKET.

The Buckets are a large family! I am one of them—my uncle
Job Bucket is another. We, the Buckets, are atoms of creation; yet
we, the Buckets, are living types of the immensity of the
world’s inhabitants. We illustrate their ups and
downs—their fulness and their emptiness—their risings
and their falling—and all the several goods and ills, the
world’s denizens in general, and Buckets in particular, are
undoubted heirs to.

It hath ever been the fate of the fulness of one Bucket to
guarantee the emptiness of another; and (mark the moral!) the
rising Bucket is the richly-stored one; its sinking brother’s
attributes, like Gratiano’s wit, being “an infinite
deal of nothing.” Hence the adoption of our name for the
wooden utensils that have so aptly fished up this fact from the
deep well of truth.

There be certain rods that attract the lightning. We are
inclined to think there be certain Buckets that invite kicking, and
our uncle Job was one of them. He was birched at school for
everybody but himself, for he never deserved it! He was plucked at
college—because some practical joker placed a utensil,
bearing his name, outside the door of the examining master, and our
uncle Job Bucket being unfortunately present, laughed at the
consequent abrasion of his, the examining master’s, shins. He
was called to the bar. His first case was, “Jane Smith
versus James Smith” (no relations). His client was
the female. She had been violently assaulted. He mistook the
initial—pleaded warmly for the opposing Smith, and glowingly
described the disgraceful conduct of the veriest virago a legal
adviser ever had the pain of speaking of. The verdict was, as he
thought, on his side. The lady favoured him with a living evidence
of all the attributes he was pleased to invent for her benefit, and
left him with a proof impression of her nails upon his face,
carrying with her, by way of souvenir, an ample portion of
the skin thereof. Had the condensed heels of all the horses whose
subscription hairs were wrought into his wig, with one united
effort presented him with a kick in his abdominals, he could not
have been more completely “knocked out of time” than he
was by the mistake of those cursed initials. “What about
Smith?” sent him out of court! At length he

He next turned his attention to building. Things went on
swimmingly during the erection—so did the houses when built.
The proprietorship of the ground was disputed—our uncle Job
had paid the wrong person. The buildings were knocked down (by Mr.
Robins), and the individual who had benefited by the suppositionary
ownership of the acres let on the building lease “bought the
lot,” and sent uncle Job a peculiarly well-worded legal
notice, intimating, “his respectable presence would, for the
future, approximate to a nuisance and trespass, and he (Job) would
be proceeded against as the statutes directed, if guilty of the
same.”

It is impossible to follow him through all his various strivings
to do well: he commenced a small-beer brewery, and the thunder
turned it all into vinegar; he tried vinegar, and nothing on earth
could make it sour; he opened a milk-walk, and the parish pump
failed; he invented a waterproof composition—there was
fourteen weeks of drought; he sold his patent for two-and-sixpence,
and had the satisfaction of walking home for the next three months
wet through, from his gossamer to his ci-devant
Wellingtons, now literally, from their hydraulic powers,
“pumps.”

He lost everything but his heart! And uncle Bucket was all
heart! a red cabbage couldn’t exceed it in size, and, like
that, it seemed naturally predestined to be everlastingly in a
pickle! Still it was a heart! You were welcomed to his venison when
he had it—his present saveloy was equally at your service. He
must have been remarkably attached to facetious elderly poultry of
the masculine gender, as his invariable salute to the tenants of
his “heart’s core” was, “How are you, my
jolly old cock?” Coats became threadbare, and defunct
trousers vanished; waistcoats were never replaced; gossamers
floated down the tide of Time; boots, deprived of all hope of
future renovation by the loss of their soles, mouldered in
obscurity; but the clear voice and chuckling salute were changeless
as the statutes of the Medes and Persians, the price and size of
penny tarts, or the accumulating six-and-eightpences gracing a
lawyer’s bill.

Poor uncle Job Bucket’s fortune had driven “him down
the rough tide of power,” when first and last we met; all was
blighted save the royal heart; and yet, with shame we own the
truth, we blushed to meet him. Why? ay, why? We own the
weakness!—the heart, the goodly heart, was almost cased in
rags!

“Puppy!”

Right, reader, right; we were a puppy. Lash on, we richly
deserve it! but, consider the fearful influence of worn-out cloth!
Can a long series of unchanging kindness balance patched elbows?
are not cracked boots receipts in full for hours of anxious love
and care? does not the kindness of a life fade “like the
baseless fabric of a vision” before the withering touch of
poverty’s stern stamp? Have you ever felt—

“Eh? what? No—stuff! Yes, yes—go on, go
on.”

We will!—we blushed for our uncle’s coat! His heart,
God bless it, never caused a blush on the cheek of man, woman,
child, or even angel, to rise for that. We will confess.
Let’s see, we are sixty now (we don’t look so much, but
we are sixty). Well, be it so. We were handsome once—is this
vanity at sixty? if so, our grey hairs are a hatchment for the
past. We were “swells once!—hurrah!—we
were!” Stop, this is indecent—let us be calm—our
action was like the proceeding of the denuder of well-sustained and
thriving pigs, he who deprives them of their extreme obesive
selvage—vulgo, “we cut it fat.”
Bond-street was cherished by our smile, and Ranelagh was rendered
happy by the exhibition of our symmetry. Behold us hessianed in our
haunts, touching the tips of well-gloved fingers to our passing
friends; then fancy the opening and shutting of our back, just as
Lord Adolphus Nutmeg claimed the affinity of “kid to
kid,” to find our other hand close prisoner made by our uncle
Bucket.

“How are you, old cock?”

“Who’s that, eh?”

“A lunatic, my lord (what lies men tell!), and
dangerous!”

“Good day! [Exit my lord]. This way.” We
followed our uncle—the end of a blind alley gave us a
resting-place.

“Bravo!” exclaimed our uncle Bucket, “this is
rare! I live here—dine with me!”

A mob surrounded us—we acquiesced, in hopes to reach a
place of shelter.

“All right!” exclaimed he of the maternal side,
“stand three-halfpence for your feed.”

We shelled the necessary out—he dived into a baker’s
shop—the mob increased—he hailed us from the door.

“Thank God, this is your house, then.”

“Only my kitchen. Lend a hand!”

A dish of steaming baked potatoes, surmounted by a fractional
rib of consumptive beef, was deposited between the lemon-coloured
receptacles of our thumbs and fingers—an outcry was raised at
the court’s end—we were almost mad.

“Turn to the right—three-pair back—cut away
while it’s warm, and make yourself at home! I’ll come
with the beer!”

We wished our I had been in that bier! We rushed
out—the gravy basted our pants, and greased our
hessians! Lord Adolphus Nutmeg appeared at the entrance of the
court. As we proceeded to our announced
destination,—“Great God!” exclaimed his lordship,
“the Bedlamite has bitten him!” A peal of laughter rang
in our ears—we rushed into the wrong room, and our uncle Job
Bucket picked us, the shattered dish, the reeking potatoes, and
dislodged beef, from the inmost recesses of a wicker-cradle, where,
spite the thumps and entreaties of a distracted parent, we were all
engaged in overlaying a couple of remarkably promising twins! We
can say no more on this frightful subject. But—

“Once again we met!”

Our pride wanted cutting, and fate appeared determined to
perform the operation with a jagged saw!

Tom Racket died! His disease was infectious, and we had been the
last person to call upon him, consequently we were mournful.
Thick-coming fancies brooded in our brain—all things
conspired against us; the day was damp and wretched—the
church-bells emulated each other in announcing the mortalities of
earth’s bipeds—each toll’d its tale of
death. We thought upon our “absent friend.” A funeral
approached. We were still more gloomy. Could it be his? if so, what
were his thoughts? Could ghosts but speak, what would he say? The
coffin was coeval with us—sheets were rubicund compared to
our cheeks. A low deep voice sounded from its very bowels—the
words were addressed to us—they were, “Take no notice;
it’s the first time; it will soon be over!”

“Will it?” we groaned.

“Yes. I’m glad you know me. I’ll tell you more
when I come back.”

“Gracious powers! do you expect to return?”

“Certainly! We’ll have a screw together yet!
There’s room for us both in my place. I’ll make you
comfortable.”

The cold perspiration streamed from us. Was there ever anything
so awful! Here was an unhappy subject threatening to call and see
us at night, and then screw us down and make us comfortable.

“Will you come?” exclaimed the dead again.

“Never!” we vociferated with fearful energy.

“Then let it alone; I didn’t think you’d have
cut me now; but wait till I show you my face.”

Horror of horrors!—the pall moved—a long white face
peered from it. We gasped for breath, and only felt new life when
we recognised our uncle Job Bucket, as the author of the
conversation, and one of the bearers of the coffin! He had turned
mute!—but that was a failure—no one ever died in his
parish after his adopting that profession!

He has been seen once since in the backwoods of America. His
fate seemed still to follow him, and his good temper appeared
immortal—his situation was more peculiar than pleasant. He
was seated on a log, three hundred miles from any civilised
habitation, smiling blandly at a broken axe (his only one), the
half of which was tightly grasped in his right hand, pointing to
the truant iron in the trunk of a huge tree, the first of a
thriving forest of fifty acres he purposed felling; and, thus
occupied, a solitary traveller passed our uncle Job Bucket, serene
as the melting sunshine, and thoughtless as the wild insect that
sported round the owner “of the lightest of light
hearts.”—PEACE BE WITH HIM.

FUSBOS.

IMPORTANT DISCOVERY.

A gentleman of the name of Stuckey has discovered a new
filtering process, by which “a stream from a most impure
source may be rendered perfectly translucent and fit for all
purposes.” In the name of our rights and liberties! in the
name of Judy and our country! we call upon the proper authorities
to have this invaluable apparatus erected in the lobby of the House
of Commons, and so, by compelling every member to submit to the
operation of filtration, cleanse the house from its present
accumulation of corruption, though we defy Stuckey himself to give
it brightness.

A THING UNFIT TO A(P)PEAR.

FINE ARTS.

EXTERNAL EXHIBITIONS.

Under this head it is our intention, from time to time, to
revert to numberless free exhibitions, which, in this
advancement-of-education age, have been magnanimously founded with
a desire to inculcate a knowledge of, and disseminate, by these
liberal means, an increased taste for the arts in this vast
metropolis. We commence not with any feelings of favouritism, nor
in any order of ability, our pleasures being too numerously divided
to be able to settle as to which ought to be No. 1, but because it
is necessary to commence—consequently we would wish to settle
down in company with the amiable reader in front of a
tobacconist’s shop in the Regent Circus, Piccadilly; and as
the principal attractions glare upon the astonishment of the
spectators from the south window, it is there in imagination that
we are irresistibly fixed. Before we dilate upon the delicious
peculiarities of the exhibition, we deem it absolutely a matter of
justice to the noble-hearted patriot who, imitative of the Greeks
and Athenians of old, who gave the porticoes of their public
buildings, and other convenient spots, for the display of their
artists’ productions, has most generously appropriated the
chief space of his shop front to the use and advantage of the
painter, and has thus set a bright example to the high-minded
havannah merchants and contractors for cubas and c’naster,
which we trust will not be suffered to pass unobserved by them.

The principal feature, or, rather mass of features, which
enchain the beholder, is a whole-length portrait of a gentleman
(par excellence) seated in a luxuriating, Whitechapel
style of ease, the envy, we venture to affirm, of every omnibus cad
and coachman, whose loiterings near this spot afford them
occasional peeps at him. He is most decidedly the greatest cigar in
the shop—not only the mildest, if his countenance deceive us
not, but evidently the most full-flavoured. The artist has,
moreover, by some extraordinary adaptation or strange coincidence,
made him typical of the locality—we allude to the
Bull-and-Mouth—seated at a table evidently made and garnished
for the article. The said gentleman herein depicted is in the act
of drinking his own health, or that of “all absent
friends,” probably coupling with it some little compliment to
a favourite dog, one of the true Regent-street-and-pink-ribbon
breed, who appears to be paying suitable attention. A huge
pine-apple on the table, and a champagne cork or two upon the
ground, contribute a gallant air of reckless expenditure to this
spirited work. In reference to the artistic qualities, it gives us
immoderate satisfaction to state that the whole is conceived and
executed with that characteristic attention so observable in the
works of this master³33. We have forgotten the
artist’s name—perhaps never knew it; but we believe it
is the same gentleman who painted the great author of “Jack
Sheppard.”, and that the fruit-knife, fork,
cork-screw, decanter, and chiaro-scuro (as the critic of the
Art Union would have it), are truly excellent. The only
drawback upon the originality of the subject is the handkerchief on
the knee, which (although painted as vigorously as any other
portion of the picture) we do not strictly approve of, inasmuch as
it may, with the utmost impartiality, be assumed as an imitation of
Sir Thomas Lawrence’s portrait of George the Fourth;
nevertheless, we in part excuse this, from the known difficulty
attendant upon the representation of a gentleman seated in
enjoyment, and parading his bandana, without associating it with a
veritable footman, who, upon the occasion of his “Sunday
out,” may, perchance, be seen in one of the front lower
tenements in Belgrave-square, or some such locale, paying
violent attentions to the housemaid, and the hot toast, decorated
with the order of the handkerchief, to preserve his crimson plush
in all its glowing purity. We cannot take leave of this interesting
work without declaring our opinion that the composition (of the
frame) is highly creditable.

Placed on the right of the last-mentioned work of art, is a
representation of a young lady, as seen when presenting a
full-blown flower to a favourite parrot. There is a delicate
simplicity in the attitude and expression of the damsel, which,
though you fail to discover the like in the tortuous figures of
Taglioni or Cerito, we have often observed in the conduct of ladies
many years in the seniority of the one under notice, who, ever
mindful of the idol of their thoughts and affections—a feline
companion—may be seen carrying a precious morsel, safely
skewered, in advance of them; this gentleness the artist has been
careful to retain to eminent success. We are, nevertheless,
woefully at a loss to divine what the allegory can possibly be (for
as such we view it), what the analogy between a pretty poll and a
pol-yanthus. We are unlearned in the language of flowers, or,
perhaps, might probe the mystery by a little floral discussion. We
are, however, compelled to leave it to the noble order of
freemasons, and shall therefore wait patiently an opportunity of
communicating with his Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex. In the
meantime we shall not he silent upon the remaining qualities of the
work as a general whole—the young lady—the
parrot—the polyanthus, and the chiaro-scuro, are as excellent
as usual in this our most amusing painter’s productions.

As a pendant to this, we are favoured with the portrait of a
young gentleman upon a half-holiday—and, equipped with
cricket means, his dexter-hand grasps his favourite bat, whilst the
left arm gracefully encircles a hat, in which is seductively shown
a genuine “Duke.” The sentiment of this picture is
unparalleled, and to the young hero of any parish eleven is given a
stern expression of Lord’s Marylebone ground. We can already
(aided by perspective and imagination) see him before a future
generation of cricketers, “shoulder his bat, and show how
games were won.” The bat is well drawn and coloured with much
truth, and with that strict observance of harmony which is so
characteristic of the excellences of art. The artist has
felicitously blended the tone and character of the bat with that of
the young gentleman’s head. As to the ball, we do not
recollect ever to have seen one in the works of any of the old
masters so true to nature. In conclusion, the buttons on the
jacket, and the button-holes, companions thereto, would baffle the
criticism of the most hyper-fastidious stab-rag; and the shirt
collar, with every other detail—never forgetting the
chiaro-scuro—are equal to any of the preceding.

CURIOUS COINCIDENCE.

We had prepared an announcement of certain theatricals
extraordinary, with which we had intended to favour the public,
when the following bill reached us. We feel that its contents
partake so strongly of what we had heretofore conceived the
exclusive character of PUNCH, that to avoid the charge of
plagiarism, as well as to prevent any confusion of interests, we
have resolved to give insertion to both.

As PUNCH is above all petty rivalry, we accord our
collaborateurs the preference.

ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC.

The generous National feelings of the British Public are
proverbially interested in every endeavour to obtain “a Free
Stage and Fair Play.” The Council of the Dramatic
Authors’ Theatre seek to achieve both, for every English
Living Dramatist. Compelled, by the state of the Law, to
present on the Stage a high Tragic Composition IN AN IRREGULAR FORM
(in effecting which, nevertheless, regard has been had to those
elements of human nature, which must constitute the essential
principles of every genuine Dramatic Production), they hope for
such kind consideration as may be due to a work brought forward in
obedient accordance with the regulations of Acts of
Parliament, though labouring thereby under some consequent
difficulties; the Law for the Small Theatres Royal, and
the Law for the Large Theatres Royal, not being
one and the same Law. If, by these efforts, a beneficial
alteration in such Law, which presses so fatally on Dramatic
Genius, and which militates against the revival of the highest
class of Drama, should be effected, they feel assured that the
Public will Participate in their Triumph.

On THURSDAY, the 26th of AUGUST, will be presented, for the
First Time,

(Interspersed with Songs and Music).

MARTINUZZI.

BY GEORGE STEPHENS, ESQ.

Taken by him from his “magnificent”
Dramatic Poem, entitled, The Hungarian Daughter.

The Solos, Duets, Chorusses, and every other Musical
arrangement the Law may require, by Mr. DAVID LEE.

The following Opinions of the Press on the Actable
qualities of the Dramatic Poem, are selected from a vast mass of
similar notices.

“Worthy of the Stage in its best
days.”—The Courier.

“Effective situations; if well acted, it could not
fail of success.”—New Bell’s
Messenger.

“The mantle of the Elizabethan Poets seems to have fallen
on Mr. Stephens, for we have scarcely ever met with, in the works
of modern dramatists, the truthful delineations of human passion,
the chaste and splendid imagery, and continuous strain of fine
poetry to be found in The Hungarian
Daughter.”—Cambridge Journal.

“Equal to Goethe. All is impassioned and effective. The
Poet has availed himself of every tragic point, and brought
together every element; nor, with the exception, of Mr.
Knowles’s Love, has there been a single Drama,
within the last four years, presented on the Stage at all
comparable.—Monthly Magazine.

After which will be performed, also for the First
Time, An Original Entertainment in One Act, Entitled

THE CLOAK AND THE BONNET!

By the Author of Jacob Faithful, Peter
Simple, &c. &c.

No Orders admitted.—No Free List, the Public
Press excepted.

Now for our penny trumpet.

THEATRICALS EXTRAORDINARY.

ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC;

OR, PUNCH BLOWING HIS OWN TRUMPET,

The general National feelings of the British Public are
proverbially interested in every endeavour to obtain “a blind
alley, and no Fantoccini.” Compelled by the New Police Act to
move on, and so present our high tragic composition by small
instalments (in effecting which, nevertheless, regard has been
had—This parenthesis to be continued in our next),
we hope for such kind consideration as may be due, when it is
remembered that the law for the out-door PUNCH
and the law for the in-door PUNCH is not one and
the same law. Oh, law!

On SATURDAY, the 28th of AUGUST, will be
presented,

(Interspersed with Drum and Mouth
Organ),

PUNCHINUZZI,

BY EGO SCRIBLERUS, ESQ.

Taken from his “magnificent” Dramatic
Poem, entitled, “PUNCH NUTS UPON HIMSELF.”

The following Opinions on the Actable qualities of
Punchinuzzi, are selected from a vast mass of similar
notices.

“This ere play ‘ud draw at ony
fare.”—The late Mr. Richardson.

“This happy poetic drama would be certain to command
crowded and elegant courts.”—La Belle
Assemblée.

“We have read Punchinuzzi, and we fearlessly
declare that the mantle of that metropolitan bard, the late Mr.
William Waters, has descended upon the gifted
author.”—Observer.

“Worthy of the streets in their best
days.”—Fudge.

No Orders! No Free List! No Money!!.

THE WHIGS’ LAST DYING SPEECH, AS DELIVERED BY THE
QUEEN

It is with no common pride that PUNCH avails himself of the
opportunity presented to him, from sources exclusively his own, of
laying before his readers a copy of the original draft of the
Speech decided upon at a late Cabinet Council. There is a novelty
about it which pre-eminently distinguishes it from all preceding
orations from the throne or the woolsack, for it has a purpose, and
evinces much kind consideration on the part of the Sovereign, in
rendering this monody on departed Whiggism as grateful as possible
to its surviving friends and admirers.

There is much of the eulogistic fervour of George Robins,
combined with the rich poetic feeling of Mechi, running throughout
the oration. Indeed, it remained for the Whigs to add this crowning
triumph to their policy; for who but Melbourne and Co. would have
conceived the happy idea of converting the mouth of the monarch
into an organ for puffing, and transforming Majesty itself into a
National Advertiser?

THE QUEEN’S SPEECH.

MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN,

I have the satisfaction to inform you, that, through the
invaluable policy of my present talented and highly disinterested
advisers, I continue to receive from foreign powers assurances of
their amicable disposition towards, and unbounded respect for, my
elegant and enlightened Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and
of their earnest desire to remain on terms of friendship with the
rest of my gifted, liberal, and amiable Cabinet.

The posture of affairs in China is certainly not of the most
pacific character, but I have the assurance of my infallible Privy
Council, and of that profound statesman my Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs, in particular, that the present disagreement
arises entirely from the barbarous character of the Chinese, and
their determined opposition to the progress of temperance in this
happy country.

I have also the satisfaction to inform you, that, by the acute
diplomatic skill of my never-to-be-sufficiently-eulogised Secretary
of State for Foreign Affairs, that, after innumerable and
complicated negotiations, he has at length succeeded in seducing
his Majesty the King of the French to render to England the tardy
justice of commemorating, by a fête and inauguration
at Boulogne, the disinclination of the French, at a former period,
to invade the British dominions.

GENTLEMEN OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS,

I have directed the estimates for the next fortnight to
be laid before you, which, I am happy to inform you, will be amply
sufficient for the exigencies of my present disinterested
advisers.

The unequalled fiscal and arithmetical talents of my Chancellor
of the Exchequer have, by the most rigid economy, succeeded in
reducing the revenue very considerably below the actual expenditure
of the state.

MY LORDS AND GENTLEMEN,

Measures will be speedily submitted to you for carrying out the
admirable plans of my Secretary of State for the Colonial
Department, and the brilliant author of “Don Carlos,”
for the prevention of apoplexy among paupers, and the reduction of
the present extravagant dietary of the Unions.

I have the gratification to announce that a commission is in
progress, by which it is proposed by my non-patronage
Ministers to call into requisition the talents of several literary
gentlemen—all intimate friends or relations of my deeply
erudite and profoundly philosophic Secretary of State for the Home
Department, and author of “Yes and No,” (three vols.
Colburn) for the purpose of extending the knowledge of reading and
writing, and the encouragement of circulating libraries all over
the kingdom.

My consistent and uncompromising Secretary of State for the
Colonies, having, since the publication of his spirited
“Essays by a gentleman who has lately left his
lodgings,” totally changed his opinions on the subject of the
Corn Laws, a measure is in the course of preparation with a view to
the repeal of those laws, and the continuance in office of my
invaluable, tenacious, and incomparable ministry.

CAUTION.—We have just heard from a friend in Somerset
House, that it is the intention of the Commissioners of Stamps,
from the glaring puffs embodied in the above speech, to proceed for
the advertisement duty against all newspapers in which it is
inserted. For ourselves, we will cheerfully pay.

A German, resident in New York, has such a remarkably hard name,
that he spoils a gross of steel pens indorsing a bill.

A NEW VERSION OF BELSHAZZAR’S FEAST.

OLD GLORY’S WHIG TOP-BOOTS REFUSING TO CARRY HIM TO THE
DINNER TO CAPTAIN ROUS.

Such, we are credibly assured, was the determination of these
liberal and enlightened leathers. They had heard frequent whispers
of a general indisposition on the part of all lovers of consistency
to stand in their master’s shoes, and taking the insult to
themselves, they lately came to the resolution of cutting the
connexion. They felt that his liberality and his boots were all
that constituted the idea of Burdett; and now that he had forsaken
his old party and joined Peel’s, the “tops”
magnanimously decided to forsake him, and force him to take
to—Wellingtons. We have been favoured with a report of the
conversation that took place upon the occasion, and may perhaps
indulge our readers with a copy of it next week.

In the mean time, we beg to subjoin a few lines, suggested by
the circumstance of Burdett taking the chair at Rous’s feast,
which strongly remind us of Byron’s Vision of Belshazzar.

PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.—No. VI.

ANIMAL MAGNETISM:
SIR RHUBARB PILL MESMERISING THE BRITISH LION.

SUPREME COURT OF THE LORD HIGH INQUISITOR PUNCH.

PAT V. THE WHIG JUSTICE COMPANY.

This is a cause of thorough orthodox equity standing, having
commenced before the time of legal memory, with every prospect of
obtaining a final decree on its merits somewhere about the next
Greek Kalends. In the present term,

COUNSELLOR BAYWIG moved, on the part of the plaintiff, who sues
in formâ pauperis, for an injunction to restrain the
Whig Justice Company from setting a hungry Scotchman—one of
their own creatures, without local or professional
knowledge—over the lands of which the plaintiff is the legal,
though unfortunately not the beneficial owner, as keeper and head
manager thereof, to the gross wrong of the tenants, the
depreciation of the lands themselves, the further reduction of the
funds standing in the name of the cause, the insult to the feelings
and the disregard of the rights of gentlemen living on the estate,
and perfectly acquainted with its management; and finally, to an
unblushing and barefaced denial of justice to all parties. The
learned counsel proceeded to state, that the company, in order to
make an excuse for thus saddling the impoverished estates with an
additional incubus, had committed a double wrong, by forcing from
the office a man eminently qualified to discharge its
functions—who had lived and grown white with honourable years
in the actual discharge of these functions—and by thrusting
into his place their own needy retainer, who, instead of being the
propounder of the laws which govern the estates, would be merely
the apprentice to learn them; and this too at a time when the
company was on the eve of bankruptcy, and when the possession which
they had usurped so long was about to pass into the hands of their
official assignees.

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—What authorities can you cite for
this application?

COUNSELLOR BAYWIG.—My lord, I fear the cases are, on the
whole, rather adverse to us. Men have, undoubtedly, been chosen to
administer the laws of this fine estate, and to guard it from
waste, who have studied its customs, been thoroughly learned in its
statistics, and interested, by blood and connexion, in its
prosperity; but this number is very small. However, when injustice
of the most grievous kind is manifest, it should not be continued
merely because it is the custom, or because it is an “old
institution of the country.”

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—I am quite astonished at your
broaching such abominable doctrines here, sir. You a lawyer, and
yet talk of justice in a Court of Equity! By Bacon, Blackstone, and
Eldon, ‘tis marvellous! Mr. Baywig, if you proceed, I shall
feel it my duty to commit you for a contempt of court.

COUNSELLOR BAYWIG.—My lord, in that case I decline the
honour of addressing your lordship further; but certainly my poor
client is wronged in his land, in himself, and in his kindred. It
is shocking personal insult added to terrible pecuniary
punishment.

LORD HIGH INQUISITOR.—Serve him right! We dismiss
the application with costs.

THE ADVANTAGES OF STYLE.

Some of the uninitiated in the art and mystery of book-making
conceive the chief tax must be upon the compiler’s brain. We
give the following as a direct proof to the contrary—one that
has the authority of Lord Hamlet, who summed the matter up in
three

In one column we give a common-place household and familiar
term—in the other we render it into the true Bulwerian
phraseology:

From the nobleman who is selected to move the address in the
House of Lords, it would seem that the Whigs, tired of any further
experiments in turning their coats, are about to try what effect
they can produce with an old Spencer.

As the weather is to decide the question of the corn-laws, the
rains that have lately fallen may be called, with truth, the
reins of government.

SPORTING IN DOWNING STREET.

“COME OUT—WILL YOU!”

The extraordinary attachment which the Whigs have displayed for
office has been almost without parallel in the history of
ministerial fidelity. Zoologists talk of the local affection of
cats, but in what animal shall we discover such a strong love of
place as in the present government? Lord John is a very badger in
the courageous manner in which he has resisted the repeated attacks
of the Tory terriers. The odds, however, are too great for even
his powers of defence; he has given some of the most
forward of the curs who have tried to drag him from his burrow some
shrewd bites and scratches that they will not forget in a hurry;
but, overpowered by numbers, he must “come out” at
last, and yield the victory to his numerous persecutors, who will,
no doubt, plume themselves upon their dexterity at drawing a
badger.

PUNCH’S EXTRA DRAMATIC INTELLIGENCE

(BY THE CORRESPONDENT OF THE OBSERVER.)

The dramatic world has been in a state of bustle all the week,
and parties are going about declaring—not that we put any
faith in what they say—that Macready has already given a
large sum for a manuscript. If he has done this, we think he is
much to blame, unless he has very good reasons, as he most likely
has, for doing so; and if such is the case, though we doubt the
policy of the step, there can be no question of his having acted
very properly in taking it. His lease begins in October, when, it
is said, he will certainly open, if he can; but, as he positively
cannot, the reports of his opening are rather premature, to say the
least of them. For our parts, we never think of putting any credit
in what we hear, but we give everything just as it reaches us.

THE MONEY MARKET

Tin is twopence a hundredweight dearer at Hamburgh than at
Paris, which gives an exchange of 247 mille in favour of the latter
capital.

A good deal of conversation has been excited by a report of its
being intended by some parties in the City to establish a Bank of
Issue upon equitable principles. The plan is a novel one, for there
is to be no capital actually subscribed, it being expected that
sufficient assets will be derived from the depositors. Shares are
to be issued, to which a nominal price will be attached, and a
dividend is to be declared immediately.

The association for supplying London with periwinkles does not
progress very rapidly. A wharf has been taken; but nothing more has
been done, which is, we believe, caused by the difficulty found in
dealing with existing interests.

SIGNS OF THE TIMES.

The Tories are coming into office, and the Parliament House is
surrounded with scaffolds!

TO BAKERS AND FISHMONGERS.

Want places, in either of the above lines, three highly
practical and experienced hands, fully capable and highly
accomplished in the arduous duties of “looking after any
quantity of loaves and fishes.” A ten years’ character
can be produced from their last places, which they leave because
the concern is for the present disposed of to persons equally
capable. No objection to look after the till. Wages not so much an
object as an extensive trade, the applicants being desirous of
keeping their hands in. Apply to Messrs. Russell, Melbourne, and
Palmerston, Downing-street Without.

“It is very odd,” said Sergeant Channell to
Thessiger, “that Tindal should have decided against me on
that point of law which, to me, seemed as plain as A B C.”
“Yes,” replied Thessiger, “but of what use is it
that it should have been A B C to you, if the judge was determined
to be D E F to it?”

CLEVER ROGUES.

The Belfast Vindicator has a story of a sailor who
pledged a sixpence for threepence, having it described on the
duplicate ticket as “a piece of silver plate of beautiful
workmanship,” by which means he disposed of the ticket for
two-and-sixpence. The Tories are so struck with this display of
congenial roguery, that they intend pawning their
“BOB,” and having him described as “a rare piece
of vertu(e) première qualité” in the
expectation of securing a crown by it.

MUNTZ ON THE STATE OF THE CROPS.

Mr. Muntz requests us to state, in answer to numerous inquiries
as to the motives which induce him to cultivate his beard, that he
is actuated purely by a spirit of economy, having, for the last few
years, grown his own mattresses, a practice which he
earnestly recommends to the attention of all prudent and hirsute
individuals. He finds, by experience, that nine square inches of
chin will produce, on an average, about a sofa per annum. The
whiskers, if properly attended to, may be made to yield about an
easy chair in the same space of time; whilst luxuriant moustachios
will give a pair of anti-rheumatic attrition gloves every six
months. Mr. M. recommends, as the best mode of cultivation for
barren soils, to plough with a cat’s-paw, and manure with
Macassar.

The Earl of Stair has been created Lord Oxenford. Theodore Hook
thinks that the more appropriate title for a Stair, in
raising him a step higher, would have been Lord
Landing-place, or Viscount Bannister.

LORD MELBOURNE’S LETTER-BAG.

The Augean task of cleansing the Treasury has commenced, and
brooms and scrubbing-brushes are at a premium—a little
anticipative, it is true, of the approaching turn-out; but the
dilatory idleness and muddle-headed confusion of those who will
soon be termed its late occupiers, rendered this a work of absolute
time and labour. That the change in office had long been expected,
is evident from the number of hoards discovered, which the
unfortunate employés had saved up against the rainy
day arrived. The routing-out of this conglomeration was only
equalled in trouble by the removal of the birdlime with which the
various benches were covered, and which adhered with most
pertinacious obstinacy, in spite of every effort to get rid of it.
From one of the wicker baskets used for the purpose of receiving
the torn-up letters and documents, the following papers were
extracted. We contrived to match the pieces together, and have
succeeded tolerably well in forming some connected epistles from
the disjointed fragments. We offer no comment, but allow them to
speak for themselves. They are selected at random from dozens of
others, with which the poor man must have been overwhelmed during
the past two months:—

1.

MY LORD,—In the present critical state of your
lordship’s situation, it behoves every lover of his country
and her friends, to endeavour to assuage, as much as possible, the
awkward predicament in which your lordship and colleagues will soon
be thrown. My dining-rooms in Broad-street, St. Giles’s, have
long been held in high estimation by my customers, for

BEEF A-LA-MODE;

and I can offer you an excellent basin of leg-of-beef soup, with
bread and potatoes, for threepence. Imitated by all, equalled by
none.

N.B. Please observe the address—Broad-street,
St. Giles’s.

2.

A widow lady, superintendent of a boarding-house, in an airy and
cheerful part of Kentish Town, will be happy to receive Lord
Melbourne as an inmate, when an ungrateful nation shall have
induced his retirement from office. Her establishment is chiefly
composed of single ladies, addicted to backgammon, birds, and bible
meetings, who would, nevertheless, feel delighted in the society of
a man of Lord Melbourne’s acknowledged gallantry. The
dinner-table is particularly well furnished, and a rubber is
generally got up every evening, at which Lord M. could play long
penny points if he wished it.

Address S.M., Post-office, Kentish Town.

3.

Grosjean, Restaurateur, Castle-street,
Leicester-square, a l’honneur de prévenir Milord
Melbourne qu’il se trouvera bien servi à son
établissement. Il peut commander un bon potage an choux,
trois plats, avec pain à discretion, et une pinte de
demi-et-demi; enfin, il pourra parfaitement avoir ses sacs
soufflés⁴4. French
idiom—“He will be well able to blow his bags
out!”—PUNCH, with the assistance of his friend in the
show—the foreign gentleman. pour un schilling. La
société est très comme-il-faut, et on ne donne
rien au garçon.

4.

(Rose-coloured paper, scented. At first supposed to be from a
lady of the bedchamber, but contradicted by the sequel.)

Flattering deceiver, and man of many loves,

My fond heart still clings to your cherished memory. Why have I
listened to the honied silver of your seducing accents? Your adored
image haunts me night and day. How is the treasury?—can you
still spare me ten shillings?

YOURS,
AMANDA.

5.

JOHN MARVAT respectfully begs to offer to the notice of Lord
Melbourne his Bachelor’s Dispatch, or portable kitchen. It
will roast, bake, boil, stew, steam, melt butter, toast bread, and
diffuse a genial warmth at one and the same time, for the outlay of
one halfpenny. It is peculiarly suited for lamb, in any
form, which requires delicate dressing, and is admirably adapted
for concocting mint-sauce, which delightful adjunct Lord Melbourne
may, ere long, find some little difficulty in procuring.

High Holborn.

6.

May it plese my Lord,—i have gest time to Rite and let you
kno’ wot a sad plite we are inn, On account off your
lordship’s inwitayshun to queen Wictory and Prince Allbut to
come and Pick a bit with you, becos There is nothink for them wen
they comes, and the Kitchin-range is chok’d up with the sut
as has falln down the last fore yeers, and no poletry but too old
cox, which is two tuff to be agreerble; But, praps, we Can git sum
cold meet from the in, wot as bin left at the farmers’
markut-dinner; and may I ask you my lord without fear of your

TAKING A FENCE

on the reseat of this To send down sum ham and beef to
me—two pound will be Enuff—or a quarter kitt off
pickuld sammun, if you can git it, and I wish you may; and sum
german silver spoons, to complement prince Allbut with; and, praps,
as he and his missus knos they’ve come to Take pot-luck like,
they won’t be patickler, and I think we had better order the
beer from the Jerry-shop, for owr own Is rayther hard, and the
brooer says, that a fore and a harf gallon, at sixpence A gallon,
won’t keep no Time, unless it’s drunk; and so we guv
some to the man as brort the bushel of coles, and he sed It only
wanted another Hop, and then it woud have hopped into water; and
John is a-going to set some trimmers in The ditches to kitch some
fish; and, praps, if yure lordship comes, you may kitch sum too,
from

Yure obedient Humbl servent and housekeeper,

MISSES RUMMIN.

7.

MY LORD,—Probably your cellars will be full of choke-damp
when the door is opened, from long disuse and confined air. I have
men, accustomed to descend dangerous wells and shafts, who will
undertake the job at a moderate price. Should you labour under any
temporary pecuniary embarrassment in paying me, I shall be happy to
take it out in your wine, which I should think had been some years
in bottle. Your Lordship’s most humble servant,

RICHARD ROSE,
Dealer in Marine Stores.
Gray’s-inn-lane.

LAYS OF THE LAZY.

MATERNAL SOLICITUDE.

The business habits of her gracious Majesty have long been the
theme of admiration with her loving subjects. A further proof of
her attention to general affairs, and consideration for the
accidents of the future, has occurred lately. The lodge at
Frogmore, which was, during the lifetime of Queen Charlotte, an
out-of-town nursery for little highnesses, has been constructed (by
command of the Queen) into a Royal Eccalleobion for a similar
purpose.

FAMILIES SUPPLIED.

WIT WITHOUT MONEY:

OR, HOW TO LIVE UPON NOTHING.

BY VAMPYRE HORSELEECH, ESQ

CHAPTER II.

“A clever fellow, that Horseleech!” “When
Vampyre is once drawn out, what a great creature it is!”
These, and similar ecstatic eulogiums, have I frequently heard
murmured forth from muzzy mouths into tinged and tingling ears, as
I have been leaving a company of choice spirits. There never was a
greater mistake. Horseleech, to be candid, far from being a clever
fellow, is one of the most barren rascals on record. Vampyre,
whether drawn out or held in, is a poor creature, not a great
creature—opaque, not luminous—in a word, by nature, a
very dull dog indeed.

But you see the necessity of appearing otherwise.—Hunger
may be said to be a moral Mechi, which invents a strop upon which
the bluntest wits are sharpened to admiration. Believe me, by
industry and perseverance—which necessity will inevitably
superinduce—the most dreary dullard that ever carried timber
between his shoulders in the shape of a head, may speedily convert
himself into a seeming Sheridan—a substitutional Sydney
Smith—a second Sam Rogers, without the drawback of having
written Jacqueline.

Take it for granted that no professed diner-out ever possessed a
particle of native wit. His stock-in-trade, like that of Field-lane
chapmen, is all plunder. Not a joke issues from his mouth, but has
shaken sides long since quiescent. Whoso would be a diner-out must
do likewise.

The real diner-out is he whose card-rack or mantelpiece (I was
going to say groans, but) laughingly rejoices in respectful
well-worded invitations to luxuriously-appointed tables. I count
not him, hapless wretch! as one who, singling out “a
friend,” drops in just at pudding-time, and ravens horrible
remnants of last Tuesday’s joint, cognizant of curses in the
throat of his host, and of intensest sable on the brows of his
hostess. No struggle there, on the part of the children, “to
share the good man’s knee;” but protruded eyes, round
as spectacles, and almost as large, fixed alternately upon his
flushed face and that absorbing epigastrium which is making their
miserable flesh-pot to wane most wretchedly.

To be jocose is not the sole requisite of him who would fain be
a universal diner-out. Lively with the light—airy with the
sparkling—brilliant with the blithe, he must also be grave
with the serious—heavy with the profound—solemn with
the stupid. He must be able to snivel with the sentimental—to
condole with the afflicted—to prove with the
practical—to be a theorist with the speculative.

To be jocose is his most valuable acquisition. As there is a
tradition that birds may be caught by sprinkling salt upon their
tails, so the best and the most numerous dinners are secured by a
judicious management of Attic salt.

I fear me that the works of Josephus, and of his
imitators—of that Joseph and his brethren, I mean, whom a
friend of mine calls “The Miller and his
men”—I fear me, I say, that these are well-nigh
exhausted. Yet I have known very ancient jokes turned with
advantage, so as to look almost equal to new. But this requires
long practice, ere the final skill be attained.

Etherege, Sedley, Wycherley, and Vanbrugh are very little read,
and were pretty fellows in their day; I think they may be safely
consulted, and rendered available. But, have a care. Be sure you
mingle some of your own dulness with their brighter matter, or you
will overshoot the mark. You will be too witty—a fatal error.
True wits eat no dinners, save of their own providing; and, depend
upon it, it is not their wit that will now-a-days get them their
dinner. True wits are feared, not fed.

When you tell an anecdote, never ascribe it to a man well known.
The time is gone by for dwelling upon—“Dean Swift
said”—“Quin, the actor,
remarked”—“The facetious Foote was
once”—“That reminds me of what
Sheridan”—“Ha! ha! Sydney Smith was dining the
other day with”—and the like. Your ha!
ha!—especially should it precede the name of Sam
Rogers—would inevitably cost you a hecatomb of dinners. It
would be changed into oh! oh! too surely, and too soon. Verbum
sat.

I would have you be careful to sort your pleasantries.
Your soup jokes (never hazard that one about Marshal
Turenne, it is really too ancient,) your fish,
your flesh, your fowl jests—your side-shakers for the side
dishes—your puns for the pastry—your after-dinner
excruciators.

Sometimes, from negligence (but be not negligent) or ill-luck,
which is unavoidable, and attends the best directed efforts, you
sit down to table with your stock ill arranged or incomplete, or of
an inferior quality. Your object is to make men laugh. It must be
done. I have known a pathetic passage, quoted timely and with a
happy emphasis from a popular novel—say, “Alice, or the
Mysteries”—I have known it, I say, do more execution
upon the congregated amount of midriff, than the best joke of the
evening. (There is one passage in that “thrilling”
performance, where Alice, overjoyed that her lover is restored to
her, is represented as frisking about him like a dog around his
long-absent proprietor, which, whenever I have taken it in hand,
has been rewarded with the most vociferous and gleesome
laughter.)

And this reminds me that I should say a word about laughers. I
know not whether it be prudent to come to terms with any man,
however stentorian his lungs, or flexible his facial organs, with a
view to engage him as a cachinnatory machine. A confederate may
become a traitor—a rival he is pretty certain of becoming.
Besides, strive as you may, you can never secure an altogether
unexceptionable individual—one who will “go the whole
hyaena,” and be at the same time the entire jackal. If he
once start “lion” on his own account, furnished with
your original roar, with which you yourself have supplied him,
good-bye to your supremacy. “Farewell, my trim-built
wherry”—he is in the same boat only to capsise you.

“And the first lion thinks the last a bore,”

and rightly so thinks. No; the best and safest plan is to work
out your own ends, independent of aid which at best is foreign, and
is likely to be formidable.

I may perhaps resume this subject more at large at a future
time. My space at present is limited, but I feel I have hardly as
yet entered upon the subject.

LAM(B)ENTATIONS.

CHELSEA.

(From our own Correspondent.)

This delightful watering-place is filling rapidly. The
steam-boats bring down hundreds every day, and in the evening take
them all back again. Mr. Jones has engaged a lodging for the week,
and other families are spoken of. A ball is also talked about; but
it is not yet settled who is to give it, nor where it is to be
given. The promenading along the wooden pier is very general at the
leaving of the packets, and on their arrival a great number of
persons pass over it. There are whispers of a band being engaged
for the season; but, as there will not be room on the pier for more
than one musician, it has been suggested to negotiate with the
talented artist who plays the drum with his knee, the cymbals with
his elbow, the triangle with his shoulder, the bells with this
head, and the Pan’s pipes with his mouth—thus uniting
the powers of a full orchestra with the compactness of an
individual. An immense number of Margate slippers and donkeys have
been imported within the last few days, and there is every
probability of this pretty little peninsula becoming a formidable
rival to the old-established watering-places.

THE DRAMA.

FOREIGN AFFAIRS,

OR, THE COURT OF QUEEN ANNE.

Perhaps it was the fashion at the court of Queen Anne, for young
gentlemen who had attained the age of sixteen to marry and be given
in marriage. At all events, some conjecture of the sort is
necessary to make the plot of the piece we are noticing somewhat
probable—that being the precise circumstance upon which it
hinges. The Count St. Louis, a youthful
attaché of the French embassy, becomes attached, by
a marriage contract, to Lady Bell, a maid of honour to
Queen Anne. The husband at sixteen, of a wife quite nineteen,
would, according to the natural course of things, be very
considerably hen-pecked; and St. Louis, foreseeing this,
determines to begin. Well, he insists upon having “article
five” of the marriage contract cancelled; for, by this
stipulation, he is to be separated from his wife, on the evening of
the ceremony (which fast approaches), for five years. He storms,
swears, and is laughed at; somebody sends him a wedding present of
sugar-plums—everybody calls him a boy, and makes merry at his
expense—the wife treats him with contempt, and plays the
scornful. The hobble-de-hoy husband, fired with indignation,
determines to prove himself a man.

At the court of Queen Anne this seems to have been an easy
matter. St. Louis writes love-letters to several maids of
honour and to a citizen’s wife, finishing the first act by
invading the private apartments of the maiden ladies belonging to
the court of the chaste Queen Anne.

The second act discovers him confined to his apartments by order
of the Queen, having amused himself, while the intrigues begun by
the love-letters are hatching, by running into debt, and being
surrounded by duns. The intrigues are not long in coming to a head,
for two ladies visit him separately in secret, and allow themselves
to be hid in those never-failing adjuncts to a piece of dramatic
intrigue—a couple of closets, which are used exactly in the
same manner in “Foreign Affairs,” as in all the farces
within the memory of man—ex. gr.:—The hero is
alone; one lady enters cautiously. A tender interchange of
sentiment ensues—a noise is heard, and the lady screams.
“Ah! that closet!” Into which exit lady. Then enter
lady No. 2. A second interchange of tender things—another
noise behind. “No escape?” “None! and yet, happy
thought, that closet.” Exit lady No. 2, into closet No.
2.

This is exactly as it happens in “Foreign Affairs.”
The second noise is made by the husband of one of the concealed
ladies, and the lover of the other. Here, out of the old
“closet” materials, the dramatist has worked up one of
the best situations—to use an actor’s word—we
ever remember to have witnessed. It cannot be described; but it is
really worth all the money to go and see it. Let our readers do so.
The “Affairs” end by the boy fighting a couple of duels
with the injured men; and thus, crowning the proof of his manhood,
gets his wife to tolerate—to love him.

The piece was, as it deserved to be, highly successful; it was
admirably acted by Mr. Webster as one of the injured
lovers—Mr. Strickland and Mrs. Stirling, as a vulgar citizen
and citizeness—by Miss P. Horton as Lady
Bell—and even by a Mr. Clarke, who played a very small
part—that of a barber—with great skill. Lastly, Madlle.
Celeste, as the hero, acquitted herself to admiration. We suppose
the farce is called “Foreign Affairs” out of compliment
to this lady, who is the only “Foreign Affair” we could
discover in the whole piece, if we except that it is translated
from the French, which is, strictly, an affair of the
author’s.

MARY CLIFFORD.

If, dear readers, you have a taste for refined morality and
delicate sentiment, for chaste acting and spirited dialogue, for
scenery painted on the spot, but like nothing in nature except
canvas and colour—go to the Victoria and see “Mary
Clifford.” It may, perhaps, startle you to learn that the
incidents are faithfully copied from the “Newgate
Calendar,” and that the subject is Mother Brownrigg of
apprentice-killing notoriety; but be not alarmed, there is nothing
horrible or revolting in the drama—it is merely
laughable.

“Mary Clifford, or the foundling apprentice girl,”
is very appropriately introduced to the auditor, first outside the
gates of that “noble charity-school,” taking leave of
some of her accidental companions. Here sympathy is first awakened.
Mary is just going out to “place,” and instead of
saying “good bye,” which we have been led to believe is
the usual form of farewell amongst charity-girls, she sings a song
with such heart-rending expression, that everybody cries except the
musicians and the audience. To assist in this lachrymose operation,
the girls on the stage are supplied with clean white
aprons—time out mind a charity-girl’s
pocket-handkerchief. In the next scene we are introduced to Mr. and
Mrs. Brownrigg’s domestic arrangements, and are made
acquainted with their private characters—a fine stroke of
policy on the part of the author; for one naturally pities a poor
girl who can sing so nicely, and can get the corners of so many
white aprons wetted on leaving her last place, when one sees into
whose hands she is going to fall. The fact is, the whole family are
people of taste—peculiar, to be sure, and not refined. Mrs.
B. has a taste for starving apprentices—her son, Mr. Jolin
B., for seducing them—and Mr. B. longs only for a quiet life,
a pot of porter, and a pipe. Into the bosom of this amiable family
Mary Clifford enters; and we tremble for her virtue and her meals!
not, alas, in vain, for Mr. John is not slow in commencing his
gallantries, which are exceedingly offensive to Mary, seeing that
she has already formed a liaison with a school-fellow, one William
Clipson, who happily resides at the very next door with a baker.
During the struggles that ensue she calls upon her
“heart’s master,” the journeyman baker. But there
is another and more terrible invocation. In classic plays they
invoke “the gods”—in Catholic I ones, “the
saints”—the stage Arab appeals to
“Allah”—the light comedian swears “by the
lord Harry”—but Mary Clifford adds a new and
impressive invocative to the list. When young Brownrigg attempts to
kiss, or his mother to flog her, she casts her eyes upward, kneels,
and placing her hands together in an attitude of prayer, solemnly
calls upon—“the governors of the Foundling
Hospital!!” Nothing can exceed the terrific effect this seems
to produce upon her persecutors! They release her
instantly—they slink back abashed and trembling—they
hide their diminished heads, and leave their victim a clear stage
for a soliloquy or a song.

We really must stop here, to point out to dramatic
authors the importance of this novel form of conjuration. When the
history of Fauntleroy comes to be dramatised, the lover will, of
course, be a banker’s clerk: in the depths of distress and
despair into which he will have to be plunged, a prayer-like appeal
to “the Governor and Company of the Bank of England,”
will, most assuredly, draw tears from the most insensible audience.
The old exclamations of “Gracious
powers!”—“Great heavens!”—“By
heaven, I swear!” &c. &c., may now be abandoned; and,
after “Mary Clifford,” Bob Acres’ tasteful system
of swearing may not only be safely introduced into the tragic
drama, but considerably augmented.

But to return. Dreading lest Miss Mary should really “go
and tell” the illustrious governors, she is kept a close
prisoner, and finishes the first act by a conspiracy with a
fellow-apprentice, and an attempt to escape.

Mr. Brownrigg, we are informed, carried on business at No. 12,
Fetter-lane, in the oil, paint, pickles, vinegar, plumbing,
glazing, and pepper-line; and, in the next act, a correct view is
exhibited of the exterior of his shop, painted, we are told, from
the most indisputable authorities of the time. Here, in Fetter,
lane, the romance of the tale begins:—A lady enters, who,
being of a communicative disposition, begins, unasked,
unquestioned, to tell the audience a story—how that she
married in early life—that her husband was pressed to sea a
day or two after the wedding—that she in due time became a
mother, and (affectionate creature!) left the dear little pledge at
the door of the Foundling Hospital. That was sixteen years ago.
Since then fortune has smiled, and she wants her baby back again;
but on going to the hospital, says, that they informed her that her
daughter has been just “put apprentice” in the very
house before which she tells the story—part of it as great a
fib as ever was told; for children once inside the walls of that
“noble charity,” never know who left them there; and
any attempt to find each other out, by parent or child, is punished
with the instant withdrawal of the omnipotent protection of the
awful “governors.” This lady, who bears all the romance
of the piece upon her own shoulders, expects to meet her long-lost
husband at the Ship, in Wapping, and instead of seeking her
daughter, repairs thither, having done all the author required, by
emptying her budget of fibs.

The next scene is harrowing in the extreme. The bills describe
it as Mrs. Brownrigg’s “wash-house, kitchen,
and skylight”—the sky-light forming a most impressive
object. Poor Mary Clifford is chained to the floor, her
face begrimed, her dress in rags, and herself exceedingly hungry.
Here the heroine describes the weakness of her body with energy and
stentorian eloquence, but is interrupted by Mr. Clipson,
whose face appears framed and glazed in the broken sky-light. A
pathetic dialogue ensues, and the lover swears he will rescue his
mistress, or “perish in the attempt,” “calling
upon Mr. Owen, the parish overseer,” to make known her
sufferings. The Ship, in Wapping, is next shown; and Toby
Bensling, alias Richard Clifford, enters to inform
his hearers that he is the missing father of the injured foundling,
and has that moment stepped ashore, after a short voyage, lasting
sixteen years! He is on his way to the “Admiralty,” to
receive some pay—the more particularly, we imagine, as they
always pay sailors at Somerset House—and then to
look after his wife. But she saves him the trouble by entering with
Mr. William Clipson. The usual “Whom do I
see?”—“Can it be?”—“After so
long an absence!” &c. &c., having been duly uttered
and begged to, they all go to see after Mary, find her in
a cupboard in Mrs. B.’s back-parlour, and—the act-drop
falls.

We must confess we approach a description of the third act with
diffidence. Such intense pathos, we feel, demands words of more
sombre sound—ink of a darker hue, than we can command. The
third scene is, in particular, too extravagantly touching for
ordinary nerves to witness. Mary Clifford is in
bed—French bedstead (especially selected, perhaps, because
such things were not thought of in the days of Mother Brownrigg)
stands exactly in the middle of the stage—a chest of drawers
is placed behind, and a table on each side, to balance the picture.
The lover leans over the head, the mother sits at the foot, the
father stands at the side: Mary Clifford is insane, with
lucid intervals, and is, moreover, dying. The consequence is, she
has all the talk to herself, which consists of a discourse
concerning the great “governors,” her cruel mistress,
and her naughty young master, interlarded with insane ejaculations,
always considered stage property, such as, “Ah, she
comes!” “Nay, strike me not—I am
guiltless!” Again, “Villain! what do you take me
for?—unhand me!” and all that. Then the dying part
comes, and she sees an angel in the flies, and informs it that she
is coming soon (here it is usual for a lady to be removed from the
gallery in strong hysterics), and keeps her word by letting her arm
fall upon the bed-clothes and shutting her eyes, whereupon somebody
says that she is dead, and the prompter whistles for the scene to
be changed.

In the last scene, criminal justice takes its course. Mrs.
Brownrigg, having been sentenced to the gallows, is seen in
the condemned cell; her son by her side, and the fatal cart in the
back-ground. Having been brought up genteelly, she declines the
mode of conveyance provided for her journey to Tyburn with the
utmost volubility. Being about to be hanged merely does not seem to
affect her so poignantly as the disgraceful “drag” she
is doomed to take her last journey in. She swoons at the idea; and
the curtain falls to end her wicked career, and the sufferings of
an innocent audience.