PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.

JULY 24, 1841.

A MODEST METHOD OF FORMING A NEW BUDGET

SO AS TO PROVIDE FOR THE DEFICIENCY OF THE REVENUE.

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.

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.

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.

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 .

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

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 . She loved
Fitzorphandale +⁵ St. Tomkins, but the former
was ∪ of money; and Seraphina, though sensitive to an extreme,
was fully aware that a competency was a very comfortable
“appendix.”

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

Although Augustus St. Tomkins was a 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 ×⁹ his worst feelings, and he resolved
that no ℈℈¹⁰ of conscience
should stand between him and his desires.

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

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

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:—

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).

MONSIEUR JULLIEN.

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—

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

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

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.

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.

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!

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,
[pg
17]and holding in the noble brute he strides, as a
saftey-valve controls the foaming steam; only loosing him at his
very pleasure.

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

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.

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

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:—

To which his friend replied—

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

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.

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.

[pg 20]

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

“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:—

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:—

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:—

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:—

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:—

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.

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

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.

A NAUTICAL TALE.

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.

No. II.

“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.

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.

“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

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.

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 unfurnished lodger. A bachelor so
situated must be a happy fellow. Mr. Snoxall is happy—a smile
radiates his face—he takes wine with himself; but has
scarcely tapped the decanter for his first glass, before he hears a
tap at his door. The hospitable “Come in!” is answered
by the appearance of Mr. Dunne Brown, a captain by courtesy, and
Snoxall’s neighbour by misfortune. Here business begins.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.