PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.

JULY 31, 1841.

POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE.

Let me earnestly implore you, good Mr. PUNCH, to give publicity
to a new invention in the art of poetry, which I desire only to
claim the merit of having discovered. I am perfectly willing to
permit others to improve upon it, and to bring it to that
perfection of which I am delightedly aware, it is susceptible.

It is sometimes lamented that the taste for poetry is on the
decline—that it is no longer relished—that the public
will never again purchase it as a luxury. But it must be some
consolation to our modern poets to know (as no doubt they do, for
it is by this time notorious) that their productions really do a
vast deal of service—that they are of a value for which they
were never designed. They—I mean many of them—have
found their way into the pharmacopoeia, and are constantly
prescribed by physicians as soporifics of rare potency. For
instance—

to which a man shall be conducted by a few doses of Robert
Montgomery’s Devil’s Elixir, called
“Satan,” or by a portion, or rather a potion, of
“Oxford.” Apollo, we know, was the god of medicine as
well as of poetry. Behold, in this our bard, his two divine
functions equally mingled!

But waiving this, of which it was not my intention to speak, let
me remark, that the reason why poetry will no longer go down with
the public, as poetry, is, that the whole frame-work is
worn out. No new rhymes can be got at. When we come to a
“mountain,” we are tolerably sure that a
“fountain” is not very far off; when we see
“sadness,” it leads at once to
“madness”—to “borrow” is sure to be
followed by “sorrow;” and although it is said,
“when poverty comes in at the door, love flies out
of the window,”—a saying which seems to imply that
poverty may sometimes enter at the chimney or
elsewhere—yet I assure you, in poetry, “the poor”
always come in, and always go out at “the
door.”

My new invention has closed the “door,” for the
future, against the vulgar crew of versifiers. A man must
be original. He must write common-sense too—hard exactions I
know, but it cannot be helped.

I transmit you a specimen. Like all great discoveries, the chief
merit of my invention is its simplicity. Lest, however, “the
meanest capacity” (which cannot, by the way, be supposed to
be addicted to PUNCH) should boggle at it, it may be as well to
explain that every letter of the final word of each alternate line
must be pronounced as though Dilworth himself presided at the
perusal; and that the last letter (or letters) placed in
italics will be found to constitute the rhyme. Here, then,
we have

A RENCONTRE WITH A TEA-TOTALLER.

A man in New-York enjoys such very excellent spirits
that he has only to drink water to intoxicate himself.

TO JOBBING PATRIOTS.

MR. GEORGE ROBINS.

with unparalleled gratification, begs to state that
he has it in

Command

to announce, that in consequence of

LORD JOHN RUSSELL’S LETTER

to the citizens of London having satisfactorily convinced
her

MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY

that a change of ministry

CANNOT

be productive of a corresponding transformation of measures, and
that the late

POLITICO-GLADIATORIAL STRUGGLE

for the guerdon of office could only have emanated from a highly
commendatory desire on the part of the disinterested and patriotic
belligerents

TO SERVE THEMSELVES

or their country,

HIS ROYAL MISTRESS,

ever solicitous to enchain the hearts of her devoted subjects,
by an impartial exercise of her prerogative, has determined to
submit to the

ARBITRATION OF HIS HUMBLE HAMMER,

some of those desirable places, so long known as the
stimuli to the

LACTANT LYCURGI

of the nineteenth century.

LOT 1.

FIRST LORD OF THE TREASURY,

at present in possession of Lord Melbourne. This will be found a
most eligible investment, as it embraces a considerable extent of
female patronage, comprising the appointments of those valuable
legislative adjuncts,

THE LADIES OF THE BEDCHAMBER,

AND THE ROYAL NURSES, WET AND DRY;

together with those household desiderata,

COALS AND CANDLES,

and an unlimited

RUN OF THE ROYAL KITCHEN.

LOT 2.

SECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE COLONIAL DEPARTMENT,

at present occupied by Lord John Russell. This lot must possess
considerable attraction for a gastronomical experimentalist, as its
present proprietor has for a long time been engaged in the
discovery of how few pinches of oatmeal and spoonsful of gruel are
sufficient for a human pauper, and will be happy to transfer his
data to the next fortunate proprietor. Any gentleman desirous of
embarking in the manufacture of

SUGAR CANDY, MATCHES, OR CHEAP BREAD,

would find this a desirable investment, more particularly should
he wish to form either

A PAROCHIAL OR MATRIMONIAL UNION,

as there are plans for the one, and hints for the other, which
will be thrown into the bargain, being of no further use to the
present noble incumbent.

LOT 3.

SECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE HOME DEPARTMENT,

at present the property of Lord Normanby. Is admirably
calculated for any one of a literary turn of mind, offering
resources peculiarly adapted for a proper cultivation of the Jack
Sheppard and James Hatfield “men-of-elegant-crimes”
school of novel-writing—the archives of Newgate and
Horsemonger-lane being open at all times to the inspection of the
favoured purchaser.

“YES” OR “NO”

will determine the sale of this desirable lot in a few days.

LOT 4.

SECRETARY OF STATE FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS,

now in the occupancy of Lord Palmerston. Possesses advantages
rarely to be met with. From its connexion with the continental
powers, Eau de Cologne, bear’s grease, and cosmetics of
unrivalled excellence, can be procured at all times, thus insuring
the favour of the divine sex,

The only requisite (besides money) for this desirable lot is,
that the purchaser must write a bold round hand for

PROTOCOLS,

understand French and Chinese, and be an

EXPERT TURNER.

LOT 5.

SEVERAL UNDER SECRETARYSHIPS,

admirably adapted for younger sons and poor relatives.

The whole of the proceeds (by the advice of her Majesty’s
Cabinet Council) will be devoted to the erection of a

UNION FOR DECAYED MINISTERS.

Cards to view may be had at the Treasury any day after the
meeting of Parliament.

“Very like a whale!” as the schoolmaster said when
he examined the boy’s back after severely flogging him.

THE DIARY OF A LORD MAYOR.

All the world is familiar with the “Diary of a
Physician,” the “Diary of an Ennuyée,” the
“Diary of a Lady of Rank,” and Heaven knows how many
other diaries besides! but who has ever heard of, or saw, the
“Diary of a Lord Mayor,—that day-book, or
blotter, as it may be commercially termed, of a gigantic mind? Who
has ever perused the autobiography of the Lama of Guildhall, Cham
of Cripplegate, Admiral of Fleet Ditch, Great Turtle-hunter and
Herod of Michaelmas geese? We will take upon ourselves to
answer—not one! It was reserved for PUNCH to give to his dear
friends, the public, the first and only extract which has ever been
made from the genuine diary of a late Lord Mayor of
London, or, as that august individual was wont, when in Paris, to
designate himself on his visiting tickets—

How the precious MS. came into our possession matters little to
the reader; suffice it to say, it is a secret which must ever
remain confined to the bosoms of PUNCH and his cheesemonger.

DIARY.

Nov. 10, eight o’clock.—Dreamed a horrid
dream—thought that I was stretched in Guildhall with the two
giants sitting on my chest, and drinking rum toddy out of
firemen’s buckets—fancied the Board of Aldermen were
transformed into skittle-pins, and the police force into bottles of
Harvey’s sauce. Tried to squeak, but couldn’t.
Then I imagined that I was changed into the devil, and that
Alderman Harmer was St. Dunstan, tweaking my nose with a pair of
red-hot tongs. This time, I think, I did shout lustily.
Awoke with the fright, and found my wife pulling my nose
vigorously, and calling me “My Lord!” Pulled off my
nightcap, and began to have an idea I was somebody, but could not
tell exactly who. Suddenly my eye rested upon the civic gown and
chain, which lay upon a chair by my bed-side:—the truth
flashed upon my mind—I felt I was a real Lord Mayor.
I remembered clearly that yesterday I had been sworn into office. I
had a perfect recollection of the glass-coach, and the sheriffs,
and the men in armour, and the band playing “Jim along
Josey,” as we passed the Fleet Prison, and the glories of the
city barge at Blackfriars-bridge, and the enthusiastic delight with
which the assembled multitude witnessed—

THE LORD MAYOR TAKING WATER.

I could also call to mind the dinner—the turtle, venison,
and turbot—and the popping of the corks from the throats of
the champagne bottles. I was conscious, too, that I had made a
speech; but, beyond this point, all the events of the night were
lost in chaotic confusion. One thing, however, was certain—I
was a bonâ fide Lord Mayor—and being aware of
the arduous duties I had to perform, I resolved to enter upon them
at once. Accordingly I arose, and as some poet says—

Sent for a barber, and authorised him to remove the superfluous
hair from my chin—at the same time made him aware of the high
honour I had conferred upon him by placing the head of the city
under his razor—thought I detected the fellow’s tongue
in his cheek, but couldn’t be certain. Mem. Never
employ the rascal again.

9 o’clock.—Dressed in full fig—sword
very troublesome—getting continually between my legs. Sat
down to breakfast—her ladyship complimented me on my
appearance—said I looked the beau ideal of a
mayor—took a side glance at myself in the mirror—her
ladyship was perfectly right. Trotter the shoemaker
announced—walked in with as much freedom as he used to do
into my shop in Coleman-street—smelt awfully of “best
calf” and “heavy sole”—shook me familiarly
by the hand, and actually called me “Bob.” The
indignation of the Mayor was roused, and I hinted to him that I did
not understand such liberties, upon which the fellow had the
insolence to laugh in my face—couldn’t stand his
audacity, so quitted the room with strong marks of disgust.

10 o’clock.—Heard that a vagabond was
singing “Jim Crow” on Tower-hill—proceeded with a
large body of the civic authorities to arrest him, but after an
arduous chase of half-an-hour we unfortunately lost him in
Houndsditch. Suppressed two illegal apple-stalls in the Minories,
and took up a couple of young black-legs, whom I detected playing
at chuck-farthing on Saffron-hill. Issued a proclamation against
mad dogs, cautioning all well-disposed persons to avoid their
society.

12 o’clock.—Waited upon by the secretary of
the New River Company with a sample of the water they supply to the
City—found that it was much improved by compounding it with
an equal portion of cognac—gave a certificate accordingly.
Lunched, and took a short nap in my cocked hat.

1 o’clock.—Police-court. Disposed of
several cases summarily—everybody in court amazed at the
extraordinary acuteness I displayed, and the rapidity with which I
gave my decisions—they did not know that I always privately
tossed up—heads, complainant wins, and tails,
defendant—this is the fairest way after all—no being
humbugged by hard swearing or innocent looks—no sifting of
witnesses—no weighing of evidence—no
deliberating—no hesitating—the thing is done in an
instant—and, if the guilty should escape, why the fault lies
with fortune, and not with justice.

3 o’clock.—Visited the Thames
Tunnel—found Brunel a devilish deep fellow—he
explained to me the means by which he worked, and said he had got
nearly over all his difficulties—I suppose he meant to say he
had nearly got under them—at all events the tunnel,
when completed, will be a vast convenience to the metropolis,
particularly to the lower classes. From the Tunnel went to
Billingsgate-market—confiscated a basket of suspicious
shrimps, and ordered them to be conveyed to the Mansion-house.
Mem. Have them for breakfast to-morrow. Return to dress
for dinner, having promised to take the chair at the Grand Annual
Metropolitan Anti-Hydro-without-gin-drinking Association.

Here a hiatus occurs in the MS.; but from cotemporary
authorities we are enabled to state that his lordship was conveyed
home at two o’clock on the following morning, by some jolly
companions.

“Slowly and sadly they smoothed his bed, And they told his
wife and daughter To give him, next day, a couple of red- Herrings
and soda-water.”

THE LOVES OF THE PLANTS.

NOTHING WONDERFUL.

The Duke of Normandie accounts for the non-explosion of his
percussion-shells, by the fact of having incautiously used some of
M’Culloch’s pamphlets on the corn laws. If this be the
case, no person can be surprised at their not going
off.

MODERN WAT TYLERS.

The anxiety of the Whigs to repeal the timber duties is quite
pardonable, for, with their wooden heads, they doubtlessly
look upon it in the light of a poll-tax.

Head of a Botecudo previous to disfigurement.

Head of a Butecudo disfigured by chin and ear pendants.

Head of a Botecudo disfigured by civilisation.

CIVILISATION.

“If an European,” says Sir Joshua Reynolds, in one
of his Discourses, “when he has cut off his beard, and put
false hair on his head, or bound up his own hair in formal, hard
knots, as unlike nature as he can make it, and after having
rendered them immoveable by the help of the fat of hogs, has
covered the whole with flour, laid on by a machine with the utmost
regularity—if, when thus attired, he issues forth and meets a
Cherokee Indian who has bestowed as much time at his toilet, and
laid with equal care and attention his yellow and red ochre on such
parts of his forehead and cheeks as he judges most becoming,
whichever of these two despises the other for this attention to the
fashion of his country, whichever first feels himself provoked to
laugh, is the barbarian.”

Granting this, the popular advocates of civilisation certainly
are not the most civilised of individuals. They appear to consider
yellow ochre and peacocks’ feathers the climax of
barbarism—marabouts and kalydor the acme of refinement. A
ring through the nose calls forth their deepest pity—a
diamond drop to the ear commands their highest respect. To them,
nothing can show a more degraded state of nature than a New Zealand
chief, with his distinctive coat of arms emblazoned on the skin of
his face; nor anything of greater social elevation than an English
peer, with the glittering label of his “nobility”
tacked to his breast. To a rational mind, the one is not a whit
more barbarous than the other; they being, as Sir Joshua observes,
the real barbarians who, like these soi-disant civilisers,
would look upon their own monstrosities as the sole standard of
excellence.

The philosophy of the present age, however, is peculiarly the
philosophy of outsides. Few dive deeper into the human breast than
the bosom of the shirt. Who could doubt the heart that beats
beneath a cambric front? or who imagine that hand accustomed to
dirty work which is enveloped in white kid? What Prometheus was to
the physical, Stultz is to the moral man—the one made human
beings out of clay, the other cuts characters out of broad-cloth.
Gentility is, with us, a thing of the goose and shears; and
nobility an attribute—not of the mind, but (supreme
civilisation!) of a garter!

Certain modern advocates appear to be devout believers in this
external philosophy. They are touchingly eloquent upon the savage
state of those who indulge in yellow ochre, but conveniently mute
upon the condition of those who prefer carmine. They are
beautifully alive to the degradation of that race of people which
crushes the feet of its children, but wonderfully dead to the
barbarism of that race, nearer home, which performs a like
operation upon the ribs of its females. By them, also, we are told
that “words would manifestly fail in portraying so low a
state of morals as is pictured in the lineaments of an Australian
chief,”—a stretch of the outside philosophy which
we certainly were not prepared to meet with; for little did we
dream that this noble science could ever have attained such
eminence, that men of intellect would be able to discover
immorality in particular noses, and crime in a certain conformation
of the chin.

That an over-attention to the adornment of the person is a
barbarism all must allow; but that the pride which prompts the
Esquimaux to stuff bits of stone through a hole in his cheek, is a
jot less refined than that which urges the dowager-duchess to
thrust coloured crystals through a hole in her ear, certainly
requires a peculiar kind of mental squint to perceive. Surely there
is as great a want of refinement among us, in this respect, as
among the natives of New Zealand. Why rush for subjects for
civilisation to the back woods of America, when thousands may be
found, any fine afternoon, in Regent-street? Why fly to Biddy
Salamander and Bulkabra, when the Queen of Beauty and Count
D’Orsay have equally urgent claims on the attention and
sympathies of the civiliser?

On the subject of civilisation, two questions naturally present
themselves—the one, what is civilisation?—the
other, have we such a superabundance of that commodity among us,
that we should think about exporting it? To the former question,
the journal especially devoted to the subject has, to the best of
our belief, never condescended a reply; although, like the
celebrated argument on the colour of the chameleon, no two persons,
perhaps, have the same idea of it. In what then, does civilisation
consist, and how is it to be generally promoted? Does it, as Sir
E.L. B—— would doubtlessly assure us, does it lie in a
strict adherence to the last month’s fashions; and is it to
be propagated throughout the world only by missionaries from
Nugee’s, and by the universal dissemination of curling-tongs
and Macassar—patent leather boots and opera hats—white
cambric pocket-handkerchiefs and lavender-water? Or, does it
consist, as the Countess of B—— would endeavour to
convince us, in abstaining from partaking twice of fish, and from
eating peas with the knife? and is it to be made common among
mankind only by distributing silver forks and finger-glasses to
barbarians, and printing the Book of Etiquette for gratuitous
circulation among them? Or, is it, as the mild and humane Judge
P—— would prove to us, a necessary result of the
Statutes at Large; and can it be rendered universal only by sending
out Jack Ketch as a missionary—by the introduction of
rope-walks in foreign parts, and the erection of gallows all over
the world? Or, is it, as the Archbishop of Canterbury contests, to
be achieved solely by the dissemination of bishops, and by
diffusing among the poor benighted negroes the blessings of
sermons, tithes, and church rates? Christianity, it has, on the
other hand, been asserted, is the only practical system of
civilisation; but this is manifestly the idea of a visionary. For
ourselves, we must confess we incline to the opposite opinion; and
think either the bishops or Jack Ketch (we hardly know which we
prefer) by far the more rational means. Indeed, when we consider
the high state of civilisation which this country has attained, and
imagine for an instant the awful amount of distress which would
necessarily accrue from the general practice of Christianity among
us, even for a week, it is clear that the idea never could be
entertained by any moral or religious, mind. A week’s
Christianity in England! What would become of the lawyer,
and parsons? It is too terrible to contemplate.

NOUVEAU MANUEL DU VOYAGEUR.

These are the continental-trip days. All the world will be now
a-touring. But every one is not a Dr. Bowring, and it is
rather convenient to be able to edge in a word now and then, when
these rascally foreigners will chatter in their own beastly jargon.
Ignorant pigs, not to accustom themselves to talk decent English!
Il Signor Marchese Cantini, the learned and illustrious author of
“Hi, diddlo-diddlino! Il gutto e’l violino!”, has
just rendered immense service to the trip-loving natives of these
lovely isles, by preparing a “Guide to Conversation,”
that for utility and correctness of idiom surpasses all previous
attempts of the same kind. With it in one hand, and a bagful of
Napoléons or Zecchini in the other, the biggest dunce in
London—nay, even a schoolmaster—may travel from
Boulogne to Naples and back, with the utmost satisfaction to
himself, and with substantial profit to the people of these
barbarous climes. The following is a specimen of the way in which
Il Signor has accomplished his undertaking. It will be seen at a
glance how well he has united the classical with the utilitarian
principle, clothing both in the purest dialect; ex. gr.:—

It would not be fair to rob the Signor of any more of his
labour. It will be seen that, on the principle of the Painter and
his Cow, we have distinctly written above each sentence the
language it belongs to. It is always better to obviate the
possibility of mistakes.

THE OMNIBUS

Dunn, the miller of Wimbledon, has recently given his infant the
Christian name of Cardigan. If there is truth in the adage
of “give a dog a bad name and hang him,” the
poor child has little else in perspective than the gallows.

PRAY DON’T TELL THE GOVERNOR.

A SONG OF TON.

THE EXPLOSIVE BOX.

Sir Hussey Vivian was relating to Sir Robert Peel the failure of
the Duke of Normandie’s experiment with a terrible
self-explosive box, which he had buried in a mound at Woolwich, in
the expectation that it would shortly blow up, but which still
remains there, to the great terror of the neighbourhood, who are
afraid to approach the spot where this destructive engine is
interred. Sir Robert, on hearing the circumstance, declared that
Lord John Russell had served him the same trick, by burying the
corn-law question under the Treasury bench. No one knew at what
moment it might explode, and blow them to ——.
“The question,” he added, “now is—who will
dig it out?”

EXCLUSIVE INTELLIGENCE.

(From OUR West-end and “The
Observer’s” Correspondent.)

We have every reason to believe, unless a very respectable
authority, on whom we are in the habit of relying, has grievously
imposed upon us, that a very illustrious personage has consulted a
certain exalted individual as to whether a certain other person, no
less exalted than the latter, but not so illustrious as the former,
shall be employed in a certain approaching event, which at present
is involved in the greatest uncertainty. Another individual, who is
more dignified than the third personage above alluded to, but not
nearly so illustrious as the first, and not half so exalted as the
second, has nothing whatever to do with the matter above hinted at,
and it is not at all probable that he will be ever in the smallest
way mixed up with it. For this purpose we have cautiously abstained
from giving his name, and indeed only allude to him that there may
be no misapprehension on this very delicate subject.

ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

The Times gives a horrible description of some mesmeric
experiments by a M. Delafontaine, by which a boy was deprived of
all sensation. We suspect that some one has been operating
upon the Poor Law Commissioners, for their total want of
feeling is a mesmeric phenomenon.

ON SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BART., not M.P. FOR
LINCOLN.

THE NEW HOUSE.

“This is the House that Jack (Bull) built.”

WATERFORD ELECTION.

STATE OF TRADE.

We are sorry to perceive that trade was never in a more alarming
state than at present. A general strike for wages has
taken place amongst the smiths. The carpenters have been dreadfully
cut up; and the shoemakers find, at the last,
that it is impossible to make both ends meet. The bakers
complain that the pressure of the times is so great, that they
cannot get the bread to rise. The bricklayers swear that
the monopolists ought to be brought to the scaffold. The
glaziers, having taken some pains to discover the cause of
the distress, declare that they can see through the whole
affair. The gardeners wish to get at the root of the evil,
and consequently have become radical reformers. The
laundresses have washed their hands clean of the business.
The dyers protest that things never looked so blue in
their memory, as there is but a slow demand for

FAST COLOURS.

The butchers are reduced to their last stake. The
weavers say their lives hang by a single thread. The
booksellers protest we must turn over a new leaf. The
ironmongers declare that the times are very hard indeed.
The cabmen say business is completely at a stand. The
watermen are all aground. The tailors object to the
government measures;—and the undertakers think that
affairs are assuming a grave aspect. Public credit, too,
is tottering;—nobody will take doctors’
draughts, and it is difficult to obtain cash for the best
bills (of the play). An extensive brandy-ball merchant in the
neighbourhood of Oxford-street has called a meeting of his
creditors; and serious apprehensions are entertained that a large
manufacturer of lollypops in the Haymarket will be unable to meet
his heavy liabilities. Two watchmakers in the city have stopped
this morning, and what is more extraordinary, their watches have
“stopped” too.

THE NORMANDIE “NO GO.”

The figure, stuffed with shavings, of a French grenadier,
constructed by the Duke of Normandie, and exhibited by him recently
at Woolwich, which he stated would explode if fired at by bullets
of his own construction, possitively objected to being blown up in
such a ridiculous manner; and though several balls were discharged
at the man of shavings, he showed no disposition to move. The Duke
waxed exceedingly wroth at the coolness of his soldier, and swore,
if he had been a true Frenchman, he would have gone off at
the first fire.

A CONUNDRUM BY COL. SIBTHORP.

“What’s the difference between the top of a mountain
and a person afflicted with any
disorder?”—“One’s a summit of a
hill, and the other’s ill of a
summut.”

A CLASSICAL INSCRIPTION FOR A CIGAR CASE.

Τὸ
βακχικὸν
δώρημα λαβὲ,
σὲ
γὰρ Φιλω̑.—EURIPIDES.

FREE TRANSLATION.

FASHIONS FOR THE PRESENT WEEK.

Though the dog-days have not yet commenced, muzzlin is
very general, and a new sort of shally, called
shilly-shally, is getting remarkably prevalent.
Shots are still considered the greatest hits, for those
who are anxious to make a good impression; flounces are
out in the morning, and tucks in at
dinner-parties, the latter being excessively full, and much sought
after. At conversaziones, puffs are very usual, and
sleeves are not so tight as before, to allow of their being laughed
in; jewels are not now to be met with in the head, which is left
au naturel—that is to say, as vacant as
possible.

“Why is the Gazette like a Frenchman’s
letter?”—“Because it is full of broken
English.”

BREACH OF PRIVILEGE.

In the strangers’ gallery in the American house of
representatives, the following notice is posted
up:—“Gentlemen will be pleased not to place their feet
on the boards in front of the gallery, as the dirt from them
falls down on the senators’ heads.” In our English
House of Commons, this pleasant penchant for dirt-throwing
is practised by the members instead of the strangers. It is quite
amusing to see with what energy O’Connell and Lord Stanley
are wont to bespatter and heap dirt on each other’s heads in
their legislative squabbles!

SHOCKING WANT OF SYMPATHY.

Sir Peter Laurie has made a sad complaint to the Lord Mayor, of
the slippery state of the wooden pavement in the Poultry, and
strongly recommended the immediate removal of the blocks.
This is most barbarous conduct on the part of Sir Peter. Has he
lost all natural affection for his kindred, that he should seek to
injure them in public estimation? Has he no secret sympathy for the
poor blocks whom he has traduced? Let him lay his hand upon his
head and confess that—

PUNCH AND PEEL

THE NEW CABINET.

PUNCH.—Well, Sir Robert, have you yet picked your men?
Come, no mystery between friends. Besides, consider your
obligations to your old crony, Punch. Do you forget how I stood by
you on the Catholic question? Come, name, name! Who are to pluck
the golden pippins—who are to smack lips at the golden
fish—who are to chew the fine manchet loaves of
Downing-street?

PEEL.—The truth is, my dear Punch—

PUNCH.—Stop. You may put on that demure look, expand your
right-hand fingers across the region where the courtesy of anatomy
awards to politicians a heart, and talk about truth as a certain
old lady with a paper lanthorn before her door may talk of
chastity—you may do all this on the hustings; but this is not
Tamworth: besides, you are now elected; so take one of these
cigars—they were smuggled for me by my revered friend Colonel
Sibthorp—fill your glass, and out with the list.

PEEL.—(Rises and goes to the door, which he double
locks; returns to his seat, and takes from his waistcoat pocket a
small piece of ass’s skin.) I have jotted down a few
names.

PUNCH.—And, I see, on very proper material. Read, Robert,
read.

PEEL.—(In a mild voice and with a slight
blush.)—“First Lord of the Treasury, and
Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Robert Peel!”

PUNCH.—Of course. Well?

PEEL.—“First Lord of the Admiralty—Duke of
Buckingham.”

PUNCH.—An excellent man for the Admiralty. He has been at
sea in politics all his life.

PEEL.—“Secretary for Foreign Affairs—Earl of
Aberdeen.”

PUNCH.—An admirable person for Foreign Affairs, especially
if he transacted ’em in Sierra Leone. Proceed.

PEEL.—“Lord Lieutenant of Ireland—Lord
Wharncliffe.”

PUNCH.—Nothing could be better. Wharncliffe in Ireland!
You might as well appoint a red-hot poker to guard a powder
magazine. Go on.

PEEL.—“Secretary for Home
Department—Goulburn.”

PUNCH.—A most domestic gentleman; will take care of home,
I am sure. Go on.

PEEL.—“Lord Chancellor—Sir William
Follett.”

PUNCH.—A capital appointment: Sir William loves the law as
a spider loves his spinning; and for the same reason Chancery
cobwebs will be at a premium.

PEEL.—“Secretary for the Colonies—Lord
Stanley.”

PUNCH.—Would make a better Governor of Macquarrie Harbour;
but go on.

PEEL.—“President of the Council—Duke of
Wellington.”

PUNCH.—Think twice there.—The Duke will be a great
check upon you. The Duke is now a little too old a mouser to enjoy
Tory tricks. He has unfortunately a large amount of common sense;
and how fatal must that quality be to the genius of the
Wharncliffes, the Goulburns, and the Stanleys! Besides, the Duke
has another grievous weakness—he won’t lie.

PEEL.—“Secretary for Ireland—Sir H.
Hardinge.”

PUNCH.—Come, that will do. Wharncliffe, the flaming torch
of Toryism, and Hardinge the small lucifer. How Ireland will be
enlightened, and how oranges will go up!

PEEL.—“Lord Chamberlain—Duke of
Beaufort.”

PUNCH.—Capital! The very politician for a Court carpet.
Besides, he knows the etiquette of every green-room from the
Pavilion to the Haymarket. He is, moreover, a member of the Garrick
Club; and what, if possible, speaks more for his State
abilities—he used to drive the Brighton coach!

PEEL.—“Ambassador at Paris—Lord
Lyndhurst.”

PUNCH.—That’s something like. How the graces of the
Palais Royal will rejoice! There is a peculiar fitness in this
appointment; for is not his Lordship son-in-law to old Goldsmid,
whilom editor of the Anti-Galliean, and for many years an
honoured and withal notorious resident of Paris! Of course BEN
D’ISRAELI, his Lordship’s friend, will get a slice of
secretaryship—may be allowed to nib a state quill, if he must
not use one. Well, go on.

PEEL.—That’s all at present. How d’ye think
they read?

PUNCH.—Very glibly—like the summary of a Newgate
Calendar. But the truth is, I think we want a little new blood in
the next Cabinet.

PEEL.—New blood! Explain, dear Punch.

PUNCH.—Why, most of your people are, unfortunately, tried
men. Hence, the people, knowing them as well as they know the
contents of their own breeches’ pockets, may not be gulled so
long as if governed by those whose tricks—I mean, whose
capabilities—have not been so strongly marked. With new men
we have always the benefit of hope; and with hope much swindling
may be perpetrated.

PEEL.—But my Cabinet contains known men.

PUNCH.—That’s it; knowing them, hope is out
of the question. Now, with Ministers less notorious, the Cabinet
farce might last a little longer. I have put down a few names; here
they are on a blank leaf of Jack Sheppard.

PEEL.—A presentation copy, I perceive.

PUNCH.—-Why, it isn’t generally known; but all the
morality, the wit, and the pathos, of that work I wrote myself.

PEEL.—And I must say they’re quite worthy of
you.

PUNCH.—I know it; but read—read Punch’s
Cabinet.

PEEL (reads).—“First Lord of the Treasury,
and Chancellor of the Exchequer—the Wizard of the
North.”

PUNCH.—And, wizard as he is, he’ll have his work to
do. He, however, promises that every four-pound loaf shall
henceforth go as far as eight, so that no alteration of the Corn
Laws shall be necessary. He furthermore promises to plant
Blackheath and Government waste grounds with sugar-cane, and to
raise the penny post stamp to fourpence, in so delicate a manner
that nobody shall feel the extra expense. As for the opposition,
what will a man care for even the speeches of a Sibthorp—who
can catch any number of bullets, any weight of lead, in his teeth?
Go on.

PEEL.—“First Lord of the Admiralty—T.P.
Cooke.”

PUNCH.—Is he not the very man? Who knows more about the
true interests of the navy? Who has beaten so many Frenchmen? Then
think of his hornpipe—the very shuffling for a minister.

PEEL.—“Secretary for Foreign Affairs—Gold
dust Solomons.”

PUNCH.—Show me a better man. Consider the many dear
relations he has abroad; and then his admirable knowledge of the
rates of exchange? Think of his crucible. Why, he’d melt down
all the crowns of Europe into a coffee service for our gracious
Queen, and turn the Pope’s tiara into coral bells for the
little Princess! And I ask you if such feats ain’t the
practical philosophy of all foreign policy? Go on.

PEEL.—“Lord Lieutenant of Ireland—Henry
Moreton Dyer.”

PUNCH.—An admirable person. As Ireland is the hotbed of
all crimes, do we not want a Lord Lieutenant who shall be able to
assess the true value of every indiscretion, from simple murder to
compound larceny? As every Irishman may in a few months be in
prison, I want a Lord Lieutenant who shall be emphatically the
prisoner’s friend. Go on.

PEEL.—“Secretary for Home
Department—George Robins.”

PUNCH.—A man so intimately connected with the domestic
affairs of the influential classes of the country. Go on.

PEEL.—“Lord Chancellor—Mr. Dunn,
barrister.”

PUNCH.—As it appears to me, the best protector of rich
heiresses and orphans. Go on.

PEEL.—“Secretary for the Colonies—Money
Moses.”

PUNCH.—A man, you will allow, with a great stake, in fact,
with all he has, in one of our colonial possessions. Go on.

PEEL.—“President of the Council—Mrs.
Fry.”

PUNCH.—A lady whose individual respectability may give a
convenient cloak to any policy. Go on.

PEEL.—“Secretary for Ireland—Henry Moreton
Dyer’s footman.”

PUNCH.—On the venerable adage of “like master like
man.” Go on.

PEEL.—“Lord Chamberlain—The boy
Jones.”

PUNCH.—As one best knowing all the intricacies, from the
Royal bed-chamber to the scullery, of Buckingham Palace. Besides he
will drive a donkey-cart. Go on.

PEEL.—“Ambassador at Paris—Alfred Bunn, or
any other translator of French Operas.”

PUNCH.—A person who will have a continual sense of the
necessities of his country at home; and therefore, by his position,
be enabled to send us the earliest copies of M. Scribe’s
printed dramas; or, in cases of exigency, the manuscripts
themselves. And now, Bobby, what think you of Punch’s
Cabinet?

PEEL.—Why, really, I did not think the country contained
so much state talent.

PUNCH.—That’s the narrowness of your philosophy; if
you were to look with an enlarged, a thinking mind, you’d
soon perceive that the distance was not so great from St.
James’s to St. Giles’s—from the House of Commons
to the House of Correction. Well, do you accept my list?

PEEL.—Excuse me, my dear Punch, I must first try my own;
when if that fails—

PUNCH.—You’ll try mine? That’s a bargain.

PUNCH’S PENCILLINGS.–No. III.

THE EVENING PARTY.

PREPARATION. DECORATION.

REALIZATION. TERMINATION.

[pg 31]

A FAIR OFFER

In compliance with my usual practice, I send you this letter,
containing a trifling biographical sketch, and an offer of my
literary services. I don’t suppose you will accept them,
treating me as for forty-three years past all the journals of this
empire have done; for I have offered my contributions to them
all—all. It was in the year 1798, that escaping from a French
prison (that of Toulon, where I had been condemned to the hulks for
forgery)—I say, from a French prison, but to find myself
incarcerated in an English dungeon (fraudulent bankruptcy,
implicated in swindling transactions, falsification of accounts,
and contempt of court), I began to amuse my hours of imprisonment
by literary composition.

I sent in that year my “Apology for the Corsican,”
relative to die murder of Captain Wright, to the late Mr. Perry, of
the Morning Chronicle, preparing an answer to the same in
the Times journal; but as the apology was not accepted
(though the argument of it was quite clear, and much to my credit),
so neither was the answer received—a sublime piece, Mr.
PUNCH, an unanswerable answer.

In the year 1799, I made an attempt on the journal of the late
Reverend Mr. Thomas Hill, then fast sinking in years; but he had
ill-treated my father, pursuing him before Mr. Justice Fielding for
robbing him of a snuff-box, in the year 1740; and he continued his
resentment towards my father’s unoffending son. I was cruelly
rebuffed by Mr. Hill, as indeed I have been by every other
newspaper proprietor.

No; there is not a single periodical print which has appeared
for forty-three years since, to which I did not make some
application. I have by me essays and fugitive pieces in fourteen
trunks, seven carpet bags of trifles in verse, and a portmanteau
with best part of an epic poem, which it does not become me to
praise. I have no less than four hundred and ninety-five acts of
dramatic composition, which have been rejected even by the
Syncretic Association.

Such is the set that for forty-three years has been made against
a man of genius by an envious literary world! Are you going to
follow in its wake? Ha, ha, ha! no less than seven thousand three
hundred times (the exact number of my applications) have I asked
that question. Think well before you reject me, Mr.
PUNCH—think well, and at least listen to what I have to
say.

It is this: I am not wishing any longer to come forward with
tragedies, epics, essays, or original compositions. I am old
now—morose in temper, troubled with poverty, jaundice,
imprisonment, and habitual indigestion. I hate everybody, and, with
the exception of gin-and-water, everything. I know every language,
both in the known and unknown worlds; I am profoundly ignorant of
history, or indeed of any other useful science, but have a
smattering of all. I am excellently qualified to judge and lash the
vices of the age, having experienced, I may almost say, every one
of them in my own person. The immortal and immoral Goethe, that
celebrated sage of Germany, has made exactly the same
confession.

I have a few and curious collection of Latin and Greek
quotations.

And what is the result I draw from this? This simple
one—that, of all men living, I am the most qualified to be a
CRITIC, and hereby offer myself to your notice in that
capacity.

Recollect, I am always at Home—Fleet Prison, Letter L,
fourth staircase, paupers’-ward—for a guinea, and a
bottle of Hodges’ Cordial, I will do anything. I will, for
that sum, cheerfully abuse my own father or mother. I can smash
Shakspeare; I can prove Milton to be a driveller, or the contrary:
but, for preference, take, as I have said, the abusive line.

Send me over then, Mr. P., any person’s works whose
sacrifice you may require. I will cut him up, sir; I will flay
him—flagellate him—finish him! You had better not send
me (unless you have a private grudge against the authors, when I am
of course at your service)—you had better not send me any
works of real merit; for I am infallibly prepared to show that
there is not any merit in them. I have not been one of the great
unread for forty-three years, without turning my misfortunes to
some account. Sir, I know how to make use of my adversity. I have
been accused, and rightfully too, of swindling, forgery, and
slander. I have been many times kicked down stairs. I am totally
deficient in personal courage; but, though I can’t fight, I
can rail, ay, and well. Send me somebody’s works, and
you’ll see how I will treat them.

Will you have personal scandal? I am your man. I will swear away
the character, not only of an author, but of his whole
family—the female members of it especially. Do you suppose I
care for being beaten? Bah! I no more care for a flogging than a
boy does at Eton: and only let the flogger beware—I will be a
match for him, I warrant you. The man who beats me is a coward; for
he knows I won’t resist. Let the dastard strike me then, or
leave me, as he likes; but, for a choice, I prefer abusing women,
who have no brothers or guardians; for, regarding a thrashing with
indifference, I am not such a ninny as to prefer it. And here you
have an accurate account of my habits, history, and
disposition.

Farewell, sir; if I can be useful to you, command me. If you
insert this letter, you will, of course, pay for it, upon my order
to that effect. I say this, lest an unprincipled wife and children
should apply to you for money. They are in a state of starvation,
and will scruple at no dastardly stratagem to procure money. I
spent every shilling of Mrs. Jenkinson’s property forty-five
years ago.

I am, sir, your humble servant,
DIOGENES JENKINSON,

Son of the late Ephraim Jenkinson, well known to Dr. O.
Goldsmith; the Rev. — Primrose, D.D., Vicar of Wakefield;
Doctor Johnson, of Dictionary celebrity; and other literary
gentlemen of the last century.

[We gratefully accept the offer of Mr.
Diogenes Jenkinson, whose qualifications render him admirably
adapted to fill a situation which Mr. John Ketch has most
unhandsomely resigned, doubtlessly stimulated thereto by the
probable accession to power of his old friends the Tories. We like
a man who dares to own himself—a
Jenkinson.—ED.]

FINE ARTS.

His Royal Highness Prince Albert, who has occasionally displayed
a knowledge and much liking for the Fine Arts, some time since
expressed an intimation to display his ability in sketching
landscape from nature. The Royal Academicians immediately assembled
en masse; and as they wisely imagined that it would be
impolitic in them to let an opportunity slip of not being the very
foremost in the direction of matters connected with royalty and
their profession, offered, or rather thrust forward, their services
to arrange the landscape according to the established rules of art
laid down by this self-elected body of the professors of the
beauties of nature. St. James’s-park, within the enclosure,
having been hinted as the nearest and most suitable spot for the
royal essay, the Academicians were in active service at an early
hour of the appointed day: some busied themselves in making
foreground objects, by pulling down trees and heaping stones
together from the neighbouring macadamized stores; others were most
fancifully spotting the trees with whitewash and other mixtures, in
imitation of moss and lichens. The classical Howard was awfully
industrious in grouping some swans, together with several
kind-hearted ladies from the adjoining purlieus of Tothill-street,
who had been most willingly secured as models for water-nymphs. The
most rabidly-engaged gentleman was Turner, who, despite the
remonstrances of his colleagues upon the expense attendant upon his
whimsical notions, would persist in making the grass more natural
by emptying large buckets of treacle and mustard about the ground.
Another old gentleman, whose name we cannot at this moment call to
recollection, spent the whole of his time in placing “a
little man a-fishing,” that having been for many years his
fixed belief as the only illustration of the pastoral and
picturesque. In the meantime, to their utter disappointment,
however, his Royal Highness quietly strolled with his sketch-book
into another quarter.

A BARRISTER’S CARD.

Mr. Briefless begs to inform the public and his friends in
general, that he has opened chambers in Pump-court.—N.B.
Please to go down the area steps.

In consequence of the general pressure for money, Mr. Briefless
has determined to do business at the following very reduced scale
of prices; and flatters himself, that having been very long a
member of a celebrated debating society, he will be found to
possess the qualities so essential to a legal advocate.

Motions of cause, 6s. 6d.—Usual charge,
10s. 5d.
Undefended actions, (from) 15s.—Usually (from)
2l. 2s.
Actions for breach of promise (from) 1l.
1s.—Usually (from) 5l. 5s. to
500l.
Ditto, with appeals to the feelings, (from) 3l.
3s.
Ditto, ditto, very superior, 5l. 5s.
Ditto, with tirades against the law (a highly approved mixture),
3l. 3s.

N.B. To the three last items there is an addition of five
shillings for a reply, should one be rendered requisite. Mr.
Briefless begs to call attention to the fact, that feeling the
injustice that is done to the public by the system of refreshers,
he will in all cases, where he is retained, take out his refreshers
in brandy, rum, gin, ale, or porter.

Injured innocence carefully defended. Oppression and injustice
punctually persecuted. A liberal allowance to attorneys and
solicitors.

A few old briefs wanted as dummies. Any one having a second-hand
coachman’s wig to dispose of may hear of a purchaser.

THE WIFE CATCHERS.

A LEGEND OF MY UNCLE’S BOOTS.

CHAPTER I.

Jack, said my uncle Ned to me one
evening, as we sat facing each other, on either side of the old oak
table, over which, for the last thirty years, my worthy
kinsman’s best stories had been told, “Jack,”
said he, “do you remember the pair of yellow-topped boots
that hung upon the peg in the hall, before you went to
college?”

“Certainly, uncle; they were called by every one,
‘The Wife Catchers.’”

“Well, Jack, many a title has been given more
undeservedly—many a rich heiress they were the means of
bringing into our family. But they are no more, Jack. I lost the
venerated relics just one week after your poor dear aunt departed
this life.”

My uncle drew out his bandanna handkerchief and applied it to
his eyes; but I cannot be positive to which of the family relics
this tribute of affectionate recollection was paid.

“Peace be with their soles!” said I,
solemnly. “By what fatal chance did our old friends slip off
the peg?”

“Alas!” replied my uncle, “it was a melancholy
accident; and as I perceive you take an interest in their fate, I
will relate it to you. But first fill your glass, Jack; you need
not be afraid of this stuff; it never saw the face of a gauger.
Come, no skylights; ’tis as mild as new milk; there’s
not a head-ache in a hogshead of it.”

To encourage me by his example, my uncle grasped the huge black
case-bottle which stood before him, and began to manufacture a
tumbler of punch according to Father Tom’s popular
receipt.

Whilst he is engaged in this pleasing task, I will give my
readers a pen-and-ink sketch of my respected relative. Fancy a man
declining from his fiftieth year, but fresh, vigorous, and with a
greenness in his age that might put to the blush some of our modern
hotbed-reared youths, with the best of whom he could cross a
country on the back of his favourite hunter, Cruiskeen,
and when the day’s sport was over, could put a score of them
under the aforementioned oak table—which, by the way, was
frequently the only one of the company that kept its legs upon
these occasions of Hibernian hospitality. I think I behold him now,
with his open, benevolent brow, thinly covered with grey hair, his
full blue eye and florid cheek, which glowed like the sunny side of
a golden-pippin that the winter’s frost had ripened without
shrivelling. But as he has finished the admixture of his punch, I
will leave him to speak for himself.

“You know, Jack,” said he, after gulping down nearly
half the newly-mixed tumbler, by way of sample, “you know
that our family can lay no claim to antiquity; in fact, our
pedigree ascends no higher, according to the most authentic
records, than Shawn Duffy, my grandfather, who rented a small patch
of ground on the sea-coast, which was such a barren, unprofitable
spot, that it was then, and is to this day, called ‘The
Devil’s Half-acre.’ And well it merited the name, for
if poor Shawn was to break his heart at it, he never could get a
better crop than thistles or ragweed off it. But though the curse
of sterility seemed to have fallen on the land, Fortune, in order
to recompense Shawn for Nature’s niggardliness, made the
caverns and creeks of that portion of the coast which bounded his
farm towards the sea the favourite resort of smugglers. Shawn, in
the true spirit of Christian benevolence, was reputed to have
favoured those enterprising traders in their industry, by assisting
to convey their cargoes into the interior of the country. It was on
one of those expeditions, about five o’clock on a
summer’s morning, that a gauger unluckily met my grandfather
carrying a bale of tobacco on his back.”

Here my uncle paused in his recital, and leaning across the
table till his mouth was close to my ear, said, in a confidential
whisper—

“Jack, do you consider killing a
gauger—murder?”

“Undoubtedly, sir.”

“You do?” he replied, nodding his head
significantly. “Then heaven forgive my poor grandfather.
However, it can’t be helped now. The gauger was found dead,
with an ugly fracture in his skull, the next day; and, what was
rather remarkable, Shawn Duffy began to thrive in the world from
that time forward. He was soon able to take an extensive farm, and,
in a little time, began to increase in wealth and importance. But
it is not so easy as some people imagine to shake off the
remembrance of what we have been, and it is still more difficult to
make our friends oblivious on that point, particularly if we have
ascended in the scale of respectability. Thus it was, that in spite
of my grandfather’s weighty purse, he could not succeed in
prefixing Mister to his name; find he continued for a long
time to be known as plain ‘Shawn Duffy, of the Devil’s
Half-acre.’ It was undoubtedly a most diabolic address; but
Shawn was a man of considerable strength of mind, as well as of
muscle, and he resolved to become a juntleman, despite
this damning reminiscence. Vulgarity, it is said, sticks to a man
like a limpet to a rock. Shawn knew the best way to rub it off
would be by mixing with good society. Dress, he always understood,
was the best passport he could bring for admission within the pale
of gentility; accordingly, he boldly attempted to pass the boundary
of plebeianism, by appearing one fine morning at the fair of
Ballybreesthawn in a flaming red waistcoat, an elegant
oarline²2. A beaver
hat. hat, a pair of buckskin breeches, and a new pair of
yellow-topped boots, which, with the assistance of large plated
spurs, and a heavy silver-mounted whip, took the shine out of the
smartest squireens at the fair.

“Fortunately for the success of my grandfather’s
invasion of the aristocratic rights, it occurred on the eve of a
general election, and as he had the command of six or eight votes
in the county, his interest was a matter of some importance to the
candidates. Be that as it may, it was with feelings little short of
absolute dismay, that the respectable inhabitants of the extensive
village of Ballybreesthawn beheld the metamorphosed tenant of
‘The Devil’s Half-acre,’ walking arm-in-arm down
the street with Sir Denis Daly, the popular candidate. At all
events, this public and familiar promenade had the effect of
establishing Mister John Duffy’s dubious gentility.
He was invited to dine the same day by the attorney; and on the
following night the apothecary proposed his admission as a member
of the Ballybreesthawn Liberal reading-room. It was even whispered
that Bill Costigan, who went twice a-year to Dublin for goods, was
trying to strike up a match between Shawn, who was a hale widower,
and his aunt, an ancient spinster, who was set down by report as a
fortune of seven hundred pounds. Negotiations were actually set on
foot, and several preliminary bottles of potteen had been drunk by
the parties concerned, when, unfortunately, in the high road to
happiness, my poor grandfather caught a fever, and popped off, to
the inexpressible grief of the expectant bride, who declared her
intention of dying in the virgin state; to which resolution, there
being no dissentient voice, it was carried nem. con.

“Thus died the illustrious founder of our family; but
happy was it for posterity that the yellow-topped boots did not die
along with him; these, with the red waistcoat, the leather
breeches, and plated spurs, remained to raise the fortunes of our
house to a higher station. The waistcoat has been long since
numbered with the waistcoats before the flood; the buckskins, made
of ‘sterner stuff,’ stood the wear and tear of the
world for a length of time, but at last were put out of commission;
while the boots, more fortunate or tougher than their leathern
companions, endured more than forty years of actual service through
all the ramifications of our extensive family. In this time they
had suffered many dilapidations; but by the care and ingenuity of
the family cobbler, they were always kept in tolerable order, and
performed their duty with great credit to themselves, until an
unlucky accident deprived me of my old and valued
friends.”

POOR JOHN BULL.

That knowing jockey Sir Robert Peel has stated that the old
charger, John Bull, is, from over-feeding, growing restive and
unmanageable—kicking up his heels, and playing sundry tricks
extremely unbecoming in an animal of his advanced age and many
infirmities. To keep down this playful spirit, Sir Robert proposes
that a new burthen be placed upon his back in the shape of a
house-tax, pledging himself that it shall be heavy enough to effect
the desired purpose. Commend us to these Tories—they are rare
fellows for

BREAKING A HORSE.

A STRONG RESEMBLANCE.

Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer has frequently been accused of
identifying himself with the heroes of his novels. His late
treatment at Lincoln leaves no doubt of his identity with

THE DISOWNED.

A PRUDENT CHANGE.

“So Lord John Russell is married,” said one of the
Carlton Club loungers to Colonel Sibthorp the other morning.
“Yes,” replied that gallant punster; “his
Lordship is at length convinced that his talents will be better
employed in the management of the Home than the
Colonial department.”

THE ABOVE-BRIDGE NAVY.

AN ARTICLE INTENDED FOR THE “QUARTERLY REVIEW,” BUT
FALLEN INTO THE HANDS OF “PUNCH.”

1. —Hours of the Starting of the Boats of the Iron Steam
   Boat Company. London: 1841.
2. —Notes of a Passenger on Board the Bachelor, during a
   Voyage from Old Swan Pier, London Bridge, to the Red House,
   Battersea. CATNACH: 1840.
3. —Rule Britannia, a Song. London: 1694.
4. —Two Years before the Mast. CUNNINGHAM.
   London.
5. —Checks issued by the London and Westminster Steam
   Boat Company. CATTARNS AND FRY.

At a time when the glory of England stands—like a door
shutting or opening either way—entirely upon a pivot; when
the hostile attitude of enemies abroad threatens not more, nor
perhaps less, than the antagonistic posture of foes at
home—at such a time there is at least a yet undug and
hitherto unexplored mine of satisfaction in the refreshing fact,
that the Thames is fostering in his bosom an entirely new navy,
calculated to bid defiance to the foe—should he ever
come—in the very heart and lungs, the very bowels and vitals,
the very liver and lungs, or, in one emphatic word, the very pluck
of the metropolis. There is not a more striking instance of the
remarkable connexion between little—very little—causes,
and great—undeniably great—effects, than the
extraordinary origin, rise, progress, germ, development, and
maturity, of the above-bridge navy, the bringing of which
prominently before the public, who may owe to that navy at some
future—we hope so incalculably distant as never to have a
chance of arriving—day, the salvation of their lives, the
protection of their hearths, the inviolability of their
street-doors, and the security of their properties. Sprung from a
little knot of (we wish we could say “jolly
young,” though truth compels us to proclaim) far from
jolly, and decidedly old, “watermen,” the
above-bridge navy, whose shattered and unfrequented
wherries were always “in want of a fare,” may now boast
of covering the bosom of the Thames with its fleet of steamers;
thus, as it were, bringing the substantial piers of London Bridge
within a stone’s throw—if we may be allowed to pitch it
so remarkably strong—of the once remote regions of the
Beach³3. Chelsea., and
annihilating, as it were, the distance between sombre southwark and
bloom-breathing Battersea.

The establishment of this little fleet may well be a proud
reflection to those shareholders who, if they have no dividend in
specie, have another species of dividend in the swelling
gratification with which the heart of every one must be inflated,
as, on seeing one of the noble craft dart with the tide through the
arches—supposing, of course, it does not strike against
them—of Westminster Bridge, he is enabled mentally to
exclaim, “There goes some of my capital!” But
if the pride of the proprietor—if he can be called a
proprietor who derives nothing from his property—be great,
what must be the feelings of the captain to whose guidance the bark
is committed! We can scarcely conceive a nobler subject of
contemplation than one of those once indigent—not to say
absolutely done up—watermen, perched proudly on the summit of
a paddle-box, and thinking—as he very likely does,
particularly when the vessel swags and sways from side to
side—of the height he stands upon.

It may be, and has been, urged by some, that the Thames is not
exactly the place to form the naval character; that a habit of
braving the “dangers of the deep” is hardly to be
acquired where one may walk across at low tide, on account of the
water being so confoundedly shallow: but these are
cavillings which the lofty and truly patriotic mind will at once
and indignantly repudiate. The humble urchin, whose sole duty
consists in throwing out a rope to each pier, and holding hard by
it while the vessel stops, may one day be destined for some higher
service: and where is the English bosom that will not beat at the
thought, that the dirty lad below, whose exclamation of “Ease
her!—stop her!—one turn ahead!”—may one day
be destined to give the word of command on the quarterdeck, and
receive, in the shape of a cannon-ball, a glorious full-stop to his
honourable services!

Looking as we do at the above-bridge navy, in a large
and national light, we are not inclined to go into critical
details, such as are to be met with, passim, in the shrewd
and amusing work of “The Passenger on board the
Bachelor.” There may be something in the objection, that
there is no getting comfortably into one of these boats when one
desires to go by it. It may be true, that a boy’s neglecting
“to hold” sufficiently “hard,” may keep the
steamer vibrating and Sliding about, within a yard of the pier,
without approaching it. But these are small considerations, and we
are not sure that the necessity of keeping a sharp look out, and
jumping aboard at precisely the right time, does not keep up that
national ingenuity which is not the least valuable part of the
English character. In the same light are we disposed to regard the
occasional running aground of these boats, which, at all events, is
a fine practical lesson of patience to the passengers. The
collisions are not so much to our taste, and these, we think,
though useful to a certain extent for inculcating caution, should
be resorted to as rarely as possible.

We have not gone into the system of signals and “hand
motions,” if we may be allowed to use a legal term, by
which the whole of this navy is regulated; but these, and other
details, may, perhaps, be the subject of some future article for we
are partial to

TAKING IT EASY.

CORRESPONDENCE.

Newcastle-street, July —, 1841.

MR. PUNCH,—Little did I think wen i’ve bin a gaping
and starin’ at you in the streats, that i shud ever happli to
you for gustice. Isntet a shame that peeple puts advurtusmints in
the papers for a howsmaid for a lark, as it puts all the poor
survents out of plaice into a dredfool situashun.

As i alwuss gets a peep at the paper on the landin’ as i
takes it up for breckfus, i was unfoughtunite enuf to see a
para—thingem-me-bob—for a howsmaid, wanted in a
nobbleman’s fameli. On course, a young woman has a rite to
better hursef if she can; so I makes up my mind at wunce—has
i oney has sicks pouns a ear, and finds my own t and
shuggar—i makes up my mind to arsk for a day out; which, has
the cold mutting was jest enuf for mastur and missus without me,
was grarnted me. I soon clears up the kitshun, and goes up stares
to clean mysef. I puts on my silk gronin-napple gownd, and my lase
pillowrin, likewise my himitashun vermin tippit, (give me by my
cussen Harry, who keeps kumpany with me on hot-dinner days), also
my tuskin bonnit, parrersole, and blacbag; and i takes mysef orf to
South-street, but what was my felines, wen, on wringing the belle,
a boy anser’d the daw, with two roes of brarse beeds down his
jacket.

“Can i speek a word with the futman?” says i, in my
ingaugingist manner.

“i’m futman,” says he.

“Then the cook,” says i.

“We arn’t no cook,” says he.

“No cook!” says i, almose putrifide with surprise;
“you must be jokin’”—

“Jokin’,” says he; “do you no who lives
here?”

“Not exacly,” says i.

“Lord Milburn,” says he.

i thort i shud have dropt on the step, as a glimmerin’ of
the doo shot aX my mine.

“Then you don’t want no howsmaid?” says i.

“Howsmaid!” says the boy; “go to blazes: (What
could he mean by

GOING TO BLAZES?)

“No; i’ve toled fifty on ye so this
mornin’—it’s a oaks.”

“Then more shame of Lord Milborn to do it,” says i;
“he may want a place hissef some day or other,”
sayin’ of which i bounsed off the doorstep, with all tho
dignity i could command.

Now, what i wants to no is, wether i can’t summons his
lordship for my day out. Harry sais, should i ever come in contract
with Lord Milborn, i’m to trete him with the silent kontempt
of

Yours truly,

AN INDIGNANT HOUSEMAID.

A MOVING SCENE.

The present occupants of the government premises in
Downing-street, whose leases will expire in a few days, are busily
employed packing up their small affairs before the new tenants come
into possession. It is a pitiful sight to behold these poor people
taking leave of their softly-stuffed seats, their rocking-chairs,
their footstools, slippers, cushions, and all those little official
comforts of which they nave been so cruelly deprived. That man
must, indeed, be hard-hearted who would refuse to sympathise with
their sorrows, or to uplift his voice in the doleful Whig chorus,
when he hears—

THE PACK IN FULL CRY.

THE DRAMA

DUCROW AT SADLER’S WELLS.

When, in a melo-drama, the bride is placing her foot upon the
first step of the altar, and Ruffiaano tears her away, far from the
grasp of her lover; when a rich uncle in a farce dies to oblige a
starving author in a garret; when, two rivals duellise with
toasting-forks; when such things are plotted and acted in the
theatre, hypercritics murmur at their improbability; but compare
them with the haps of the drama off the stage, and they become the
veriest of commonplaces. This is a world of change: the French have
invaded Algiers, British arms are doing mortal damage in the
Celestial Empire, Poulett Thomson has gone over to Canada, and oh!
wonder of wonders! Astley’s has removed to Sadler’s
Wells!! The pyrotechnics of the former have gone on a visit to the
hydraulics of the latter, the red fire of Astley’s has come
in contact with the real water of the Wells, yet, marvel
superlative! the unnatural meeting has been successful—there
has not been a single hiss.

What was the use of Sir Hugh Middleton bringing the New River to
a “head,” or of King Jamie buying shares in the
speculation on purpose to supply Sadler’s Wells with real
water, if it is to be drained off from under the stage to make way
for horses? Shade of Dibdin! ghost of Grimaldi! what would you have
said in your day? To be sure ye were guilty of pony races: they
took place outside the theatre, but within the walls, in
the very cella of the aquatic temple, till now, never! We
wonder ye do not rise up and “pluck bright Honner from the
vasty deep” of his own tank.

Sawdust at Sadler’s Wells! What next, Mr. Merriman?

A JUDGE GOING THE CIRCUIT.

If Macready had been engaged for Clown, and set down to sing
“hot codlins;” were Palmerston “secured”
for Pierrot, or Lord Monteagle for Jim Crow, who would have
wondered? But to saddle “The Wells” with
horses—profanity unparalleled!

Spitefully predicting failure from this terrible declension of
the drama, we went, in a mood intensely ill-natured, to witness how
the “Horse of the Pyrenees” would behave himself at
Sadler’s Wells. From the piece so called we anticipated no
amusement; we thought the regular company would make but sorry
equestrians, and, like the King of Westphalia’s hussars,
would prove totally inefficient, from not being habituated to mount
on horseback. Happily we were mistaken; nothing could possibly
go better than both the animals and the piece. The actors
acquitted themselves manfully, even including the horses. The
mysterious Arab threw no damp over the performances, for he was
personated by Mr. Dry. The little Saracen was performed so well by
le petit Ducrow, that we longed to see more of
him. The desperate battle fought by about sixteen supernumeraries
at the pass of Castle Moura, was quite as sanguinary as ever: the
combats were perfection—the glory of the red fire was nowise
dimmed! It was magic, yes, it was magic! Mr. Widdicomb was
there!!

Thinking of magic and Mr. Widdicomb (of whom dark hints of
identification with the wandering Jew have been dropped—who,
we know, taught Prince George of Denmark
horsemanship—who is mentioned by Addison in the
“Spectator,” by Dr. Johnson in the
“Rambler,” and helped to put out each of the three
fires that have happened at Astley’s during the last two
centuries), brought by these considerations to a train of mind
highly susceptible of supernatural agency, we visited—

THE WIZARD OF THE NORTH,

the illustrious professor of Phœnixsistography,
and other branches of the black art, the names of which are as
mysterious as their performance.

One only specimen of his prowess convinced us of his
supernatural talents. He politely solicited the loan of a
bank-note—he was not choice as to the amount or bank of
issue. “It may be,” saith the play-bill, “a Bank
of England or provincial note, for any sum from five pounds to one
thousand.” His is better magic than Owen Glendower’s,
for the note “did come when he did call it!” for a
confiding individual in the boxes (dress circle of course) actually
did lend him, the Wizard, a cool hundred! Conceive the power, in a
metaphysical sense, the conjuror must have had over the
lender’s mind! Was it animal magnetism?—was it terror
raised by his extraordinary performances, that spirited the cash
out of the pocket of the man? who, perhaps, thought that such
supernatural talents might be otherwise employed against
his very existence, thus occupying his perturbed soul with the
alternative, “Your money or your life!”

This subject is deeply interesting to actors out of engagements,
literary men, and people who “have seen better
days”—individuals who have brought this species of
conjuration to a high state of perfection. It is a new and
important chapter in the “art of borrowing.” We
perceive in the Wizard’s advertisements he takes pupils, and
offers to make them proficient in any of his delusions at a guinea
per trick. We intend to put ourselves under his instructions for
the bank-note trick, the moment we can borrow one-pound-one for
that purpose.

Besides this, the Wizard does a variety of things which made our
hair stand on end, even while reading their description in his
play-bill. We did not see him perform them. There was no
occasion—the bank-note trick convinced us—for the man
who can borrow a hundred pounds whenever he wants it can do
anything.

Everybody ought to go and see him. Young ladies having a taste
for sentimental-looking men, who wear their hair à la
jeune France; natural historians who want to see guinea-pigs
fly; gamesters who would like to be made “fly” to a
card trick or two; connoisseurs, who wish to see how
plum-pudding may be made in hats, will all be gratified by a visit
to the Adelphi.

MACBETH AT THE SURREY.

We heard the “Macbeth choruses” exquisitely
performed, and saw the concluding combat furiously fought at this
theatre. This was all, appertaining unto Macbeth in which we could
detect a near approach to the meaning and purpose of the text,
except the performance of the Queen, by Mrs. H. Vining,
who seemed to understand the purport of the words she had to speak,
and was, consequently, inoffensive—a rare merit when
Shakspere is attempted on the other side of the Thames.

The qualifications demanded of an actor by the usual run of
Surrey audiences are lungs of undeniable efficiency, limbs which
will admit of every variety of contortion, and a talent for
broad-sword combats. How, then, could the new Macbeth—a Mr.
Graham—think of choosing this theatre for his first
appearance? His deportment is quiet, and his voice weak. It has,
for instance, been usually thought, by most actors, that after a
gentleman has murdered his sovereign, and caused a similar
peccadillo to be committed upon his dearest friend, he would be, in
some degree, agitated, and put out of the even tenor of his way,
when the ghost of Banquo appears at the banquet. On such an
occasion, John Kemble and Edmund Kean used to think it advisable to
start with an expression of terror or horror; but Mr. Graham
indulges us with a new reading. He carefully places one foot
somewhat in advance of the other, and puts his hands together with
the utmost deliberation. Again, he says mildly—

in a tone which would well befit the situation, if the text ran
thus:—

When he does attempt to vociferate, the asthmatic complaint
under which he evidently labours prevents him from delivering the
sentences in more copious instalments than the
following:—

We may be told that Mr. Graham cannot help his physical defects;
but he can help being an actor, and, above all, choosing a part
which requires great prowess of voice. In less trying characters,
he may prove an acquisition; for he showed no lack of judgment nor
of acquaintance with the conventional rules of the stage. At the
Surrey, and in “Macbeth,” he is entirely out of his
element. Above all, let him never play with Mr. Hicks, whose energy
in the combat scene, and ranting all through Macduff,
brought down “Brayvo, Hicks!” in showers. The
contrast is really too disadvantageous.

But the choruses! Never were they more bewitchingly
performed. Leffler sings the part of Hecate better than
his best friends could have anticipated; and, apart from the
singing, Miss Romer’s acting in the soprano
witch, is picturesque in the extreme.

HOP INTELLIGENCE

Fanny Elsler has made an enormous fortune by her trips
in America. Few pockets are so crammed by hops as
hers.

Oscar Byrne, professor of the College Hornpipe to the London
University, had a long interview yesterday with Lord Palmerston to
give his lordship lessons in the new waltz step. The master
complains that, despite a long political life’s practice, the
pupil does not turn quick enough. A change was, however,
apparent at the last lesson, and his lordship is expected soon to
be able to effect a complete rota-tory motion.

Mademoiselle Taglioni has left London for Germany, her
fatherland, the country of her pas.

The society for the promotion of civilization have engaged Mr.
Tom Matthews to teach the Hottentots the minuet-de-la-Cour and
tumbling. He departs with the other missionaries when the hot
weather sets in.

Charles Kean is becoming so popular with the jokers of the day,
that we have serious thoughts of reserving a corner entirely to his
use. Amongst the many hits at the young tragedian, the two
following are not the worst:—

EARLY ADVANTAGES.

“Kean’s juvenile probation at Eton has done him good
service with the aristocratic patrons of the drama,” remarked
a lady to a witty friend of ours. “Yes, madam,” was the
reply, “he seems to have gained by Eaton what his
father lost by drinking.”

BILL-STICKERS BEWARE.

“How Webster puffs young Kean—he seems to monopolise
the walls!” said Wakley to his colleague, Tom Duncombe.
“Merely a realisation of the adage,—The weakest
always goes to the wall,” replied the idol of
Finsbury.