Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, December 18, 1841
Author: Various
Release date: February 7, 2005 [eBook #14941]
Most recently updated: December 19, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Syamanta Saikia, Jon Ingram, Barbara Tozier and the PG
Online Distributed Proofreading
Our hero once more undergoes theprocess of grinding before he presents himself inLincoln’s-inn Fields for examination at the College ofSurgeons. Almost the last affair which our hero troubles himselfabout is the Examination at the College of Surgeons; and as hisanatomical knowledge requires a little polishing before he presentshimself in Lincoln’s-inn Fields, he once more undergoes theprocess of grinding.
The grinder for the College conducts his tuition in the samestyle as the grinder for the Hall—often they are united inthe same individual, who perpetually has a vacancy for a residentpupil, although his house is already quite full; somewhatresembling a carpet-bag, which was never yet known to be so crammedwith articles, but you might put something in besides. The class iscarried on similar to the one we have already quoted; but theknowledge required does not embrace the same multiformity ofsubjects; anatomy and surgery being the principal points.
Our old friends are assembled to prepare for their lastexamination, in a room fragrant with the amalgamated odours ofstale tobacco-smoke, varnished bones, leaky preparations, andgin-and-water. Large anatomical prints depend from the walls, and afew vertebræ, a lower jaw, and a sphenoid bone, are scatteredupon the table.
“To return to the eye, gentlemen,” says the grinder;“recollect the Petitian Canal surrounds the Cornea. Mr. Rapp,what am I talking about?”
Mr. Rapp, who is drawing a little man out of dots and lines uponthe margin of his “Quain’s Anatomy,” starts up,and observes—“Something about the Paddington Canalrunning round a corner, sir.”
“Now, Mr. Rapp, you must pay me a little moreattention,” expostulates the teacher. “What does theoperation for cataract resemble in a familiar point ofview?”
“Pushing a boat-hook through the wall of a house to pullback the drawing-room blinds,” answers Mr. Rapp.
“You are incorrigible,” says the teacher, smiling atthe simile, which altogether is an apt one. “Did you ever seea case of bad cataract?”
“Yes, sir, ever-so-long ago—the Cataract of theGanges at Astley’s. I went to the gallery, and had a millwith—”
“There, we don’t want particulars,” interruptsthe grinder; “but I would recommend you to mind your eyes,especially if you get under Guthrie. Mr. Muff, how do you define anulcer?”
“The establishment of a raw,” replies Mr. Muff.
“Tit! tit! tit!” continues the teacher, with anexpression of pity. “Mr. Simpson, perhaps you can tell Mr.Muff what an ulcer is?”
“An abrasion of the cuticle produced by its ownabsorption,” answers Mr. Simpson, all in a breath.
“Well. I maintain it’s easier to say arawthan all that,” observes Mr. Muff.
“Pray, silence. Mr. Manhug, have you ever been sent for toa bad incised wound?”
“Yes, sir, when I was an apprentice: a man using a choppercut off his hand.”
“And what did you do?”
“Cut off myself for the governor, like a two-yearold.”
“But now you have no governor, what plan would you pursuein a similar case?”
“Send for the nearest doctor—call him in.”
“Yes, yes, but suppose he wouldn’t come?”
“Call him out, sir.”
“Pshaw! you are all quite children,” exclaims theteacher. “Mr. Simpson, of what is bone chemicallycomposed?”
“Of earthy matter, orphosphate of lime, andanimal matter, orgelatine.”
“Very good, Mr. Simpson. I suppose you don’t know agreat deal a bout bones, Mr. Rapp?”
“Not much, sir. I haven’t been a great deal in thatline. They give a penny for three pounds in Clare Market.That’s what I call popular osteology.”
“Gelatine enters largely into the animal fibres,”says the leader, gravely. “Parchment, or skin, contains animportant quantity, and is used by cheap pastry-cooks to makejellies.”
“Well, I’ve heard of eating yourwords,” says Mr. Rapp, “but never yourdeeds.”
“Oh! oh! oh!” groan the pupils at this grossappropriation, and the class getting very unruly is broken up.
The examination at the College is altogether a more respectableordeal than the jalap and rhubarb botheration atApothecaries’ Hall, andpar conséquence, Mr.Muff goes up one evening with little misgivings as to his success.After undergoing four different sets of examiners, he is told hemay retire, and is conducted by Mr Belfour into“Paradise,” the room appropriated to the fortunateones, which the curious stranger may see lighted up every Fridayevening as he passes through Lincoln’s-inn Fields. Theinquisitors are altogether a gentlemanly set of men, who arewilling to help a student out of a scrape, rather than “catchquestion” him into one: nay, more than once the candidate hasattributed his success to a whisper prompted by the kind heart ofthe venerable and highly-gifted individual—now, alas! nomore—who until last year assisted at the examinations.
Of course, the same kind of scene takes place that was enactedafter going up to the Hall, and with the same results, except thepolice-office, which they manage to avoid. The next day, as usual,they are again at the school, standing innumerable pots, tellingincalculable lies, and singing uncounted choruses, until the Scotchpupil who is still grinding in the museum, is forced to give overstudy, after having been squirted at through the keyhole fivedistinct times, with a reversed stomach-pump full of beer, andfinally unkennelled. The lecturer upon chemistry, who has a privatepupil in his laboratory learning how to discover arsenic inpoisoned people’s stomachs, where there is none, and makered, blue, and green fires, finds himself locked in, and is obligedto get out at the window; whilst the professor of medicine, who isholding forth, as usual, to a select very few, has his lecture uponintermittent fever so strangely interrupted by distant harmony andconvivial hullaballoo, that he finishes abruptly in a pet, to thegreat joy of his class. But Mr. Muff and his friends care not. Theyhave passed all their troubles—they are regular medical men,and for aught they care the whole establishment may blow up, tumbledown, go to blazes, or anything else in a small way that maycompletely obliterate it. In another twelve hours they havedeparted to their homes, and are only spoken of in the reverencewith which we regard the ruins of a by-gone edifice, as bricks whowere.
Our task is finished. We have traced Mr. Muff from the new manthrough the almost entomological stages of his being to his perfectstate; and we take our farewell of him as the “generalpractitioner.” In our Physiology we have endeavoured to showthe medical student as he actually exists—his recklessgaiety, his wild frolics, his open disposition. That he is carelessand dissipated we admit, but these attributes end with hispupilage; did they not do so spontaneously, the up-hill strugglesand hardly-earned income of his laborious future career would, touse his own terms, “soon knock it all out of him;”although, in the after-waste of years, he looks back upon hisstudent’s revelries with an occasional return of oldfeelings, not unmixed, however, with a passing reflection upon thelamentable inefficacy of the present course of medical educationpursued at our schools and hospitals, to fit a man for futurepractice.
We have endeavoured in our sketches so to frame them, that thegeneral reader might not be perplexed by technical or localallusions, whilst the students of London saw they were the work ofone who had lived amongst them. And if in some places we havestrayed from the strict boundaries of perfect refinement, yet wetrust the delicacy of our most sensitive reader has received nowound. We have discarded our joke rather than lose our propriety;and we have been pleased at knowing that in more than one familycircle our Physiology has, now and then, raised a smile on the lipsof the fair girls, whose brothers were following the same path wehave travelled over at the hospitals.
We hope with the new year to have once more the gratification ofmeeting our friends. Until then, with a hand offered in warmfellowship,—not only to those composing the class he oncebelonged to, but to all who have been pleased to bestow a fewminutes weekly upon his chapters,—the Medical Student takeshis leave.
When does a school-boy’s writing-book resemble the Hero ofWaterloo?—When it’s aWellink’d’un (Wellington).
On my next visit I found Mr. Bayles in full force, and loud inpraise of some eleemosynary entertainment to which he had beeninvited. Having exhausted his subject and a tumbler of toddy at thesame time, Mr. Arden “availed himself of the opportunity tocall attention to the next tale,” which was found to be
I was subaltern of the cantonment main-guard at Bangalore oneday in the month of June, 182-. Tattoo had just beaten; and I wassitting in the guard-room with my friend Frederick Gahagan, thesenior Lieutenant in the regiment to which I belonged, and managerof the amateur theatre of the station.
Gahagan was a rattling, care-for-nothing Irishman, whose chiefcharacteristic was a strong propensity for theatricals andpractical jokes, but withal a generous, warm-hearted fellow, and asgallant a soldier as ever buckled sword-belt. In his capacity ofmanager, he was at present in a state of considerable perplexity,the occasion whereof was this.
There chanced then to be on a visit at Bangalore a particularally of Fred’s, who was leading tragedian of the Chowringheetheatre in Calcutta; and it was in contemplation to get up Macbeth,in order that the aforesaid star might exhibit in his crack part asthe hero of that great tragedy. Fred was to play Macduff; and the“blood-boltered Banquo” was consigned to my charge. Theother parts were tolerably well cast, with the exception of that ofLady Macbeth, which indeed was not cast at all, seeing that norepresentative could be found for it. It must be stated that, as wehad no actresses amongst us, all our female characters, as in thetimes of the primitive drama, were necessarily performed bygentlemen. Now in general it was not difficult to command a supplyof smooth-faced young ensigns to personate the heroines,waiting-maids, and old women, of the comedies and farces to whichour performances had been hitherto restricted. But Lady Macbeth wasa very different sort of person to Caroline Dormer and Mrs.Hardcastle; and ourladies accordingly, one and all,struck work, refusing point blank to have anything to say toher.
The unfortunate manager, who had set his heart upon getting upthe piece, was at his wits’ end, and had bent his footstepstowards the main guard, to advise with me as to what should be donein this untoward emergency. I endeavoured to console him as well asI could, and suggested, that if the worst came to the worst, thepart might be read. But, lugubriously shaking his caput, Freddeclared that would never do; so, after discussing half-a-dozenTrichinopoly cheroots, with a proportionate quantum of brandypani, he departed for his quarters.“disgusted,” as he said, “with the ingratitude ofmankind,” whilst I set forth to go my grand rounds.
Next morning, having been relieved from guard, I had returnedhome, and was taking my ease in my camp chair, luxuriously whiffingaway at my after-breakfast cheroot, when who should step gingerlyinto the room but Manager Fred Gahagan. The clouds of the previousevening had entirely disappeared from his ingenuous countenance,which was puckered up in the most insinuating manner, with what Iwas wont to call his ‘borrowing smile;’ for Fred wasoftentimes afflicted with impecuniosity—a complaint commonenough amongst us subs;—and when the fit was on him, in thespirit of true friendship, he generally contrived to disburthen meof the few remaining rupees that constituted the balance of my lastmonth’s pay.
Fred brought himself to an anchor upon a bullock trunk, and,after my boy had handed him a cheroot, and he had disgorged a fewpuffs of smoke, thus delivered himself—
“This is a capital weed, Wilmot. I don’t know how itis, but you always manage to have the best tobacco in thecantonment.”
“Hem,” said I, drily. “Glad you likeit.”
“I say, Peter, my dear fellow,” quoth he,“Fitzgerald, Grimes, and I, have just been talking over whatwe were discussing last night, about Lady Macbeth youknow.”
“Yes,” said I, somewhat relieved to find theconversation was not taking the turn I dreaded.
“Well, sir,” continued Fred, plunging at once“in medias res,”and speaking very fast, “and wehave come to the conclusion that you are the only person to relieveus from all difficulty on the subject; Fitzgerald will take yourpart of Banquo; and you shall have Lady Macbeth, a character forwhich every one agrees you are admirably fitted.”
“I play Lady Macbeth!” cried I, “with myscrubbing-brush of a beard, and whiskers like a prickly-pear hedge;why, you mast be all mad to think of such a thing.”
“My dear friend,” remarked Gahagan mildly,“you know I have always said that you had the Kemble eye andnose, and I’m sure you won’t hesitate about cutting offyour whiskers when so much depends upon it; they’ll soon growagain you know, Peter; as for your dark chin that don’tmatter a rush, as Lady Macbeth is a dark woman.”
The reader will agree with me in thinking that friendship cansometimes be as blind as love, when I say with respect to my“Kemble eye and nose,” that the former has been fromchildhood affected with a decided tendency to strabismus, and thelatter bears a considerably stronger resemblance to a pump-handlethan it does to the classic profile of John Kemble or any of hisfamily.
“Lieutenant Gahagan,” said I, solemnly, “doyou remember how, some six years ago at Hydrabad, when yetbeardless and whiskerless, the only hair upon my face beingeyebrows and eyelashes, at your instigation and ‘suadentediabolo,’ I attempted to perform Lydia Languish in ‘TheRivals?’ and hast thou yet forgotten, O son of an unsaintedfather, how my grenadier stride, the fixed tea-pot position of myarms, to say nothing of the numerous other solecisms in the code offemale manners which I perpetrated on that occasion, made me alaughing-stock and a by-word for many a long day afterwards! Allthis, I say, must be fresh in your recollection, and yet you havethe audacity to ask me to expose myself again in a similarmanner.”
“Pooh, pooh!” laughed Gahagan, “you were onlya boy then, now you have more experience in these matters; besides,Lydia Languish was a part quite unworthy of your powers; LadyMacbeth is a horse of another colour.”
“Why, man, with what face could I aver that
‘I have given suck, and know
How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me.’
That would certainly draw tears from the audience, but theywould be tears of laughter, not sympathy, I warrant you. No, no,good master Fred, it won’t do, I tell you; and in the wordsof Lady Macbeth herself, I say—
‘What beast was’t, then,
That made you break this enterprise to me?’
And now oblige me by walking your body off, for I have got myyesterday’s guard report to fill up and send in, in defaultof which I shall be sure to catch an ‘official’ fromthe Brigade-Major.”
But Fred not only did not walk his body off, but harping on thesame string, pertinaciously continued to ply me with alternatearguments and intreaties, until at last fairly wearied out, andmore, I believe, with the hope of getting rid of the“importunate chink” of the fellow’s discourse,than anything else, in an evil moment I consented! hear it not,shade of Mrs. Siddons! to denude myself of the bushy honours of mycheeks, and tread the boards of the Bangalore stage as the wife ofthat atrocious usurper “King Cawdor Glamis!”
Fred marched himself away, elated at having carried his point;and I, after sundry dubious misgivings anent the rash promise I hadmade, ended by casting all compunctious visitings to the winds, anddoughtily resolved, as I was in for the business, to “screwmy courage to the sticking-place,’ and go through with it asboldly as I might.
By dint of continually studying my rôle, my dislike to itgradually diminished, nay, at length was converted into positiveenthusiasm. I became convinced that I should make a decided hit,and cover my temples with unfading laurel. I rehearsed at alltimes, seasons, and places, until I was a perfect nuisance toeverybody, and my acquaintance, I am sure, to a man, wished both meand her bloodthirsty ladyship, deeper than plummet ever sounded, atthe bottom of the sea. Even the brute creation did not escape theannoyance. One morning my English pointer “Spot” ranyelping out of the room, panic-stricken by the vehement manner withwhich I exclaimed, “Out damnedspot, out, Isay!” and with the full conviction, which the animal probablyentertained to the day of his death, that the said anathema hadpersonal reference to himself.
The evening big with my fate at last arrived. The house wascrammed, expectation on tiptoe, and the play commenced. The firstfour acts went off swimmingly, my performance especially wasapplauded to the echo, and there only wanted the celebratedsleeping scene, in which I flattered myself to be particularlystrong, to complete my triumph. Triumph, did I say!
I must here explain, for the benefit of those who have neverrounded the Cape, that the extreme heat of an Indian climate is sofavourable to the growth of hair as to put those wights who areafflicted with darkchevelures, which was my case, to theinconvenient necessity of chin-scraping twice on the game day, whenthey wish to appear particularly spruce of an evening. Now Iintended to have shaved before the play began, but in the hurry ofdressing had forgotten all about it; and upon inspecting my visagein a glass, after I had donned Lady Macbeth’s night-gear, thelower part of it appeared so swart in contrast with the whitedress, that I found it would be absolutely necessary to pass arazor over it before going on with my part.
The night was excessively warm, even for India; and as the placeallotted to us for dressing was very small and confined, the brightthought struck me that I should have more air and room on thestage, whither I accordingly directed my servant to follow me withthe shaving apparatus.
I ensconced myself behind the drop-scene, which was down, andwas in the act of commencing the tonsorial operation, when,horresco referens, the prompter’s bell rang sharply,whether by accident or design I was never able to ascertain, buthave grievous suspicions that Fred Gahagan knew something aboutit—up flew the drop-scene like a shot, and discovered thefollowingtableau vivant to the astoundedaudience:—
Myself Lady Macbeth, with legs nearly a yard asunder—faceand throat outstretched, and covered with a plentiful whitelather—right arm brandishing aloft one of Paget’s bestrazors, and left thumb and forefinger grasping my nose. In front ofme stood my faithful Hindoo valet, Verasawmy by name, with asoap-box in one hand, while his other held up to his master’sgaze a small looking-glass, over the top of which his black face,surmounted by a red turban, was peering at me with grave andearnest attention.
A wondering pause of a few seconds prevailed, and then one loud,rending, and continuous peal of laughter and screams shook theuniversal house.
As if smitten with sudden catalepsy, I was without power to movea single muscle of my body, and for the space of two minutesremained in a stupor in the same attitude—immovable, rooted,frozen to the spot where I stood. At length recovering at once mysenses and power of motion, I bounded like a maniac from the stage,pursued by the convulsive roars of the spectators, and upsetting inmy retreat the unlucky Verasawmy, who rolled down to thefootlights, doubled up, and in a paroxysm of terror and dismay.
Lieutenant Frederick Gahagan had good reason to bless his starsthat in that moment of frenzy I did not encounter him, thedetestable origin of the abomination that had just been heaped uponmy head. I am no two-legged creature if I should not havesacrificed him on the spot with my razor, and so merited thegratitude of his regimental juniors by giving them a step.
I have never since, either in public or private life, appearedin petticoats again.
Oft have I fondly heard thee pour
Love’s incense in mine ear!
Oft bade thy lips repeat once more
The words I deemed sincere!
But—though the truth this heart may break—
I know thee false “and no mistake!”
My fancy pictured to my heart
Thy boasted passion, pure;
Dreamed thy affection, void of art,
For ever would endure.
Alas! in vain my woe I smother!
I find thee very much “more t’other!”
’Twas sweet to hear you sing oflove,
But, when you talk ofgold,
Your sordid, base design you prove,
And—for itmust be told—
Since from my soul the truth you drag—
“You let the cat out of the bag!”
That the people of this country are grossly pampered there canbe no doubt, for the following facts have been ascertained fromwhich it will be seen that there have been instances of personsliving on much coarser fare than the working classes inEngland.
In 1804, a shipwrecked mariner, who was thrown on to thecelebrated mud-island of Coromandel, lived for three weeks upon hisown wearing apparel. He first sucked all the goodness out of hisjacket, and the following day dashed his buttons violently againstthe rock in order to soften them. He next cut pieces from histrousers, as tailors do when they want cabbage, and found them anexcellent substitute for that salubrious vegetable. He was in theact of munching his boots for breakfast one morning, when he wasfortunately picked up by his Majesty’s schoonerCutaway.
In the year ’95, the crew of the brigTerriblelost all their provisions, except a quantity of candles. Afterthese were gone, they took a plank out of the side of the vesseland sliced it, which was their board for a whole fortnight.
After these startling and particularly well-authenticated facts,it would be absurd to deny that there is no reason for taking intoconsideration the comparatively trifling distress that is nowprevalent.
“A person named Meara,” says theGalwayAdvertiser, “confined for debt some time since in ourtown jail, fasted sixteen days!”
Sibthorp says this is an excellent illustration of hard andfast, and entitles the gentleman to be placed at
THE SUMMIT OF HIS PROFESSION.
Dear PUNCH,—Have you seen the con. I made the other day? Itranscribe it for you:—
“Though Wealth’s neglect and Folly’s taunt
Conspire to distress the poor,
Pray can you tell me whysharp want
Can ne’er approach the pauper’sdoor”
D’Orsay has rhymed the following answer:—
“The merest child might wonder how
The pauper e’ersharp wants can know,
When, spite of cruel Fortune’s taunts,
Blunt is thesharpest of his wants.”
Yours sincerely and comically,
SIBTHORP.
P.S.—Let BRYANT call for his Christmas-box.
At the public meeting at Hammersmith for the purpose of takinginto consideration the propriety of lighting the roads, in themidst of a most animated discussion, Captain Atcherly proposed anadjournment of the said meeting; which proposition being stronglynegatived by a small individual, Captain Atcherly quietly pointedto an open window, made a slight allusion to the hardness of thepavement, and finally achieved the exit of the dissentient bywhistling
MY FRIEND AND PITCHER.
“Take care of him!” That sentence has been my ruin;from my cradle upwards it has dogged my steps and proved my bane!Fatal injunction! Little did my parents think of the miseries thosefour small monosyllables have entailed upon their hapless son!
My first assertion of infantine existence, that innocent andfeeble wail that claimed the name of life, was met by the command,“Take care of him! take care of him!” said my mother tothe doctor; “Take care of him!” said the doctor to thenurse; and “Take care of him!” added my delightedfather to every individual of the rejoicing household.
The doctor’s care manifested itself in an over-dose ofcastor oil; the nurse, in the plenitude of her bounty, nearlyparboiled me in an over-heated bath; my mother drugged me with avillanous decoction of soothing syrup, which brought on a slumberso sound that the first had very nearly proved my last; and theentire household dandled me with such uncommon vigour that I wasliterally tossed and “Catchee-catchee’d” into afit of most violent convulsions. As I persisted in surviving, sodid I become the heir to fresh torments from the ceaseless care ofthose by whom I was surrounded. My future symmetry was superinducedby bandaging my infant limbs until I looked like a miniature mummy.The summer’s sun was too hot and the winter’s blast toocold; wet was death, and dry weather was attended with easterlywinds. I was “taken care of.” I never breathed thefresh air of Heaven, but lived in an artificial nursery atmosphereof sea-coal and logs.
Young limbs are soon broken, and young children will fall, ifnot taken care of; consequently upon any instinctive attempt at apedestrian performance I was tied round the middle with a broadribbon, my unhappy little feet see-sawing in the air, and barelybrushing the ruffled surface of the Persian carpet, while Iappeared like a tempting bait, with which my nurse, after themanner of an experienced angler, was bobbing for some of thestrange monsters worked into the gorgeous pattern.
Crooked legs were “taken care of” by a brace ofsymmetrical iron shackles, and Brobdignag walnut-shells, decoratedwith flaming bows of crimson ribbon, were attached to each side ofmy small face, to prevent me from squinting. When old enough tomount a pony, I was “taken such care of,” by beingsecured to the saddle, that the restive little brute, feelinginclined for a tumble, deliberately rolled over me some half-dozentimes before the astonished stable-boy could effect my deliverance!while the corks with which I was provided to learn to swim in somethree feet square of water, slipped accidentally down to my toes,and left me submerged so long that the total consumption of all thesalt, and wetting in boiling water of all the blankets, in thehouse was found absolutely necessary to effect myresuscitation.
At school I was once more to be “taken care of;”consequently I pined to death in a wretched single-bedded room,shuddering with inconceivable horror at the slightest sound, andconjuring up legions of imaginary sprites to haunt my couch duringmy waking hours of dread and misery. O how I envied the recklesslaughter of the gleeful urchins whose unmindful parents left themto the happy utterance of their own and participation in theiryoung companions’ thoughts!
As a parlour boarder, which I was of course, “to be takencare of,” I was not looked upon as one of the“fellows,” but merely as a little upstart—one whomost likely was pumped by the master and mistress, and peached uponthe healthy rebels of the little world.
Christmas brought me no joys. “Taking care of myhealth” prevented me from skating and snow-balling; whileperspective surfeits deprived me of the enjoyments of the turkeys,beef, and glorious pudding.
At eighteen I entered as a gentleman commoner at ——College, Cambridge; and at nineteen a suit of solemn black, and thepossession of five thousand a year, bespoke me heir to all myfather left; and from that hour have I had cause to curse the titleof this paper. Young and inexperienced, I entered wildly into allthe follies wealth can purchase or fashion justify; but I was stillto be the victim of the phrase. “We’ll take care ofhim,” said a knot of the most determined play-men upon town;and they did. Two years saw my five thousand per annum reduced toone, but left me with somewhat more knowledge of the world. Eventhat was turned against me; and prudent fathers shook their heads,and sagely cautioned their own young scapegraces “to takecare of me.”
All was not yet complete. A walk down Bond Street wasinterrupted by a sudden cry, “That’s him—takecare of him!” I turned by instinct, and was arrested at thesuit of a scoundrel whose fortune I had made, and who in gratitudehad thus pointed me out to the myrmidon of the Middlesex sheriff. Iwas located in a lock-up house, and thence conveyed to jail. Inboth instances the last words I heard in reference to myself were“Take care of him.” I sacrificed almost my all, andonce more regained my liberty. Fate seemed to turn! A friend lentme fifty pounds. I pledged my honour for its repayment. He promisedto use his interest for my future welfare. I kept my wordgratefully; returned the money on the day appointed. I did sobefore one who knew me by report only, and looked upon me as aruined, dissipated, worthless Extravagant. I returned to anadjoining room to wait my friend’s coming. While there, Icould not avoid hearing the following colloquy—
“Good Heaven! has that fellow actually returned yourfifty?”
“Yes. Didn’t you see him?”
“Of course I did; but I can scarcely believe my eyes. Oh!he’s a deep one.”
“He’s a most honourable young man.”
“How can you be so green? He has a motive init.”
“What motive?”
“I don’t know that. But, old fellow, listen to me.I’m a man of the world, and have seen something of life; andI’ll stake my honour and experience that that fellow means todo you; so be advised, and—‘Take care ofhim!’”
This was too much. I rushed out almost mad, and demanded anapology, or satisfaction—the latter alternative was chosen.Oh, how my blood boiled! I should either fall, or, at length, bythus chastising the impertinent, put an end to the many meaning andhateful words.
We met; the ground was measured. I thought for a moment of thesin of shedding human blood, and compressed my lips. A moment Iwavered; but the voice of my opponent’s second whispering,“Take care of him,” once more nerved my heart and arm.My adversary’s bullet whistled past my ear:hefell—hit through the shoulder. He was carried to hiscarriage. I left the ground, glad that I had chastised him, butreleased to find the wound was not mortal. I felt as if in Heaventhis act would free me from the worldly ban. A week after, I metone of my old friends; he introduced me by name to his father. Theold gentleman started for a moment, then exclaimed—“Youknow my feeling, Sir—you are a duellist! Tom, ‘Takecare of him!’”
PUNCHLIED. | SONG FOR PUNCH DRINKERS. |
(VON SCHILLER.) | (FROM SCHILLER.) |
Vier Elemente Innig gesellt, Bilden das Leben Bauen die Welt. Presst der Citrone Saftigen Stern! Herb ist des Lebens Innerster Kern. Jetzt mit des Zuckers Linderndem Saft Zæhmet die herbe Brennende Kraft! Gieszet des Wassers Sprudelnden Schwall! Wasser umfænget Ruhig das All! Tropfen des Geistes Gieszet hinein! Leben dem Leben Gibt er allein. Eh’ es verdueftet Schoepfet es schnell! Nur wann er gluehet Labet der Quell. | Four be the elements, Here we assemble ’em, Each of man’s world And existence an emblem. Press from the lemon The slow flowing juices. Bitter is life In its lessons and uses. Bruise the fair sugar lumps,— Nature intended Her sweet and severe To be everywhere blended. Pour the still water— Unwarning by sound, Eternity’s ocean Is hemming us round! Mingle the spirit, The life of the bowl; Man is an earth-clod Unwarmed by a soul! Drink of the stream Ere its potency goes! No bath is refreshing Except while it glows! |
Wednesday last was the day fixed for the distribution of theprizes at this institution, and every arrangement had been made toreceive the numerous visitors. The boards had undergone theirannual scrubbing, and some beautiful devices in chalk added life tothe floor, which was enriched with a scroll-work of whiting, whilethe arms of Hookham-cum-Snivery (a nose,rampant, with ahand,couchant, extending a thumb,gules, to thenostril,argent) formed an appropriate centre-piece.
Seven o’clock was fixed upon for the opening of the doors,at which hour the committee went in procession, headed by theirchairman, to withdraw the bolts, that the public might be admitted,when a rush took place of the most frightful and disastrouscharacter. A drove of bullocks that were being alternately enticedand marling-spiked into a butcher’s exactly opposite, tookadvantage of the courtesy of the committee, and poured in withgreat rapidity to the building, carrying everything—includingthe committee—most triumphantly before them. In spite oftheir unceremonious entry, some of the animals evinced adisposition to stand upon forms, by leaping on to the benches,while the committee, who had expected a deputation ofsavans from the Hampton-super-HorsepondInstitution, for the enlightenment of ignorant octagenarians, andwho being prepared to see a party of donkeys, were not inclined totake the bull by the horns, made a precipitate retreat into theanteroom.
Order having been at length restored, the intruders ejected, andtheir places supplied by a select circle of subscribers, thefollowing prizes were distributed:—
To Horatio Smith Smith, the large copper medal, bearing on oneside the portrait of George the Third, on the reverse a figure ofBritannia, sitting on a beer barrel, and holding in her hand atoasting fork. This medal was given for the best drawing of thecork of a ginger-beer bottle.
To Ferdinand Fitz-Figgins, the smaller copper medal, with thehead of William the Fourth, and a reverse similar to that of thesuperior prize. This was awarded for the best drawing of a decayedtooth afterTeniers.
To Sigismond Septimus Snobb, the large willow pattern plate, forthe best model of a national water-butt, to be erected in theTeetotalers’ Hall of Temperance in theWater-looRoad.
To Lucius Junius Brutus Brown, the Marsh-gate turnpike ticketfor Christmas-day—of which an early copy has been mosthandsomely presented by the contractor. This useful and interestingdocument has been given for the best design—upon the riverThames, with the view to igniting it.
The proceedings having been terminated, so far as thedistribution was concerned, the following speeches weredelivered:—
The first orator was Mr. Julius Jones, who spoke nearly asfollows:—
Mither Prethident and thubtheriberth of the Hookam-cum-SthniveySthchool of Dethign, in rithing to addreth thuch an afthembly aththith—
Here the confusion became so general that our reporter couldcatch nothing further, and as the partisans of Mr. Jones becamevery much excited, while the opposition was equally violent, ourreporter fearing that, though he could not catch the speeches, hemight possibly catch something else, effected his retreat asspeedily as possible.
Why is a man with his eyes shut like an illiterateschoolmaster?—Because he keeps his pupils in darkness.
Why is the present Lord Chancellor wickeder than thelast?—Because he’s got two more Vices.
Why are abbots the greatest dunces in the world?—Becausethey never get further than theirAbbacy (A, B, C.)
Why is an auctioneer like a man with an uglycountenance?—Because he is always for-bidding.
Why is Mrs. Lilly showing the young Princes like an affectedladies’-maid?—Because she exhibits her mistress’sheirs (airs).
A dispatch, bearing a foreign post-mark, was handed verygenerally about in the city this morning, but its contents did nottranspire. Considerable speculation is afloat on the subject, butwe are unable to give any particulars.
Downing-street was in a state of great activity all yesterday,and people were passing to and fro repeatedly. This excitement isgenerally believed to be connected with nothing particular. We haveour own impression on the subject, but as disclosures would bepremature, we purposely forbear making any. We can only say, atpresent, that Sir Robert Peel continues to hold the office of PrimeMinister.
AIR,—I’m the boy for bewitchingthem
Whisht, ye divils, now can’t you be aisy,
Like a cat whin she’s licking the crame.
And I’ll sing ye a song just to plase you,
About myself, Dermot Macshane.
You’ll own, whin I’ve tould ye my story.
And the janius adorning my race,
Although I’ve no brass in my pocket,
Mushagra! I’ve got lots in my face.
For in rainy or sunshiny weather,
I’m full of good whiskey and joy;
And take me in parts altogether,
By the pow’rs I’m a broth of a boy.
I was sint on the mighty world one day,
Like a squeaking pig out of a sack;
And, och, murder! although it was Sunday,
Without a clane shirt to my back.
But my mother died while I was sucking,
And larning for whiskey to squall,
Leaving me a dead cow, and a stocking
Brimful of—just nothing at all.
But in rainy, &c.
My ancistors, who were all famous
At Donnybrook, got a great name:
My aunt she sould famous good whiskey—
I’m famous for drinking that same.
And I’m famous, like Master Adonis,
With his head full of nothing but curls,
For breaking the heads of the boys, sirs,
And breaking the hearts of the girls.
For in rainy, &c.
Och! I trace my discint up to Adam,
Who was once parish priest in Kildare;
And uncle, I think, to King David,
That peopled the county of Clare.
Sure his heart was as light as a feather,
Till his wife threw small beer on his joy
By falling in love with a pippin,
Which intirely murder’d the boy.
For in rainy, &c.
A fine architict was my father,
As ever walk’d over the sea;
He built Teddy Murphy’s mud cabin—
And didn’t he likewise build me?
Sure, he built him an illigant pigstye,
That made all the Munster boys stare.
Besides a great many fine castles—
But, bad luck,—they were all in the air.
For in rainy, &c.
Though I’d scorn to be rude to a lady,
Miss Fortune and I can’t agree;
So I flew without wings from green Erin—
Is there anything green about me?
While blest with this stock of fine spirits,
At care, faith, my fingers I’ll snap;
I’m as rich as a Jew without money,
And free as a mouse in a trap.
For in rainy, &c.
The Prince of Wales it is allowed upon all hands is the finestbaby ever sent into this naughty world since the firstborn of Eve.At a day old he would make three of any of the new-born babes thata month since blessed the Union bf Sevenoaks. There is, however, aremarkable providence in this. The Prince of Wales is born to thevastness of a palace; the little Princes of Pauperdom being doomedto lie at the rate of fifteen in “two beds tiedtogether,” are happily formed of corresponding dimensions,manufactured of more “squeezeable materials.” There is,be sure of it, a providence watching over parish unions as well aspalaces. How, for instance, would boards of guardians pack theirnew-born charges, if every babe of a union had the brawn and boneof a Prince of Wales?
However, we could wish that the little Prince was thrice hissize—an aspiration in which our readers will heartily join,when they learn the goodly tidings we are about to tell them.
We believe it is not generally known that Sir PETER LAURIE is asprofound an orientalist as perhaps any Rabbi dwelling inWhitechapel. Sir PETER, whilst recently searching the Mansion Houselibrary,—which has been greatly enriched by easternmanuscripts, the presents of the late Sir WILLIAM CURTIS, SirCLAUDIUS HUNTER, and the venerable Turk who is Wont to sell rhubarbin Cheapside, and supplied dinner-pills to the Court ofAldermen,—Sir PETER, be it understood, lighted upon a rarework on the Mogul Country, in which it is stated that on everybirth-day of the Great Mogul, his Magnificence is duly weighed inscales against so much gold and silver—his precise weight inthe precious metals being expended on provisions for the poor.
Was there ever a happier device to make a nation interested inthe greatness of their sovereign? The fatter the king, the fullerhis people! With this custom naturalised among us, what a blessingwould have been the corpulency of GEORGE THE FOURTH! How the royalhaunches, the royal abdomen, would have had the loyal aspirationsof the poor and hungry! The national anthem would have had anadditional verse in thanksgiving for royal flesh; and in ourorisons said in churches, we should not only have prayed for theincreasing years of our “most religious King,” but forhis increasing fat!
It is however useless to regret forgotten advantages; let us, onthe contrary, with new alacrity, avail ourselves of a presentgood.
Our illumination on the christening of the Prince ofWales—we at once, and in the most liberal manner, give thechild his title—has been generally scouted, save and exceptby a few public-spirited oil and tallow-merchants. It has beenthought better to give away legs of mutton on the occasion, than towaste any of the sheep in candles. This proposition—it isknown—has our heartiest concurrence. Here, however, comes inthe wisdom of our dear Sir Peter. He, taking the hint from theMogul Country, proposes that the Prince of Wales should be weighedin scales—weighed, naked as he was born, without the purplevelvet and ermine robe in which his Highness is ordinarily shownin, not that Sir PETER would sinkthat “asoffal”—against his royal weight in beef and pudding;the said beef and pudding to be distributed to every poor family(if the family count a certain number of mouths, his Royal Highnessto be weighed twice or thrice, as it may be) to celebrate the dayon which his Royal Highness shall enter the pale of the ChristianChurch.
We have all heard what a remarkably fine child his RoyalBabyhood is; but would not this distribution of beef and puddingconvince the country of the fact? How folks would rejoice at thechubbiness of the Prince, when they saw a evidence of his baredimensions smoking on their table! How their hearts would leap upat his fat, when they beheld it typified upon their platters! Howthey would be gladdened by prize royalty, while their mouthswatered at prize beef! And how, with all their admiration of theexceeding lustihood of the Prince of Wales,—how, from thevery depths of their stomachs, would they wish His Royal Highnesstwice as big!
Is not this a way to disarm Chartism of its sword and pike,making even O’CONNOR, VINCENT, and PINKETHLIE, throw awaytheir weapons for a knife and fork? Is not this the way to make theweight of royalty easy—oh, most easy!—to a burthenedpeople? The beef-and-pudding representatives of His Royal Highness,preaching upon every poor man’s table, would carry theconsolations of loyalty to every poor man’s stomach. When thechildren of the needy lisped “plum pudding,” would theynot think of the Prince?
(Now, then, our readers know the obligation of the country toSir PETER LAURIE—an obligation which we are happy to statewill be duly acknowledged by the Common Council, that grateful bodyhaving already petitioned the Government for the waste leaden pipespreserved from the fire at the Tower, that a statue of Sir Petermay be cast from the metal, and placed in some convenient nook ofthe Mansion-House, where the Lord Mayor for the time being may, itis hoped, behold it at least once a-day.)
This happy suggestion of Sir PETER’S may, however, befollowed up with the best national effect. Christmas is fastApproaching: let the fashion set by the Prince of Wales be followedby all public bodies—by all individuals “blessed withaught to give.” Let the physical weight of allcorporations—all private benefactors of the poor, bedistributed in eatables to the indigent and famishing. When theAlderman, with “three fingers on the ribs” gives hisweight in geese or turkeys to the poor of his ward, he returns themost pertinent thanks-giving to providence, that has put money inhis pocket and flesh upon his bones. The poor may have anunexpected cause to bless the venison and turtle that have fattenedhis bowels, seeing that they are made the depositories of theirweight.
This standard of Christmas benefactions may admit of verycurious illustration. For instance, we would not tie the noble andthe aristocratic to any particular kind of viands, but would allowthem to illustrate their self-value of the “porcelain of allhuman clay” by the richness and rarity of theirsubscriptions. Whilst a SIBTHORP, with a fine sense of humility,might be permitted to give his weight in calves’ orsheeps’ heads (be it understood we must have thewhole weight of the Colonel, for if we were to sinkhis offal, what in the name of veal would remain?), a Dukeof WELLINGTON should be allowed to weight against nothing less thanthe fattest venison and the finest turtle. As the Duke, too, israther a light weight, we should be glad if he wouldcondescend to take a Paisley weaver or two in the scale with him,to make his subscription of eatables the more worthy of acceptance.All the members of the present Cabinet would of course be weighedagainst loaves and fishes (on the present occasion we would acceptnothing under the very finest wheaten bread and the very best ofturbot), whilst a LAURIE, who has worked such a reform incut-throats, should be weighed out to his ward in the most selectstickings of beef.
All we propose to ourselves in these our weekly essays is, togive brief suggestions for the better government of the world, andfor the bringing about the millennium, which—when we aregiven awaygratis in the streets—may be consideredto have arrived. Hence, we cannot follow put through all itsnatural ramifications the benevolent proposition here laid down. Wetrust, however, we have done enough. It is not necessary that weshould particularise all public men, tying them to be weighedagainst specific viands: no, our readers will at once recognise theexistence of the parties, and at once acknowledge their fittestofferings. It may happen that a peer might very properly be weighedagainst shin of beef, and a Christian bishop be popped in the scaleagainst a sack of perriwinkles; it remains, however, withLONDONDERRY or EXETER to be weighed if they will against goldenpheasants and birds of paradise.
We are perfectly aware that if many of the elect of the landwere to weigh themselves against merely the things they are worth,that a great deal of the food subscribed would be unfit to be eateneven by the poor. We should have rats, dogs, snakes, bats, and allother unclean animals; but in levying the parties to weighthemselves at their own valuation, the poor may be certain to“sup in the Apollo.” On this principle we should havethe weight of a LYNDHURST served to this neighbourhood in thetenderest house-lamb, and a STANLEY kicking the beam against somany “sucking doves.”
Q.
Coats are very much worn, particularly at the elbows, and aretrimmed with a shining substance, which gives them a very glossyappearance. A rim of white runs down the seams, and the covering ofthe buttons is slightly opened, so as to show the wooden materialunder it.
Hats are now slightly indented at the top, and we have seenseveral in which part of the brim is sloped off without anyparticular regard to the quantity abstracted.
Walking-dresses are very much dotted just now with brown spotsof a mud colour, thrown on quite irregularly, and the heels of thestockings may sometimes be seen trimmed with the same material. Asort of basket-work is now a great deal seen as a head-dress, andin these cases it is strewed over with little silver fish,something like common sprat, which gives it a light and gracefulcharacter.
THE POLITICIAN PUZZLED;
OR,
PEEL ON THE RE-PEAL OF THE CORN-LAWS.
An excellent thing it is, when you get it genuine—none ofyour coarse Whitechapel abominations, but a veritablesatin-skinned, brown Indian beauty; smooth and firm to the touch,and full-flavoured to the taste; such a one as would be worth aJewess’ eye, with a glass of tawny Port. But thegratification that we have been wont to derive from our realManilla has been sadly disturbed of late by a circumstance whichhas caused a dreadful schism in the smoking world, and has agitatedevery divan in the metropolis to its very centre. The question is,“Whether should a cheroot be smoked by the great or the smallend?” On this apparently trivial subject the great body ofcheroot smokers have taken different sides, and divided themselves,as the Lilliputians did in the famous egg controversy, into theBig-endians andLittle-endians. The dispute hasbeen carried on with great vigour on both sides, and severalingenious volumes have been already written, proving satisfactorilythe superiority of each system, without however convincing a singleindividual of the opposite party. The Tories, we have observed,have as usual seized on thebig end of the argument, whilethe Whigs have grappled as resolutely by thelittle end,and are puffing away furiously in each other’s eyes. Heavenknows where the contest will end! For ourselves, we are content towatch the struggle from our quiet corner, convinced, whichever endgains the victory, that John Bull will be made to smoke for it; andwhen curious people ask us if we bebig-endians orlittle-endians, we answer, that, to oblige all ourfriends, we smoke our Manillas atboth ends.
Oh, tell me not of empires grand,
Of proud dominion wide and far,
Of those who sway the fertile land
Where melons three for twopence are.
To rule like this I ne’er aspire,
In fact my book it would not suit!
The onlyrule that I desire,
Isa rule nisi to compute.
Oh speak not of the calm delights,
That in the fields or lanes we win;
The field and lane that me invites
Is Chancery or Lincoln’s Inn.
Yes, there in some remote recess,
At eve, I practise on my flute,
Till some attorney comes to bless
Witha rule nisi to compute.
Oh, how oft when alone at the close of the day
I’ve sat in that Court where the fig-treedon’t grow
And wonder’d how I, without money, should pay
The little account to my laundress below!
And when I have heard a quick step on the stair,
I’ve thought which of twenty rich duns it couldbe,
I have rush’d to the door in a fit of despair,
And—received ten and sixpence for signing aplea.
CHORUS.—Signing a plea, signinga plea!
Received ten and sixpence for signing a plea.
They may talk as they will of the pleasure that’sfound.
When venting in verse our despondence and grief;
But the pen of the poet was ne’er, I’ll bebound,
Half so pleasantly used as in signing a brief.
In soft declarations, though rapture may lie,
If the maid to appear to your suit willing be,
But ah I could write till my inkstand was dry,
And die in the act—yes—of signing aplea.
CHORUS.—Signing a plea, signinga plea!
Die in the act—yes—of signing a plea.
Degousin ai gunaikes
Anakreon geron ei
Labon esoptron athrei
Komas men ouket ousas
Psilon de seu metopon.]
Λέγουσναἱγυναίκες
Άνακρέωνγέρων εί
Λαβὼνἔσοπτρονἄθρει
Κόμας μὲνοὐκέτ᾿οὔσας
Ψιλὸν δέσευμέτωπον.
Oft by the women I am told
“Tomkins, my boy, you’re growing o!d.
Look in the glass, and see how bare
Your poll appears reflected there.
No ringlets play around your brow;
’Tis all Sir Peter Laurie-ish11. This is a graceful as well as a literal rendering ofthe bard of Teos. The wordΨιλὸν signifyingnudus,inanis,‘envis,fatuus; Anglice,—SirPeter Laurie-ish ED. OF “PUNCH.”now.”
Quod summum formæ decus est, cecidere capilli,
Vernantesque comas tristis abegit hyems
Nunc umbra nudata sua jam tempora mœrent,
Areaque attritis nidet adusta pilis.
O fallax natura Deum! quæ prima dedisti
Ætati nostræ gaudia, prima rapis.
Infelix modo crinibus nitebas,
Phœbo pulchrior, et sorore Phœbi:
At nunc lævior aëre, vel rotundo
Horti tubere, quod creavit unda,
Ridentes fugis et times puellas.
Ut mortem citius venire credas,
Scito jam capitis perisse partem.
Tomkins, you’re dish’d! thy light luxurianthair,
Like “a distress,” hath left thy caput bare;
Thy temples mourn th’ umbrageous locks, and yield
A crop as stunted as a stubble field.
Rowland and Ross! your greasy gifts are vain,
You give the hair you’re sure to cut again.
Unhappy Tomkins! late thy ringlets rare,
E’en Wombwell’s self to rival might despair.
Now with thy smooth crown, nor the fledgling’s chops,
Nor East-born Mechi’s magic razor strops,
Can vie! And laughing maids you fly in dread,
Lest they should see the horrors of your head!
Laurie, like death, hath clouded o’er your morn.
Tomkins, you’re dish’d! YourJeune Francelocks are shorn.
“Deliver me from the devil,” cried the Squire,“is it possible that a magistrate, or what d’ye callhim, green as a fig, should appear no better than an ass in yourworship’s eyes? By the Lord, I’ll give you leave topluck offevery hair of my beard if that be thecase.”
“Then I tell thee,” said the master, “he is ascertainly ahe ass as I am Don Quixote and thou SanchoPanza, at least so he seems to me.”—DonQuixote.
Shallhair that on a crown has place
Become the subject of a case?
The fundamental law of nature
Be over-ruled by those made after?
’Tis we that can dispose alone
Whether your heirs (hairs) shall be your own.
Hudibras.
Sir Peter Laurie passes so quickly from hyper-loyalty todownright treason, that he is an insolvable problem. As wigs wereonce worn out of compliment to a monarch, so when the Queen expectsalittle heir, Sir Peter causes a gentleman, over whom hehas an accidental influence, to have alittle hair too.But oh the hypocrite! the traitor! he at the same time gives ashilling to have theha(e)ir cut off from thecrown. It is quite time to look to the
HEIR PRESUMPTIVE.
PUNCH begs to state that, owing to the immensepress of matter on hand, the following contributions only canexpect insertion in the body of PUNCH during the whole of nextweek. Contributors are requested to send early—carriagepaid.
N.B.—PUNCH does not pledge himself for the return of anyarticle.
Turkeys—for which PUNCH undertakesto findcuts, andplates—unlimited.
Sausages, to match the above.Mem.—no undue preference, or Bill Monopoly. Epping andNorfolk equally welcome.
Mince Pies, per dozen—thirteen astwelve. No returns.
“Oh, the Roast Beef of OldEngland,” with additional verses, capable of variousencores.
Puddings received from ten till four.PUNCH makes his own sauce; the chief ingredient is brandy, which heis open to receive per bottle or dozen.
Large Hampers containing small turkeys,&c., may be pleasantly filled with lemons, candied citron, andlump sugar.
(Private and confidential, quite unknown toJudy.)
BRYANT has had orders to suspend a superb Mistletoe bough in thepublishing-office. PUNCH will be in attendance from daylight tilldusk. To prevent confusion, the salutes will he distributedaccording to the order of arrival.
PUNCH begs to state he is open to receive tenders forletter-press matter, to be illustrated by the
FOLLOWING CUT.
N.B. They must be sent in sealed, and will be submitted to aselect committee, consisting of Peter Laurie, and Borthwick, andDeaf Burke.
N.B. No Cutting-his-Stick need apply.
(Continued.)
All lovers are absurd and ridiculous.The passion which spiritualises woman makes man a fool. Nothing canbe more amusing than to observe a bashful lover in company wherethe object of his affections is present. He is the very picture ofconfusion and distress, looking like a man who has lost something,and knows not where to seek for it. His eyes wander from the carpetto the ceiling; at one moment he is engaged in counting the panesin the window, and the next in watching the discursive flights of ablue-bottle round the apartment. But while he appears anxiouslyseeking for some object on which to fix his attention, he carefullyavoids looking towards hisinnamorata; and should theireyes meet by chance, his cheeks assume the tint of the beet-root orthe turnip, and his manifest embarrassment betrays his secret tothe most inexperienced persons. In order to recover his confidence,he shifts his seat, which seems suddenly to have shot forth as manypins as the back of a hedgehog; but in doing so he places the legof his chair on the toe of a gouty, cross old uncle, or on the tailof a favourite lap-dog, and, besides creating an awfulfracas, succeeds in making inveterate enemies of the twobrutes for the remainder of their lives.
There are some lovers, who show their love by their affectedindifference, and appear smitten by any woman except the one whomthey are devoted to. This is an ingenious stratagem; but in generalit is so badly managed, that it is more easily seen through than acobweb. Lastly, there are a select few, who evince their tenderregard by perpetual bickerings and quarrels. This method willfrequently mislead inquisitive aunts and guardians; but it shouldonly be attempted by a man who has full confidence in his ownpowers.
Lovers, as I have observed, are invariably objects of ridicule;timid, jealous, and nervous, a frown throws them into a state ofagony it would be difficult to describe, and a smile bestowed upona rival breaks their rest for a week. Only observe one of themengaged in a quiet, interestingtête-à-tête with the lady of hischoice. He has exerted all his powers of fascination, and hefancies he is beginning to make a favourable impression on hiscompanion, when—bang!—a tall, whiskered fellow, who,rumour has whispered, is the lady’s intended, drops in uponthem like a bomb-shell! The detected lover sits confounded andabashed, wishing in the depths of his soul that he could transformhimself into a gnat, and make his exit through the keyhole.Meantime the new-comer seats himself in solemn silence, and forfive minutes the conversation is only kept up by monosyllables, inspite of the incredible efforts of all parties to appearunconcerned. The young man in his confusion plunges deeper into themire;—he twists and writhes in secret agony—remarks onthe sultriness of the weather, though the thermometer is below thefreezing point; and commits a thousandgaucheries—too happy if he can escape from asituation than which nothing can possibly be conceived morepainful.
It would not be easy to determine at what age love firstmanifests itself in the human heart; but if the reader have a goodmemory (I now speak to my own sex), he may remember when its tenderlight dawned upon his soul,—he may recall the moment when theharmonious voice of woman first tingled in his ears, and filled hisbosom with unknown rapture,—he may recollect how he used toforsake trap-ball and peg-top to follow the idol he had created inher walks,—how he hoarded up the ripest oranges and gatheredthe choicest flowers to present to her, and felt more thanrecompensed by a word of thanks kindly spoken. Oh,youth—youth! pure and happy age, when a smile, a look, atouch of the hand, makes all sunshine and happiness in thybreast.
But the season of boyhood passes—the youth of sixteenbecomes a young man of twenty, and smiles at the innocent emotionsof his uneducated heart. He is no longer the mute adorer whoworshipped in secrecy and in silence. Each season produces its ownflowers. At[pg 275]twenty, the time for mute sympathy haspassed away: it is one of the most eventful periods in the life ofa lover; for should he then chance to meet a heart free to respondto his ardent passion, and that no cruel father, relentlessguardian, or richer lover interposes to overthrow his hopes, he maywith the aid of a licence, a parson, and a plain gold ring, besuddenly launched into the calm felicity of married life.
I know not what mysterious chain unites the heart of a younglover to that of the woman whom he loves. In the simplicity oftheir hearts they often imagine it is but friendship that drawsthem towards each other, until some unexpected circumstance removesthe veil from their eyes, and they discover the dangerous precipiceupon whose brink they have been walking. A journey, absence, orsickness, inevitably produce a discovery. If a temporary separationbe about to occur, the unconscious lovers feel, they scarce knowwherefore, a deep shade of sadness steal over them; their adieuxare mingled with a thousand protestations of regret, which sinkinto the heart and bear a rich harvest by the time they meet again.Days and months glide by, and the pains of separation still endure;for they feel how necessary they have become to the happiness ofeach other, and how cold and joyless existence seems when far fromthose we love.
That which may be anticipated, at length comes to pass; thelover returns—he flies to his mistress—she receives himwith blushing cheek and palpitating heart. I shall not attempt todescribe the scene, but throughout the day and night that succeedsthat interview the lover seems like one distracted. In the city, inthe fields—alone, or in company—he hears nothing butthe magic words, “I LOVE YOU!” ringing in his ears, andfeels that ecstatic delight which it is permitted mortals to tastebut once in their lives.
But what are the sensations which enter the heart of a young andinnocent girl when she first confesses the passion that fills herheart? A tender sadness pervades her being—her soul, touchedby the hand of Love, delivers itself to the influence of all thenobler emotions of her nature; and borne heavenward on theorgan’s solemn peal, pours forth its rich treasures in silentand grateful adoration.
At thirty, a man takes a more decided—I wish I could add amore amiable—character than at twenty. At twenty he lovessincerely and devotedly; he respects the woman who has inspired himwith the noblest sentiment of which his soul is capable. At thirtyhis heart, hardened by deceit and ill-requited affection, andpre-occupied by projects of worldly ambition, regards love only asan agreeable pastime, and woman’s heart as a toy, which hemay fling aside the moment it ceases to amuse him. At twenty he isready to abandon everything for her whom he idolises—rank,wealth, the future!—they weigh as nothing in the balanceagainst the fancied strength and constancy of his passion. Atthirty he coldly immolates the repose and happiness of the womanwho loves him to the slightest necessity. I must admit,however—in justice to our sex—provided his love doesnot interfere with his interest, nor his freedom, nor his club, norhis dogs and horses, nor hispetites liaisons descoulisses, nor his hour of dinner—the lover is alwayswilling to make the greatest sacrifices for her whom he hashonoured with his regards. The man of thirty is, moreover, a man ofmany loves; he carries on half-a-dozen affairs of the heart at thesame time—he has his writing-desk filled withbillets-doux, folded into a thousand fanciful shapes, andsmelling villanously of violets, roses, bergamot, and othersentimental odours. He has a pocket-book full of little locks ofhair, of all colours, from the light golden to the raven black. Inshort, the man of thirty is the most dangerous of lovers. Let myfair readers watch his approaches with distrust, and place at everyavenue of their innocent hearts
A WATCHFUL SENTINEL.
In consequence of an advertisement in theSportingMagazine for SEVERAL OLD BUCKS, some daring villains actuallysecured the following venerable gentlemen:—Sir FrancisBurdett, Lord Palmerston, Sir Lumley Skeffington, Jack Reynolds,and Mr. Widdicombe. The venison dealer, however, declined topurchase such very old stock, and the aged captives upon being setat liberty heartily congratulated each other on their
NARROW ESCAPE.
An attenuated disciple of the ill-paid art which has beendescribed as one embracing the “delightful task which teachesthe young idea how to shoot,” in a fit of despair, being butlittle skilled in the above sporting accomplishment, endeavoured tocheat nature of its right of killing by trying the efficacy of asmall hanging match, in which he suicidically “doubled”the character of criminal and Jack Ketch. Upon being asked by theredoubtable Civic Peter what he meant by such conduct, he attemptedto urge the propriety of the proceeding according to the scholasticrules of the ancients. “It may,” replied Sir Peter,“be very well for those chaps to hang themselves, as they areout of my jurisdiction; but I’ll let you see you are wrong,as
A GRAMMARIAN DECLINING TO BE.
We understand that the Author of “Jack Sheppard,”&c., is about to publish a new Romance, in three volumes, postoctavo, to be called “James Greenacre; or, the Hero ofPaddington.”
We are requested by Mr. Catnach, of Seven Dials, to state thathe has a few remaining copies of “All round my Hat” onsale. Early application must be made, to prevent disappointment.Mr. C. has also to inform the public that an entirely newcollection of the most popular songs is now in the press, and willshortly be published, price One Halfpenny.
Mr. Grant, the author of “Random Recollections,” is,it is said, engaged in writing a new work, entitled “Quacksas they are,” and containing copious extracts from all hisformer publications, with a portrait of himself.
“An Essay on False Wigs,” written by Lord JohnRussell, and dedicated to Mr. Wakley, M.P., may shortly beexpected.
The man who wishes to study an epitome of humancharacter—who wants to behold choice samples of “allsorts and conditions of men”—to read out of a small, aduodecimo edition of the great book of life—must take aseason’s lodgings at a Cheltenham, a Harrowgate, or aBrighton boarding-house. There he will find representatives of allkinds of eccentricities,—members of every possible lodge of“odd fellows” that Folly has admitted of hercrew—mixed up with everyday sort of people, sharpers,schemers, adventurers, fortune-hunters, male andfemale—widows, wags, and Irishmen. Hence, as the“proper study of mankind is man,” a boarding-house isthe place to take lessons;—even on the score of economy, asit is possible to live decently at one of these refuges for thedestitute for three guineas a-week, exclusive, however, of wine,servants, flirtation, and other extras.
A result of this branch of study, and an example of such a modeof studying it, is the farce with the above title, which has beenbrought out at Covent Garden.Mrs. Walker (Mrs. Orger)keeps a boarding-house, which also keeps her; for it is wellfrequented: so well that we find her making a choice of inmates bychoosing to turn outMr. Woodpecker (Mr. WalterLacy)—a mere “sleeping-apartment”boarder—to make room forMrs. Coo (Mrs. Glover), awidow, whose demands entitle her to the dignity of a “privatesitting and bedroom” lodger.Mr. Woodpecker is verycomfortable, and does not want to go; but the hostess is obstinate:he appeals to her feelings as an orphan, without home ordomesticity; but the lady, having been in business for a dozenyears, has lost all sympathy for orphans of six-and-twenty. Inshort,Mrs. Walker determines he shall walk, and so shallhis luggage (a plethoric trunk and an obese carpet-bag are on thestage); for she has dreamt even that has legs—such dreamsbeing, we suppose, very frequent to persons of her name.
You are not quite satisfied that the mere preference for abetter inmate furnishes the only reasons why the lady wantsMr.Woodpecker’s room rather than his company. Perhaps he isin arrear; but no, he pays his bill: so it is not onthatscore that he is so ruthlessly sent away. You are, however, notkept long on the tiptoe of conjecture, but soon learn thatMrs.W. has a niece, and you already know that the banished isyoung, good-looking, and gay. Indeed,Mrs. Walker havingperambulated,Miss Fanny Merrivale (Miss Lee) appears, andlistens very composedly to the plan of an elopement fromWoodpecker, but speedily makes herexit to avoidsuspicion, and the enemy who has dislodged her lover; before whomthe latter also retreats, together with his bag and baggage.
There are no classes so well represented at boarding-houses asthose who sigh for fame, and those that are dying to be married.Accordingly, we find inMrs. Walker’s establishmentCaptain Whistleborough (Mr. W. Farren), who is doing theextreme possible to get into Parliament, andCaptain Pacific,R.N., (Mr. Bartley,) who is crowding all sail to the port ofmatrimony. Well knowing how boarding-houses teem with such persons,two men who come under the “scheming” category are alsoinmates. One of these,Mr. Enfield Bam (Mr. Harley), is asort of parliamentary agent, who goes about to dig up aspirantsthat are buried in obscurity, and to introduce them to boroughs, bywhich means he makes a very good living. His present victim is, ofcourse,Captain Whistleborough, upon whom he is not slowin commencing operations.
Captain Whistleborough has almost every requisite foran orator. He is an army officer; so his manners are good and hisself-possession complete. His voice is commanding, for it has beenlong his duty to give the word of command. Above all, he has amania to become a member. Yet, alas! one trifling deficiency ruinshis prospects; he has an impediment in his speech, which debars himfrom the use of theW’s. Like the French alphabet,that letter is denied to him. When he comes to a syllable itbegins, he isspell-bound; though he longs to go on, hepulls up quite short, and sticks fast. The firstW hemeets with in the flowery paths of rhetoric causes him to be asdumb as an oyster, or as O. Smith in “Frankenstein.” Invain does he try the Demosthenes’ plan by sucking pebbles onthe Brighton shore and haranguing thewaves, though he isunable to address them by name. All is useless, and he has resignedhimself to despair and a Brighton boarding-house, whenMr.Enfield Bam gives him fresh hopes. He informs him that theproprietress of a pocket borough resides under the same roof, andthat he will (for the usual consideration) get the Captain such anintroduction to her as shall ensure him a seat in her good graces,and another in St. Stephen’s.Mr. Bam, therefore,goes off to negotiate withMiss Polecon (Mrs. Tayleure),and makes way for the intrigues of another sort of an agent, wholives in the house.
This isRivet (Mr. C. Mathews), a gentleman whoundertakes to procure for an employer anything upon earth he maywant, at so much per cent. commission. There is nothing that thisvery general agent cannot get hold of, from a hack to ahusband—from a boat to a baronetcy—from atortoise-shell tom-cat to a rich wife. Matrimonial agency is,however, his passion, and he has plenty of indulgence for it in aBrighton boarding-house.Captain Pacific wants a wife,Mrs. Coo is a widow, and all widows want husbands. ThusRivet makes sure of a swingeing commission from bothparties; for, in imagination, and in his own memorandum-book, hehas already married them.
Here are the ingredients of the farce; and in the course of itthey are compounded in such wise as to makeWoodpeckerjealous, merely because he happens to findFanny in thedark, and inWhistleborough’s arms; to cause thelatter to negotiate withMrs. Coo for a seat inParliament, instead of a wedding-ring; andPacific to talkof the probable prospects of the nuptial state toMissPolecon, who is an inveterate spinster and a politicaleconomist, professing the Malthusian creed.Rivet findingFanny and her friend are taking business out of his handsby planning an elopementen amateur, gets himself“regularly called in,” and manages to saveWoodpecker all the trouble, by contriving thatWhistleborough shall run away with the young lady bymistake, so thatWoodpecker might marry her, and nomistake.Bam bamsWhistleborough, who ends thepiece by threatening his deceiver with an action for breach ofpromise of borough, all the other breaches having been duly madeup; together with the match betweenMrs. Coo andPacific.
If our readers want to be told what we think of this farce, theywill be disappointed; if they wish to know whether it is good orbad, witty or dull, lively or stupid—whether it ought to havebeen damned outright, or to supersede the Christmaspantomime—whether the actors played well or played thedeuce—whether the scenery is splendid and the appointmentsappropriate or otherwise, they must judge for themselves by goingto see it; because if we gave them our opinion they would notbelieve us, seeing that the author is one of our most esteemed(especially over a boiled chicken and sherry), most merry, mostjolly, most clever colleagues; one, in fine, of PUNCH’S“United Service.”
“I have been running ever since I was born and am nottired now”—as the brook said to Captain Barclay.
“Hookey”—as the carp said, when he saw a wormat the end of a line.
“Nothing is certain”—as the fishermansaid, when he always found it in his nets.
“Brief let it be”—as the barrister said in hisconference with the attorney.
“He is the greatest liar on (H) earth”—as thecockney said of the lapdog he often saw lying before the fire.
When is a hen most likely to hatch? When she is in earnest (hernest).
Why are cowardly soldiers like butter? When exposed to afire theyrun.
Do you sing?—says the teapot to the kettle—Yes, Ican manage to get over a fewbars.—Bah, exclaimedthe teapot.
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