Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, November 20, 1841
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.



FOR THE WEEK ENDING NOVEMBER 20, 1841.

       *       *       *       *       *


MYSELF, PUNCH, AND THE KEELEYS.

I dined with my old friend and schoolfellow, Jack Withers, one day last
September. On the previous morning, on my way to the India House, I had
run up against a stout individual on Cornhill, and on looking in his face
as I stopped for a moment to apologise, an abrupt "This is surely Jack
Withers," burst from my lips, followed by--"God bless me! Will Bayfield!"
from his. After a hurried question or two, we shook hands warmly and
parted, with the understanding that I was to cut my mutton with him next
day.

Seventeen years had elapsed since Withers and I had seen or heard of each
other. Having a good mercantile connexion, he had pitched upon commerce as
his calling, and entered a counting-house in Idollane in the same year
that I, a raw young surgeon, embarked for India to seek my fortune in the
medical service of the East India Company.

Things had gone well with honest Jack; from a long, thin, weazel of a
youngster, he had become a burly ruddy-faced gentleman, with an aldermanic
rotundity of paunch, which gave the world assurance that his ordinary fare
by no means consisted of deaf nuts; he had already, as he told me,
accumulated a very pretty independence, which was yearly increasing, and
was, moreover, a snug bachelor, with a well-arranged residence in
Finsbury-square; in short, it was evident that Jack was "a fellow with two
coats and everything handsome about him."

As for me, I was a verification of the adage about the rolling stone;
having gathered a very small quantity of "moss," in the shape of worldly
goods. I had spent sixteen years in marching and countermarching over the
thirsty plains of the Carnatic, in medical charge of a native
regiment--salivating Sepoys and blowing out with blue pills the
officers--until the effects of a stiff jungle-fever, that nearly made me
proprietor of a landed property measuring six feet by two, sent me back to
England almost as poor as I had left it, and with an atrabilarious visage
which took a two-months' course of Cheltenham water to scour into anything
like a decent colour.

Withers' dinner was in the best taste: viands excellent--wine superb;
never did I sip racier Madeira, and the Champagne trickled down one's
throat with the same facility that man is inclined to sin.

The cloth drawn, we fell to discoursing about old times, things, persons,
and places. Jack then told me how from junior clerk he had risen to become
second partner in the firm to which he belonged; and I, in my turn,
enlightened his mind with respect to Asiatic Cholera, Runjeet Sing,
Ghuzni, tiger-shooting, and Shah Soojah.

In this manner the evening slid pleasantly on. An array of six bottles,
that before dinner had contained the juice of Oporto, stood empty on the
sideboard. Jack wanted to draw another cork, which, however, I positively
forbad, as I have through life made it a rule to avoid the slightest
approach towards excess in tippling; so, after a modest brace of glasses
of brandy-and-water, I shook hands with and left my friend about half-past
nine, for I am an old-fashioned fellow, and love early hours, my usual
time for turning in being ten.

When I got into the street an unaccustomed spirit of gaiety at once took
possession of me; my general feelings of benevolence and goodwill towards
all mankind appeared to have received a sudden and marvellous increase. I
seemed to tread on eider-down, and, cigar in mouth, strolled along
Fleet-street and the Strand, towards my domicile in Half-Moon
street--"nescio quid meditans nugarum"--sometimes humming the fag end of
an Irish melody; anon stopping to stare in a print-shop window; and then I
would trudge on, chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy as I conned
over the various ups and downs that had chequered my life since Jack
Withers and I were thoughtless lads together "a long time ago."

In this mood I found myself standing before the New Strand Theatre, my
attention having been arrested by the word PUNCH blazoned in large letters
on a play-bill.

"What can this mean?" quoth I to myself. "I know a publication called
Punch very well, but I never heard of a performance so named. I'll go in
and see it. Who knows but it may be an avatar[1] of the Editor of that
illustrious periodical, who condescends to discard his dread incognito for
the nonce, in order to exhibit himself, for one night only, to the eyes
and understandings of admiring London."

    [1] The Avatar we do not allow--the illustrious periodical we
        do.--ED. OF PUNCH.

In another minute I was seated in the boxes, and found a crowded audience
in full enjoyment of the quiet waggery of Keeley, who was fooling them to
the top of their bent, accoutred from top to toe as Mynheer Punch the
Great, while his clever little wife--who, by the way, possesses, I think,
more of the "vis comica" than any actress of the day--caused sides to
shake and eyes to water by her naïve and humorous delineation of Mrs.
Snozzle.

The curtain had hardly fallen more than a couple of minutes, when a door
behind me opened hastily, and a box-keeper thrusting in his head, called
out--"Is there a medical man here?" "I am one," said I, getting up;
"anything the matter?" "Come with me then, sir, if you please," said he;
"a severe accident has just happened to Mrs. Keeley; a falling scene has
struck her head, sir, and hurt her dreadfully."

"Good heavens!" said I, much shocked; "I will come immediately."

I followed the man to the stage door, and was ushered into a dressing-room
with several people in it, where, extended on a sofa, lay the unfortunate
lady, whom I had but a few minutes before seen full of life and spirits,
delighting hundreds with her unrivalled humour and _espièglerie_,--there
she lay, in the same fantastic dress she had worn on the stage, pale as
death--a quantity of blood flowing from a fearful wound on her head, and
uttering those low quick moans which are indicative of extreme suffering.

Poor little Keeley stood beside the couch, holding her hand; he was still
in full fig as _Polichinel_; and the grotesqueness of his attire
contrasted strangely with the anguish depicted on his countenance. As I
came forward, he slowly made way for me--looked in my face imploringly, as
if to gather from its expression some gleam of hope, and then stood aside,
in an attitude of profound dejection.

Having felt the sufferer's pulse, I was about to turn her head gently, in
order to examine the nature of the wound, when a hustling noise behind me
causing me to turn round, to my infinite dismay, I perceived Mr. Keeley,
having pushed the bystanders on one side, in the act of performing a kind
of Punchean dance upon the floor, accompanying himself with the vigorous
chuckling and crowing peculiar to the hero whose habiliments he wore. I
was horror-stricken--conceiving that grief had suddenly turned his brain.

All at once, he made a spring towards me, and, seizing my arm, thrust me
into a corner of the room, where he held me fast, exclaiming--

"Wretch! villain! restore me my wife--that talented woman your infernal
arts have destroyed! You did for her!"

"Mr. Keeley," said I, struggling to release myself from his grasp--"my
dear sir, pray compose yourself."

"Unhappy traitor!" he shouted, giving me an unmerciful tweak by the nose;
"Look at her silver skin laced with her golden blood!--see, see! Oh, see!"

This was rather too much, even from a man whose wits were astray. I began
to lose patience, and was preparing to rid myself somewhat roughly of the
madman's grasp, when a new phenomenon occurred.

The patient on the sofa, whom I had judged well nigh moribund, and
consequently incapable of any effort whatever, all at once sat up with a
sudden jerk, and gave vent to a series of the most ear-piercing shrieks
that ever assailed human tympanum.

_"Oh! oh! Mon Dieu! je suis étouffée! levez-vous donc,
monsieur--n'avez-vous pas honte!"_

I started up--O misery!--I had fallen asleep, and my head, resting against
a pillar, had slipped down, depositing itself upon the expansive bosom of
a portly French dame in the next box, who seemed, by her vehement
exclamations, to be quite shaken from the balance of her propriety by the
unlooked-for burthen I had imposed upon her; whilst a _petit monsieur_
poured forth a string of _sacres_ and _sapristies_ upon my devoted head
with a volubility of utterance truly astonishing.

I gazed about me with troubled and lack-lustre eye. Every lorgnette in the
boxes was levelled at my miserable countenance; a sea of upturned and
derisive faces grinned at me from the pit, and the gods in Olympus
thundered from on high--"Turn him out; he's drunk!"

This was the unkindest cut of all--thus publicly to be accused of
intoxication, a vice of all others I have ever detested and eschewed.

I cast one indignant glance around me, and left the theatre, lamenting the
depravity of our nature, which is, alas! always ready to put the worst
construction upon actions in themselves most innocent; for if I had gone
to sleep in my own arm-chair, pray who would have accused me of inebriety?

How I got home I know not. As I hurried through the streets, a legion of
voices, in every variety of intonation, yelled in my ears--"Turn him
out--he's drunk!" and when I woke in the middle of the night, tormented by
a raging thirst (produced, I suppose, by the flurry of spirits I had
undergone), I seemed to hear screams, groans, and hisses, above all which
predominated loud and clear the malignant denunciation--"Turn him
out--he's drunk!"

Upon my subsequently mentioning the above adventure to Jack Withers, it
will hardly be credited that this villain without shame at once roundly
asserted that, when I left him on the afore-mentioned night, I was at
least three sheets and three quarters in the wind; adding with
praiseworthy candour, that he himself was so far gone as to be obliged, to
the infinite scandal of his staid old housekeeper, to creep up stairs _à
quatre pieds_, in order to gain his bedroom.

Now this latter may be true enough, for it is probable that friend Jack
freshened his nip a trifle after my departure, seeing that he was always
something of a drunken knave. As for his calumnious and scandalous
declaration, that _I_ was in the least degree tipsy, it is too ridiculous
to be noticed. I scorn it with my heels--I was sober--sober, cool, and
steady as the north star; and he that is inclined to question this solemn
asseveration, let him send me his card; and if I don't drill a hole in his
doublet before he's forty-eight hours older, then, as honest Slender has
it, "I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else."

       *       *       *       *       *


"ARE YE SURE THE NEWS IS TRUE?"

We learn from good authority that Lord TAMBOFF STANLEY, in answer to a
deputation from Scotland, assured the gentlemen who waited upon him that
"the subject of _emigration_ was under the serious consideration of Her
Majesty's Ministers." We hope that those respectable gentlemen may soon
resolve upon their departure--we care not "what clime they wander to, so
not again to _this_;" or, as Shakspeare says, let them "stand not upon the
order of their going, but GO." The country, we take it upon ourselves to
say, will remember them when they are gone; they have left the nation too
many weighty proofs of their regard to be forgotten in a
hurry--Corruption, Starvation, and Taxation, and the National Debt by way
of

[Illustration: A HANDSOME LEG--I SEE (LEGACY).]

       *       *       *       *       *


A DOSE OF CASTOR.

Peter Borthwick, late of the Royal Surrey Nautical, having had the honour
of "deep damnation" conferred upon his "taking off" the character of
Prince Henry, upon that occasion, to appear in unison with the text of the
Immortal Bard, "dressed" the part in a most elaborate "neck-or-nothing
tile." Upon being expostulated with by the manager, he triumphantly
referred to the description of the chivalrous Prince in which the narrator
particularly states--

[Illustration: I SAW YOUNG HARRY WITH HIS BEAVER ON.]

       *       *       *       *       *


CUTTING AT THE ROOT OF THE EVIL.

"Good heavens, Sir Peter," said Hobler, confidentially, to our dearly
beloved Alderman, "How could you have passed such a ridiculous sentence
upon Jones, as to direct his hair to be cut off?" "All right, my dear
Hobby," replied the sapient justice; "the fellow was found fighting in the
streets, and I wanted to hinder him, at least for some time, from again

[Illustration: COMING TO THE SCRATCH."]

       *       *       *       *       *


TO PUNCH.

We have received the following choice bit of poetic pathology from our old
friend and jolly dog Toby, who, it seems, has taken to medicine. The dog,
however, always had a great propensity to _bark_, owing doubtlessly to the
strong _tincture_ of _canine_ there was in his constitution:--


MY DEAR PUNCH,

Nothing convinces me more of my treacherous memory than my not
recollecting you at the memorable "New-boot Supper;" for I certainly must
have been as long in that society as yourself. Be that as it may, you have
induced me to scrape together a few reminiscences in an imperfect way,
leaving to you, from your better recollection, to correct and flavour the
specimen to the palate of your readers, who have, most deservedly, every
reliance upon your good taste and moral tendency. I have in vain tried to
meet with the music of "the good old days of Adam and Eve," consequently
have lost the enjoyment of the chorus--"Sing hey, sing ho!" It would be
too much to ask you to sing it, but perhaps you may too-te-too it in your
next. May your good intentions to the would-be Æsculapius be attended with
success.--I remain, dear Punch, your old friend,

TOBY.


ASCITES.

  Abdomen swell'd, which fluctuates when struck upon the side, sirs;
  Face pale and puff'd, and worse than that, with thirst and cough
        beside, sirs;
  Skin dry, and breathing difficult, and pains in epigastrium,
  And watchfulness or partial sleep, with dreams would strike the
        bravest dumb.
  To cure--restore the balance of exhalants and absorbents,
  With squill, blue-pill, and other means to soothe the patient's
        torments.

  GRINDER.

  Sure this is not your climax, sir, to save from Davy's locker!

  STUDENT.

  Way, no,--I'd then with caution tap--when first I'd tied the knocker.
    Sing hey! sing ho! if you cannot find a new plan,
    In Puseyistic days like these, you'd better try a New-man.


TYMPANITIS.

  The swelling here is different--sonorous, tense, elastic;
  On it you might a tattoo beat, with fingers or with a stick.
  There's costiveness and atrophy, with features Hippocratic;
  When these appear, there's much to fear, all safety is erratic.
  Although a cordial laxative, mix'd up with some carminative,
  Might be prescribed, with morphia, or hops, to keep the man alive;
  Take care his diet's nutritive, avoiding food that's flatulent,
  And each week let him have a dose of Punch from Mr. Bryant sent.
    Sing hey! sing ho! &c.

       *       *       *       *       *


ALARMING PROSPECTS FOR THE COUNTRY.

It appears that no less than _one hundred and sixty-four_ Attorneys have
given notice of their intention to practise in the Court of Queen's Bench;
and _eleven_ of the fraternity have applied to be re-admitted Attorneys of
the Court. We had no idea that such an alarming extension was about taking
place in

[Illustration: THE RIFLE CORPS.]

       *       *       *       *       *


"ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER."

  A poor man went to hang himself,
    But treasure chanced to find;
  He pocketed the miser's pelf
    And left the rope behind.

  His money gone, the miser hung
    Himself in sheer despair:
  Thus each the other's wants supplied,
    And that was surely fair.

       *       *       *       *       *


We understand that Mr. Webster has solicited Sir Peter Laurie to make an
early début at the Haymarket Theatre in the _Heir_ (hair) _at Law_.

Madame Vestris has also endeavoured to prevail upon the civic mercy.
Andrew to appear in the afterpiece of the _Rape of the Lock_.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE.


CHAPTER X.

WHEREIN THE READER WILL FIND GREAT CAUSE FOR REJOICING.


[Illustration: C]Conducive as Uncle Peter's suggestion might have been to
the restoration of peace in the family of our hero, it was decided to be
impracticable by several medical gentlemen, who were consulted upon the
matter. After sundry scenes of maternal and grandmaternal distress,
Agamemnon succeeded in obtaining the victory, and the heir was vaccinated
accordingly with the most favourable result. The pustule rose, budded,
blossomed, and disappeared, exactly as it ought to have done, and a few
days saw the health of the infant Applebite insured in the office of Dr.
Jenner.

Scarcely had the anxious parents been relieved by this auspicious
termination, when that painful disorder which renders pork unwholesome and
children fractious, made its appearance. Had we the plague-pen of the
romancist of Rookwood, we would revel in the detail of this domesticated
pestilence--we would picture the little sufferer in the hour of its
agony--and be as minute as Mr. Hume in our calculations of its feverish
pulsations; but our quill was moulted by the dove, not plucked from the
wing of the carrion raven.

And now, gentle reader, we come to a point of this history which we are
assured has been anxiously looked forward to by you--a point at which the
reader, already breathless with expectation, has fondly anticipated being
suffocated with excitement. We may, without vanity, lay claim to
originality, for we have introduced a new hero into the world of
fiction--a baby three months old--we have traced his happy parents from
the ball-room to St. George's church; from St. George's church to the
ball-room; thence to the doctor's; and from thence to

THE END.

Reproach us not, mamas?--Discard us not, ye blushing divinities who have,
with your sex's softness, dandled the heir of Applebite in your
imaginations!--Wait!--Wait till we have explained! We have a motive; but
as we are novices in this style of literature, we will avail ourselves, at
our leave-taking, of the valedictory address of one who is more "up to the
swindle."


_To the Readers of the Heir of Applebite._

DEAR FRIENDS,--Having finished the infanto-biography upon which we have
been engaged, it is our design to cut off our heir, and bring our tale to
a close. You may want to know why--or if you don't, we will tell you.

We should not regard the anxiety, the close confinement, or the constant
attention inseparable from a nursery, did we feel that the result was
agreeable to you. But we have not done so. We have been strongly tempted
to think, that after waiting from week to week, you have never arrived at
anything interesting. We could not bear this jerking of our conscience,
which was no sooner ended than begun again.

Most "passages in a tale of _any length_ depend materially for the
interest on the intimate relation they bear to what has gone before, or
what is to follow." We sometimes found it difficult to accomplish this.

Considerations of immediate profit ought, in such cases, to be of
secondary importance; but, for the reasons we have just mentioned, we have
(after some pains to resist the temptation) determined to abandon this
_scheme_ of publication.

Taking advantage of the respite which the close of this work will afford
us, we have decided in January next to rent a second floor at Kentish
Town.

The pleasure we anticipate from the realisation of a wish we have long
entertained and long hoped to gratify, is subdued by the reflection that
we shall find it somewhat difficult to emancipate our moveables from the
thraldom of Mrs. Gibbons, our respected but over-particular landlady.

To console the numerous readers of PUNCH, we have it in command to
announce, that on Saturday, Nov. 27th, the first chapter of a series under
the title of the "Puff Papers," appropriately illustrated, will be
commenced, with a desire to supply the hiatus in periodical fiction,
occasioned by the temporary seclusion of one of the most popular novelists
of the day.

Dear friends, farewell! Should we again desire to resume the pen, we trust
at your hands we shall not have to encounter a

[Illustration: DISPUTED RETURN.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LAMBETH DEMOSTHENES.

We are happy to find that Dr. Tully Cicero Burke Sheridan Grattan Charles
Phillips Hobler Bedford has not been deterred by the late unsatisfactory
termination to the "public meeting" called by him to address the Queen,
from prosecuting his patriotic views for his own personal advantage. Dr.
&c. Bedford has kindly furnished us with the report of a meeting called by
himself, which consisted of himself, for the purpose of considering the
propriety of petitioning the Throne to appoint himself to be
medical-adviser-in-general to her Majesty, and vaccinator-in-particular to
his little Highness the Prince of Wales.

At 10 o'clock precisely Dr. &c. Bedford entered the little back parlour of
his surgery, and advancing to the looking-glass over the mantel-piece,
made a polite bow to the reflection of himself. After a few complimentary
gestures had passed between them, Dr &c. Bedford hemmed twice, and in a
very elegant speech proposed that "Doctor &c. Bedford _shoold_ take the
_cheer_."

Dr. &c. Bedford rose to second the proposition. Dr. &c. Bedford said, "Dr.
&c. Bedford is a gentleman what I have had the honour of knowing on for
many long ears. His medikel requirement are sich as ris a Narvey and a
Nunter to the summut of the temples of Fame. His political requisitions
are summarily extinguished. It is, therefore, with no common pride that I
second this abomination."

Dr. &c. Bedford then bowed to his reflection in the glass, and proceeded
to take his seat in his easy chair, thumping the table with one hand, and
placing the other gracefully upon his breast, as though in token of
gratitude for the honour conferred upon him.

Order being restored, Dr. &c. Bedford rose and said,--

"I never kotched myself in sich a sitchuation in my life--I mean not that
I hasn't taken a cheer afore, perhaps carried one--but it never has been
my proud extinction to preside over such a meeting--so numerous in its
numbers and suspectable in its appearance. My friend, Dr. &c. Bedford,
(_Hear, hear! from. Dr. &c. Bedford_,) his the hornament of natur in this
19th cemetary. His prodigious outlays"--

_Voice without_.--"Here they are, only a penny!"

Dr. &c. Bedford.--"Order, order! His--his--you know what I mean that
shoold distinguish the fisishun and the orator. I may say the Solus of
orators,--renders him the most fittest and the most properest person to
take care of the Royal health, and the Royal Infant Babby of these
regions," (_Hear, hear! from Dr. &c. Bedford_.)

The Doctor then proceeded to embody the foregoing observations into a
resolution, which was proposed by Dr. &c. Bedford, and seconded by Dr. &c.
Bedford, who having held up both his hands, declared it to be carried
_nem. con._

Dr. &c. Bedford then proposed a vote of thanks to Dr, &c. Bedford for his
conduct in the chair. The meeting then dispersed, after Dr. &c. Bedford
had returned thanks, and bowed to his own reflection in the looking-glass.

       *       *       *       *       *


A LEGEND OF THE TOWER (NOT LONDON).

In the immediate vicinity of the pretty little town of Kells stands one of
those peculiar high round towers, the origin of which has so long puzzled
the brains of antiquaries. It is invariably pointed out to the curious, as
a fit subject for their contemplation, and may, in fact, be looked upon as
the great local lion of the place. It appears almost inaccessible. But
there is a story extant, and told in very choice Irish, how two small
dare-devil urchins did succeed in reaching its lofty summit; and this is
the way the legend was done into English by one Barney Riley, the
narrator, to whom I am indebted for its knowledge:--

"You see Masther Robert, sir,--though its murduring high, and almost
entirely quite aqual in stapeness to the ould ancient Tower of Babel, yet,
sir, there is them living now as have been at the top of that same; be the
same token I knew both o' the spalpeens myself. It's grown up they are
now; but whin they wint daws'-nesting to the top there, the little
blackguards weren't above knee-high, if so much."

"But how did they arrive at the summit?"

"That's the wonder of it! but sure nobody knows but themselves; but the
scamps managed somehow or other to insart themselves in through one of
them small loopholes--whin little Danny Carroll gave Tom Sheeney a leg up
and a back, and Tom Sheeney hauled little Danny up after him by the scruff
o' the neck; and so they wint squeedging and scrummaging on till, by dad,
they was up at the tip-top in something less than no time; and the trouble
was all they had a chance o' gettin for their pains; for, by the hokey,
the daws' nest they had been bruising their shins, breaking their necks,
and tearing their frieze breeches to tatters to reach, was on the outside
o' the building, and about as hard to get at as truth, or marcy from a
thafe of a tythe proctor.

"'Hubbabboo,' says little Danny; 'we are on the wrong side now, as Pat
Murphy's carroty wig was whin it came through his hat; what will we do, at
all, at all?'

"'Divil a know I know. It would make a parson swear after takin' tythe. Do
you hear the vagabones? Oh, then musha, bad luck to your cawings; its
impedence, and nothing but it, to be shouting out in defiance of us, you
dirty bastes. Danny, lad, you're but a little thrifle of a gossoon;
couldn't you squeedge yourself through one o' them holes?'

"'What will I stand--or, for the matter o' that, as I'm by no manes
particular,--sit upon, whin I git out--that is, if I can?'

"'Look here, lad, hear a dacent word--it will be just the dandy thing for
yes entirely; go to it with a will, and make yourself as small as a little
cock elven, and thin we'll have our revenge upon them aggravation thaves.'
How the puck he done it nobody knows; but by dad there was his little,
ragged, red poll, followed by the whole of his small body, seen coming out
o' that trap-loop there, that doesn't look much bigger than a
button-hole--and thin sitting astride the ould bit of rotten timbers, and
laffing like mad, was the tiny Masther Danny, robbing the nests, and
shouting with joy as he pulled bird after bird from their nate little
feather-beds. 'This is elegant,' says he; 'here's lashins of 'em.'

"'How many have you,' says Tom Sheeney.

"'Seven big uns--full fledged, wid feathers as black as the priest's
breeches on a Good Friday's fast.'

"'Seven is it?'

"'It is.'

"'Well, then, hand them in.'

"'By no manes.'

"'Why not?'

"'Seein they're as well wid me as you.

"'Give me my half then--that's your'--

"'Aisy wid you; who's had the trouble and the chance of breaking his
good-looking neck but me, Mr. Tim Sheeney.'

"'Devil a care I care; I'll have four, or I'll know why.'

"'That you'll soon do: I won't give 'em you.'

"'Aint I holding the wood?'

"'By coorse you are; but aint I sitting outside upon it, and by the same
token unseating my best breeches.'

"'I bid you take care; give me four.'

"'Ha, ha! what a buck your granny was, Mistet Tim Sheeney; it's three
you'll have, or none.'

"'Then by the puck I'll let you go.'

"'I defy you to do it, you murdering robber.'

"'Do you! by dad; once more, give me four.'

"'To blazes wid you; three or none.'

"'Then there you go!'

"And, worse luck, sure enough he did, and that at the devil's own pace.

"At this moment I turned my eyes in horror to the Tower, and the height
was awful."

"Poor child,--of course he was killed upon the spot?"

"There's the wonder; not a ha'porth o' harm did the vagabone take at all
at all. He held on by the birds' legs like a little nagur; he was but a
shimpeen of a chap, and what with the flapping of their wings and the soft
place he fell upon, barring a little thrifle of stunning, and it may be a
small matter of fright, he was as comfortable as any one could expect
under the circumstances; but it would have done your heart good to see the
little gossoon jump up, shake his feathers, and shout out at the top of
his small voice, 'Tim Sheeney, you thief, you'd better have taken the
three,--for d--n the daw do you get now!'" And so ends the Legend of the
Round Tower.

       *       *       *       *       *


IRISH INTELLIGENCE.

AWFUL STATE OF THE COUNTRY!

(_From our own Correspondent._)

We are at length enabled to inform the Public that we have, at a vast
expense, completed our arrangements for the transmission of the earliest
news from Ireland. We have just received the _Over-bog Mail_, which
contains facts of a most interesting nature. We hasten to lay our
sagacious correspondent's remarks before our readers:--


_Bally-ha-ghadera, Tuesday Night_.

PUNCH will appreciate my unwillingness to furnish him with intelligence
which might in any way disturb the commercial relations between this and
the sister island, more particularly at the _present crisis_, when the
interests of that prosperous class, the London Baked Potatoe vendors, are
so intimately connected, with the preservation of good feeling among the
Tipperary growers. However, my duty to PUNCH and the public compel me to
speak.--I do feel that we are on the eve of a great popular commotion.
Every day's occurrences strengthen my conviction. Bally-ha-ghadera was
this morning at sunrise disturbed by noises of the most appalling kind,
forming a wild chorus, in which screams and bellowings seemed to vie for
supremacy; indeed words cannot adequately describe this terrific
disturbance. As I expected, the depraved Whig Journalist, with
characteristic mental tortuosity, has asserted that the sounds proceeded
from a rookery in the adjoining wood, aided by the braying of the
turf-man's donkey. But an enlightened public will see through this paltry
subterfuge. Rooks and donkeys! Pooh! There cannot be a doubt but that the
noises were the preparatory war-whoops of this ferocious and sanguinary
people. We believe the Whig editor to be the only _donkey_ in the case;
that he may have been a ravin(g) at the time is also very probable.

No later than yesterday the _Cloonakilty Express_ was stopped by a _band
of young men_, who savagely ill-treated our courier, a youth of tender
age, having attempted to stone him to death. Our courier is ready to swear
that at the time of the attack the young men were busily engaged counting
a _vast store of ammunition_, consisting of _round white clay balls_ baked
to the hardness of bullets, and _evidently_ intended for _shooting with_.

I have to call particular attention to the fact that a countryman was this
day observed to buy a threepenny loaf, and on leaving the baker's to _tear
it asunder and distribute the fragments with three confederates_!!! an act
which I need not say was evidently symbolical of their desire to rend
asunder the _Corn Laws_, and to divide the landed property amongst
themselves. The action also appears analogous to the custom of breaking
bread and swearing alliance on it, a practice still observed by the
inhabitants of some remote regions of the Caucasus. I must again solemnly
express my conviction that we are standing on a _slumbering_ VOLCANO; the
thoughtless and unobservant may suppose not; probably because in the
present tee-total state of society they see nothing of the CRATER.

       *       *       *       *       *


TAKING A SIGHT AT THE FIRE.

A man bearing the very inapplicable name of _Virtue_ was brought up at
Lambeth-street last week, on the charge of having stolen a telescope from
the Ordnance-office in the Tower on the morning of the fire. The prisoner
pleaded that, being short-sighted, he took the glass to have a sight of
the fire. The magistrate, however, _saw through_ this excuse very clearly;
and as it was apparent that _Virtue_ had taken a _glass_ too much on the
occasion, he was fully committed.

       *       *       *       *       *


JOE HUME'S FORTHCOMING WORK.

We have received the following note from an old and esteemed
correspondent, who, we are rejoiced to find, has returned from a tour in
Switzerland, where he has been engaged in a prodigious work connected with
the statistics of that country.


_Reform Club-house_.

DEAR PUNCH,

Knowing the interest you take in anything relating to the advancement of
science, I beg to apprise you that I am about publishing a statistical
work, in which I have made it perfectly clear that an immense saving in
the article of ice alone might be made in England by importing that which
lies waste upon Mont Blanc. I have also calculated to a fraction the
number of pints of milk produced in the canton of Berne, distinguishing
the quantity used in the making of cheese from that which has been
consumed in the manufacture of butter--and specifying in every instance
whether the milk has been yielded by cows or goats. There will be also a
valuable appendix to the work, containing a correct list of all the inns
on the road between Frankfort and Geneva, with a copy of the bill of fare
at each, and the prices charged; together with the colour of the
postilion's jacket, the age of the landlord and the weight of his wife,
and the height in inches of the cook and chambermaid. To which will be
added, "Ten Minutes' Advice" upon making one shilling go as far as two. If
you can give me a three-halfpenny puff in your admired publication, you
will confer a favour on

Your sincere friend,

JOE HUME.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE ROMANCE OF A TEACUP.


SIP THE FIRST.

  In England one man's mated to one woman,
    To spend their days in holy matrimony--
  In fact, I _have_ heard from one or two men,
    That one wife in a house is one too many--
  But, be this as it may, in China no man
    Who can afford it shuts himself to any
  Fix'd number, but is variously encumber'd
  With better halves, from twenty to a hundred.

  These to provide for in a pleasant way,
    And, maybe, to avoid their chat and worry,
  He shuts up in a harem night and day--
    With them contriving all his cares to bury--
  A point of policy which, I should say,
    Sweetens the dose to men about to marry;
  For, though a wife's a charming thing enough,
  Yet, like all other blessings, _quantum suff_.

  So to my tale: Te-pott the Multifarious
    Was, once upon a time, a mandarin--
  In personal appearance but precarious,
    Being incorrigibly bald and thin--
  But then so rich, through jobs and pensions various,
    Obtain'd by voting with the party "in,"
  That he maintain'd, in grace and honour too,
  Sixty-five years, and spouses fifty-two.

  Fifty-two wives! and still he went about
    Peering below the maiden ladies' veils--
  Indeed, it _was_ said (but there hangs a doubt
    Of scandal on such gossip-whisper'd tales),
  He had a good one still to single out--
    For all his wives had tongues, and _some_ had nails--
  And still he hoped, though fifty-twice deferr'd,
  To find an angel in his fifty-third.

  In China, mind, and such outlandish places,
    A gentleman who wishes to be wed
  Looks round about among the pretty faces,
    Nor for a moment doubts they may be had
  For asking; and if any of them "nay" says,
    He has his remedy as soon as said--
  For, when the bridegrooms disapprove what they do,
  They teach them manners with the bastinado.

  Near Te-pott's palace lived an old Chinese--
    About as poor a man as could be known
  In lands where guardians leave them to their ease,
    Nor pen the poor up in bastilles of stone:
  He got a livelihood by picking teas;
    And of possessions worldly had but one--
  But one--the which, the reader must be told,
  Was a fair daughter seventeen years old.

  She was a lovely little girl, and one
    To charm the wits of both the high and _the_ low;
  And Te-pott's ancient heart was lost and won
    In less time than 'twould take my pen to tell how:
  So, as he was quite an experienced son-
    In-law, and, too, a very wily fellow,
  To make Hy-son his friend was no hard matter, I
  Ween, with that specific for parents--flattery.

  But, when they two had settled all between
    Themselves, and Te-pott thought that he had caught her,
  He found how premature his hopes had been
    Without the approbation of the daughter--
  Who talk'd with voice so loud and wit so keen,
    That he thought all his Mrs. T's had taught her;
  And, finding he was in the way there rather,
  He left her to be lectured by her father.

  "Pray, what were women made for" (so she said,
    Though Heaven forbid I join such tender saying),
  "If they to be accounted are as dead,
    And strangled if they ever are caught straying?
  Tis well to give us diamonds for the head,
    And silken gauds for festival arraying;
  But where of dress or diamonds is the use
  If we mayn't go and show them? that's the deuce!"

  The father answer'd, much as fathers do
    In cases of like nature here in Britain,
  Where fathers seldom let fortunes slip through
    Their fingers, when they think that they can get one;
  He said a many things extremely true--
    Proving that girls are fine things to be quit on,
  And that, could she accommodate her views to it,
  She would find marriage very nice when used to it.

  Now, 'tis no task to talk a woman into
    Love, or a dance, or into dressing fine--
  No task, I've heard, to talk her into sin too;
    But, somehow, reason don't seem in her line.
  And so Miss Hy-son, spite of kith and kin too,
    Persisting such a husband to decline--
  The eager mandarin issued a warrant,
  And got her apprehended by her parent.

  Thus the poor girl was caught, for there was no
    Appeal against so wealthy lover's fiat:
  She must e'en be a wife of his, and so
    She yielded him her hand demure and quiet;
  For ladies seldom cry unless they know
    There's somebody convenient to cry _at_--
  And; though it is consoling, on reflection
  Such fierce emotions ruin the complexion.

       *       *       *       *       *


FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE.

Yesterday Paddy Green honoured that great artist William Hogarth Teniers
Raphael Bunks, Esq., with a sitting for a likeness. The portrait, which
will doubtless be an admirable one, is stated to be destined to adorn one
of Mr. Catnach's ballads, namely, "The Monks of Old!" which Mr. P. Green,
in most obliging manner, has allowed to appear.

William Paul took a walk yesterday as far as Houndsditch, in company with
Jeremiah Donovan. A pair of left-off unmentionables is confidently
reported to be the cause of their visit in the "far East."

The lady of Paddy Green, Esquire, on Wednesday last, with that kindness
which has always distinguished her, caused to be distributed a platterful
of trotter bones amongst the starving dogs of the neighbourhood.

From information exclusively our own, and for whose correctness we would
stake our hump, we learn that James Burke, the honoured member of the
P.R., was seen to walk home on the night of Tuesday last with three fresh
herrings on a twig. After supper, he consoled himself with a pint of
fourpenny ale.

Charles Mears yesterday took a ride in a Whitechapel omnibus. He alighted
at Aldgate Pump, at which he took a draught of water from the ladle. He
afterwards regaled on a couple of polonies and a penny loaf.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL.

Jones, the journeyman tailor who was charged before Sir Peter Laurie with
being drunk and disorderly in Fleet-street, escaped the penalty of his
frolic by an extraordinary whim of justice. The young schneider, it
appears, sported a luxuriant crop of hair, the fashion of which not
pleasing the fancy of the city Rhadamanthus, he remitted the fine on
condition that the delinquent should instantly cut off the offending
hairs. A barber being sent for, the operation was instantly performed; and
Sir Peter, with a spirit of generosity only to be equalled by his
_cutting_ humour, actually put his hand in his breeches-pocket and handed
over to the official Figaro his fee of one shilling. The shorn tailor left
the office protesting that Sir Peter had not treated him handsomely, as he
had only consented to sacrifice his flowing locks, but that the Alderman
had cabbaged his whiskers as well.

       *       *       *       *       *


A CELESTIAL CON.

Why is wit like a Chinese lady's foot?--Because brevity is the _sole_ of
it!

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PRINCE OF WALES.--HIS FUTURE TIMES.

A private letter from Hanover states that, precisely at twelve minutes to
eleven in the morning on the ninth of the present November, his Majesty
King ERNEST was suddenly attacked by a violent fit of blue devils. All the
court doctors were immediately summoned, and as immediately dismissed, by
his Majesty, who sent for the Wizard of the North (recently appointed
royal astrologer), to divine the mysterious cause of this so sudden
melancholy. In a trice the mystery was solved--Queen Victoria "was happily
delivered of a Prince!" His Majesty was immediately assisted to his
chamber--put to bed--the curtains drawn--all the royal household ordered
to wear list slippers--the one knocker to the palace was carefully tied
up--and (on the departure of our courier) half a load of straw was already
deposited beneath the window of the royal chamber. The sentinels on duty
were prohibited from even sneezing, under pain of death, and all things in
and about the palace, to use a bran new simile, were silent as the grave!

"Whilst there was only the Princess Royal there were many hopes. There was
hope from severe teething--hope from measles--hope from hooping-cough--but
with the addition of a Prince of Wales, the hopes of Hanover are below
par." But we pause. We will no further invade the sanctity of the sorrows
of a king; merely observing, that what makes his Majesty very savage,
makes hundreds of thousands of Englishmen mighty glad. There are now two
cradles between the Crown of England and the White Horse of Hanover.

We have a Prince of Wales! Whilst, however, England is throwing up its
million caps in rapture at the advent, let it not be forgotten to whom we
owe the royal baby. In the clamourousness of our joy the fact would have
escaped us, had we not received a letter from Colonel SIBTHORP, who
assures us that we owe a Prince of Wales entirely to the present cabinet;
had the Whigs remained in office, the infant would inevitably have been a
girl.

For our own part--but we confess we are sometimes apt to look too soberly
at things--we think her Majesty (may all good angels make her caudle!) is,
inadvertently no doubt, treated in a questionable spirit of compliment by
these uproarious rejoicings at the sex of the illustrious little boy, who
has cast, if possible, a new dignity upon Lord Mayor's day, and made the
very giants of Guildhall shoot up an inch taller at the compliment he has
paid them of visiting the world on the ninth of November. In our playful
enthusiasm, we have--that is, the public _We_--declared we must have a
Prince of Wales--we should be dreadfully in the dumps if the child were
not a Prince--the Queen must have a Prince--a bouncing Prince--and nothing
but a Prince. Now might not an ill-natured Philosopher (but all
philosophers are ill-natured) interpret these yearnings for masculine
royalty as something like pensive regrets that the throne should ever be
filled by the feminine sex? For own part we are perfectly satisfied that
the Queen (may she live to see the Prince of Wales wrinkled and
white-headed!) is a Queen, and think VICTORIA THE FIRST sounds quite as
musically--has in it as full a note of promise--as if the regal name had
run--GEORGE THE FIFTH! We think there is a positive want of gallantry at
this unequivocally shouted preference of a Prince of Wales. Nevertheless,
we are happy to say, the pretty, good-tempered Princess Royal (she is
_not_ blind, as the Tories once averred; but then the Whigs were _in_)
still laughs and chirrups as if nothing had happened. Nay, as a proof of
the happy nature of the infant (we beg to say that the fact is copyright,
as we purchased it of the reporter of _The Observer_), whilst, on the
ninth instant, the chimes of St. Martin's were sounding merrily for the
birth of the Prince, the Princess magnanimously shook her coral-bells in
welcome of her dispossessing brother!

Independently of the sensation made in the City by the new glory that has
fallen upon the ninth of November (it is said that Sir PETER LAURIE has
been so rapt by the auspicious coincidence, that he has done nothing since
but talk and think of "the Prince of Wales"--that on Wednesday last he
rebuked an infant beggar with, "I've nothing for you, _Prince of
Wales_")--independently of the lustre flung upon the new Lord Mayor and
the Lord Mayor just out--who will, it is said, both be caudle-cup
baronets, the occasion has given birth to much deep philosophy on the part
of our contemporaries--so deep, that there is no getting to the end of it,
and has also revived much black-letter learning connected with the birth
of every Prince of Wales, from the first to the last--and, therefore,
certainly not least--new-comer.

An hour or so after George the Fourth was born, we are told that the
waggons containing the treasure of the _Hermione_, a Spanish galleon,
captured off St. Vincent by three English frigates, entered St. James's
street, escorted by cavalry and infantry, with trumpets sounding, the
enemy's flags waving over the waggons, and the whole surrounded by an
immense multitude of spectators. Now here, to the vulgar mind, was a happy
augury of the future golden reign of the Royal baby. He comes upon the
earth amid a shower of gold! The melodious chink of doubloons and pieces
of eight echo his first infant wailings! What a theme for the gipsies of
the press--the fortune-tellers of the time! At the present hour that baby
sleeps the last sleep in St. George's chapel; and we have his public and
his social history before us. What does experience--the experience bought
and paid for by hard, hard cash--_now_ read in the "waggons of treasure,"
groaning musically to the rocking-cradle of the callow infant? Simply, the
babe of Queen Charlotte would be a very expensive babe indeed; and that
the wealth of a Spanish galleon was all insufficient for the youngling's
future wants.

We have been favoured, among a series of pictures, with the following of
George the Fourth, exhibited in his babyhood. We are told that "all
persons _of fashion_ were admitted to see the Prince, under the following
restrictions, viz.--that in passing through the apartment _they stepped
with the greatest caution_, and did not offer to touch his Royal Highness.
For the greater security in this respect, a part of the apartment was
latticed off _in the Chinese manner_, to prevent curious persons from
approaching too nearly."

That lattice "in the Chinese manner" was a small yet fatal fore-shadowing
of the Chinese Pavilion at Brighton--of that temple, worthy of Pekin,
wherein the Royal infant of threescore was wont to enshrine himself, not
from the desecrating touch of the world, but even from the eyes of a
curious people, who, having paid some millions toward manufacturing the
most finished gentleman in Europe, had now and then a wish--an unregarded
wish--to look at their expensive handiwork.

What different prognostics have we in the natal day of our present Prince
of Wales! What rational hopes from many circumstances that beset him. The
Royal infant, we are told, is suckled by a person "named Brough, formerly
a _housemaid_ at Esher." From this very fact, will not the Royal child
grow up with the consciousness that he owes his nourishment even to the
very humblest of the people? Will he not suck in the humanising truth with
his very milk?

And then for the Spanish treasure--"hard food for Midas"--that threw its
jaundiced glory about the cradle of George the Fourth; what is that to the
promise of plenty, augured by the natal day of our present Prince? Comes
he not on the ninth of November? Is not his advent glorified by the
aromatic clouds of the Lord Mayor's kitchen?--Let every man, woman, and
child possess themselves of a _Times_ newspaper of the 10th ult.; for
there, in genial companionship with the chronicle of the birth of the
Prince, is the luscious history of the Lord Mayor's dinner. We quit
Buckingham Palace, our mind full of our dear little Queen, the Royal baby,
Prince Albert--(who, as _The Standard_ informs us subsequently, bows
"bare-headed" to the populace,)--the Archbishop of Canterbury, Doctor
Locock, the Duke of Wellington, and the monthly nurse, and immediately
fall upon the civic "general bill of fare,"--the real turtle at the City
board.

Oh, men of Paisley--good folks of Bolton--what promise for ye is here!
Turkeys, capons, sirloins, asparagus, pheasants, pine-apples, Savoy cakes,
Chantilly baskets, mince pies, preserved ginger, brandy cherries, a
thousand luscious cakes that "the sense aches at!" What are all these
gifts of plenty, but a glad promise that in the time of the "sweetest
young Prince," that on the birth-day of that Prince just vouchsafed to us,
all England will be a large Lord Mayor's table! Will it be possible for
Englishmen to dissassociate in their minds the Prince of Wales and the
Prince of good Fellows? And whereas the reigns of other potentates are
signalised by bloodshed and war, the time of the Prince will be glorified
by cooking and good cheer. His drum-sticks will be the drum-sticks of
turkeys--his cannon, the popping of corks. In his day, even weavers shall
know the taste of geese, and factory-children smack their lips at the
gravy of the great sirloin. Join your glasses! brandish your
carving-knives! cry welcome to the Prince of Wales! for he comes garnished
with all the world's good things. He shall live in the hearts, and (what
is more) in the stomachs of his people!

Q.

       *       *       *       *       *


PROPER PRECAUTION.

Everybody is talking of the great impropriety that has been practised in
keeping gunpowder within the Tower; and the papers are _blowing up_ the
authorities with astounding violence for their alleged laxity.
"Gunpowder," say the angry journalists, "ought only to be kept where there
is no possibility of a spark getting to it."--We suggest the bottom of the
Thames, as the only place where, in future, this precious preparation can
be securely deposited.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: OLIVIA'S RETURN TO HER FRIENDS.

"I ENTREAT, WOMAN, THAT MY WORDS MAY BE NOW MARKED, ONCE FOR ALL; I HAVE
HERE BROUGHT YOU BACK A POOR DELUDED WANDERER; HER RETURN TO DUTY DEMANDS
THE REVIVAL OF OUR TENDERNESS. THE KINDNESS OF HEAVEN IS PROMISED TO THE
PENITENT, AND LET OURS BE DIRECTED BY THE EXAMPLE."

_Vicar of Wakefield_, Chap. XXII.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT.

8.--OF THE EXAMINATION AT APOTHECARIES' HALL.


[Illustration: T]The last task that devolves upon our student before he
goes up to the Hall is to hunt up his testimonials of attendance to
lectures and good moral conduct in his apprenticeship, together with his
parochial certificate of age and baptism. The first of these is the chief
point to obtain; the two last he generally writes himself, in the style
best consonant with his own feelings and the date of his indenture. His
"morality ticket" is as follows:--


(Copy.)

"I hereby certify, that during the period Mr. Joseph Muff served his time
with me he especially recommended himself to my notice by his studious and
attentive habits, highly moral and gentlemanly conduct, and excellent
disposition. He always availed himself of every opportunity to improve his
professional knowledge."

(Signed)

According to the name on the indenture.


The certificate of attendance upon lectures is only obtained in its most
approved state by much clever manoeuvring. It is important to bear in mind
that a lecturer should never be asked whilst he is loitering about the
school for his signature of the student's diligence. He may then have time
to recollect his ignorance of his pupil's face at his discourses. He
should always be caught flying--either immediately before or after his
lecture--in order that the whole business may be too hurried to admit of
investigation. In the space left for the degree of attention which the
student has shown, it is better that he subscribes nothing at all than an
indifferent report; because, in the former case, the student can fill it
up to his own satisfaction. He usually prefers the phrase--"with
unremitting diligence."

And having arrived at this important section of our Physiology, it behoves
us to publish, for the benefit of medical students in general, and those
about to go up in particular, the following


CODE OF INSTRUCTIONS

TO BE OBSERVED BY THOSE PREPARING FOR EXAMINATION AT THE HALL.

1. Previously to going up, take some pills and get your hair cut. This not
only clears your faculties, but improves your appearance. The Court of
Examiners dislike long hair.

2. Do not drink too much stout before you go in, with the idea that it
will give you pluck. It renders you very valiant for half an hour and then
muddles your notions with indescribable confusion.

3. Having arrived at the Hall, put your rings and chains in your pocket,
and, if practicable, publish a pair of spectacles. This will endow you
with a grave look.

4. On taking your place at the table, if you wish to gain time, feign to
be intensely frightened. One of the examiners will then rise to give you a
tumbler of water, which you may, with good effect, rattle tremulously
against your teeth when drinking. This may possibly lead them to excuse
bad answers on the score of extreme nervous trepidation.

5. Should things appear to be going against you, get up a hectic cough,
which is easily imitated, and look acutely miserable, which you will
probably do without trying.

6. Endeavour to assume an off-hand manner of answering; and when you have
stated any pathological fact--right or wrong--_stick to it_; if they
want a case for example, invent one, "that happened when you were an
apprentice in the country." This assumed confidence will sometimes bother
them. We knew a student who once swore at the Hall, that he gave opium in
a case of concussion of the brain, and that the patient never required
anything else. It was true--he never did.

7. Should you be fortunate enough to pass, go to your hospital next day
and report your examination, describing it as the most extraordinary
ordeal of deep-searching questions ever undergone. This will make the
professors think well of you, and the new men deem yon little less than a
mental Colossus. Say, also, "you were complimented by the Court." This
advice is, however, scarcely necessary, as we never know a student pass
who was not thus honoured--according to his own account.

       *       *       *       *       *

All things being arranged to his satisfaction, he deposits his papers
under the care of Mr. Sayer, and passes the interval before the fatal day
much in the same state of mind as a condemned criminal. At last Thursday
arrives, and at a quarter to four, any person who takes the trouble to
station himself at the corner of Union-street will see various groups of
three and four young men wending their way towards the portals of
Apothecaries' Hall, consisting of students about to be examined,
accompanied by friends who come down with them to keep up their spirits.
They approach the door, and shake hands as they give and receive wishes of
success. The wicket closes on the candidates, and their friends adjourn to
the "Retail Establishment" opposite, to _go the odd man_ and pledge their
anxious companions in dissector's diet-drink--_vulgo_, half-and-half.

Leaving them to their libations, we follow our old friend Mr. Joseph Muff.
He crosses the paved court-yard with the air of a man who had lost
half-a-crown and found a halfpenny; and through the windows sees the
assistants dispensing plums, pepper, and prescriptions, with provoking
indifference. Turning to the left, he ascends a solemn-looking staircase,
adorned with severe black figures in niches, who support lamps. On the top
of the staircase he enters a room, wherein the partners of his misery are
collected. It is a long narrow apartment, commonly known as "the
funking-room," ornamented with a savage-looking fireplace at one end, and
a huge surly chest at the other; with gloomy presses against the walls,
containing dry mouldy books in harsh, repulsive bindings. The windows look
into the court; and the glass is scored by diamond rings, and the shutters
pencilled with names and sentences, which Mr. Muff regards with feelings
similar to those he would experience in contemplating the inscriptions on
the walls of a condemned cell. The very chairs in the room look
overbearing and unpleasant; and the whole locality is invested with an
overallishness of unanswerable questions and intricate botheration. Some
of the students are marching up and down the room in feverish
restlessness; others, arm in arm, are worrying each other to death with
questions; and the rest are grinding away to the last minute at a manual,
or trying to write minute atomic numbers on their thumb-nail.

The clock strikes five, and Mr. Sayer enters the room, exclaiming--"Mr.
Manhug, Mr. Jones, Mr. Saxby, and Mr. Collins." The four depart to the
chamber of examination, where the medical inquisition awaits them, with
every species of mental torture to screw their brains instead of their
thumbs, and rack their intellects instead of their limbs,--the chair on
which the unfortunate student is placed being far more uneasy than the
tightest fitting "Scavenger's daughter" in the Tower of London. After an
anxious hour, Mr. Jones returns, with a light bounding step to a joyous
extempore air of his own composing: he has passed. In another twenty
minutes Mr. Saxby walks fiercely in, calls for his hat, condemns the
examiners _ad inferos_, swears he shall cut the profession, and marches
away. He has been plucked; and Mr. Muff, who stands sixth on the list, is
called on to make his appearance before the awful tribunal.

       *       *       *       *       *


REGULARLY CALLED IN--AND BOWLED OUT.

Dr. Demosthenes &c. &c. &c. &c. Bedford, who has lately broken out in a
new place, has been accused by the lieges of the Borough of having acted
in a most unprofessional manner; in short, with having lost his
_patience_. He, Dr. Demosthenes &c. begs to state, the only surgical
operation he ever attempted was most successful, notwithstanding it was
the difficult one of amputating his "mahogany;" and he further adds, the
only case he ever had is still in his hand, it being a most obstinate

[Illustration: CARD CASE.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PRINCE OF WALES.

(_By the Observer's Own Correspondent._)

Knowing the anxiety that will be felt on this subject, though we doubt if
the future King can be called _a subject_ at all, we have collected the
following exclusive particulars:--

THE PRINCE'S TITLE.

His Royal Highness will for the present go by the title of "Poppet,"
affectionately conferred upon him by Mrs. Lilly at the moment of his
birth. Poppet is a title of very great antiquity, and has from time
immemorial been used as a mark of endearment towards a newly-born child in
all genteel families. Lovey-Dovey has been spoken of; but it is not likely
that His Royal Highness will assume the style and dignity of Lovey-Dovey
for a considerable period.

THE PRINCE'S INCOME.

Considerable mistakes have been fallen into by some of our contemporaries
on this important subject. What may be the present wishes of His Royal
Highness it is impossible for any one to ascertain, for he is able to
articulate nothing on this point with his little pipe; but the piper, we
know, must be eventually paid. He becomes immediately entitled to all the
loose halfpence in his mother's reticule, and sixpence a-week will be at
once payable out of his father's estates at Saxe Gotha. The whole of the
revenues attached to the Duchy of Cornwall are also his by the mere fact
of his birth: but there is a difficulty as to his giving a receipt for the
money, if it should be paid to him. It is believed, that on the meeting of
Parliament a Bill will pass for granting peg-top money to His Royal
Highness, and a lollipop allowance will be among the earliest estimates.

THE PRINCE'S MILITARY RANK.

The Prince of Wales is by birth at the head of all the _Infantry_ in the
kingdom, and is Colonel in his own right of a regiment of tin soldiers.

THE PRINCE'S WARDROBE.

The Prince falls at once into all the long frocks that are required, and
has an estate tail in six dozen napkins.

THE PRINCE'S EDUCATION.

This important matter will be confined at present to teaching His Royal
Highness how to take his pap without spilling it. A professor from the
pap-al states will, it is expected, be entrusted with this branch of the
royal economy.

THE PRINCE'S WET-NURSE.

Our contemporaries are wrong in stating that the individual to whom the
post of wet-nurse has been assigned is nothing but a housemaid. We have
full authority to state that she is no maid at all, but a respectable
married woman.

THE PRINCE'S HONOURS.

His Royal Highness has not yet been created a Knight of the Garter, though
Sir James Clark insisted on his being admitted to the Bath, against which
ceremony the infant Prince entered a vociferous protest.

The whole of the above particulars may be relied on as having been
furnished from the very highest authority.

       *       *       *       *       *


A BARROWKNIGHT.

SIR WILLOUGHBY COTTON, during his visit to the Mansion-House Feast, in a
moment of forgetfulness after the song of "Hurrah for the Road," being
asked to take wine with the new Lord Mayor, declined the honour in the
genuine long-stage phraseology, declaring he had already whacked his fare,
and was quite

[Illustration: FULL INSIDE.]

       *       *       *       *       *


MAGISTERIAL AXIOMS.

VIDE POLICE REPORTS.

An Irishman will _swear anything_.--_Mr. Grove_.

A man who wears long hair is _capable of anything_.--_Sir Peter Laurie_.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE ROYAL BULLETINS.

The documents lately shown at Buckingham Palace are spurious, and the real
ones have been suppressed from party motives, which we shall not allude
to. The following are genuine; they relate only to the Prince, the
convalescence of Her Majesty being, we are glad to say, so rapid as to
require no official notice.

_Half-past Twelve_.

The Prince has sneezed, and it is believed has smiled, though the nurses
are unable to pronounce whether the expression of pleasure arose from
satisfaction or cholic.

_Quarter past One_.

The Prince has passed a comfortable minute, and is much easier.

_Two O'Clock_.

The Prince is fast asleep, and is more quiet.

_Half-past Two_.

The Prince has been shown to Sir Robert Peel, and was very fretful.

_Three O'Clock_.

Sir Robert Peel has left the Palace, and the Prince is again perfectly
composed.

       *       *       *       *       *


DEVILLED DRUMSTICKS.

Our own Sir Peter Laurie, upon witnessing the extraordinary performance of
little Wieland in _Die Hexen am Rhein_, at the Adelphi Theatre, was so
transported with his diabolic agility, that he determined upon
endeavouring to arrive at the same perfection of pliability. As a guide
for his undertaking, he instantly despatched old Hobler for a folio
edition of

[Illustration: IMPEY'S PRACTICE.]

       *       *       *       *       *


BRANDY AND WATERFORD. (A GO!)

The Marquis of Waterford, upon his recent visit to Devonshire, was much
struck with the peculiar notice upon the County Stretchers. Being
overtaken by some of their extra-bottled apple-juice, he tested the truth
of the statement, and found them literally "licensed to carry _one in
cyder_" (_one insider_).

       *       *       *       *       *


THE WHEELS OF FORTUNE.

SIR WYNDHAM ANSTRUTHER, whose "Young Rapid" connexion with the _Stage_ is
pretty generally known, boasts that his stud was unrivalled for speed, as
he managed with his four to "run through" his whole estates in six months,
which he thinks a pretty decent proof that his might well be considered

[Illustration: A FAST COACH.]

       *       *       *       *       *


SEEING NOTHING

COMMISSIONER HARVEY and his old crony, Joe Hume, were talking lately of
the wonders which the latter had seen in his travels--"You have been on
Mont Blanc," said Whittle. "Certainly," replied the other. "And what did
you see there?" "Why really," said Joe, "it is always so wrapped up in a
double-milled fog, that there is nothing to be seen from it." "Nothing!"
echoed he of the Blues; "I never knew till now why it was called Mount
_Blank_." As this was the Commissioner's first attempt at a witticism, we
forgive him.

       *       *       *       *       *


MORE FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE.

(FROM OUR OWN ONE.)

A marriage is on the _tapis_ between Mr. John Smith, the distinguished
toll-collector at the Marsh Gate, and Miss Julia Belinda Snooks, the
lovely and accomplished daughter of the gallant out-pensioner of Greenwich
Hospital. Should the wedding take place, the bridegroom will be given away
by Mr. Levy, the great toll-contractor; while the blushing bride will be
attended to the altar by her mother-in-law, the well-known laundress of
Tash-street. The _trousseau_, consisting of a selection from a bankrupt's
stock of damaged _de laines_, has been purchased at Lambeth House; and a
parasol carefully chosen from a lot of 500, all at one-and-ninepence, will
be presented by the happy bridegroom on the morning of the marriage. A
cabman has already been spoken to, and a shilling fare has been sketched
out for the eventful morning, which is so arranged as to terminate at the
toll-house, from which Mr. Smith can only be absent for about an hour,
during which time the toll will be taken by an amateur of celebrity.

Among the fashionables at the Bower Saloon, we observed Messrs. Jones and
Brown, Mr. J. Jones, Mr. H. Jones, Mr. M. Brown, Mr. K. Brown, and several
other distinguished leaders of the _ton_ in Stangate.

There is no truth in the report that Tom Timkins intends resigning his
seat at the apple-stall in the New Cut; and the rumours of a successor are
therefore premature and indelicate.

The vacant crossing opposite the Victoria has not been offered to Bill
Swivel, nor is it intended that any one shall be appointed to the post in
the Circus.

       *       *       *       *       *


CONS. WORTH CONNING.

Why is the making a _mem._ of the number of a person's residence like a
general election?--Because it's done to re-member _the house_.

Why is Count D'Orsay a capital piece of furniture for a kitchen?--Because
he's a _good dresser_.

       *       *       *       *       *


MORBID SYMPATHY FOR CRIMINALS.

Our contemporary, the _Times_, for the last few days has been very justly
deprecating the existing morbid sympathy for criminals. The moment that a
man sins against the conventionalities of society he ought certainly to be
excluded from all claims upon the sympathy of his fellows. It is very true
that even the felon has kindred, parents, wife, children--for whom, and in
whom, God has implanted an instinctive love. It is true that the criminal
may have been led by the example of aristocratic sinners to disregard the
injunctions of revealed religion against the adulterer, the gamester, and
the drunkard; and having imitated the "pleasant follies" of the great
without possessing the requisite means for such enjoyments, the man of
pleasure has degenerated into the man of crime. It is true that the poor
and ignorant may have claims upon the wealth and the intelligence of the
rich and learned; but are we to pause to inquire whether want may have
driven the destitute to theft, or the absence of early instruction have
left the physical desires of the offender's nature superior to its moral
restrictions.--Certainly not, whilst we have a gallows. There is, however,
one difficulty which seems to interfere with a liberal exercise of the
rope and the beam. Where are we to find executioners? for if "whoso
sheddeth man's blood" be amenable to man, surely Jack Ketch is not to be
exempted.

The _Times_ condemns the late Lord Chamberlain for allowing the
representation of "Jack Sheppard" and "Madame Laffarge" at the Adelphi; so
do we. The _Times_ intimates, that "the newspapers teem with details about
everything which such criminals 'as Dick Turpin and Jack Sheppard' say or
do; that complete biographies of them are presented to the public; that
report after report expatiates upon every refinement and peculiarity in
their wickedness," for "the good purpose" of warning the embryo
highwayman. We are something more than _duberous_ of this. We can see no
difference between the exhibition of the stage and the gloating of the
broadsheet; they are both "the agents by which the exploits of the gay
highwayman are realised before his eyes, amid a brilliant and evidently
sympathising" public. We deprecate both, as tending to excite the
weak-minded to gratify "the ambition of this kind of notoriety;"--and yet
we say, with the _Times_, there should be "no sympathy for criminals."

       *       *       *       *       *


THE MALE DALILAH.

Sir Peter Laurie's aversion to long locks is accounted for by his change
of political opinions, he having some time since _cut the W(h)igs_.

       *       *       *       *       *


A "PUNCH" TESTIMONIAL.

We are virtuously happy to announce that a meeting has been held at the
_Hum_-mums Hotel, Colonel Sibthorp in the chair, for the purpose of
presenting to PUNCH some testimonial of public esteem for his exertions in
the detection and exposure of fraudulent wits and would-be distinguished
characters.

COLONEL SIBTHORP thanked the meeting for the honour they had conferred
upon him in electing him their chairman upon this occasion. None knew
better than himself the service that PUNCH had rendered to the public. But
for that fun fed individual his (Col. Sibthorp's) own brilliant effusions
would have been left to have smouldered in his brain, or have hung like
cobwebs about the House of Commons. (_Hear, hear_!) But PUNCH had stepped
in to the rescue; he had not only preserved some of the brilliant things
that he (Col. Sibthorp) had said, but had also reported many of the
extremely original witticisms that he had intended to have uttered.
(_Hear_!) There were many honourable gentlemen--(he begged
pardon--gentlemen, he meant, without the honourable; but he had been so
long a member of parliament that he had acquired a habit of calling men
and things out of their proper names). Apologising for so lengthy a
parenthesis, he would say that there were many gentlemen who were equally
indebted (_hear! from Sir Peter Laurie, Peter Borthwick, and Pre-Adam
Roebuck_) to this jocular benefactor. "It was PUNCH," said the gallant
gentleman, with much feeling, "who first convinced me that the popular
opinion of my asinine capabilities was erroneous. It was PUNCH who
discovered that there was as much in my head as on it(_loud cheers,
produced doubtlessly by the aptness of the simile, the gallant Colonel
being perfectly bald_). I should, therefore, be the most ungrateful of
Members for Lincoln, did I not entreat of this meeting to mark their high
sense of Mr. PUNCH'S exertions by a liberal subscription" (_cheers_).

SIR PETER LAURIE acknowledged himself equally in debt with their gallant
Chairman to the object of the present meeting. He (Sir Peter) had tried
all schemes to obtain popularity--he had made speeches without number or
meaning--he had done double duty at the Mansion-house, and had made Mr.
Hobler laugh more heartily than any Lord Mayor or Alderman since the days
of Whittington (during whose mayoralty the venerable Chief Clerk first
took office)--he (Sir P. Laurie) had, after much difficulty and four
years' practice, received the Queen on horseback (_much cheering_); but
(_continued cheering_)--but it was left for PUNCH to achieve his
immortality (_immense cheering--several squares of glass in the
conservatory opposite broken by the explosion_). He (Sir P. Laurie) had
done all in his power to deserve the notice of that illustrious wooden
individual. He had endeavoured to be much more ass--(_loud
cheers_)--iduous than ever. PUNCH had rewarded him; and he therefore felt
it his bounden duty to reward PUNCH. (_Hear! hear!_)

MR. ROEBUCK fully concurred in the preceding eulogies. What had not PUNCH
done for him? Had not PUNCH extinguished the _Times_ by the honest way in
which he had advocated his (Roebuck's) injured genealogy? Had PUNCH not
proved that he (Mr. Roebuck) had a father, which the "mendacious journal"
had asserted was impossible? Had not PUNCH traced the Roebuck family as
far back as 1801?--that was something! But he (Mr. Roebuck) believed that
he had been injured by an error of the press, and that PUNCH had written
the numerals 1081. Be that as it might, he (Mr. Roebuck) was anxious to
discharge the overwhelming debt of gratitude which he owed to MR. PUNCH,
and intended to subscribe very largely (_cheers_).

MR. PETER BORTHWICK had been in former years a Shaksperian actor. He had
for many seasons, at the "Royal Rugby Barn," had the honour of bearing the
principal banners in all the imposing processions, "got up at an immense
expense" in that unique establishment. (_Hear_!) He was, therefore, better
qualified than any gentleman present to form an opinion of the services
which Punch had rendered to the British Drama (_loud and continued cheers,
during which Mr. Yates rushed on to the platform, and bowed several times
to the assembled multitude_). Therefore, as a devoted admirer of that art
which he (Peter) trusted HE and Shakspere had adorned (_cheers_), he
fondly hoped that the meeting would at once take tickets, when he
announced that the performance was for the benefit of Mr. PUNCH.

LORD MORPETH next presented himself; but our reporter, having promised to
take tea with his grandmother, left before the Noble Lord opened his
mouth.

We hope next week to furnish the remainder of the speeches, and a very
long list of subscriptions.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE RAPE OF THE LOCK-UP;

OR, SIR PETER LAURIE ON CRIME AND THE CROPS.


We believe no longing was ever more firmly planted in the human heart,
than that of discovering some short cut to the high road of mental
acquirement. The toilsome learner's "Progress" through the barren outset
of the alphabet; the slough of despond of seven syllables, endangered as
they both are by the frequent appearance of the compulsive birch of the
Mr. Worldly-wisemen who teach the young idea how to shoot, must ever be
looked upon as a probation, the power of avoiding which is "a consummation
devoutly to be wished." Imbued with this feeling, the more speculative of
past ages have frequently attempted to arrive, by external means, at the
immediate possession of results otherwise requiring a long course of
intense study and anxious inquiry. From these defunct illuminati
originated the suppositionary virtues of the magically-endowed divining
wand. The simple bending of a forked hazel twig, being the received sign
of the deep-buried well, suited admirably with their notions of immediate
information, and precluded the unpleasant and toilsome necessity for
delving on speculation for the discovery of their desired object. But,
alas, divining rods, like dogs, have had their day. The want of faith in
the operators, or the growth of a new and obstinate assortment of hazel
twigs, threw discredit on the mummery and the mummers. Still the passion
existed; and in no case was it more observable than in that of the
celebrated witch-finder. An actual presence at the demoniacal rites of the
broom-riding sisterhood would have been attended with much danger and
considerable difficulty; indeed, it has been asserted that the visitors,
like those at Almack's, were expected to be balloted for, ticketed, and
dressed in a manner suiting the occasion. Any infringement of these rules
must have been at the proper peril of the contumacious infringer; and as
it is more than probable some of the brooms carried double, there was a
very decent chance of the intruder's discovering himself across one of the
heavy-tailed and strong-backed breed, taking a trip to some distant
bourne, from whence that compulsory aerial traveller would doubtless never
have returned. Still witches were evils; and proof of evil is what the law
seeks to enable evil's suppression. Now and again one of these short-cut
gentry, by some railroad system of mental calculation, discovered certain
external marks or moles that at a glance betrayed "the secret, dark, and
midnight hags;" and the witch-finding process was instantaneously
established. The outward and visible sign of their misdeeds authorised the
further proceeding necessary for the clear proof of their delinquencies:
thus the pinchings, beatings, starvings, trials, hangings, and burnings
were made the goal of the shortest of all imaginable short cuts; and old
women who had established pin manufactories in the stomachs of thousands,
instead of receiving patents for their inventions, divided the honour of
illuminating the land with the blazing tar-barrels provided for their
peculiar use and benefit. Whether it was that aerial gambols on unsaddled
and rough-backed broomsticks grew tiresome, or the small profit attending
the vocation became smaller, or that all the elderly ladies with moles,
and without anything else, were burnt up, we can't pretend to say; but
certain it is, the art of witchcraft fell into disrepute. Corking,
minikin, and all description of pins, were obliged to be made in the
regular way; and cows even departed this world without the honour of the
human immolations formerly considered the necessary sacrifice for the loss
of their inestimable lives. Since the abovetimes Animal Magnetism and
Mesmerism have followed in the wake of what has been; and now, just as
despair, already poised upon its outstretched sable wings, was hovering
for a brief moment previous to making its final swoop upon the External
Doctrine, Peter--our Peter--Peter Laurie--the great, the glorious, the
aldermanic Laurie--makes despair, like the Indian Juggler who swallowed
himself, become the victim of its own insatiate maw.

Our quill trembles as we proceed; it is unequal to the task. Oh, that we
could write with the whole goose upon the wondrous merits of the wondrous
Peter!

We are better. That bumper has restored our nerve.

Reader, fancy the gifted Peter seated in the dull dignity of civic
magistracy: the court is thronged--a young delinquent blinks like an owl
in sunshine 'neath the mighty flashing of his bench-lit eye. His crime,
ay, what's his crime? it can't be much--so pale, so thin, so woe-begone!
look, too, so tremulous of knee, and redolent of hair! what has he done?

Here Roe interprets--"Please your worship, this young man, or tailor, has
been assaulting several females with a blue bag and a pair of breeches."

_Sir Peter_.--"I don't wonder at it; that man would do anything, I see it
in his face, or rather in the back of his head, that's where the
expression lies--look at his hair!"

The whole court becomes a Cyclops--it has but one eye, and that is fixed
upon the tailor's locks.

"I say," resumes our Peter, "a man with that head of hair would do
anything--pray, sir, do you wish to be taken for a German sausage, or a
German student?--they're all the same, sir--speak at once."

The faltering fraction denies the student, and repudiates the sausage.

_Sir Peter_, still looking at the hair, from which external sign he
evidently derived all his information--"You were drunk, sir."

"I was," faltered the Samsonian schneider.

"I know it, sir--you are fined five shillings, sir--but if you choose to
submit to the deprivation of that iniquitous hair, which has brought you
here, and which, I repeat, will make you do anything, I will remit the
fine."

A sigh, fine-drawn as the accidental rent in an unfinished skirt, escaped
the hirsute stitcher: a melancholy reflection upon the infinite deal of
nothing in his various pockets, and the slow revolving of the Brixton
wheel in stern perspective, wrung from the quodded wretch a slow assent:
Sir Peter sent a City officer with his warrant to secure the nearest
barber: a few sharp clickings of the envious shears--and all was over!
Crime fell from the shoulders of the quondam culprit, and the tonsorial
innocent stood forth confessed!

Sir Peter was entranced. That was his doing! He gazed with pride upon the
new absolved from sin. He asked, "Are you not more comfortable?"

All vice had gone, save one--the young man answered "Yes," and _lied_.

"Then, sir, go home."

"The barber," muttered "soft Roe" in as soft a voice.

"What of him?"

"Wants a shillin'."

"There it is," exclaimed the Augustine Peter, "there, from my own pocket,
paid with pleasure to preserve that youth from the evil influence of too
much hair--I'll pay for all the City if they like--and banished suicide,
and I'll pretty soon see if I can't settle all the City crops. Prisoner,
you are discharged."

The young man lost his hair, the Queen five shillings, and Sir Peter one;
but then he gained his end,--and docking must henceforth be looked upon as
the treadmill's antidote, and young man's fines' best friend. We therefore
say, should the iniquity of your long locks, gentle reader, take you to
the station (for, remember, Sir Peter says, _Long hair will do anything_),
if you can't find bail, secure a barber, and command your liberation. We
have been speculating of these externally-illustrated grades of crime; we
think the following nearly correct:--

The long and lank indicates larceny (petty and otherwise).

The bushy and bountiful--burglary.

The full and flowing--felony.

The magnificent and mysterious--murder.

And, for aught we know, pigtails--polygamy.

For the future, a thinking man's motto will be, not to mind "his own eye,"
but everybody else's hair.

P.S. We have just received the following horrifying communication which
establishes Sir Peter's opinion, "that a man with such hair would do
anything," but unfortunately disproves the remedy, as those atrocities
have been committed when he was without.

Indignant at the loss of his head's glory, the evil-minded tailor,
immediately upon leaving the court, sent for counsel's opinion as to
whether he couldn't proceed against Sir Peter, under the act for "cutting
and maiming, with intent to do him some grievous bodily harm." This, it
appears he cannot do, inasmuch as these very learned gentlemen at the bar
have decided, "the head" from which the hair was cut, and which, if any,
is consequently the injured part, is not included in the meaning of the
word _bodily_, as &c. &c. Foiled in this attempt, the monster, for the
brutal gratification of his burning revenge, hit upon a scheme the most
diabolical that human hair could conceive. He actually applied to the
Society for the Suppression of _Cruelty to Animals_; and they, upon
inspecting a portion of the dissevered locks, immediately took up the
case, and are about to indict Sir Peter, Roe, and the barber, under one of
the clauses of that tremendous act. If they proceed for penalties in
individual cases, they must be immense, as the killed and wounded are
beyond calculation,--not to mention all that the process has left
homeless, foodless, and destitute.

       *       *       *       *       *


BARBER-OUS ANNOUNCEMENT.

We beg to inform our readers that Mr. Tanner, of Temple-bar and
Shire-lane, whose salon extends from the city of London to the liberties
of Westminster, has this day been appointed Hair-cutter Extraordinary to
Sir Peter Laurie.

       *       *       *       *       *


A NEW MILKY WAY.

KIRCHOFF, a Prussian chemist, is reported to have discovered a process by
which milk may be preserved for an indefinite period. Fresh milk is
evaporated by a very gentle heat till it is reduced to a dry powder, which
is to be kept perfectly dry in a bottle. When required for use it need
only be diluted with a sufficient quantity of water. Mr. James Jones, who
keeps a red cow--over his door--claims the original idea of making milk
from a white powder, which, he states, may be done without the tedious
process of evaporation, by using an article entirely known to London
milk-vendors--namely _chalk_.

       *       *       *       *       *


OH GEMINI!

At the close of the Civic Festival last week, Sir William Follett inquired
of the Recorder if he had seen his _Castor_. "No," replied Law (holding up
the Attorney-General's fifty-seven penn'orth), "but here is your brother
Pollock's" (_Pollux_.)

       *       *       *       *       *


"Well," said Sir Peter Hobler the other morning, "I should think you will
be denied the _entrée_ to the Palace after your decision of Saturday."
"Why so?" inquired the knight of leather. "For fear you should cut off the
heir to the Throne!" screamed Hobler, and vanished.

       *       *       *       *       *





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, November 20, 1841" ***

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