Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, October 9, 1841
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.



FOR THE WEEK ENDING OCTOBER 9, 1841.

       *       *       *       *       *


A MANUAL OF DENOUEMENTS.

  "In the king's name,
  Let fall your swords and daggers."--CRITIC.

[Illustration: A]A melo-drama is a theatrical dose in two or three acts,
according to the strength of the constitution of the audience. Its
component parts are a villain, a lover, a heroine, a comic character, and
an executioner. These having simmered and macerated through all manner of
events, are strained off together into the last scene; and the
effervescence which then ensues is called the _dénouement_, and the
_dénouement_ is the soul of the drama.

_Dénouements_ are of three kinds:--The natural, the unnatural, and the
supernatural.

The "natural" is achieved when no probabilities are violated;--that is,
when the circumstances are such as really might occur--if we could only
bring ourselves to think so--as, (_ex. gr._)

When the villain, being especially desirous to preserve and secrete
certain documents of vital importance to himself and to the piece, does,
most unaccountably, mislay them in the most conspicuous part of the stage,
and straightway they are found by the very last member of the _dram.
pers._ in whose hands he would like to see them.

When the villain and his accomplice, congratulating each other on the
successful issue of their crimes, and dividing the spoil thereof (which
they are always careful to do in a loud voice, and in a room full of
closets), are suddenly set upon and secured by the innocent yet suspected
and condemned parties, who are at that moment passing on their way to
execution.

When the guiltless prisoner at the bar, being asked for his defence, and
having no witnesses to call, produces a checked handkerchief, and
subpoenas his own conscience, which has such an effect on the villain,
that he swoons, and sees demons in the jury-box, and tells them that "he
is ready," and that "he comes," &c. &c.

When the deserter, being just about to be shot, is miraculously saved by
his mistress, who cuts the matter very fine indeed, by rushing in between
"present" and "fire;" and, having ejaculated "a reprieve!" with all her
might, falls down, overcome by fatigue--poor dear! as well she may--having
run twenty-three miles in the changing of a scene, and carried her baby on
her arm all the blessed way, in order to hold him up in the tableau at the
end.

N.B.--Whenever married people rescue one another as above, the
"_dénouement_" belongs to the class "unnatural;" which is used when the
author wishes to show the intensity of his invention--as, (_ex. gr._
again)

When an old man, having been wounded fatally by a young man, requests, as
a boon, to be permitted to examine the young man's neck, who, accordingly
unloosing his cravat, displays a hieroglyphic neatly engraved thereon,
which the old man interprets into his being a parricide, and then dies,
leaving the young man in a state of histrionic stupor.

When a will is found embellished with a Daguerréotype of four fingers and
a thumb, done in blood on the cover, and it turns out that the residuary
legatee is no better than he should be--but, on the contrary, a murderer
nicely ripe for killing.

The "supernatural" _dénouement_ is the last resource of a bewildered
dramatist, and introduces either an individual in green scales and wings
to match, who gives the audience to understand that he is a fiend, and
that he has private business to transact below with the villain; who,
accordingly, withdraws in his company, with many throes and groans, down
the trap.

Or a pale ghost in dingy lawn, apparently afflicted with a serious
haemorrhage in the bosom, who appears to a great many people, running, in
dreams; and at last joins the hands of the young couple, and puts in a
little plea of her own for a private burial.

And there are many other variations of the three great classes of
_dénouements_; such as the helter-skelter
nine-times-round-the-stage-combat, and the grand _mêlée_ in which
everybody kills everybody else, and leaves the piece to be carried on by
their executors; but we dare unveil the mystery no further.

       *       *       *       *       *


SPORTING FACE.

"Well," said Roebuck to O'Connell, "despite Peel's double-face
propensities, he is a great genius." "A great _Janus_ indeed," answered
the _liberathor_.

       *       *       *       *       *


"A RING! A RING!!"

The political pugilistic scrimmage which recently took place in the House
of Congress so completely coincides with the views and propensities of the
"universal scrimmage" member for Bath, that he intends making a motion for
the erection of a twenty-four-foot-ring on the floor of the House, for the
benefit of opposition members. The Speaker, says Roebuck, will, in that
case, be enabled to ascertain whether the "noes" or "ayes" have it,
without tellers.

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S GUIDE TO THE WATERING PLACES.--No. 1.

BRIGHTON

If you are either in a great hurry, or tired of life, book yourself by the
Brighton railroad, and you are ensured one of two things--arrival in two
hours, or destruction by that rapid process known in America as "immortal
smash," which brings you to the end of your journey before you get to the
terminus. Should you fortunately meet with the former result, and finish
your trip without ending your mortal career, you find the place beset with
cads and omnibuses, which are very convenient; for if your hotel or
boarding-house be at the extremity of the town, you would have to walk at
least half a mile but for such vehicles, and they only charge sixpence,
with the additional advantage of the great chance of your luggage being
lost. If you be a married man, you will go to an hotel where you can get a
bed for half-a-guinea a night, provided you do not want it warmed, and use
your own soap; but it is five shillings extra if you do. Should you be a
bachelor, or an old maid, you, of course, put up at a boarding-house,
where you see a great deal of good society at two guineas a week; for
every third man is a captain, and every fifth woman "my lady." There, too,
you observe a continual round of courtship going on; for it comes in with
the coffee, and continues during every meal. "Marriages," it is said, "are
made in heaven"--good matches are always got up at meal-times in Brighton
boarding-houses.

Brighton is decidedly a fishing-town, for besides the quantity of John
Dorys caught there, it is a celebrated place for pursey half-pay officers
to angle in for rich widows. The bait they generally use consists of dyed
whiskers, and a distant relationship to some of the "gentles" or nobles of
the land. The town itself is built upon _the downs_--a series of hills,
which those in the habit of walking over them are apt to call "ups and
downs." It consists entirely of hotels, boarding-houses, and
bathing-machines, with a pavilion and a chain-pier. The amusements are
various, and of a highly intellectual character: the chief of them being a
walk from the esplanade to the east cliff, and a promenade back again from
the east cliff to the esplanade. Donkey-races are in full vogue, insomuch
that the highways are thronged with interesting animals, decorated with
serge-trappings and safety-saddles, and interspersed with goat-carts and
hired flys. There is a library, where the visiters do everything but read;
and a theatre, where--as Charles Kean is now playing there--they do
anything but act. The ladies seem to take great delight in the sea-bath,
and that they may enjoy the luxury in the most secluded privacy, the
machines are placed as near to the pier as possible. This is always
crowded with men, who, by the aid of opera glasses, find it a pleasing
pastime to watch the movements of the delicate Naiads who crowd the
waters.

Those to whom Brighton is recommended for change of air and of scene get
sadly taken in, for here the air--like that of a barrel-organ--never
changes, as the wind is always high. In sunshine, Brighton always looks
hot; in moonshine, eternally dreary; the men are yawning all day long, and
the women sitting smirking in bay-windows, or walking with puppy-dogs and
parasols, which last they are continually opening and shutting. In short,
when a man is sick of the world, or a maiden of forty-five has been so
often crossed in love as to be obliged to leave off hoping against hope,
Brighton is an excellent place to prepare him or her for a final
retirement from life--whether that is contemplated in the Queen's Bench, a
convent, a residence among the Welsh mountains, or the monastery of La
Trappe, a month's probation in Brighton, at the height of the season,
being well calculated to make any such change not only endurable, but
agreeable.

       *       *       *       *       *


CUSTOM-HOUSE SALE.  LOT 1.--A PORT.

  For sale, Thorwaldsen's Byron, rich in beauty,
  Because his country owes, and will not pay, "duty."

       *       *       *       *       *


THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE.

CHAPTER VI.

TREATS OF CHALK-AND-QUA-DRILL-OGY.

[Illustration: E]Entirely disgusted with his unsuccessful appeal to the
enlightened British public assembled in the front of his residence, and
which had produced effects so contrary to what he had conceived would be
the result, Agamemnon called a committee of his household, to determine on
the most advisable proceedings to be adopted for remedying the evils
resulting from the unexpected pyrotechnic display of the morning. The
carpet was spoiled--the house was impregnated with the sooty effluvia, and
the company was expected to arrive at nine o'clock. What was to be done?
Betty suggested the burning of brown paper and scrubbing the carpet; John,
assafoetida and sawdust; Mrs. Waddledot, pastilles and chalking the floor.
As the latter remedies seemed most compatible with the gentility of their
expected visiters, immediate measures were taken for carrying them into
effect. A dozen cheese-plates were disposed upon the stairs, each
furnished with little pyramids of fragrance; old John, who was troubled
with an asthma, was deputed to superintend them, and nearly coughed
himself into a fit of apoplexy in the strenuous discharge of his duty.

Whilst these in-door remedial appliances were in progress, Agamemnon was
hurrying about in a hack cab to discover a designer in chalk, and at
length was fortunate enough to secure the "own artist" of the celebrated
"Crown and Anchor." Mr. Smear was a shrewd man, as well as an excellent
artist; and when he perceived the very peculiar position of things, he
forcibly enumerated all the difficulties which presented themselves, and
which could only be surmounted by a large increase of remuneration.

"You see, sir," said Mr. Smear, "that wherever that ere water _has_ been
it's left a dampness ahind it; the moistur' consekent upon such a dampness
must be evaporated by ever-so-many applications of the warming-pan. The
steam which a rises from this hoperation, combined with the extra hart
required to hide them two black spots in the middle, will make the job
come to one-pund-one, independently of the chalk."

Agamemnon had nothing left but compliance with Mr. Smear's demand; and one
warming and three stew-pans, filled with live coals, were soon engaged in
what Mr. Smear called the "ewaporating department." As soon as the boards
were sufficiently dry, Mr. Smear commenced operations. In each of the four
corners of the room he described the diagram of a coral and bells,
connecting them with each other by graceful festoons of blue-chalk ribbon
tied in large true-lover's knots in the centre. Having thus completed a
frame, he proceeded, after sundry contortions of the facial muscles, to
the execution of the great design. Having described an ellipse of red
chalk, he tastefully inserted within it a perfect representation of the
interior of an infant's mouth in an early stage of dentition, whilst a
graceful letter _A_ seemed to keep the gums apart to allow of this
artistical exhibition. Proudly did Mr. Smear cast his small grey eyes on
Agamemnon, and challenge him, as it were, to a laudatory acknowledgment of
his genius; but as his patron remained silent, Mr. Smear determined to
speak out.

"Hart has done her best--language must do the rest. I am now only awaiting
for the motter. What shall I say, sir?"

"'Welcome' is as good as anything, in my opinion," replied Collumpsion.

"Welcome!" ejaculated Smear: "a servile himitation of a general
'lumination idea, sir. We must be original. Will you leave it to me?"

"Willingly," said Agamemnon. And with many inward protestations against
parties in general and his own in particular, he left Mr. Smear and his
imagination together.

The great artist in chalk paced the room for some minutes, and then
slapped his left thigh, in confirmation of the existence of some brilliant
idea. The result was soon made apparent on the boards of the drawing-room,
where the following inscription attested the immensity of Smear's genius--

       "PARTAKE
          OF
          OUR
     DENTAL DELIGHT."

The guinea was instantly paid; but Collumpsion was for a length of time in
a state of uncertainty as to whether Mr. Smear's talents were ornamental
or disfigurative. Nine o'clock arrived, and with it a rumble of vehicles,
and an agitation of knocker, that were extremely exhilarating to the
heretofore exhausted and distressed family at 24.

We shall not attempt to particularise the arrivals, as they were precisely
the same set as our readers have invariably met at routs of the second
class for these last five years. There was the young gentleman in an
orange waistcoat, bilious complexion, and hair _à la Petrarch_, only
gingered; and so also were the two Misses ----, in blue gauze, looped up
with coral,--and that fair-haired girl who "detethted therry," and those
black eyes, whose lustrous beauty made such havoc among the untenanted
hearts of the youthful beaux;--but, reader, you _must_ know the set that
_must_ have visited the Applebites.

All went "merry as a marriage bell," and we feel that we cannot do better
than assist future commentators by giving a minute analysis of a word
which so frequently occurs in the fashionable literature of the present
day that doubtlessly in after time many anxious inquiries and curious
conjectures would be occasioned, but for the service we are about to
confer on posterity (for the pages of PUNCH are immortal) by a description
of

A QUADRILLE:

which is a dance particularly fashionable in the nineteenth century. In
order to render our details perspicuous and lucid, we will suppose--

    1.--A gentleman in tight pantaloons and a tip.
    2.--Ditto in loose ditto, and a camellia japonica in the
        button-hole of his coat.
    3.--Ditto in a crimson waistcoat, and a pendulating eye-glass.
    4.--Ditto in violent wristbands, and an alarming eruption of buttons.

    ALSO,

    1.--A young lady in pink-gauze and freckles.
    2.--Ditto in book-muslin and marabouts.
    3.--Ditto with blonde and a slight cast.
    4.--Ditto in her 24th year, and black satin.

The four gentlemen present themselves to the four ladies, and having
smirked and "begged the honour," the four pairs take their station in the
room in the following order:

                         The tip and the
                            freckles.

  The camelia japonica,                     The crimson waistcoat,
         and the                                   and the
        marabouts.                               slight cast.

                      The violent wristbands
                             and the
                           black satin.


During eight bars of music, tip, crimson, camellia, and wristbands, bow to
freckles, slight cast, marabouts, and black satin, who curtsey in return,
and then commence

LA PANTALON,

by performing an intersecting figure that brings all parties exactly where
they were; which joyous circumstance is celebrated by bobbing for four
bars opposite to each other, and then indulging in a universal twirl which
apparently offends the ladies, who seize hold of each other's hands only
to leave go again, and be twirled round by the opposite gentleman, who,
having secured his partner, promenades her half round to celebrate his
victory, and then returns to his place with his partner, performing a
similar in-and-out movement as that which commenced _la Pantalon_.

L'ETE

is a much more respectful operation. Referring to our previous
arrangement, wristbands and freckles would advance and retire--then they
would take two hops and a jump to the right, then two hops and a jump to
the left--then cross over, and there hop and jump the same number of times
and come back again, and having celebrated their return by bobbing for
four bars, they twirl their partners again, and commence

LA POULE.

The crimson waistcoat and marabouts would shake hands with their right,
and then cross over, and having shaken hands again with the left, come
back again. They then would invite the camellia and the slight cast to
join them, and perform a kind of wild Indian dance "all of a row." After
which they all walk to the sides they have no business upon, and then
crimson runs round marabout, and taking his partner's hand, _i.e._, the
slight cast, introduces her to camellia and marabout, as though they had
never met before. This introduction is evidently disagreeable, for they
instantly retire, and then rush past each other, as furiously as they can,
to their respective places.

LA TRENISE

is evidently intended to "trot out" the dancers. Freckles and black satin
shake hands as they did in _la Pantalon_, and then freckles trots tip out
twice, and crosses over to the opposite side to have a good look at him;
having satisfied her curiosity, she then, in company with black satin,
crosses over to have a stare at the violent wristbands, in contrast with
tip who wriggles over, and join him, and then, without saying a word to
each other, bob, and are twirled as in _l'Eté_.

LA PASTORALE

seems to be an inversion of _la Trenise_, except that in nineteen cases
out of twenty, the waistcoat, tip, camellia and wristbands, seem to
undergo intense mental torture; for if there be such a thing as "poetry of
motion," _pastorale_ must be the "Inferno of Dancing."

LA FINALE

commences with a circular riot, which leads to _l'Eté_. The ladies then
join hands, and endeavour to imitate the graceful evolutions of a
windmill, occasionally grinding the corns of their partners, who
frantically rush in with the quixotic intention of stopping them. A
general shuffling about then takes place, which terminates in a bow, a
bob, and "allow me to offer you some refreshment."

_Malheureux!_ we have devoted so much space to the quadrille, that we have
left none for the supper, which being a cold one, will keep till next week.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE GENTLEMAN'S OWN BOOK.

We are ashamed to ask our readers to refer to our last article under the
title of the "Gentleman's Own Book," for the length of time which has
elapsed almost accuses us of disinclination for our task, or weariness in
catering for the amusement of our subscribers. But September--September,
with all its allurements of flood and field--its gathering of honest old
friends--its tales of by-gone seasons, and its glorious promises of the
present--must plead our apology for abandoning our pen and rushing back to
old associations, which haunt us like

[Illustration: THE SPELLS OF CHILDHOOD.]

We know that we are forgiven, so shall proceed at once to the
consideration of the ornaments and pathology of coats.

THE ORNAMENTS

are those parts of the external decorations which are intended either to
embellish the person or garment, or to notify the pecuniary superiority of
the wearer. Amongst the former are to be included buttons, braids, and
mustachios; amongst the latter, chains, rings, studs, canes, watches, and
above all, those pocket talismans, purses. There are also riding-whips and
spurs, which may be considered as _implying_ the possession of quadrupedal
property.

_Of Buttons_.--In these days of innovation--when Brummagem button-makers
affect a taste and elaboration of design--a true gentleman should be most
careful in the selection of this _dulce et utile_ contrivance. Buttons
which resemble gilt acidulated drops, or ratafia cakes, or those which are
illustrative of the national emblems--the rose, shamrock, and thistle tied
together like a bunch of faded watercresses, or those which are
commemorative of coronations, royal marriages, births, and christenings,
chartist liberations, the success of liberal measures, and such like
occasions, or those which would serve for vignettes for the _Sporting
Magazine_, or those which at a distance bear some resemblance to the royal
arms, but which, upon closer inspection, prove to be bunches of endive,
surmounted by a crown which the Herald's College does not recognise, or
those which have certain letters upon them, as the initials of clubs which
are never heard of in St. James's, as the U.S.C.--the Universal Shopmen's
Club; T.Y.C.--the Young Tailors' Club; L.S.D.--the Linen Drapers'
Society--and the like. All these are to be fashionably eschewed. The
regimental, the various hunts, the yacht clubs, and the basket pattern,
are the only buttons of Birmingham birth which can be allowed to associate
with the button-holes of a gentleman.

The restrictions on silk buttons are confined chiefly to magnitude. They
must not be so large as an opera ticket, nor so small as a silver penny.

_Of Braids_.--This ornament, when worn in the street, is patronised
exclusively by Polish refugees, theatrical Jews, opera-dancers, and
boarding-house fortune-hunters.

_Of Mustachios_.--The mustachio depends for its effect entirely upon its
adaptation to the expression of the features of the wearer. The small, or
_moustache à la chinoise_, should only appear in conjunction with Tussaud,
or waxwork complexions, and then only provided the teeth are excellent;
for should the dental conformation be of the same tint, the mustachios
would only provoke observation. The German, or full hearth-brush, should
be associated with what Mr. Ducrow would designate a "cream," and
everybody else a drab countenance, and should never be resorted to, except
in conformity with regimental requisitions, or for the capture of an Irish
widow, as they are generally indigenous to Boulogne and the Bench, and are
known amongst tailors and that class of clothier victims as "bad debts,"
or "the insolvency regulation," and operate with them as an insuperable
bar to

[Illustration: PASSING A BILL.]

The perfect, or heart-meshes, are those in which each particular hair has
its particular place, and must be of a silky texture, and not of a bristly
consistency, like a worn-out tooth-brush. Neither must they be of a bright
red, bearing a striking resemblance to two young spring radishes.

The _barbe au bonc_, or _Muntzian fringe_, should only be worn when a
gentleman is desirous of obtaining notoriety, and prefers trusting to his
external embellishments in preference to his intellectual acquirements.

_On Tips_.--Tips are an abomination to which no gentleman can lend his
countenance. They are a shabby and mangy compromise for mustachios, and
are principally sported by the genus of clerks, who, having strong hirsute
predilections, small salaries, and sober-minded masters, hang a tassel on
the chin instead of a vallance on the upper lip.

Our space warns us to conclude, and, as a fortnight's indolence is not the
strongest stimulant to exertion, we willingly drop our pen, and taking the
hint and a cigar, indulge in a voluminous cloud, and a lusty

[Illustration: CARMEN TRIUMPHALE.]

       *       *       *       *       *


"HABIT IS SECOND NATURE."

FEARGUS O'CONNOR always attends public meetings, dressed in a complete
suit of fustian. He could not select a better emblem of his writings in
the _Northern Star_, than the material he has chosen for his habiliments.

       *       *       *       *       *


"THE SUBSTANCE AND THE SHADOW."

We understand that Sir Robert Peel has sent for the fasting man, with the
intention of seeing how far his system may be acted upon for _the relief_
of the community.

       *       *       *       *       *


"SAY IT WAS ME."

"Jem! you rascal, get up! get up, and be hanged to you, sir; don't you
hear somebody hammering and pelting away at the street-door knocker, like
the ghost of a dead postman with a tertian ague! Open it! see what's the
matter, will you?"

"Yes, sir!" responded the tame tiger of the excited and highly respectable
Adolphus Casay, shiveringly emerging from beneath the bed-clothes he had
diligently wrapped round his aching head, to deaden the incessant clamour
of the iron which was entering into the soul of his sleep. A
hastily-performed toilet, in which the more established method of encasing
the lower man with the front of the garment to the front of the wearer,
was curiously reversed, and the capture of the left slipper, which, as the
weakest goes to the wall, the right foot had thrust itself into, was
scarcely effected, ere another series of knocks at the door, and batch of
invectives from Mr. Adolphus Casay, hurried the partial sacrificer to the
Graces, at a Derby pace, over the cold stone staircase, to discover the
cause of the confounded uproar. The door was opened--a confused jumble of
unintelligible mutterings aggravated the eager ears of the shivering
Adolphus. Losing all patience, he exclaimed, in a tone of thunder--

"What is it, you villain? Can't you speak?"

"Yes, sir, in course I can."

"Then why don't you, you imp of mischief?"

"I'm a-going to."

"Do it at once--let me know the worst. Is it fire, murder, or thieves?"

"Neither, sir; it's A1, with a dark lantern."

"What, in the name of persecution and the new police, does A1, with a dark
lantern, want with me?"

"Please, sir, Mr. Brown Bunkem has give him half-a-crown."

"Well, you little ruffian, what's that to me?"

"Why, sir, he guv it him to come here, and ask you--"

Here policeman A1, with the dark lantern, took up the conversation.

"Jist to step down to the station-'us, and bail him therefrom--"

"For what!"

"Being werry drunk--uncommon overcome, surely--and oudacious
obstropelous." continued the alphabetically and numerically-distinguished
conservator of the public peace.

"How did he get there?"

"On a werry heavily-laden stretcher."

"The deuce take the mad fool," muttered the disturbed housekeeper; then
added, in a louder tone, "Ask the policeman in, and request him to take--"

"Anything you please, sir; it is rather a cold night, but as we're all in
a hurry, suppose it's something short, sir."

Now the original proposition, commencing with the word "take," was meant
by its propounder to achieve its climax in "a seat on one of the hall
chairs;" but the liquid inferences of A1, with a dark lantern, had the
desired effect, and induced a command from Mr. Adolphus Casay to the small
essential essence of condensed valetanism in the person of Jim Pipkin, to
produce the case-bottles for the discussion of the said A1, with the dark
lantern, who gained considerably in the good opinion of Mr. James Pipkin,
by requesting the favour of his company in the bibacious avocation he so
much delighted in.

A1 having expressed a decided conviction that, anywhere but on the collar
of his coat, or the date of monthly imprisonments, his distinguishing
number was the most unpleasant and unsocial of the whole multiplication
table, further proceeded to illustrate his remarks by proposing glasses
two and three, to the great delight and inebriation of the small James
Pipkin, who was suddenly aroused from a dreamy contemplation of two
policemen, and increased service of case-bottles and liquor-glasses, by a
sound box on the ear, and a stern command to retire to his own proper
dormitory--the one coming from the hand, the other from the lips, of his
annoyed master, who then and there departed, under the guidance of A1,
with the dark lantern. After passing various lanes and weary ways, the
station was reached, and there, in the full plenitude of glorious
drunkenness, lay his friend, the identical Mr. Brown Bunkem, who, in the
emphatic words of the inspector, was declared to be "just about as far
gone as any gentleman's son need wish to be."

"What's the charge?" commenced Mr. Adolphus Casay.

"Eleven shillings a bottle.--Take it out o'that, and d--n the expense,"
interposed and hiccoughed the overtaken Brown Bunkem.

"Drunk, disorderly, and very abusive," read the inspector.

"Go to blazes!" shouted Bunkem, and then commenced a very vague edition of
"God save the Queen," which, by some extraordinary "sliding scale,"
finally developed the last verse of "Nix my Dolly," which again, at the
mention of the "stone jug," flew off into a very apocryphal version of the
"Bumper of Burgundy;" the lines "upstanding, uncovered," appeared at once
to superinduce the opinion that greater effect would be given to his
performance by complying with both propositions. In attempting to assume
the perpendicular, Mr. Brown Bunkem was signally frustrated, as the result
was a more perfect development of his original horizontal recumbency,
assumed at the conclusion of a very vigorous fall. To make up for this
deficiency, the suggestion as to the singer appearing uncovered, was
achieved with more force than propriety, by Mr. Brown Bunkem's nearly
displacing several of the inspector's front teeth, by a blow from his
violently-hurled hat at the head of that respectable functionary.

What would have followed, it is impossible to say; but at this moment Mr.
Adolphus Casay's bail was accepted, he being duly bound down, in the sum
of twenty pounds, to produce Mr. Brown Bunkem at the magistrate's office
by eleven o'clock of the following forenoon. This being settled, in spite
of a vigorous opposition, with the assistance of five half-crowns, four
policemen, the driver of, and hackney-coach No. 3141, Mr. Brown Bunkem was
conveyed to his own proper lodgings, and there left, with one boot and a
splitting headache, to do duty for a counterpane, he vehemently opposing
every attempt to make him a deposit between the sheets.--Seven o'clock on
the following morning found Mr. Adolphus Casay at the bedside of the
violently-snoring and stupidly obfuscated Brown Bunkem. In vain he
pinched, shook, shouted, and swore; inarticulate grunts and apoplectic
denunciations against the disturber of his rest were the only answers to
his urgent appeals as to the necessity of Mr. Brown Bunkem's getting ready
to appear before the magistrate. Visions of contempt of court, forfeited
bail, and consequent disbursements, flitted before the mind of the
agitated Mr. Adolphus Casay. Ten o'clock came; Bunken seemed to snore the
louder and sleep the sounder. What was to be done? why, nothing but to get
up an impromptu influenza, and try his rhetoric on the presiding
magistrates of the bench.

Influenced by this determination, Mr. Adolphus Casay started for that den
of thieves and magistrates in the neighbourhood of Bow-street; but Mr.
Adolphus Casay's feelings were anything but enviable; though by no means a
straitlaced man, he had an instinctive abhorrence of anything that
appeared a blackguard transaction. Nothing but a kind wish to serve a
friend would have induced him to appear within a mile of such a wretched
place; but the thing was now unavoidable, so he put the best face he could
on the matter, made his way to the clerk of the Court, and there, in a low
whisper, began his explanation, that being "how Mr. Brown Bunkem"--at this
moment the crier shouted--

"Bunkem! Where's Bunkem?"

"I am here!" said Mr. Adolphus Casay; "here to"--

"Step inside, Bunkem," shouted a sturdy auxiliary; and with considerable
manual exertion and remarkable agility, he gave the unfortunate Adolphus a
peculiar twist that at once deposited him behind the bar and before the
bench.

"I beg to state," commenced the agitated and innocent Adolphus.

"Silence, prisoner!" roared the crier.

"Will you allow me to say,"--again commenced Adolphus--

"Hold your tongue!" vociferated P74.

"I must and will be heard."

"Young man," said the magistrate, laying down the paper, "you are doing
yourself no good; be quiet. Clerk, read the charge."

After some piano mumbling, the words
"drunk--abusive--disorderly--incapable--taking care of
self--stretcher--station-house--bail," were shouted out in the most
fortissimo manner.

At the end of the reading, all eyes were directed to the well-dressed and
gentlemanly-looking Adolphus. He appeared to excite universal sympathy.

"What have you to say, young man?"

"Why, your worship, the charge is true; but"--

"Oh! never mind your buts. Will you ever appear in the same situation
again?"

"Upon my soul I won't; but"--

"There, then, that will do; I like your sincerity, but don't swear. Pay
one shilling, and you are discharged."

"Will your worship allow me"--

"I have no time, sir. Next case."

"But I must explain."

"Next case. Hold your jaw!--this way!"--and the same individual who had
jerked Mr. Adolphus Casay into the dock, rejerked him into the middle of
the court. The shilling was paid, and, amid the laughter of the idlers at
his anti-teetotal habits, he made the best of his way from the scene of
his humiliation. As he rushed round the corner of the street, a peal of
laughter struck upon his ears, and there, in full feather, as sober as
ever, stood Mr. Brown Bunkem, enjoying the joke beyond all measure.
Indignation took possession of Mr. Adolphus Casay's bosom; he demanded to
know the cause of this strange conduct, stating that his character was for
ever compromised.

"Not at all," coolly rejoined the unmoved Bunkem; "we are all subject to
accidents. You certainly were in a scrape, but I think none the worse of
you; and, if it's any satisfaction, you may say it was me."

"Say it was you! Why it was."

"Capital, upon my life! do you hear him, Smith, how well he takes a cue?
but stick to it, old fellow, I don't think you'll be believed; but--_say
it was me._"

Mr. Brown Bunkem was perfectly right. Mr. Adolphus Casay was not believed;
for some time he told the story as it really was, but to no purpose. The
indefatigable Brown was always appealed to by mutual friends, his answer
invariably was--

"Why, _Casay's_ a steady fellow, _I_ am not; it _might_ injure him. _I_
defy report; therefore I gave him leave to--_say it was me!_"

And that was all the thanks Mr. Adolphus Casay ever got for bailing
friend.

FUSBOS

       *       *       *       *       *


THE POLITICAL EUCLID.

WHEREIN ARE CONSIDERED

THE RELATIONS OF PLACE;

OR

THE BEST MODE OF

GETTING A PLACE FOR YOUR RELATIONS:

Being a complete Guide to the Art of

LEGISLATIVE MENSURATION,

OR,

How to estimate the value of a Vote upon

WHIG AND TORY MEASURES.

THE WHOLE ADAPTED TO

THE USE OF HONOURABLE MEMBERS.

BY

LORD PALMERSTON,

_Late Professor of Toryism, but now Lecturer on Whiggery to the College of
St. Stephen's._

       *       *       *       *       *

BOOK I.--DEFINITIONS.

A point in politics is that which always has _place_ (in view,) but no
particular party.

A line in politics is interest without principle.

The extremities of a line are loaves and fishes.

A right line is that which lies evenly between the Ministerial and
Opposition benches.

A superficies is that which professes to have principle, but has no
consistency.

The extremities of a superficies are expediencies.

A plain superficies is that of which two opposite speeches being taken,
the line between them evidently lies wholly in the direction of
Downing-street.

A plain angle is the evident inclination, and consequent piscation, of a
member for a certain place; or it is the meeting together of two members
who are not in the same line of politics.

When a member sits on the cross benches, and shows no particular
inclination to one side or the other, it is called a right angle.

An obtuse angle is that in which the inclination is _evidently_ to the
Treasury.

An acute angle is that in which the inclination is _apparently_ to the
Opposition benches.

A boundary is the extremity or whipper-in of any party.

A party is that which is kept together by one or more whippers-in.

A circular member is a rum figure, produced by turning round; and is such
that all lines of politics centre in himself, and are the same to him.

The diameter of a circular member is a line drawn on the Treasury, and
terminating in both pockets.

Trilateral members, or waverers, are those which have three sides.

Of three-sided members an equilateral or independent member is that to
which all sides are the same.

An isosceles or vacillating member is that to which two sides only are the
same.

A scalene or scaly member has no one side which is equal to his own
interest.

Parallel lines of politics are such as are in the same direction--say
Downing-street; but which, being produced ever so far--say to Windsor--do
not meet.

A political problem is a Tory proposition, showing that the country is to
be done.

A theorem is a Whig proposition--the benefit of which to any one but the
Whigs always requires to be demonstrated.

A corollary is the consequent confusion brought about by adopting the
preceding Whig proposition.

A deduction is that which is drawn from the revenue by adopting the
preceding Whig proposition.

       *       *       *       *       *


MAJOR BENIOWSKY'S NEW ART OF MEMORY

A gentleman who boasts one of those proper names in _sky_ which are
naturally enough transmitted "from _pole to pole_," undertakes to teach
the art of remembering upon entirely new principles. We know not what the
merit of his invention may be, but we beg leave to ask the _Major_ a few
_general_ questions, and we, therefore, respectfully inquire whether his
system would be capable of effecting the following miracles:--

1st. Would it be possible to make Sir James Graham remember that he not
long since declared his present colleagues to be men wholly unworthy of
public confidence?

2dly. Would Major Beniowsky's plan compel a man to remember his tailor's
bill; and, if so, would it go so far as to remind him to call for the
purpose of paying it?

3dly. Would the new system of memory enable Mr. Wakley to refrain from
forgetting himself?

4thly. Would the Phrenotypics, or brain-printing, as it is called, succeed
in stereotyping a pledge in the recollection of a member of parliament?

5thly. Is it possible for the new art to cause Sir Robert Peel to remember
from one week to the other his political promises?

We fear these questions must be answered in the negative; but we have a
plan of our own for exercising the memory, which will beat that of Beniow,
or any other sky, who ventures to propose one. Our proposition is, "_Read_
PUNCH," and we will be bound that no one will ever forget it who has once
enjoyed the luxury.

       *       *       *       *       *


SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.--NO. 9.

  I wander'd through our native fields,
    And one was by my side who seem'd
  Fraught with each beauty nature yields,
    Whilst from her eye affection beam'd.
  It was so like what fairy books,
    In painting heaven, are wont to tell,
  That fondly I _believed_ those looks,
    And found too late--'twas all a sell!
                          'Twas all a sell!

  She vow'd I was her all--her life--
    And proved, methought, her words by sighs;
  She long'd to hear me call her "wife,"
    And fed on hope which love supplies.
  Ah! then I felt it had been sin
    To doubt that she could e'er belie
  Her vows!--I found 'twas only tin
  She sought, and love was all my eye!
                          Was all my eye!

       *       *       *       *       *


SHIPPING INTELLIGENCE.

The _Shamrock_ ran upon a timber-raft on Monday morning, and was _off
Deal_ in ten minutes afterwards.

The storm of Thursday did considerable damage to the shipping in the
Thames. A coal was picked up off Vauxhall, which gave rise to a report
that a barge had gone down in the offing. On making inquiries at Lloyd's,
we asked what were the advices, when we were advised to mind our own
business, an answer we have too frequently received from the underlings of
that establishment. The _Bachelor_ has been telegraphed on its way up from
Chelsea. It is expected to bring the latest news relative to the
gas-lights on the Kensington-road, which, it is well known, are expected
to enjoy a disgraceful sinecure during the winter.

Captain Snooks, of the _Daffydowndilly_, committed suicide by jumping down
the chimney of the steamer under his command. The rash act occasioned a
momentary flare up, but did not impede the action of the machinery.

A rudder has been seen floating off Southwark. It has a piece of rope
attached to it. Lloyd's people have not been down to look at it. This
shameful neglect has occasioned much conversation in fresh-water circles,
and shows an apathy which it is frightful to contemplate.

       *       *       *       *       *


TO SIR ROBERT.

  Doctors, they say, are heartless, cannot feel--
  Have you no core, or are you naught but Peel?

       *       *       *       *       *


A PLEASANT ASSURANCE.

The Marquis of Normandy, we perceive, has been making some inquiries
relative to the "Drainage Bills," and has been assured by Lord
Ellenborough, that the subject should meet the attention of government
during the recess. We place full reliance on his Lordship's promise--the
_drainage_ of the country has been ever a paramount object with our Whig
and Tory rulers.

       *       *       *       *       *


CHRISTIANITY.--PRICE FIFTEEN SHILLINGS.

The English poor have tender teachers. In the first place, the genius of
Money, by a hundred direct and indirect lessons, preaches to them the
infamy of destitution; thereby softening their hearts to a sweet humility
with a strong sense of their wickedness. Then comes Law, with its whips
and bonds, to chastise and tie up "the offending Adam"--that is, the Adam
without a pocket,--and then the gentle violence of kindly Mother Church
leads the poor man far from the fatal presence of his Gorgon wants, to
consort him with meek-eyed Charity,--to give him glimpses of the Land of
Promise,--to make him hear the rippling waters of Eternal Truth,--to feast
his senses with the odours of Eternal sweets. Happy English poor! Ye are
not scurfed with the vanities of the flesh! Under the affectionate
discipline of the British Magi L.S.D.,--the "three kings" tasking human
muscles, banqueting on human heartstrings,--ye are happily rescued from
any visitation of those worldly comforts that hold the weakness of
humanity to life! Hence, by the benevolence of those who have only solid
acres, ye are permitted to have an unlimited portion of the sky; and
banned by the mundane ones who have wine in their cellars, and venison in
the larder from the gross diet of beer and beef--ye are permitted to take
your bellyful of the savoury food cooked for the Hebrew patriarch. Once a
week, at least, ye are invited to feast with Joseph in the house of
Pharaoh, and yet, stiff-necked generation that ye are, ye stay from the
banquet and then complain of hunger! "Shall there be no punishment for
this obduracy?" asks kindly Mother Church, her eyes red with weeping for
the hard-heartedness of her children. "Shall there be no remedy?" she
sobs, wringing her hands. Whereupon, the spotless maiden Law--that
Amazonian virgin, eldest child of violated Justice--answers, "_Fifteen
Shillings!_"

We are indebted to Lord BROUGHAM for this new instance of the stubbornness
of the poor--for this new revelation of the pious vengeance of offended
law. A few nights since his lordship, in a motion touching prison
discipline, stated that "a man had been confined for _ten weeks_, having
been fined a shilling, and _fourteen shillings costs_, which he did not
pay, because he was absent one Sunday from church!"

Who can doubt, that from the moment _John Jones_--(the reader may christen
the offender as he pleases)--was discharged, he became a most pious,
church-going Christian? He had been ten Sundays in prison, be it
remembered; and had therefore heard at least ten sermons. He crossed the
prison threshold a new-made man; and wending towards his happy home, had
in his face--so lately smirched with shameless vice--such lustrous glory,
that even his dearest creditors failed to recognise him!

Beautiful is the village church of Phariseefield! Beautiful is its
antiquity--beautiful its porch, thronged with white-headed men and ruddy
little ones! Beautiful the graves, sown with immortal seed, clustering
round the building! Beautiful the vicar's horses--the vicar himself
preaches to-day,--and very beautiful indeed, the faces, ay, and the
bonnets, too, of the vicar's daughters! Beautiful the sound of the bell
that summons the lowly Christian to cast aside the pomps and vanities of
the world, and to stand for a time in utter nakedness of heart before his
Maker,--and very beautiful the silk stockings of the Dowager Lady Canaan's
footman, who carrieth with Sabbath humility his Lady's books to Church!
Yet all this beauty is as deformity to the new-born loveliness of _John
Jones_; who, on the furthermost seat--far from the vain convenience of pew
and velvet hassock--sits, and inwardly blesses the one shilling and
fourteen shillings costs, that with more than fifteen-horse power have
drawn him from the iniquities of the Jerry-shop and hustle-farthing,--to
feed upon the manna dropping from the lips of the Reverend Doctor FAT!
There sits _John Jones_, late drunkard, poacher, reprobate; but now, fined
into Christian goodness--made a very saint, according to Act of
Parliament!

If Mother Church, with the rods of spikenard which the law hath
benevolently placed in her hands, will but whip her truant children to
their Sunday seats,--will only consent to draw them through the bars of a
prison to their Sabbath sittings,--will teach them the real value of
Christianity, it being according to her own estimate--_with the
expenses_--exactly fifteen shillings,--sure we are, that Radicalism and
Chartism, and all the many foul pustules that, in the conviction of Holy
Church, are at this moment poisoning and enervating the social body, will
disappear beneath the precious ointment always at her touch.

When we consider the many and impartial blessings scattered upon the poor
of England--when in fact we consider the beautiful justice pervading our
whole social intercourse--when we reflect upon the spirit of good-will and
sincerity that operates on the hearts of the powerful few for the comfort
and happiness of the helpless million,--we are almost aghast at the
infidelity of poverty, forgetting in our momentary indignation, that
poverty must necessarily combine within itself every species of infamy.

Poor men of England, consider not merely the fine and the expenses
attendant upon absence from church, but reflect upon the want of that
beautiful exercise of the spirit which, listening to precepts and parables
in Holy Writ, delights to find for them practical illustrations in the
political and social world about you. We know you would not think of going
to church in masquerade--of reading certain lines and making certain
responses as a bit of Sabbath ceremony, as necessary to a respectable
appearance as a Sabbath shaving. No; you are far away from the elegances
of hypocrisy, and do not time your religion from eleven till one, making
devotion a matter of the church clock. By no means. You go to hear, it may
be, the Bishop of EXETER; and as we have premised, what a beautiful
exercise for the intellect to discover in the political doings of his
Grace--in those acts which ultimately knock at your cupboard-doors--only a
practical illustration of the divine precept of doing unto all men as ye
would they should do unto you! Well, you pray for your daily bread; and
with a profane thought of the price of the four pound loaf, your feelings
are suddenly attuned to gratitude towards those who regulate the price of
British corn. We might run through the Scriptures from Genesis to
Revelation, quoting a thousand benevolences illustrated by the rich and
mighty of this land--illustrated politically, socially, and morally, in
their conduct towards the poor and destitute of Britain; and yet the
stiffnecked pauper will not dispose his Sabbath to self-enjoyment--will
not go to church to be rejoiced! By such disobedience, one would almost
think that the poor were wicked enough to consider the church discipline
of the Sabbath as no more than a ceremonious mockery of their six days
wants and wretchedness.

The magistrates--(would we knew their names, we would hang them up in the
highways like the golden bracelets of yore)--who have made _John Jones_
religious through his pocket, are men of comprehensive genius. There is no
wickedness that they would not make profitable to the Church. Hence, it
appears from Lord BROUGHAM'S speech that _John Jones_ "was guilty of
_other excesses_, and had been sent to prison for a violation of that
dormant--he wished he could say of it obsolete--law!" There being "other
excesses" for which, it appears, there is no statute remedy, the
magistrates commit a piece of pious injustice, and lump sundry laical sins
into the one crime against the Church. _John Jones_,--for who shall
conceive the profanity of man?--may have called one of these magistrates
"goose" or "jackass;" and the offence against the justice is a contempt of
the parson. After this, can the race of _John Joneses_ fail to venerate
Christianity as recommended by the Bench?

We have a great admiration of English Law, yet in the present instance, we
think she shares very unjustly with Mother Church. For instance, Church in
its meekness, says to _John Jones_, "You come not to my house on Sunday:
pay a shilling." _John Jones_ refuses. "What!" exclaims Law--"refuse the
modest request of my pious sister? Refuse to give her a little shilling!
Give me _fourteen_." Hence, in this Christian country, law is of fourteen
times the consequence of religion.

Applauding as we do the efforts of the magistrates quoted by Lord BROUGHAM
in the cause of Christianity, we yet conscientiously think their system
capable of improvement. When the Rustic Police shall be properly
established, we think they should be empowered to seize upon all suspected
non-church goers every Saturday night, keeping them in the station-houses
until Sunday morning, and then marching them, securely handcuffed, up the
middle aisle of the parish church. 'Twould be a touching sight for Mr.
PLUMPTREE, and such hard-sweating devotees. For the benefit of old
offenders, we would also counsel a little wholesome private whipping in
the vestry.

Q.

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S PENCILLINGS.--No. XIII.

[Illustration: MR. SANCHO BULL AND HIS STATE PHYSICIAN.

"Though surrounded with luxuries, the Doctor would not allow Sancho to
partake of them, and dismissed each dish as it was brought in by the
servants."--_Vide_ DON QUIXOTE.]

       *       *       *       *       *


SWEET AUTUMN DAYS.

  Sweet Autumn days, sweet Autumn days,
    When, harvest o'er, the reaper slumbers,
  How gratefully I hymn your praise,
    In modest but melodious numbers.
  But if I'm ask'd why 'tis I make
    Autumn the theme of inspiration,
  I'll tell the truth, and no mistake--
    With Autumn comes the long vacation.
  Of falsehoods I'll not shield me with a tissue--
    Autumn I love--because _no writs then issue_.

  Others may hail the joys of Spring,
    When birds and buds alike are growing;
  Some the Summer days may sing,
    When sowing, mowing, on are going.
  Old Winter, with his hoary locks,
    His frosty face and visage murky,
  May suit some very jolly cocks,
    Who like roast-beef, mince-pies, and turkey:
  But give me Autumn--yes, I'm Autumn's child--
    For then--_no declarations can be filed_.

       *       *       *       *       *


TOM CONNOR'S DILEMMA.

A TRUE TALE.

SHOWING HOW READY WIT MAY SUPPLY THE PLACE OF READY MONEY.

Tom Connor was a perfect specimen of the happy, careless, improvident
class of Irishmen who think it "time enough to bid the devil good morrow
when they meet him," and whose chief delight seems to consist in getting
into all manner of scrapes, for the mere purpose of displaying their
ingenuity of getting out of them again. Tom, at the time I knew him, had
passed the meridian of his life; "he had," as he used to say himself,
"given up battering," and had luckily a small annuity fallen to him by the
demise of a considerate old aunt who had kindly popped off in the nick of
time. And on this independence Tom had retired to spend all that remained
to him of a merry life at a pleasant little sea-port town in the West of
Ireland, celebrated for its card-parties and its oyster-clubs. These
latter social meetings were held by rotation at the houses of the members
of the club, which was composed of the choicest spirits of the town. There
Doctor McFadd, relaxing the dignity of professional reserve, condescended
to play practical jokes on Corney Bryan, the bothered exciseman; and
Skinner, the attorney, repeated all Lord Norbury's best puns, and night
after night told how, at some particular quarter sessions, he had himself
said a better thing than ever Norbury uttered in his life. But the soul of
the club was Tom Connor--who, by his inexhaustible fund of humorous
anecdotes and droll stories, kept the table in a roar till a late hour in
the night, or rather to an early hour in the morning. Tom's stories
usually related to adventures which had happened to himself in his early
days; and as he had experienced innumerable vicissitudes of fortune, in
every part of the world, and under various characters, his narratives,
though not remarkable for their strict adherence to truth, were always
distinguished by their novelty.

One evening the club had met as usual, and Tom had mixed his first tumbler
of potheen punch, after "the feast of shells" was over, when somebody
happened to mention the name of Edmund Kean, with the remark that he had
once played in a barn in that very town.

"True enough," said Tom. "I played in the same company with him."

"You! you!" exclaimed several voices.

"Of course; but that was when I was a strolling actor in Clark's corps. We
used to go the western circuit, and by that means got the name of 'the
Connaught Rangers.' There was a queer fellow in the company, called Ned
Davis, an honest-hearted fellow he was, as ever walked in shoe leather.
Ned and I were sworn brothers; we shared the same bed, which was often
only a 'shake-down' in the corner of a stable, and the same dinner, which
was at times nothing better than a crust of brown bread and a draught of
Adam's ale. I'll trouble you for the bottle, doctor. Thank you; may I
never take worse stuff from your hands. Talking of Ned Davis, I'll tell
you, if you have no objection of a strange adventure which befel us once."

"Bravo! bravo! bravo!" was the unanimous cry from the members.

"Silence, gentlemen!" said the chairman imperatively; "silence for Mr.
Connor's story."

"Hem! Well then, some time about the year--never mind the year--Ned and I
were playing with the company at Loughrea; business grew bad, and the
salaries diminished with the houses, until at last, one morning at a
rehearsal, the manager informed us that, in consequence of the depressed
state of the drama in Galway, the treasury would be closed until further
notice, and that he had come to the resolution to depart on the following
morning for Castlebar, whither he requested the company to follow him
without delay. Fancy my consternation at this unexpected announcement! I
mechanically thrust my hands into my pockets, but they were completely
untenanted. I rushed home to our lodgings, where I had left Ned Davis; he,
I knew, had received a guinea the day before, upon which I rested my hopes
of deliverance. I found him fencing with his walking-stick with an
imaginary antagonist, whom he had in his mind pinned against a
closet-door. I related to him the sudden move the manager had made, and
told him, in the most doleful voice conceivable, that I was not possessed
of a single penny. As soon as I had finished, he dropped into a chair, and
burst into a long-continued fit of laughter, and then looked in my face
with the most provoking mock gravity, and asked--

"What's to be done then? How are we to get out of this?"

"Why," said I, "that guinea which you got yesterday!"

"Ho! ho! ho! ho!" he shouted. "The guinea is gone."

"Gone!" I exclaimed; and I felt my knees began to shake under me.
"Gone--where--how."

"I gave it to the wife of that poor devil of a scene-shifter who broke his
arm last week; he had four children, and they were starving. What could I
do but give it to them? Had it been ten times as much they should have had
it."

I don't know what reply I made, but it had the effect of producing another
fit of uncontrollable laughter.

"Why do you laugh," said I, rather angrily.

"Who the devil could help it;" he replied; "your woe-begone countenance
would make a cat laugh."

"Well," said I, "we are in a pretty dilemma here. We owe our landlady
fifteen shillings."

"For which she will lay an embargo on our little effects--three black wigs
and a low-comedy pair of breeches--this must be prevented."

"But how?" I inquired.

"How? never mind; but order dinner directly."

"Dinner!" said I; "don't awaken painful recollections."

"Go and do as I tell you," he replied. "Order dinner--beef-steak and
oyster-sauce."

"Beef-steak! Are you mad"--but before I could finish the sentence, he had
put on his hat and disappeared.

"Who knows?" thought I, after he was gone, "he's a devilish clever fellow,
something may turn up:" so I ordered the beef-steaks. In less than an
hour, my friend returned with exultation in his looks.

"I have done it!" said he, slapping me on the back; "we shall have plenty
of money to-morrow."

I begged he would explain himself.

"Briefly then," said he, "I have been to the billiard-room, and every
other lounging-place about town, where I circulated, in the most
mysterious manner, a report that a celebrated German doctor and
philosopher, who had discovered the secret of resuscitating the dead, had
arrived in Loughrea."

"How ridiculous!" I said.

"Don't be in a hurry. This philosopher," he added, "is about to give
positive proof that he can perform what he professes, and it is his
intention to go into the churchyard to-night, and resuscitate a few of
those who have not been buried more than a twelvemonth."

"Well." said I, "what does all this nonsense come to?"

"That you must play the philosopher in the churchyard."

"Me!"

"Certainly, you're the very figure for the part."

After some persuasion, and some further development of his plan, I
consented to wrap myself in an ample stage-cloak, and gliding into the
churchyard, I waited in the porch according to the directions I had
received from Ned, until near midnight, when I issued forth, and proceeded
to examine the different tombs attentively. I was bending over one, which,
by the inscription, I perceived had been erected by "an affectionate and
disconsolate wife, to the memory of her beloved husband," when I was
startled at hearing a rustling noise, and, on looking round, to see a
stout-looking woman standing beside me.

"Doctor," said she, addressing me, "I know what you're about here."

I shook my head solemnly.

"This is my poor late husband's tomb."

"I know it," I answered. "I mean to exercise my art upon him first. He
shall be restored to your arms this very night."

The widow gave a faint scream--"I'm sure, doctor," said she, "I'm greatly
obliged to you. Peter was the best of husbands--but he has now been dead
six months--and--I am--married again."

"Humph!" said I, "the meeting will be rather awkward, but you may induce
your second husband to resign."

"No, no, doctor; let the poor man rest quietly, and here is a trifle for
your trouble." So saying, she slipped a weighty purse into my hand.

"This alters the case," said I, "materially--your late husband shall never
be disturbed by me."

The widow withdrew with a profusion of acknowledgments; and scarcely had
she gone, when a young fellow, who I learned had lately come into
possession of a handsome property by the death of an uncle, came to
request me not to meddle with the deceased, who he assured me was a
shocking old curmudgeon, who never spent his money like a gentleman. A
douceur from the young chap secured the repose of his uncle.

My next visitor was a weazel-faced man, who had been plagued for twenty
years by a shrew of a wife, who popped off one day from an overdose of
whiskey. He came to beseech me not to bring back his plague to the world;
and, pitying the poor man's case, I gave him my promise readily, without
accepting a fee.

By this time daylight had begun to appear, and creeping quietly out of the
churchyard, I returned to my lodgings. Ned was waiting up for my return.

"What luck?" said he, as I entered the room.

I showed him the fees I had received during the night.

"I told you," said he, "that we should have plenty of rhino to-day. Never
despair, man, there are more ways out of the wood than one: and recollect,
that _ready wit is as good as ready money_."

       *       *       *       *       *


THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT.

II.--THE NEW MAN.

Embryology precedes the treatise on the perfect animal; it is but right,
therefore, that the new man should have our attention before the mature
student.

No sooner do the geese become asphyxiated by torsion of their cervical
_vertebrae_, in anticipation of Michaelmas-day; no sooner do the pheasants
feel premonitory warnings, that some chemical combinations between
charcoal, nitre, and sulphur, are about to take place, ending in a
precipitation of lead; no sooner do the columns of the newspapers teem
with advertisements of the ensuing courses at the various schools, each
one cheaper, and offering more advantages than any of the others; the
large hospitals vaunting their extended field of practice, and the small
ones ensuring a more minute and careful investigation of disease, than the
new man purchases a large trunk and a hat-box, buys a second-hand copy of
Quain's Anatomy, abjures the dispensing of his master's surgery in the
country, and placing himself in one of those rattling boxes denominated by
courtesy second-class carriages, enters on the career of a hospital pupil
in his first season.

The opening lecture introduces the new man to his companions, and he is
easily distinguished at that annual gathering of pupils, practitioners,
professors, and especially old hospital governors, who do a good deal in
the gaiter-line, and applaud the lecturer with their umbrellas, as they
sit in the front row. The new man is known by his clothes, which incline
to the prevalent fashion of the rural districts he has quitted; and he
evinces an affection for cloth-boots, or short Wellingtons with double
soles, and toes shaped like a toad's mouth, a propensity which sometimes
continues throughout the career of his pupilage. He likewise takes off his
hat when he enters the dissecting-room, and thinks that beautiful design
is shown in the mechanism and structure of the human body--an idea which
gets knocked out of him at the end of the season, when he looks upon the
distribution of the nerves as "a blessed bore to get up, and no use to him
after he has passed." But at first he perpetually carries a

[Illustration: "DUBLIN DISSECTOR"]

under his arm; and whether he is engaged upon a subject or no, delights to
keep on his black apron, pockets, and sleeves (like a barber dipped in a
blacking-bottle), the making of which his sisters have probably
superintended in the country, and which he thinks endows him with an air
of industry and importance.

The new man, at first, is not a great advocate for beer; but this dislike
may possibly arise from his having been compelled to stand two pots upon
the occasion of his first dissection. After a time, however, he gives way
to the indulgence, having received the solemn assurances of his companions
that it is absolutely necessary to preserve his health, and keep him from
getting the collywobbles in his pandenoodles--a description of which
obstinate disease he is told may be found in "Dr. Copland's Medical
Dictionary," and "Gregory's Practice of Physic," but as to under what head
the informant is uncertain.

The first purchase that a new man makes in London is a gigantic note-book,
a dozen steel pens on a card, and a screw inkstand. Furnished with these
valuable adjuncts to study, he puts down every thing he hears during the
day, both in the theatre of the school and the wards of the hospital,
besides many diverting diagrams and anecdotes which his fellow-students
insert for him, until at night he has a confused dream that the air-pump
in the laboratory is giving a party, at which various scalpels, bits of
gums, wax models, tourniquets, and foetal skulls, are assisting as
guests--an eccentric and philosophical vision, worthy of the brain from
which it emanates. But the new man is, from his very nature, a visionary.
His breast swells with pride at the introductory lecture, when he hears
the professor descant upon the noble science he and his companions have
embarked upon; the rich reward of watching the gradual progress of a
suffering fellow-creature to convalescence, and the insignificance of
worldly gain compared with the pure treasures of pathological knowledge;
whilst to the riper student all this resolves itself into the truth, that
three draughts, or one mixture, are respectively worth four-and-sixpence
or three shillings: that the patient should be encouraged to take them as
long as possible, and that the thrilling delight of ushering another
mortal into existence, after being up all night, is considerably increased
by the receipt of the tin for superintending the performance; _i.e._ if
you are lucky enough to get it.

It is not improbable that, after a short period, the new man will write a
letter home. The substance of it will be as follows: and the reader is
requested to preserve a copy, as it may, perhaps, be compared with another
at a future period.

"MY DEAR PARENTS,--I am happy to inform you that my health is at present
uninjured by the atmosphere of the hospital, and that I find I am making
daily progress in my studies. I have taken a lodging in ---- (Gower-place,
University-street, Little Britain, or Lant-street, as the case may be,)
for which I pay twelve shillings a week, including shoes. The mistress of
the house is a pious old lady, and I am very comfortable, with the
exception that two pupils live on the floor above me, who are continually
giving harmonic parties to their friends, and I am sometimes compelled to
request they will allow me to conclude transcribing my lecture notes in
tranquillity--a request, I am sorry to say, not often complied with. The
smoke from their pipes fills the whole house, and the other night they
knocked me up two hours after I had retired to rest, for the loan of the
jug of cold water from my washhand-stand, to make grog with, and a 'Little
Warbler,' if I had one, with the words of 'The Literary Dustman' in it.

"Independently of these annoyances, I get on pretty well, and have already
attracted the notice of my professors, who return my salutation very
condescendingly, and tell me to look upon them rather as friends than
teachers. The students here, generally speaking, are a dissipated and
irreligious set of young men; and I can assure you I am often compelled to
listen to language that quite makes my ears tingle. I have found a very
decent washerwoman, who mends for me as well; but, unfortunately, she
washes for the house, and the initials of one of the students above me are
the same as mine, so that I find our things are gradually changing hands,
in which I have the worst, because his shirts and socks are somewhat
dilapidated, or, to speak professionally, their fibrous texture abounds in
organic lesions; and the worst is, he never finds out the error until the
end of the week, when he sends my things back, with his compliments, and
thinks the washerwoman has made a mistake.

"I have not been to the theatres yet, nor do I feel the least wish to
enter into any of the frivolities of the great metropolis. With kind
regards to all at home, believe me,

"Your's affectionately,

"JOSEPH MUFF."

       *       *       *       *       *


"I DO ADJURE YE, ANSWER ME!"

A valuable porcelain vase, which stood in one of the state rooms of
Windsor Castle, has been recently broken; it is suspected by design, as
the situation in which it was placed almost precludes the idea that it
could have happened by accident. A commission, called "The Flunky
Inquisition," has been appointed by Sir Robert Peel, with Sibthorp at its
head, to inquire into the affair. The gallant Colonel declares that he has
personally cross-examined all the housemaids, but that he has hitherto
been unable to obtain a satisfactory solution of

[Illustration: THE GREAT CHINA QUESTION.]

       *       *       *       *       *


LIKE MASTER LIKE MAN.

SIR ROBERT PEEL'S workmen inside the House of Parliament have determined
to follow the example of the masons outside the House, if Mr. Wakley is to
be appointed their foreman.

       *       *       *       *       *


INQUEST EXTRAORDINARY ON A CORONER.

Last night an inquest was held on the _Consistency_ of Thomas Wakley,
Esq., Member for Finsbury, and Coroner for Middlesex. The deceased had
been some time ailing, but his demise was at length so sudden, that it was
deemed necessary to public justice that an inquest should be taken of the
unfortunate remains.

The inquest was held at the Vicar of Bray tap, Palace Yard; and the jury,
considering the neighbourhood, was tolerably respectable. The remains of
the deceased were in a dreadful state of decomposition; and although
chloride of lime and other antiseptic fluids were plentifully scattered in
the room, it was felt to be a service of danger to approach too closely to
the defunct. Many members of Parliament were in attendance, and all of
them, to a man, appeared very visibly shocked by the appearance of the
body. Indeed they all of them seemed to gather a great moral lesson from
the corpse. "We know not whose turn it may be next," was printed in the
largest physiognomical type in every member's countenance.

Thomas Duncombe, Esq., Member for Finsbury, examined--Had known the
deceased for some years. Had the highest notion of the robustness of his
constitution. Would have taken any odds upon it. Deceased, however, within
these last three or four weeks had flighty intervals. Talked very much
about the fine phrenological development of Sir Robert Peel's skull. Had
suspicions of the deceased from that moment. Deceased had been carefully
watched, but to no avail. Deceased inflicted a mortal wound upon himself
on the first night of Sir Robert's premiership; and though he continued to
rally for many evenings, he sunk the night before last, after a dying
speech of twenty minutes.

Colonel Sibthorp, Member for Lincoln, examined--Knew the deceased. Since
the accession of Sir Robert Peel to power had had many conversations with
the deceased upon the ministerial bench. Had offered snuff-box to the
deceased. Deceased did not snuff. Deceased had said that he thought
witness a man of high parliamentary genius, and that Sir Robert Peel ought
to have made him (witness) either Lord Chamberlain or Chancellor of the
Exchequer. In every other respect, deceased behaved himself quite
rationally.

There were at least twenty other witnesses--Members of the House of
Commons--in attendance to be examined; but the Coroner put it to the jury
whether they had not heard enough?

The jury assented, and immediately returned a verdict--_Felo de se_.

N.B. A member for Finsbury wanted next dissolution.

       *       *       *       *       *


A CURIOUS ERROR.

A member of the American legislature, remarkable for his absence of mind,
exhibited a singular instance of this mental infirmity very lately. Having
to present a petition to the house, he presented _himself_ instead, and
did not discover his mistake until he was

[Illustration: ORDERED TO LIE ON THE TABLE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

SIR ROBERT PEEL (LOQUITUR).


  When erst the Whigs were in, and I was out,
  I knew exactly what to be about;
  Then all I had to do, through thick and thin,
  Was but to get them out, and Bobby in.

  And now that I am in, and they are out,
  The only thing that I can be about
  Is to do nothing; but, through thick and thin,
  Contrive to keep them out, and Bobby in.

       *       *       *       *       *


SONGS FOR THE SEEDY.--No. 3.

  Oh! think not all who call thee fair
    Are in their honied words sincere;
  And if they offer jewels rare,
    Lend not too readily thine ear.
  The humble ring I lately gave
    May be despised by thee--well, let it;
  But Mary, when I'm in my grave,
    Think that I pawn'd my watch to get it.

  Others may talk of feasts of love,
    And banqueting upon thy charms;
  But did not I devotion prove,
    Last Sunday, at the Stanhope Arms?
  My rival order'd tea for four,
    The waiter at his bidding laid it;
  He generously _ran_ the score,
      But, Mary, I did more,--_I paid it_.

  I know he's dashing, bold, and free,
    A front of Jove, an eye of fire;
  But should he say he loves like me,
    I'd, like Apollo, _strike the lyre_.
  He says, he at your feet will throw
    His all; and, if his vows are steady,
  He cannot equal me--for, oh!
    I've given you all I had, already.

  Mary, I had a second suit
    Of clothes, of which the coat was braided;
  Mary, they went to buy that flute
    With which I thee have serenaded.
  Mary, I had a beaver hat,
    Than this I wear a great deal better;
  Mary, I've parted too with that,
    For pens, ink, paper--for this letter.

       *       *       *       *       *


PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE.

Dear PUNCH,--Will you inform me whether the review of the troops noticed
in last Saturday's _Times_, is to be found in the "Edinborough,"
"Westminster," or "Quarterly."

Yours, in all mayoralties,
PETER LAURIE.

P.S.--What do they mean by

[Illustration: SALUTING A FLAG?]

       *       *       *       *       *


"GO ALONG, BOB."

Sir Bobby Peel, who, before he got into harness, professed himself able to
draw the Government truck "like bricks," has changed his note since he has
been put to the trial, and he is now bawling lustily--"Don't hurry me,
please--give me a little time." Wakley, seeing the pitiable condition of
the unfortunate animal, volunteered his services to push behind, and the
Chartist and Tory may now be seen every night in St. Stephen's, working
cordially together, and exhibiting an illustration of the benefits of a

[Illustration: DIVISION OF LABOUR.]

       *       *       *       *       *


CONS BY OUR OWN COLONEL.

Why is a loud laugh in the House of Commons like Napoleon
Buonaparte?--Because it's an _M.P. roar_ (an Emperor).

Why is a person getting rheumatic like one locking a
cupboard-door?--Because he's turning _achy_ (a key).

Why is one-and-sixpence like an aversion to coppers?--Because it's _hating
pence_ (eighteen-pence).

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S THEATRE.

DIE HEXEN AM RHEIN; OR, RUDOLPH OF HAPSBURGH.

Mysterious are thy ways, O Yates! Thou art the only true melodramatist of
the stage and off the stage! When a new demonology is compiled thou shalt
have an honourable place in it. Thou shall be worshipped as the demon of
novelty, even by the "gods" themselves. Thy deeds shall be recorded in
history. It shall not be forgotten that thou wert the importer of
Mademoiselle Djeck, the tame elephant; of Monsieur Bohain, the gigantic
Irishman; and of Signor Hervi o'Nano, the Cockneyan-Italian dwarf. Never
should we have seen the Bayaderes but for you; nor T.P. Cooke in "The
Pilot," nor the Bedouin Arabs, nor "The Wreck Ashore," nor "bathing and
sporting" nymphs, nor other dramatic delicacies. Truly, thou art the
luckiest of managers; for all thy efforts succeed, whether they deserve it
or not. Sometimes thou drawest up an army of scene-painters, mechanists,
dancers, monsters, dwarfs, devils, fire-works, and water-spouts, in
terrible array against common sense. Yet lo! thou dost conquer! Thy pieces
never miss fire; they go on well with the public, and favourable are the
press reports. Wert thou a Catholic thou wouldest be canonised; for evil
spirits are thy passion; the Vatican itself cannot produce a more
indefatigable "devils' advocate!"

The repast now provided by Mr. Yates for those who are fond of "supping
full of horrors" is a devilled drama, interspersed with hydraulics--
consisting, in fact, of spirits and water, sweetened with songs and spiced
with witches. It is, we are informed by the official announcements, "a
romantic burletta of witchcraft, in two acts, and a prologue, with
entirely new scenery, dresses, and peculiar appointments, _imagined_ by,
and introduced under the direction of, Mr. Yates." Now, any person,
entirely unprejudiced with a taste for devilry and free from hydrophobia,
who sees this production, must have an unbounded opinion of the manager's
imagination,--what a head he must have for aquatic effects! In vain we
look around for its parallel--nothing but the New River head suggests
itself.

But our preface is detaining us from the "prologue;" the first words in
which stamp the entire production with originality. Assassins, who let
themselves out by the job, have long been pleasantly employed in
melodramas, being mostly enacted by performers in the heavy line; but the
author of "Die Hexen am Rhein" introduces a character hitherto unknown to
the stage; namely, the _comic_ cut-throat. Messieurs _Gabor_ and
_Wolfstein_, (played by Mr. Wright, and the immortal _Geoffery Muffincap_,
Mr. Wilkinson), treat us with a dialogue concerning the blowing out of
brains, and the incision of weasands, which is conceived and delivered
with the broadest humour, enlivened by the choicest of jokes. They have,
we learn, been lately commissioned by _Ottocar_ to murder _Rudolph_, the
exiled Duke of Hapsburgh, who is to pass that way; but he does not come,
because his kind kinsman, _Ottocar_, must have time to consult the
god-fathers and god-mothers of the piece, or "Witches of the Rhine;" which
he does in the "storm-reft hut of Zabaren." This _Zabaren_ is a hospitable
gentleman, who sings a good song, sees much company, and is played by that
convivial genius Paul Bedford. _Ottocar_ is introduced amongst other
friends to a "speaking spirit," who, being personated by Miss Terrey,
utters a terrible prediction. We could not quite make out the purport of
this augury; nor were we much grieved at the loss; feeling assured that
the next two acts would be occupied in fulfilling it. The funny bravoes
present themselves in the next scene, and exit to stab one of two
brothers, who goes off evidently for that purpose, judiciously coming back
to die in the arms of _Count Rudolph_, for whom he has been mistaken.
Under such circumstances it is but fair that the prince should repay the
obligation he owes his friend for being killed in his stead, by promising
protection to the widow and child. The oath he takes would be doubly
binding (for he promises to become a brother to the wife, and not content
with thus making himself the child's uncle, swears to be his father too),
if the husband did not die before he has had time to utter his wife's
name. All these affairs having been settled, the prologue--which used to
be called the first act--ends.

Fifteen years are supposed to elapse before the curtain is again rolled
up; and that this allusion may be rendered the more perfect, the audience
is kept waiting about three times fifteen minutes, to amuse one another
during the _entr'acte_. We next learn that _Rudolph_ is seated upon his
ducal throne, fortunate in the possession of a paragon-wife, and a steward
of the household not to be equalled--no other than _Ottocar_--that
particular friend, who, in the prologue, tried to get a finis put to his
mortal career. The jocose ruffians here enliven the scene--one by being
cast into a dungeon for asking _Ottocar_ (evidently the Colburn of his
day), an exorbitant price for the copyright of a certain manuscript; the
other, by calling the courtier a man of genius, and being taken into his
service, as no doubt, "first robber." To support this character, a change
of apparel is necessary: and no wonder, for _Wolfstein_ has on precisely
the same clothes he wore fifteen years before.

His first job is to steal a casket; but is declined, probably, because
_Wolfstein_, being a professor of the capital crime, considers mere
larceny _infra dig_. A "second robber" must therefore be hired, and
_Ottocar_ has one already preserved in the castle dungeons, in the person
of a dumb prisoner. Dummy comes on, and the auditors at once recognise the
"brother" who was not murdered in the prologue. He steals the casket, and
_Ottocar_ steals off.

The duke and duchess next enter into a dialogue, the subject of which is
one _Wilhelm_, a young standard-bearer, who appears; and having said a few
words exits, that _Ida_, the duchess, might inform us, in a soliloquy,
what we have already shrewdly suspected, namely--that the ensign is her
son; another presentiment comes into one's mind, which one don't think it
fair to the author and his story to entertain till the proper time. A sort
of secret interview between the mother and son now takes place, which ends
by the imprisonment of the latter; why is not explained at the moment;
nor, indeed, till the next scene, when it is quite apparent; for if one
sees an impregnable castle, rigidly guarded by supernumeraries, with an
impassable river, bristling with _chevaux-de-frise_ it is impossible to
get over, and a moat that it would be death to cross, a prison-escape may
be surely calculated upon. In the present instance, this formulary is not
omitted, for _Wilhelm_ jumps into the river from a bridge which he has
contrived to reach. Though several shots are fired into the tank of water
that represents the Rhine, there is no hissing; on the contrary, the
second act ends amidst general applause; which indeed it deserves, for the
scenery is magnificent.

"The Ancient Arch in the Black Forest," is a sort of house of call for
witches, and it being seen during their merry-making, or holiday, is
rendered more picturesque by the _Devil's_ "Ha, ha!" The hospitable
_Zabaren_ entertains hundreds of witches, of all sorts and sizes, who
dance all manner of country-dances, and sing a series of songs and
choruses, in which the "Ha! ha!" is again conspicuously introduced. It
seems that German witches not only ride upon brooms, but sweep with them;
and a company of supernatural Jack Rags perform sundry gyrations
peculiarly interesting to housemaids. After about an hour's dancing, the
witches being naturally "blown," are just in cue for leaving off with an
airy dance called the "witches' whirlwind."

This episode over, the plot goes on. _Ottocar_ accuses _Ida_ of infidelity
with _Wilhelm_ to the duke; she, in explanation, fulfils the presentiment
we had some delicacy in hinting too soon--that she is the wife of the man
who was killed in the prologue; _Rudolph_ having married her in ignorance
of that fact, and by a coincidence which, though intensely melo-dramatic,
every body foresees who has ever been three times to the Adelphi theatre.

To describe the last scene would be the height of presumption in PUNCH.
Nobody but "Satan" Montgomery, or the Adelphi play-bill, is equal to the
task. We quote, as preferable, the latter authority:--"Grand inauguration
of _Wilhelm_, the rightful heir. CORAL CAVES and CRYSTAL STREAMS: these
are actually obtained by a HYDRO-SCENIC EFFECT! As the usual area devoted
to illusion becomes a reality!"

Besides all this, which simply means "real water," there is a _Neptune_ in
a car drawn by three sea or ichthyological horses, having fins and web
feet. There is a devil that is seen through the whole piece, because he is
supposed to be invisible (cleverly played by Mr. Wieland), and who having
dived into the water, is fished out of it, and sent flying into the flies.
This sending a devil upward, is a new way of

[Illustration: TAKING OFF THE DARK GENTLEMAN.]

Being dripping wet, the demon in his ascent seriously incommodes
_Neptune_; who, not being used to the water, looks about in great
distress, evidently for an umbrella. After several glares of several
coloured fires, the curtain falls.

Seriously, the scenic effects of this piece do great credit to Mr. Yates's
"imagination," and to the handiwork of his "own peculiar artists." It is
very proper that they should be immortalised in the advertisements; by
which the public are informed that the scenery is by Pitt, (where is
Tomkins?) and others: the machinery by Mr. Hayley, and the _lightning_ by
the direction of Mr. Outhwaite! Bat will the public be satisfied with such
scanty information? Who, they will ask the manager, rolls the thunder? who
supplies the coloured fires? who flashes the lightning? who beats the
gong? who grinds up the curtain? Let Mr. Yates be speedy in relieving the
breathless curiosity of his patrons on these points, or look to his
benches.

       *       *       *       *       *





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, October 9, 1841" ***

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