Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, September 18, 1841
Author: Various
Language: English
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.



FOR THE WEEK ENDING SEPTEMBER 18, 1841.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE.

CHAPTER IV.

HAS A GREAT DEAL TO SAY ABOUT SOME ONE ELSE BESIDES OUR HERO.

[Illustration: K]Kindness was a characteristic of Agamemnon's disposition,
and it is not therefore a matter of surprise that "the month"--_the_
month, _par excellence_, of "all the months i'the kalendar"--produced a
succession of those annoyances which, in the best regulated families, are
certain to be partially experienced by the masculine progenitor. O,
bachelors! be warned in time; let not love link you to his flowery traces
and draw you into the temple of Hymen! Be not deluded by the glowing
fallacies of Anacreon and Boccaccio, but remember that they were
bachelors. There is nothing exhilarating in caudle, nor enchanting in
Kensington-gardens, when you are converted into a light porter of
children. We have been married, and are now seventy-one, and wear a "brown
George;" consequently, we have experience and cool blood in our veins--two
excellent auxiliaries in the formation of a correct judgment in all
matters connected with the heart.

Our pen must have been the pinion of a wild goose, or why these continued
digressions?

Agamemnon's troubles commenced with the first cough of Mrs. Pilcher on the
door-mat. Mrs. P. was the monthly nurse, and monthly nurses always have a
short cough. Whether this phenomenon arises from the obesity consequent
upon arm-chairs and good living, or from an habitual intimation that they
are present, and have not received half-a-crown, or a systematic
declaration that the throat is dry, and would not object to a gargle of
gin, and perhaps a little water, or--but there is no use hunting
conjecture, when you are all but certain of not catching it.

Mrs. Pilcher was "the moral of a nurse;" she was about forty-eight and
had, according to her own account, "been the mother of eighteen lovely
babes, born in wedlock," though her most intimate friends had never been
introduced to more than one young gentleman, with a nose like a wart, and
hair like a scrubbing-brush. When he made his _debut_, he was attired in a
suit of blue drugget, with the pewter order of the parish of St. Clement
on his bosom; and rumour declared that he owed his origin to half-a-crown
a week, paid every Saturday. Mrs. Pilcher weighed about thirteen stone,
including her bundle, and a pint medicine-bottle, which latter article she
invariably carried in her dexter pocket, filled with a strong tincture of
juniper berries, and extract of cloves. This mixture had been prescribed
to her for what she called a "sinkingness," which afflicted her about 10
A.M., 11 A.M. (dinner), 2 P.M., 3 P.M. 4 P.M. 5 P.M. (tea), 7 P.M., 8 P.M.
(supper), 10 P.M., and at uncertain intervals during the night.

Mrs. Pilcher was a martyr to a delicate appetite, for she could never
"make nothing of a breakfast if she warn't coaxed with a Yarmouth bloater,
a rasher of ham, or a little bit of steak done with the gravy in."

Her luncheon was obliged to be a mutton-chop, or a grilled bone, and a
pint of porter, bread and cheese having the effect of rendering her "as
cross as two sticks, and as sour as werjuice." Her dinner, and its
satellites, tea and supper, were all required to be hot, strong, and
comfortable. A peculiar hallucination under which she laboured is worthy
of remark. When eating, it was always her declared conviction that she
_never drank anything_, and when detected coquetting with a pint pot or a
tumbler, she was equally assured that she never _did eat anything after
her breakfast_.

Mrs. Pilcher's duties never permitted her to take anything resembling
continuous rest; she had therefore another prescription for an hour's doze
after dinner. Mrs. Pilcher was also troubled with a stiffness of the
knee-joints, which never allowed her to wait upon herself.

When this amiable creature had deposited herself in Collumpsion's old
easy-chair, and, with her bundle on her knees, gasped out her first
inquiry--

"I hopes all's as well as can be expected?"

The heart of _Pater_ Collumpsion trembled in his bosom, for he felt that
to this incongruous mass was to be confided the first blossom of his
wedded love; and that for one month the dynasty of 24, Pleasant-terrace
was transferred from his hands to that of Mrs. Waddledot, his wife's
mother, and Mrs. Pilcher, the monthly nurse. There was a short struggle
for supremacy between the two latter personages; but an angry appeal
having been made to Mrs. Applebite, by the lady, "who had _nussed_ the
first families in this land, and, in course, know'd her business," Mrs.
Waddledot was forced to yield to Mrs. Pilcher's bundle in _transitu_, and
Mrs. Applebite's hysterics in perspective.

Mrs. Pilcher was a nursery Macauley, and had the faculty of discovering
latent beauties in very small infants, that none but doting parents ever
believed. Agamemnon was an early convert to her avowed opinions of the
heir of Applebite, who, like all other heirs of the same age, resembled a
black boy boiled--that is, if there is any affinity between lobsters and
niggers. This peculiar style of eloquence rendered her other
eccentricities less objectionable; and when, upon one occasion, the
mixture of juniper and cloves had disordered her head, instead of
comforting her stomachic regions, she excused herself by solemnly
declaring, that "the brilliancy of the little darling's eyes, and his
intoxicating manners, had made her feel as giddy as a goose." Collumpsion
and Theresa both declared her discernment was equal to her caudle, of
which, by-the-bye, she was an excellent concocter and consumer.

Old John and the rest of the servants, however, had no parental string at
which Mrs. Pilcher could tug, and the consequence was, that they decided
that she was an insufferable bore. Old John, in particular, felt the ill
effects of the heir of Applebite's appearance in the family, and to such a
degree did they interfere with his old comforts, without increasing his
pecuniary resources, that he determined one morning, when taking up his
master's shaving water, absolutely to give warning; for what with the
morning calls, and continual ringing for glasses--the perpetual
communication kept up between the laundry-maid and the mangle, and of
which he was the circulating medium--the insolence of the nurse, who had
ordered him to carry five soiled--never mind--down stairs: all these
annoyances combined, the old servant declared were too much for him.

Collumpsion laid his hand on John's shoulder, and pointing to some of the
little evidences of paternity which had found their way even into his
dormitory, said, "John, think what I suffer; do not leave me; I'll raise
your wages, and engage a boy to help you; but you are the only thing that
reminds me of my happy bachelorhood--you are the only one that can feel
a--feel a--"

"_Caudle_ regard," interrupted John.

"Caudle be ----." The "rest is silence," for at that moment Mrs.
Waddledot entered the room, gave a short scream, and went out again.

The month passed, and a hackney-coach, containing a bundle and the
respectable Mrs. Pilcher, &c., rumbled from the door of No. 24, to the
infinite delight of old John the footman, Betty the housemaid, Esther the
nurserymaid, Susan the cook, and Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite the
proprietor.

How transitory is earthly happiness! How certain its uncertainty! A little
week had passed, and the "Heir of Applebite" gave notice of his intention
to come into his property during an early minority, for his once happy
progenitor began to entertain serious intentions of employing a coroner's
jury to sit upon himself, owing to the incessant and "ear-piercing pipe"
of his little cherub. Vainly did he bury his head beneath the pillow,
until he was suffused with perspiration--the cry reached him there and
then. Cold air was pumped into the bed by Mrs. Applebite, as she rocked to
and fro, in the hope of quieting the "son of the sleepless." Collumpsion
was in constant communication with the dressing-table--now for moist-sugar
to stay the hiccough--then for dill-water to allay the stomach-ache. To
save his little cherub from convulsions, twice was he converted into a
night-patrole, with the thermometer below zero--a bad fire, with a large
slate in it, and an empty coal-scuttle.

       *       *       *       *       *


SURREY ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.

"Variety," say our school copy-books, "is charming;" hence this must be
the most charming place of amusement in London. The annexed list of
entertainments was produced on Tuesday last, when were added to the usual
_passe-temps_, a flower and fruit show. Wild beasts in cages; flowers of
all colours and sizes in pots; enormous cabbages; Brobdignag apples;
immense sticks of rhubarb; a view of Rome; a brass band; a grand Roman
cavalcade passing over the bridge of St. Angelo; a deafening park of
artillery, and an enchanting series of pyrotechnic wonders, such as
catherine-wheels, flower-pots, and rockets; an illumination of St.
Peter's; blazes of blue-fire, showers of steel-filings, and a grand blow
up of the castle of St. Angelo.

Such are the entertainments provided by the proprietor. The company--which
numbered at least from five to six thousand--gave them even greater
variety. Numerous pic-nic parties were seated about on the grass;
sandwiches, bottled stout, and (with reverence be it spoken) more potent
liquors seemed to be highly relished, especially by the ladies. Ices were
sold at a pastry-cook's stall, where a continued _feu-de-joie_ of
ginger-pop was kept up during the whole afternoon and evening. In short,
the scene was one of complete _al fresco_ enjoyment; how could it be
otherwise? The flowers delighted the eye; Mr. Godfrey's well-trained band
(to wit, Beethoven's symphony in C minor, with all the fiddle passages
beautifully executed upon clarionets!) charmed the ear; and the edibles
and drinkables aforesaid the palate. Under such a press of agreeables, the
Surrey Zoological Gardens well deserve the name of an Englishman's
paradise.

       *       *       *       *       *


ON THE SCIENCE OF ELECTIONEERING.

To the progress of science and the rapid march of moral improvement the
most effectual spur that has ever been applied was the Reform Bill. Before
the introduction of that measure, electioneering was a simple process,
hardly deserving the name of an art; it has now arrived at the rank of a
science, the great beauty of which is, that, although complicated in
practice, it is most easy of acquirement. Under the old system boroughs
were bought by wholesale, scot and lot; now the traffic is done by retail.
Formerly there was but one seller; at present there must be some thousands
at least--all to be bargained with, all to be bought. Thus the "agency"
business of electioneering has wonderfully increased, and so have the
expenses.

In fact, an agent is to an election what the main-spring is to a watch; he
is, in point of fact, the real returning-officer. His importance is not
less than the talents and tact he is obliged to exert. He must take a
variety of shapes, must tell a variety of lies, and perform the part of an
animated contradiction. He must benevolently pay the taxes of one man who
can't vote while in arrear; and cruelly serve notices of ejectment upon
another, though he can show his last quarter's receipt--he must attend
temperance meetings, and make opposition electors too drunk to vote. He
must shake hands with his greatest enemy, and _palm_ off upon him lasting
proofs of friendship, and silver-paper hints which way to vote. He must
make flaming speeches about principle, puns about "interest," and promises
concerning everything, to everybody. He must never give less than five
pounds for being shorn by an honest and independent voter, who never
shaves for less than two-pence--nor under ten, for a four-and-ninepenny
goss to an uncompromising hatter. He must present ear-rings to wives,
bracelets to daughters, and be continually broaching a hogshead for
fathers, husbands, and brothers. He must get up fancy balls, and give away
fancy dresses to ladies whom he fancies--especially if they fancy his
candidate, and their husbands fancy them. He must plan charities, organise
mobs, causing free-schools to be knocked up, and opponents to be knocked
down. Finally, he must do all these acts, and spend all these sums purely
for the good of his country; for, although a select committee of the house
tries the validity of the election--though they prove bribery,
intimidation, and treating to everybody's satisfaction, yet they always
find out that the candidate has had nothing to do with it--that the agent
is not _his_ agent, but has acted solely on patriotic grounds; by which he
is often so completely a martyr, that he is, after all, actually
prosecuted for bribery, by order of the very house which he has helped to
fill, and by the very man (as a part of the parliament) he has himself
returned.

That this great character might not be lost to posterity, we furnish our
readers with the portrait of

[Illustration: AN ELECTION AGENT.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE STATISTICAL SOCIETY.

This useful society will shortly publish its Report; and, though we have
not seen it, we are enabled to guess with tolerable accuracy what will be
the contents of it:

In the first place, we shall be told the number of pins picked up in the
course of the day, by a person walking over a space of fifteen miles round
London, with the number of those not picked up; an estimate of the class
of persons that have probably dropped them, with the use they were being
put to when they actually fell; and how they have been applied afterwards.

The Report will also put the public in possession of the number of
pot-boys employed in London; what is the average number of pots they carry
out; and what is the gross weight of metal in the pots brought back again.
This interesting head will include a calculation of how much beer is
consumed by children who are sent to fetch it in jugs; and what is the
whole amount of malt liquor, the value of which reaches the producer's
pocket, while the mouth of the consumer, and not that of the party paying
for it, receives the sole benefit.

There are also to be published with the Report elaborate tables, showing
how many quarts of milk are spilt in the course of a year in serving
customers; what proportion of water it contains; and what are the average
ages and breed of the dogs who lap it up; and how much is left unlapped up
to be absorbed in the atmosphere.

When this valuable Report is published, we shall make copious extracts.

       *       *       *       *       *


A NOVEL ENTERTAINMENT.

DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

Novelty is certainly the order of the day. Anything that does not deviate
from the old beaten track meets with little encouragement from the present
race of amusement-seekers, and, consequently, does not pay the
_entrepreneur_. Nudity in public adds fresh charms to the orchestra, and
red-fire and crackers have become absolutely essential to harmony. Acting
upon this principle, Signor Venafra _gave_ (we admire the term) a fancy
dress ball at Drury-lane Theatre on Monday evening last, upon a plan
hitherto unknown in England, but possibly, like the majority of deceptive
delusions now so popular, of continental origin. The whole of the
evening's entertainment took place in cabs and hackney-coaches, and those
vehicles performed several perfectly new and intricate figures in
Brydges-street, and the other thoroughfares adjoining the theatres. The
music provided for the occasion appeared to be an organ-piano, which
performed incessantly at the corner of Bow-street, during the evening.
Most of the _élite_ of Hart-street and St. Giles's graced the animated
pavement as spectators. So perfectly successful was the whole affair--on
the word of laughing hundreds who came away saying they had never been so
amused in their lives--that we hear it is in agitation never to attempt
anything of the kind again.

       *       *       *       *       *


DONE AGAIN.

Dunn, the bailless barrister, complained to his friend Charles Phillips,
that upon the last occasion he had the happiness of meeting Miss Burdett
Coutts on the Marine Parade, notwithstanding all he has gone through for
her, she would not condescend to take the slightest notice of him. So far
from offering anything in the shape of consolation, the witty barrister
remarked, "Upon my soul, her conduct was in perfect keeping with her
situation, for what on earth could be more in unison with a sea-view than

[Illustration: A CUTTER ON THE BEACH?"]

       *       *       *       *       *


It is well known that the piers of Westminster Bridge have considerably
sunk since their first erection. They are not the only peers, in the same
neighbourhood that have become lowered in the position they once occupied.

       *       *       *       *       *


ASSERTION OF THE UNINTELLIGIBLE.

OR, "A KANTITE'S" FLIGHTS AT AN EXORDIUM.


FLIGHT THE FIRST.

He who widely, yet ascensively, expatiates in those in-all-ways-sloping
fields of metaphysical investigation which perplex whilst they captivate,
and bewilder whilst they allure, cannot evitate the perception of
perception's fallibility, nor avoid the conclusion (if that can be called
a conclusion to which, it may be said, there are no premises extant) that
the external senses are but deceptive _media_ of interior mental
communication. It behoves the ardent, youthful explorator, therefore, to
----, &c. &c.

FLIGHT THE SECOND.

In the Promethean persecutions which assail the insurgent mentalities of
the youth and morning vigour of the inexpressible human soul, when,
flushed with Æolian light, and, as it were, beaded with those lustrous
dews which the eternal Aurora lets fall from her melodious lip; if it
escape living from the beak of the vulture (no fable here!), then, indeed,
it may aspire to ----, &c. &c.

FLIGHT THE THIRD.

If, with waxen Icarian wing, we seek to ascend to that skiey elevation
whence only can the understretching regions of an impassive mutability be
satisfactorily contemplated; and if, in our heterogeneous ambition,
aspirant above self-capacity, we approach too near the flammiferous Titan,
and so become pinionless, and reduced again to an earthly prostration,
what marvel is it, that ----, &c. &c.

FLIGHT THE FOURTH.

When the perennial Faustus, ever-resident in the questioning spirit of
immortal man, attempts his first outbreak into the domain of unlimited
inquiry, unless he take heed of the needfully-cautious prudentialities of
mundane observance, there infallibly attends him a fatal Mephistophelean
influence, of which the malign tendency, from every conclusion of
eventuality, is to plunge him into perilous vast cloud-waves of the
dream-inhabited vague. Let, then, the young student of infinity ----, &c.
&c.

FLIGHT THE FIFTH.

Inarched within the boundless empyrean of thought, starry with wonder, and
constellate with investigation; at one time obfuscated in the abysm-born
vapours of doubt; at another, radiant with the sun-fires of faith made
perfect by fruition; it can amaze no considerative fraction of humanity,
that the explorer of the indefinite, the searcher into the
not-to-be-defined, should, at dreary intervals, invent dim, plastic
riddles of his own identity, and hesitate at the awful shrine of that
dread interrogatory alternative--reality, or dream? This deeply pondering,
let the eager beginner in the at once linear and circumferent course of
philosophico-metaphysical contemplativeness, introductively assure himself
that ----, &c. &c.

FINAL FLIGHT.

As, "in the silence and overshadowing of that night whose fitful meteoric
fires only herald the descent of a superficial fame into lasting oblivion,
the imbecile and unavailing resistance which is made against the doom must
often excite our pity for the pampered child of market-gilded popularity;"
and as "it is not with such feelings that we behold the dark thraldom and
long-suffering of true intellectual strength," of which the "brief, though
frequent, soundings beneath the earthly pressure will be heard even amidst
the din of flaunting crowds, or the solemn conclaves of common-place
minds," of which the "obscured head will often shed forth ascending beams
that can only be lost in eternity;" and of which the "mighty struggles to
upheave its own weight, and that of the superincumbent mass of prejudice,
envy, ignorance, folly, or uncongenial force, must ever ensure the deepest
sympathy of all those who can appreciate the spirit of its qualities;" let
the initiative skyward struggles towards the zenith-abysses of the inane
impalpable ----, &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c.

_Dramatic Authors' Theatre, Sept. 16, 1841._

       *       *       *       *       *


HUMANE SUGGESTION.

MASTER PUNCH,--Mind ye's, I've been to see these here _Secretens_ at the
English Uproar 'Ouse, and thinks, mind ye's, they aint by no means the
werry best Cheshire; but what I want to know is this here--Why don't they
give that wenerable old genelman, Mr. Martinussy, the Hungry Cardinal,
something to eat?--he is a continually calling out for some of his
Countrys Weal, (which, I dare say, were werry good) and he don't never git
so much as a sandvich dooring the whole of his life and death--I mention
dese tings, because, mind ye's, it aint werry kind of none on 'em.

I remains, Mr. PUNCH, Sir, yours truly,

DEF BURKE,

[Illustration: HIS MARK.]

       *       *       *       *       *


DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE STATUE OF GEORGE CANNING AND SIR ROBERT PEEL.

The new Premier was taking a solitary stroll the other evening through
Palace-yard, meditating upon the late turn which had brought the Tories to
the top of the wheel and the Whigs to the bottom, and pondering on the
best ways and means of keeping his footing in the slippery position that
had cost him so much labour to attain. While thus employed, with his eyes
fixed on the ground, and his hands buried in his breeches-pockets, he
heard a voice at no great distance, calling in familiar tone--

"Bob! Bob!--I say, Bob!"

The alarmed Baronet stopped, and looked around him to discover the
speaker, when, casting his eyes upon the statue of George Canning in the
enclosure of Westminster Abbey, he was astonished to perceive it nodding
its head at him, like the statue in "Don Giovanni," in a "How d'ye do?"
kind of way. Sir Robert, who, since his introduction to the Palace, has
grown perilously polite, took off his hat, and made a low bow to the
figure.

STATUE.--Bah! no nonsense, Bob, with me! Put on your hat, and come over
here, close to the railings, while I have a little private confab with
you. So, you have been called in at last?

PEEL.--Yes. Her Majesty has done me the honour to command my services; and
actuated by a sincere love of my country, I obeyed the wishes of my Royal
Mistress, and accepted office; though, if I had consulted my own
inclinations, I should have preferred the quiet path of private--

STATUE.--Humbug! You forget yourself, Bob; you are not now at Tamworth, or
in the house, but talking to an old hand that knows every move on the
political board,--you need have no disguise with me. Come, be candid for
once, and tell me, what are your intentions?

PEEL.--Why, then, candidly, to keep my place as long as I can--

STATUE.--Undoubtedly; that is the first duty of every patriotic minister!
But the means, Bob?

PEEL--Oh! Cant--cant--nothing but cant! I shall talk of my feeling for the
wants of the people, while I pick their pockets; bestow my pity upon the
manufacturers, while I tax the bread that feeds their starving families;
and proclaim my sympathy with the farmers, while I help the arrogant
landlords to grind them into the dust.

STATUE.--Ah! I perceive yon understand the true principles of legislation.
Now, _I_ once really felt what you only feign. In my time, I attempted to
carry out my ideas of amelioration, and wanted to improve the moral and
physical condition of the people, but--

PEEL.--You failed. Few gave you credit for purely patriotic motives--and
still fewer believed you to be sincere in your professions. Now, _my_ plan
is much easier, and safer. Give the people fair promises--they don't cost
much--but nothing besides promises; the moment you attempt to realise the
hopes you have raised, that moment you raise a host of enemies against
yourself.

STATUE.--But if you make promises, the nation will demand a fulfilment of
them.

PEEL.--I have an answer ready for all comers--"Wait awhile!" 'Tis a famous
soother for all impatient grumblers. It kept the Whigs in office for ten
years, and I see no reason why it should not serve our turn as long.
Depend upon it, "Wait awhile" is the great secret of Government.

STATUE.--Ah! I believe you are right. I now see that I was only a novice
in the trade of politics. By the bye, Bob, I don't at all like my
situation here; 'tis really very uncomfortable to be exposed to all
weathers--scorched in summer, and frost-nipped in winter. Though I am only
a statue, I feel that I ought to be protected.

PEEL.--Undoubtedly, my dear sir. What can I do for you?

STATUE.--Why, I want to get into the Abbey, St. Paul's, or Drury Lane.
Anywhere out of the open air.

PEEL.--Say no more--it shall be done. I am only too happy to have it in my
power to serve the statue of a man to whom his country is so deeply
indebted.

STATUE.--But _when_ shall it be done, Bob? To-morrow?

PEEL.--Not precisely to-morrow; but--

STATUE.--Next week, then?

PEEL.--I can't say; but don't be impatient--rely on my promise, and _wait
awhile, wait awhile_, my dear friend. Good night.

STATUE.--Oh! confound your _wait awhile_. I see I have nothing to expect.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE BEAUTY OF BRASS.

Tom Duncombe declares he never passes McPhail's imitative-gold mart
without thinking of Ben D'Israeli's speeches, as both of them are so
confoundedly full of fantastic

[Illustration: MOSAIC ORNAMENTS.]

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH AT THE ART-UNION EXHIBITION AGAIN

Limited space in our last number prevented our noticing any other than the
Sleeping Beauty; and, as there are many other humorous productions
possessing equal claims to our attention in the landscape and other
departments of art, we shall herein endeavour to point out their
characteristics--more for the advantage of future purchasers than for the
better and further edification of those whose meagre notions and tastes
have already been shown. And as the Royal Academicians, par courtesy,
demand our first notice, we shall, having wiped off D. M'Clise, R.A., now
proceed, baton in hand, to make a few pokes at W.F. Witherington, R.A.,
upon his work entitled "Winchester Tower, Windsor Castle, from Romney
Lock."

This is a subject which has been handled many times within our
recollection, by artists of less name, less fame, and less pretensions to
notice, if we except the undeniable fact of their displaying infinitely
more ability in their representations of the subject, than can by any
possibility be discovered in the one by W. F. Witherington, R.A. If our
remarks were made with an affectionate eye to the young ladies of the
satin-album-loving school, we should assuredly style this "a duck of a
picture"--one after their own hearts--treated in mild and undisturbed
tones of yellow, blue, and pink--and what yellows! what blues! and what
pinks! Some kind, superintending genius of landscape-painting evidently
prepared the scene for W.F. Witherington, R.A. It displays nothing of the
vulgar every-day look of nature, as seen at Romney Lock, or any other
spot; not a pebble out of its place--not a leaf deranged--here are bright
amber trees, and blue metallic towers, prepared gravel-walks, and figures
nicely cleaned and bleached to suit; it is, in truth, the most genteel
landscape ever looked on. Nothing but absolute needlework can create more
wonderment. Fie! fie! get thee hence, W.F. Witherington, R.A.

Just placed over the last-mentioned picture, and, doubtlessly so arranged
that the gentle R.A. should find that, although his bright specimen of
mild murder may be adjudged the worst in the collection, still there are
others worthy of being classed in the same order of oddities. Behold No.
19, entitled, "Landscape--Evening--J.F. Gilbert," and selected by Mr. John
Bullock from the Royal Academy. "What's in a name?" In the charitable hope
that there is a chance of this purchaser being toned down in the course of
time, after the same manner that pictures are, and, by that process,
display more sobriety, we most humbly offer to Mr. B. our modest judgment
upon his selection (not upon his choice, but upon the thing chosen). That
it is a landscape we gloomily admit; but that it represents "Evening" we
steadily deny. The exact period of the day, after much puzzling and
deliberation, we cannot arrive at; one thing yet we are assured of--that
it has been painted in company with a clock that was either too fast or
too slow. The composition, which has very much the appearance of the
by-gone century, is a prime selection from the finest parts of those very
serene views to be found adorning the lowest interiors of wash-hand
basins, with a dash from the works of Smith of Chichester, whose mental
elevation in his profession was only surpassed by the high finish of his
apple-trees, and the elaborate nothingness of his general choice of
subject. In the foreground of the picture, the artist has, however, most
aptly introduced the two vagabonds invariably to be seen idling in the
foregrounds of landscapes of this class--two rascally scouts who have put
in appearance from time immemorial; they are here just as in the works
alluded to, the one sitting, the other of course standing, and courteously
bending to receive the remarks of his friend. By the side of the stream,
which flows through (or rather takes up) the middle of the picture, and
immediately opposite to the two everlastings, is a little plain-looking
agriculturist, who appears to be watching them. He is in the careless and
ever-admitted picturesque position of leaning over a garden fence; but
whether the invariables are aware of the little gentleman, and are
consequently conversing in an undertone, we leave every beholder to
speculate and settle for himself. Behind the worthy small farmer, and
coming from the door of his residence, most cleverly introduced, is his
wife (we know it to represent the wife, from the clear fact of the lady's
appearance being typical of the gentleman's), who is in the act of
observing that the children are waiting his presence at table, and adding,
no doubt, that he had better come in and assist her in the
cabbage-and-bacon duties of the repast, than lose his time and annoy the
family.

We must now draw the spectator from the above-mentioned objects to a
little piscatorial sportsman, who, apart from them, and in the retirement
of his own thoughts upon worms, ground-bait, and catgut, lends his aid,
together with a lively little amateur waterman, paddling about in a little
boat, selfishly built to hold none other than himself--a hill rising in
the middle ground, and two or three minor editions of the same towards the
distance, carefully dotted with trees, after the fashion of a ready-made
portable park from the toy _depot_ in the Lowther Arcade--two bee-hives, a
water-mill, some majestic smoke, something that looks like a skein of
thread thrown over a mountain, and the memorable chiaro-scuro, form the
interesting episodes of this glorious essay in the epic pastoral.

       *       *       *       *       *


SYNCRETIC LITERATURE

    _Observations on the Epic Poem of Giles Scroggins and Molly
    Brown--resumed._

The fatal operation of the unavoidable, ever-impending, ruthless shears of
the stern controller of human destiny, and curtailer of human life--the
action by which

  "Fate's scissors cut Giles Scroggins' thread,"

or rather the thread of Giles Scroggins' life, at once and most completely
establishes the wholesome moral as to the fearful uncertainty of all
sublunary anticipations, and stands forth a beautiful beacon to warn the
over-weaning "worldly wisemen" from their often too-fondly-cherished
dreams of realising, by their own means and appliances, the darling
projects of their ambitious hopes!

The immediate effect of the operation performed by Fate's scissors, or
rather by Fate herself--as she was the great and absolute disposer--to
whom the implement employed was but a matter of fancy; for had Fate so
chosen, a bucket, a bowie-knife, a brick-bat, a black cap, or a box of
patent pills, might, as well as her destructive shears, have made a tenant
for a yawning grave of doomed Giles Scroggins. We say, the immediate
effect arising from this cutting cause was one in which both parties--the
living bride and defunct bridegroom--were equally concerned, their lover's
co-partnership rendering each liable for the acts or accidents of the
other; therefore as may be (and we think is) clearly established, under
these circumstances,

  "They could _not_ be _mar-ri_-ed!"

There is something deliciously affecting in the beautiful drawing out of
the last syllable!--it seems like the lingering of the heart's best
feelings upon the blighted prospects of its purest joys!--the ceremony
that would have completed the union of the loving maiden and admiring
swain, blending, as it were, like the twin prongs of a brass-bound
toasting-fork, their interests in one common cause. The ceremony of love's
concentration can never be performed! but the heart-feeling poet extends
each tiny syllable even to its utmost stretch, that the tear-dropping
reader may, while gulping down his sympathies, make at least a handsome
mouthful of the word.

We now approach, with considerable awe, a portion of our task to which we
beg to call the undivided attention of our erudite readers. Upon referring
to the original black-letter quarto, we find, after each particular
sentence, the author introduces, with consummate tact, a line, meant, as
we presume, as a kind of literary resting-place, upon which the delighted
mind might, in the sweet indulgence of repose, reflect with greater
pleasure on the thrilling parts, made doubly thrilling by the poet's fire.
The diversity of these, if we may so express them, "camp stools" of
imagination, is worthy of remark, both as to their application and
amplitude. For instance, after _one_ line, and that if perused with
attention, comparatively less abstruse than its fellows, the gifted poet
satisfies himself with the insertion of three sonorous, but really simple
syllables, they are invariably at follows--

  "Too-ral-loo!"

But when _two_ lines of the poem--burning with thought, bursting with
action--entrance by their sublimity the enraptured reader, greater time is
given, and more extended accommodation for a mental sit-down is afforded
in the elaborate and elongated composition of

  "Whack! fol-de-riddle lol-de-day!"

These introductions are of a high classic origin. Many professors of
eminence have quarrelled as to whether they were not the original of the
"Greek chorus;" while others, of equal erudition, have as stoutly
maintained, though closely approximating in character and purpose, they
are not the "originals," but imitations, and decidedly admirable ones,
from those celebrated poets.

A Mr. William Waters, a gentleman of immense travel, one who had left the
burning zone of the far East to visit the more chilling gales of a
European climate, a philosopher of the sect known as the "Peripatetic," a
devoted follower of the heathen Nine, whose fostering care has ever been
devoted to the tutelage of the professors of sweet sounds; and therefore
Waters was a high authority, declared in the peculiar _patois_ attendant
upon the pronunciation of a foreign mode of speech--that

  "Too-ral-loo"

was to catch him wind! And

  "Whack! fol-de-riddle lol-de-day,"

to let "um rosin up him fuddlestick!" These deductions are practical, if
not poetical; but these are but the emanations from the brain of
one--hundreds of other commentators differ from his view.

The most erudite linguists are excessively puzzled as to the nation whose
peculiar language has been resorted to for these singular and unequalled
introductions. The

  "Too-ral-loo"

has been given up in despair. The nearest solution was that of an eminent
arithmetician, who conjectured from the word too (Anglice, _two_)--and the
use of the four cyphers--those immediately following the T and L--that
they were intended to convey some notion of the personal property of Giles
Scroggins or Molly Brown (he never made up his mind which of the two); and
merely wanted the following marks to render them plain:--

T--oo (_two_)--either shillings or pence--and L--oo: no pounds!

This may or may not be right, but the research and ingenuity deserve the
immortality we now confer upon it. The other line, the

  "Whack! fol-de-riddle lol-de-day!"

has, perhaps, given rise to far more controversy, with certainly less
tangible and satisfactory results.

The scene of the poem not being expressly stated in the original or early
black-letter translation, many persons--whose love of country prompted
their wishes--have endeavoured to attach a nationality to these gordian
knots of erudition. An Hibernian gentleman of immense research--the
celebrated "Darby Kelly"--has openly asserted the whole affair to be
decidedly of Milesian origin: and, amid a vast number of corroborative
circumstances, strenuously insists upon the solidity of his premises and
deductions by triumphantly exclaiming, "What, or who but an _Irish_ poet
and an Irish hero, would commence a matter of so much consequence with the
soul-stirring "whack!" adopted by the great author, and put into the mouth
of his chosen hero?" Others again have supposed--which is also far more
improbable--that much of the obscurity of the above passage has its origin
from simple mis-spelling on the part of the poet's amanuensis--he taking
the literal dictation, forgetting the sublime author was suffering from a
cold in the head, which rendered the words in sound--

  "Riddle _lol_ the lay;"

whereas they would otherwise have been pronounced--

  "Riddle--_all the day_"--

that being an absolute and positive allusion to the agricultural pursuits
of Giles Scroggins, he being generally employed by his more wealthy
master--a great agrarian of those times--in the manly though somewhat
fatiguing occupation of "riddling all the day:" an occupation which--like
this article--was to be frequently resumed.

       *       *       *       *       *


A NEW THEORY OF POCKETS.

    DEFINITION _Pocket_, s. the small bag inserted into
    clothes.--WALKER (_a new edition, by Hookey_).

We are great on the subject of pockets--we acknowledge it--we avow it.
From our youth upwards, and we are venerable now, we have made them the
object of untiring research, analysis, and speculation; and if our
exertions have occasionally involved us in contingent predicaments, or our
zeal laid us open to conventional misconstructions, we console ourselves
with Galileo and Tycho Brahe, who having, like us, discovered and arranged
systems too large for the scope of the popular intellect, like us, became
the martyrs of those great principles of science which they have
immortalized themselves by teaching.

The result of a course of active and careful (s)peculations on the
philosophy and economy of pockets, has led us to the conviction that their
intention and use are but very imperfectly understood, even by the
intelligent and reflective section of the community. It is, we fear, a
very common error to regard them as conventional recesses, adapted for the
reception and deposit of such luxurious additaments to the attire as are
detached, yet accessory and indispensable ministers to our comfort. Now
this delusive supposition is diametrically opposed to the truth. Pockets
(we must be plain)--pockets are not made _to put into_, but to _take out
of_; and, although it is of course necessary that, in order to produce the
result of withdrawal, they be previously furnished with the wherewithal to
withdraw, yet the process of insertion and supply is only carried on for
the purpose of assisting the operation of the system.

And having, we trust, logically established this point, we shall hazard no
incautious position in asserting that the man who empties a pocket,
fulfils the object for which it was founded and established. And although,
unhappily, a prejudice still exists in the minds of the uneducated, in
favour of emptying their own pockets themselves, it must be evident that
none but a narrow mind can take umbrage at the trifling acceleration of an
event which must inevitably occur; or would desire to appropriate the
credit of the distribution, as well as to deserve the merit of the supply.

We perceive with concern and apprehension, that pockets are gradually
falling into disuse. To use the flippant idiom of the day, they are going
out! This is an alarming, as well as a lamentable fact; and one, too,
strikingly illustrative of the degeneracy of modern fashions. Whether we
ascribe the change to a contemptuous neglect of ancestral institutions, or
to an increasing difficulty in furnishing the indispensable attributes of
the pocket, it is alike indicative of a crisis; and we confess that it is
matter of astonishment to us, that in these days of theory and hypothesis,
no man has ventured to trace the distress and the ruin now impending over
the country, to the increasing disrespect and disuse of--pockets.

By way of approving our conjecture, let us contrast the garments of the
hour with those of England in the olden time--long ago, when boards smoked
and groaned under a load of good things in every man's house; when the
rich took care of the poor, and the poor took care of themselves; when
husband and wife married for love, and lived happily (though that must
have been very long ago indeed); the athletic yeoman proceeded to his
daily toil, enveloped in garments instinct with pockets. The ponderous
watch--the plethoric purse--the massive snuff-box--the dainty
tooth-pick--the grotesque handkerchief; all were accommodated and
cherished in the more ample recesses of his coat; while supplementary fobs
were endeared to him by their more seductive contents: _as_ ginger
lozenges, love-letters, and turnpike-tickets. Such were the days on which
we should reflect with regret; such were the men whom we should imitate
and revere. Had such a character as we have endeavoured feebly to sketch,
met an individual enveloped in a shapeless cylindrical tube of pale
Macintosh--impossible for taste--incapable of pockets--indefinite and
indefinable--we question whether he would have regarded him in the light
of a maniac, an incendiary, or a foreign spy--whether he would not have
handed him immediately over to the exterminators of the law, as a being
too depraved, too degraded for human sympathy. And yet--for our prolixity
warns us to conclude--and yet the festering contagion of this baneful
example is now-a-days hidden under the mask of fashion. FASHION! and has
it indeed come to this? Is fashion to trample on the best and finest
feelings of our nature? Is fashion to be permitted to invade us in our
green lanes, and our high roads, under our vines and our fig-trees,
without hindrance, and without pockets? For the sake of human nature, we
hope not--for the sake of our bleeding country, we hope not. No! "Take
care of your pockets!" is one of the earliest maxims instilled into the
youthful mind; and emphatically do we repeat to our
fellow-countrymen--Englishmen, take care of your pockets!

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S THEATRE.

[Illustration: C]Critics, as well as placemen, are occasionally
sinecurists, and, like the gentlemen of England immortalised by Dibdin,
are able, now and then, to "live at home at ease"--to dine (on dining
days) in comfort, not having to rise from table to give authors or actors
their dessert. This kind of novelty in our lives takes place when managers
produce no novelties in their theatres; when authors are lazy, and actors
do not come out in new parts but are contented with wearing out old
ones--when, in short, such an eventless theatrical week as the past one
leaves us to the enjoyment of our own hookahs, and the port of our
cellar-keeping friends. The play-bills seem to have been printed from
stereotype, for, like the laws of the Medes and Persians, they have never
altered--since our last report.

This unexpected hot weather has visited the public with many a "Midsummer
night's dream," _although_ it is--and Covent Garden has opened _because_
it is September; Sheridan's "Critic" has been very busy there, though
PUNCH'S has had nothing to do. "London Assurance" is still seen to much
advantage, and so is Madame Vestris.

The Haymarket manager continues to wade knee-deep in tragedy, in spite of
the state of the weather. The fare is, however, too good for any change in
the _carte_. "Werner" forms a substantial standing dish. The "Boarding
School" makes a most palpable _entrée_; while "Bob Short," and "My Friend
the Captain," serve as excellent after-courses. The promises recorded in
the Haymarket bills are, a new tragedy by a new author, and an old comedy
called "Riches;" a certain hit, if the continued success of "Money" be any
criterion.

It is with feelings of the most rabid indignation that we approach the
_Strand Theatre_, and the ruthless threat its announcements put forth of
the future destruction of the only legitimate drama that is now left
amongst us; that is to say, "PUNCH." When Thespis and his pupil Phynicus
"came out" at the feasts of Bacchus; when "Roscius was an actor in Rome;"
when Scaramouch turned the Materia Medica into a farce, and became a quack
doctor in Italy; when Richardson set up his show in England--all these
geniuses were peregrinate, peripatetic--their scenes were really moving
ones, their tragic woes went upon wheels, their comedies were run through
at the rate of so many miles per hour; the entire drama was, in fact, a
travelling concern. Punch, the concentrated essence of all these, has, up
to this date, preserved the pristine purity of his peripatetic fame; he
still remains on circuit, he still retains his legitimacy. But, alas! ere
this sheet has passed through the press, while its ink is yet as wet as
our dear Judy's eyes, he will have fallen from his high estate: Hall will
have housed him! Punch will have taken a stationary stand at the Strand
Theatre!! The last stroke will have been given to the only ancient drama
remaining, except the tragedies of Sophocles, and "Gammer Gurton's
Needle."

With feelings of both sorrow and anger, we turn from the pedestrian to the
equestrian drama. The Surrey has again, as of yore, become the Circus; she
has been joined to Ducrow and his stud by the usual symbol of union--a
_ring_. "Mazeppa" is _ridden_ by Mr. Cartlitch, with great success, and
the wild horse performed by an animal so highly trained, that it is as
tame as a lap-dog--has galloped through a score or so of nights, to the
delight of some thousands of spectators. The scenes in the circle exhibit
the usual _round_ of entertainment, and the _Merryman_ delivers those
reliques of antique facetiæ which have descended to the clowns of the
ring from generation to generation, without the smallest innovation. Thus
the Surrey shows symptoms of high prosperity, and properly declines to fly
in Fortune's face by attempting novelty.

The Victoria continues to kill "James Dawson," in spite of our prediction.
The bills, however, promise that he shall die outright on Monday next, and
a happy release it will be. The proprietor of "Sadler's Wells" is making
most spirited efforts to attract play-goers to the Islington side of the
New River, by a return to the legitimate drama of _his_ theatre,
viz.--real water; while his box check-taker has kept one important integer
of the public away; namely, that singular plural _we_--by impertinence for
which we have exhausted all patience without obtaining redress.

There are, we hear, other theatres open in London, one called the "City of
London," somewhere near Shoreditch; another in Whitechapel, both _terræ
incognitæ_ to us. The proprietors of these have handsomely presented us
with free admissions. We beg them to accept our thanks for their courtesy;
but are sorry we cannot avail ourselves of it till they add the obligation
of providing us with _guides_.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE CORN LAWS AND CHRISTIANITY.

Doctor Chalmers refused to attend the synod of Clergymen gathered together
to consider the relative value of the Big and Little Loaf, on the ground
that the reverend gentlemen were beginning their work at the wrong end.
Wages will go up with Christianity, says the Doctor; cheap corn will
follow the dissemination of cheap Bibles. "I know of no other road for the
indefinite advancement of the working classes to a far better
remuneration, and, of course, a far more liberal maintenance, in return
for their toils, than they have ever yet enjoyed--it is a _universal
Christian education_." Such are the words of Doctor CHALMERS.

We perfectly agree with the reverend doctor. Instead of shipping
Missionaries to Africa, let us keep those Christian sages at home for the
instruction of the English Aristocracy. When we consider the benighted
condition of the elegant savages of the western squares,--when we reflect
upon the dreadful scepticism abounding in Park-lane, May-fair,
Portland-place and its vicinity,--when we contemplate the abominable idols
which these unhappy natives worship in their ignorance,--when we know that
every thought, every act of their misspent life is dedicated to a false
religion, when they make hourly and daily sacrifice to that brazen
serpent,

        SELF!--

when they offer up the poor man's sweat to the abomination,--when they lay
before it the crippled child of the factory,--when they take from life its
bloom and dignity, and degrading human nature to mere brute breathing,
make offering of its wretchedness as the most savoury morsel to the
perpetual craving of their insatiate god,--when we consider all the
"manifold sins and wickednesses" of the barbarians in purple and fine
linen, of those pampered savages "whose eyes are red with wine and whose
teeth white with milk,"--we do earnestly hope that the suggestion of
Doctor Chalmers will be carried into immediate practical effect, and that
Missionaries, preaching true Christianity, will be sent among the rich and
benighted people of this country,--so that the poor may believe that the
Scriptures are something more than mere printed paper, seeing their
glorious effects in the awakened hearts of those who, in the arrogance of
their old idolatry, called themselves their betters!

"A universal Christian education!" To this end, the Bench of Bishops meet
at Lambeth; and discovering that locusts and wild honey--the Baptist's
diet--may be purchased for something less than ten thousand a year,--and,
after a minute investigation of the Testament, failing to discover the
name of St. Peter's coachmaker, or of St. Paul's footman, his valet, or
his cook,--take counsel one with another, and resolve to forego at least
nine-tenths of their yearly in-comings. "No!" they exclaim--and what
apostolic brightness beams in the countenance of CANTERBURY--what
celestial light plays about the fleshy head of LONDON--what more than
saint-like beauty surprises the cowslip-coloured face of EXETER--what
lambent fire, what looks of Christian love play about and beam from the
whole episcopal Bench!--"No!" they cry--"we will no longer have the spirit
oppressed by these cumbrous trappings of fleshy pride! We will promote an
universal Christian education--we will teach charity by examples, and live
unto all men by a personal abstinence from the bickerings and malice of
civil life. We will not defile the sacred lawn with the mud of turnpike
acts--we will no longer sweat in the House of Lords, but labour only in
the House of the Lord!"

Their Christian hearts sweetly suffused with sudden meekness, the Bishops
proceed--staff in hand, and Bible under arm--from Lambeth Palace. How the
people make way for the holy procession! Hackney-coachmen on their stands
uncover themselves, and the drayman, surprised in his whistle, doffs his
beaver to the reverend pilgrims. With measured step and slow, they proceed
to Downing-street; the self-deputed Missionaries, resolved to give her
Majesty's ministers "a Christian education." Sir ROBERT PEEL is
immediately taken in hand by the Bishop of EXETER; who sets the Baronet to
learn and exemplify the practical beauties of the Lord's Prayer. When Sir
ROBERT comes to "give us this day our daily bread," he insists upon adding
the words "_with a sliding scale_." However, EXETER, animated by a sudden
flux of Christianity, keeps the baronet to his lesson, and the Premier is
regenerated; yea, is "a brand snatched from the fire."

Lord LYNDHURST makes a great many wry mouths at some parts of the
Decalogue--we will not particularise them--but the Bishop of London is
resolute, and the new Lord Chancellor is, in all respects a bran-new
Christian.

Lord STANLEY begs that when he prays for power to forgive all his enemies,
he may be permitted to except from that prayer--DANIEL O'CONNELL. The
Bishop is, however, inexorable; and O'Connell is to be prayed for, in all
churches visited by Lord STANLEY.

Several of the bishops, smitten by the heathen darkness of the great
majority of the Cabinet--affected by their utter ignorance of the
practical working of Christianity--burst into tears. It will not be
credited by those disposed to think charitably of their fellow-creatures,
that--we state the melancholy fact upon the golden word of the Bishop of
EXETER--several Cabinet ministers had never heard of the divine sentence
which enjoins upon us to do to others as we would they should do unto us.
Sir JAMES GRAHAM, for instance, declared that he had always understood the
passage to simply run--"_Do_ others;" and had, therefore, in very many
acts of his political life, squared his doings according to the mutilated
sentence. All the Cabinet had, more or less, some idea of the miracle of
the Loaves and the Fishes. Indeed, many of them confessed that with them,
the Loaves and the Fishes had, during their whole political career,
contained the essence of Christianity. Sir EDWARD KNATCHBULL, Lord
ELLENBOROUGH, and GOULBURN declared that for the last ten years they had
hungered for nothing else.

We cannot dwell upon every individual case of ignorance displayed in the
Cabinet. We confine ourselves to the glad statement, that every minister
from the first lord of the treasury to the grooms in waiting, vivified by
the sacred heat of their schoolmaster Bishops, illustrate the great truth
of Doctor CHALMERS, that the poor man can only obtain justice "by a
_universal_ Christian education."

The Bench of Bishops do not confine their labours to the instruction of
the Cabinet. By no means. They have appointed prebends, deans, canons,
vicars, &c., to teach the members of both houses of Parliament practical
Christianity towards their fellow-men. Lord LONDONDERRY has sold his
fowling-piece for the benefit of the poor--has given his shooting-jacket
to the ragged beggar that sweeps the crossing opposite the Carlton
Club--and resolving to forego the vanities of grouse, is now hard at work
on "The Acts of the Apostles." Colonel SIBTHORP--after unceasing labour on
the part of Doctor CROLY--has managed to spell at least six of the hard
names in the first chapter of St. Matthew, and can now, with very slight
hesitation, declare who was the father of ZEBEDEE'S children!

"An universal Christian education!" Oh, reader! picture to yourself
London--for one day only--operated upon by the purest Christianity.
Consider the mundane interests of this tremendous metropolis directed by
Apostolic principles! Imagine the hypocrisy of respectability--the
conventional lie--the allowed ceremonial deceit--the tricks of trade--the
ten thousand scoundrel subterfuges by which the lowest dealers of this
world purchase Bank-stock and rear their own pine-apples--the common,
innocent iniquities (innocent from their very antiquity, having been
bequeathed from sire to son) which men perpetrate six working-days in the
week, and after, lacker up their faces with a look of sleek humility for
the Sunday pew--consider all this locust swarm of knaveries annihilated by
the purifying spirit of Christianity, and then look upon London breathing
and living, for one day only, by the sweet, sustaining truth of the
Gospel!

Had our page ten thousand times its amplitude, it would not contain the
briefest register of the changes of that day!

There is a scoundrel attorney, who for thirty years has become plethoric
on broken hearts. The scales of leprous villany have fallen from him; and
now, an incarnation of justice, he sits with open doors, to pour oil into
the wounds of the smitten--to make man embrace man as his brother--to
preach lovingkindness to all the world, and--without a fee--to chant the
praises of peace and amity.

_Crib_ the stockbroker meets _Horns_ a fellow-labourer in the same hempen
walk of life. _Crib_ offers to buy a little Spanish of _Horns_. "My dear
_Crib_," says _Horns_, "it is impossible; I can't sell; for I have just
received by a private hand from Cadiz, news that must send the stock down
to nothing. I am a Christian, my dear _Crib_," says _Horns_, "and as a
Christian, how could I sell you a certain loss?"

A mistaken, but well-meaning man, although a tailor, meets his debtor in
Bow-street. A slight quarrel ensues; whereupon, the debtor (to show that
the days of chivalry are _not_ gone) kicks his tailor into the gutter.
Does the tailor take the offender before Mr. JARDINE? By no means. The
tailor is a Christian; and learning the exact measure of his enemy, and
returning good for evil, he, in three days' time, sends to his assailant a
new suit of the very best super Saxony.

How many quacks we see rushing to the various newspaper offices to
countermand their advertisements! What gaps in the columns of the
newspapers themselves! Where is the sugary lie--the adroit slander--the
scoundrel meanness, masking itself with the usage of patriotism? All, all
are vanished, for--the _Morning Herald_ is published upon Christian
principles!

Let us descend to the smallest matters of social life. "Will this gingham
wash?" asks _Betty_ the housemaid of _Twill_ the linen-draper. _Twill_ is
a Christian; and therefore replies, "it is a very poor article, and it
will _not_ wash!"

We are with Doctor Chalmers for Christianity--but not Christianity of _one
side_. "Pray for those who despitefully use you," say the Corn Law
Apostles to the famishing; and then, cocking their eye at one another, and
twitching their tongues in their mouths they add--"for this is
Christianity!"

Q.

       *       *       *       *       *


ENCOURAGEMENT OF NATIVE TALENT.

Her Majesty has, it seems, presented the conductor of the _Gazette
Musicale_ with a gold medal and her portrait, as a reward for his constant
efforts in the cause of music (_vide Morning Post_, Sept. 9). From this,
it may be supposed, foreigners alone are deemed worthy of distinction; but
our readers will be glad to learn, that Rundells have been honoured with
an order for a silver whistle for PUNCH. His unceasing efforts in the
causes of _humbug_, political, literary, and dramatic, having drawn forth
this high mark of royal favour.

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S PENCILLINGS--NO. X.

[Illustration: THE DINER-OUT.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE OMEN OUTWITTED:

OR, HOW HIS REVERENCE'S HEELS TOOK STEPS TO SAVE HIS HEAD.


"So, Dick, I mean your 'reverence,' you like the blessed old country as
well as ever, eh, lad?"

"As well, ay, almost better. My return to it is like the meeting of
long-parted friends--the joy of the moment is pure and unalloyed--all
minor faults are forgotten--all former goodness rushes with double force
from the recollection to the heart, and the renewal of old fellowship
grafts new virtues (the sweet fruits of regretted absence) upon him who
has been the chosen tenant of our 'heart of hearts.'"

"His reverence's health--three times three (empty them heeltaps, Jack, and
fill out of the fresh jug)--now, boys, give tongue. That's the raal thing;
them cheers would wake the seven sleepers after a dose of laudanum. Bless
you, and long life to you! That's the worst wish you'll find here."

"I know that right well, uncle. I know it, feel it, and most heartily
thank you all."

"Enough said, parson. By dad, Dick, its mighty droll to be calling you,
that was but yesterday a small curly-pated gossoon, by that clerical
mouthful of a handle to your name. But do you find us altered much?"

"There is no change but Time's--that has fallen lightly. To be sure,
yesterday I was looking for the heads of my strapping cousins at the
bottom button of their well-filled waistcoats, and, before Jack's arrival,
meant to do a paternal and patriarchal 'pat' on his, at somewhere about
that altitude; a ceremony he must excuse, as the little lad of my mind has
thought proper to expand into a young Enniskillen of six feet three."

"He's a mighty fine boy--the lady-killing vagabone!" said the father, with
a kind look of gratified pride; and then added, as if to stop the
infection of the vanity, "and there's no denying he's big enough to be
better." Here a slight scrimmage at the door of the dining-room attracted
the attention of the "masther."

"What's the meaning of that noise, ye vagabones?"

"Spake up, Mickey."

"Is it me?" "It is." "Not at all, by no means. Let Paddy do it, or Tim
Carroll; they're used to going out wid the car, and don't mind spaking to
the quality." "Take yourselves out o'that, or let me know what you want,
and be pretty quick about it, too."

The result of this order was the appearance of Tim Carroll in the centre
of the room--a dig between the shoulders, and vigorously-applied kick
behind, hastening him into that somewhat uneasy situation, with a degree
of expedition perfectly marvellous.

"Spake out, what is it?" "Ahem!" commenced Tim; "you see, sir (_aside_),
I'll be even wid you for that kick, you thief of the world--you see, Paddy
(bad manners to him) and the rest o' the boys, was thinking that, owing to
the change o' climate, Master Richard--that is, his new riverence--has
gone through by rason of laving England and comin' here--and mighty could,
no doubt, he was on the journey--be praised he's safe--the boy, sir, was
thinkin', masther dear, it was nothing but their duty, and what was due to
the family, to ax your honour's opinion about their takin' the smallest
taste of whiskey in life, jist to be drinking his riverence's Masther
Richard's health, and"--"Success to him!" shouted the chorus at the door.
"That's it!" said the masther. "And nothing but it!" responded the chorus.
"Nelly, my jewel! take the kays and give them anything in dacency!"
"Hurrah! smiling good luck to you, for ever and afther!" "That'll do,
boys! but stay: it's Terence Conway's wedding night--it's a good tenant
he's been to me--take the sup down there, and you'll get a dance; now be
off, you devils!"

"Many thanks to your honour!" chorused the delighted group; and "I done
that iligant, anyhow," muttered the gratified, successful, and, therefore,
forgiving orator. "I'll try again. Ahem! wouldn't the young gentlemen just
step down for a taste?" "By all manes!" was chimed at once; their hats
were mounted in a moment, and off they set.

Terence Conway's farm was soon reached; the barn affording the most
accommodation for the numerous visitors, was fitted up for the occasion.
It was nearly full, as Terence was a popular man--one that didn't grudge
the "bit and sup," and never turned his back upon friend or foe. Loud and
hearty were the cheers of the delighted tenantry, as the three sons of
their beloved landlord passed the threshold. The appearance of the
"stranger" was received with no such demonstrations of welcome; on the
contrary, there was a sullen silence, soon after broken by suppressed and
angry murmurs. These were somewhat appeased by one of the sons introducing
his "cousin," and endeavouring to joke the peasants into good-humour, by
laughingly assuring them his "reverence" was but a bad drinker, and would
not deprive them of much of the poteen; then passing his arm through the
parson's, he led the way, as it afterwards turned out, rather
unfortunately, to the top of the barn, and there, followed by his
brothers, they took their seats.

The entrance of the Catholic priest (a most amiable man) at this moment
attracted the entire attention of the party, during which time Tim Carroll
elbowed his way to the place where his master was seated, and calling him
partially aside, whispered, "Master John, dear, tell his riverence, Master
Richard, to go."

"What for?"

"Sure, is not he entirely in black?"

"Well, what of it?"

"What of it? Houly Paul! the likes o' that! If my skin was as hard as a
miser's heart, I wouldn't put it into a black coat, and come to a wedding
in it; it's the devil's own bad omen, and nothing else!"

"You are right! What a fool I was not to tell Dick! Cousin, a word!"

Here the clamour became somewhat louder, the priest taking an active part,
and speaking rapidly and earnestly in their native tongue to the evidently
excited peasantry. He suddenly broke from them, and hastening to the
Protestant clergyman, grasped his hand, and, shaking it heartily, wished
him "health, long life, and happiness:" and lifting a tumbler of punch to
his lips, drank off nearly half its contents, exclaiming the customary,
"God save all here!" He then presented the liquor to the stranger, saying
in a low earnest voice, "Drink that toast, sir!"

This order was instantly complied with. The clear tones of the young man's
unfaltering voice and the hearty cordiality of his utterance had a
singular effect upon the more turbulent; the priest passed rapidly from
the one to the other, and endeavoured to say something pleasant to all,
but, despite his attempts at calmness, he was evidently ill at ease.

Tim Carroll again sidled up to his young master.

"The boys mane harrum, sir," said Tim; "but never mind, there's five of us
here. We've not been idle, we've all been taking pick o' the sticks, and
divil a stroke falls upon one of the ould ancient family widout showing a
bruck head or a flat back for it."

"What am I to understand by this?" inquired the young stranger.

"That you're like Tom Fergusson when he rode the losing horse--you've
mounted the wrong colour; and, be dad, you are pretty well marked down for
it, sir; but never mind, there's Tim Carroll looking as black as the
inside of a sut-bag. Let him come on! he peeled the skin off them shins o'
mine at futball; maybe, I won't trim his head with black thorn for that
same, if he's any ways obstropolis this blessed night."

"Silence, sir! neither my inclination nor sacred calling will allow me to
countenance a broil! I have been the first offender--to attempt to leave
the room now would but provoke an attack; leave this affair to me, and
don't interfere."

"By the powers! if man or mortal lifts his hand to injure you, I'll smash
the soul out of him! Do you think, omen or no omen, I'll stand by and see
you harmed?--not a bit of it! If you are a parson and a child of peace, I
have the honour to be a soldier, and claim my right to battle in your
cause."

Maugre the pacific tone of the unfortunately-accoutered ecclesiastic,
there was something of defiance in his flashing eye and crimson cheek, as
he turned his brightening glance upon what might almost be called the host
of his foes; and the nervous pressure which returned the grasp of his
cousin's sinewy hand, spoke something more of readiness for battle than
could have been gathered from his expressed wishes.

"If, Jack, it comes to that, why, as human nature is weak--excuse what I
may feel compelled to do; but for the present pray oblige me by keeping
your seat and the peace; or, if you must move and fidget about, go and
make that pugnacious Tim Carroll as decent as you can."

"I'll be advised by you, Dick; but look out!" So saying, the stalwart
young officer bustled his way to the uproarious Tim.

It was well he did so, or bloodshed must have ensued, as at that moment a
tall and powerful man, brother-in-law to the bride, lifted his stick, and
after giving it the customary twirl aimed a point-blank blow at the head
of the ill-omened parson. The bound of an antelope brought the girl to the
spot; her small hand averted the direction of the deadly weapon, and
before the action had been perceived by any present, or the attempt could
be resumed, she dropped a curtesy to the assailant, and in a loud voice,
with an affected laugh, exclaimed--

"You, if you plaise, sir;" and, turning quickly to the fiddler, continued:
"Any tune you like, Mr. Murphy, sir; but, good luck to you, be quick, or
we won't have a dance to-night!"

"Clear the floor!--a dance! a dance!" shouted every one.

In a few seconds the angry scowl had passed from the flushed cheeks of Dan
Sheeny, and there he was, toe and heeling, double shuffling, and cutting
it over the buckle, to the admiration of all beholders. The bride was
seated near the stranger--he perceived this, and suddenly quitting his
place, danced up to her, and nodding, as he stopped for a moment, invited
her to join him. She was ever light of foot, and, as she said afterwards,
"would have danced her life out but she'd give the poor young gentleman a
chance." Long and vigorously did Dan Sheeny advance, retire, curvette, and
caper. The whiskey and exertion at length overcame him, and he left the
lady sole mistress of the floor. By this time murmurs had again arisen,
and all eyes were turned upon the intruder, who had been intently engaged
observing the dancers. It was an accomplishment for which he had been
celebrated previous to his taking orders, and the old feeling so strongly
interested him, that he was absorbed in the pleasure of witnessing the
activity and joyousness of the performers. He turned his head for an
instant--a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. On his starting up, he
saw nothing but the smiling Norah pressing the arm of a tall peasant, and
curtseying him a challenge to join her "on the floor." He paused for a
moment, then gaily taking her hand, advanced with her to the centre. All
eyes were bent upon them, but there was no restraint in the young parson's
manner. The most popular jig-tune was called for--to it they went; his
early-taught and well-practised feet beat living echoes to the most rapid
bars. A foot of ground seemed ample space for all the intricate
compilation of the _raal_ Conamera "capers." The tune was changed again
and again; again and again was his infinity of steps adapted to its
varying sounds: to use a popular phrase, you might have heard a pin drop.
Every mouth was closed, every eye fixed upon his rapid feet; and, when at
length wearied with exertion, the almost fainting girl was falling to the
earth, her gallant partner caught her in his arms, and, like an infant,
bore her to the open air, one loud and general cheer burst from their
unclosed lips; a few moments restored the pretty lass to perfect health.
Her first words were, "Leave me, sir, and save yourself." It was too late;
borne on the shoulders of the admiring mob, who, despite his suit of
sables (now rendered innoxious by the varying colour of the crimson
kerchief the young bride bound round his neck), he was soon seated in the
chair of honour, and there, surrounded by his friends, finished the night
the "lion of the dance." And thus it was that his "Reverence's heels took
steps to preserve his head."--FUSBOS

       *       *       *       *       *


TRANSACTIONS AND YEARLY REPORT. OF THE HOOKHAM-CUM-SNIVEY LITERARY,
SCIENTIFIC, AND MECHANICS' INSTITUTION.

(_Continued from our last._)

An important and advantageous arrangement in the transactions of the
society, since its foundation, has been the institution of the classes
"for the acquisition of a general smattering of everything," more
especially as concerning the younger branches of society. It is, however,
much to be regretted, that the public examination of the juvenile members,
upon the subjects they had listened to during the past course, did not
turn out so well as the committee could have wished. The various
professors had taken incredible pains to teach the infant philosophers
correct answers to the separate questions that would be asked them, in
order that they might reply with becoming readiness. Unfortunately the
examiner began at the wrong end of the class, and threw them all out,
except the middle one. We sub-join a few of the questions:--

State the distance, in miles, from the Hanwell Lunatic Asylum to the
Tuesday in Easter week, and show how long a man would be going from one to
the other, if he travelled at the rate of four gallons a minute.

Required to know the advantages of giving tracts to poor people who cannot
read, and how many are equivalent to a sliding-scale penny buster, in the
way of nourishment.

"Was Lord John Russell in his Windsor uniform, ever mistaken for a
two-penny postman; if so, what great man imagined the affinity?

[Illustration: Best Pigtail]

The School of Design and Drawing has made very creditable progress, and
the subscribers will be gratified in learning, that one of the pupils sent
in a design for the Nelson Testamonial, which would in all probability
have been accepted, had not the decision been made in the usual
preconcerted underhand manner. Following the columnar idea of Mr. Railton,
our talented pupil had put forth a peculiarly appropriate idea: the shaft
would have been formed by a sea-telescope of gigantic proportions, pulled
out to its utmost extent. On the summit of this Nelson would have been
seated, as on the maintop, smoking his pipe, from which real smoke would
have issued. This would have been produced by a stove at the bottom of the
column, whose object was to furnish a steady supply of baked potatoes,
uninfluenced by the fluctuations of the market, to the cabmen of
Trafalgar-square, and the street-sweepers at Charing-cross. The artist who
designed the elegant structure at King's-cross, which partakes so
comprehensively of the attributes of a pump, a watch-house, a lamp-post,
and a turnpike, would have superintended its erection, and a carved
figure-head might have been purchased, for a mere song, to crown the
elevation. It would not have much mattered whether the image was intended
for Nelson or not, because, from its extreme elevation, no one, without a
spy-glass, could have told one character from another--Thiers from Lord
John Russell, George Steevens from Shakspere, Muntz from the Duke of
Brunswick, or anybody else.

THE MUSEUM.

The museum of the institution has been gradually increasing in valuable
additions, and donations are respectfully requested from families having
any dust-collecting articles about their houses which they are anxious to
get rid of.

The first curiosities presented were, of course, those which have formed
the nucleus of every museum that was ever established, and consisted of
"South Sea Islander's paddles and spears, North American mocassins and
tomahawks, and Sandwich (not in Kent, but in the Pacific Ocean) canoes and
fishing-tackle. In addition, we have received the following, which the
society beg to acknowledge:--

The jaw-bone of an animal, supposed to be a cow, found two feet below the
surface, in digging for the Great Western Railway, near Slough.

Farthing, penny, and sixpence, of the reign of George the Fourth.

Piece of wood from the red-funnel steam-boat sunk off the Isle of Dogs, in
August, 1841, which had been under water nearly six days.

A variety of articles manufactured from the above, sufficient to build a
boat twelve times the size, may be purchased of the librarian.

A floor-tile, in excellent preservation, from the old Hookham-cum-Snivey
workhouse kitchen, before the new union was built.

Specimens of pebbles collected from the gravel-pits at Highgate, and a
valuable series of oyster-shells, discovered the day after
Bartholomew-fair, near the corner of Cock-lane.

A small lizard, caught in the Regent's-park, preserved in gin-and-water,
in a soda-water bottle, and denominated by the librarian "a heffut."

LIBRARY.

Advertisement half of a _Times_ newspaper for March, 1838.

Playbill of the English Opera during Balfe's management, supposed to be
that of the memorable night when 16l. 4s. was taken, in hard cash, at
the doors.

View of the Execution of the late Mr. Greenacre in front of Newgate,
published by Catnach, from a drawing by an unknown artist.  (_Very rare!_)

MS. pantomime, refused at the Haymarket, entitled "Harlequin and the
Hungarian Daughter; or, All My Eye and Betty Martinuzzi," with the whole
of the songs, choruses, and incidental combats and situations. Presented
by the author, in company with a receipt for red and green fire.

Bound copy of Sermons preached at Hookham-cum-Snivey Church, by the
Reverend Peter Twaddle, on the occasions, of building a dusthole for the
national schools; of outfitting the missionaries who are exported annually
to be eaten by the Catawampous Indians; on the death of Mr. Grubly, the
retired cheesemonger, who endowed the weathercock; and in aid of the funds
of the "newly-born-baby-clothes-bag-and-basket-institution:" printed at
the desire of his, "he fears, in this instance, too partial" parishioners,
and presented by himself.

       *       *       *       *       *


OUR FOREIGN RELATIONS.

The treaty of the four powers, to which Chelsea, Battersea, Brompton, and
Wandsworth are parties, and from which Pimlico has hitherto obstinately
stood aloof, has at length been ratified by the re-entry of that impetuous
suburb into the general views of Middlesex. We have now a right to call
upon Pimlico to disarm, and to cut off its extra watchman with a
promptitude that shall show the sincerity with which it has joined the
neighbouring powers in the celebrated treaty of Kensington. It is already
known that, by this document, Moses Hayley is recognised as hereditary
beadle, and Abraham Parker is placed in undisturbed possession of the post
of waterman on the coach-stand in the outskirts. We are not among those
who expect to find a spirit of propagandism prevailing in the policy of
the powers of Pimlico. The lamplighter who lights the district is a man of
sound discernment, and there is everything to hope from the moderation he
has always exhibited.

       *       *       *       *       *


SIBTHORP ON THE CORN LAW.

Sibthorp came out in full fig at Sir Robert Peel's dinner. While he was
having his hair curled, and the irons were heating, he asked the two-penny
operator what was his opinion of the corn-law question. The barber's
answer suggested the following con.:--

"Why am I like a man eating a particular sort of fancy bread?"--"Because,"
answered the tonsor, "you are having

[Illustration: A TWOPENNY TWIST"]

This reply made the Colonel's hair stand on end, taking it quite out of
curl.

       *       *       *       *       *


FISH SAUCE.

The boy Jones, in one of his visits to the Palace, to avoid detection,
secreted himself up the kitchen chimney. The intense heat necessary for
the preparation of a large dish of white-bait for her Majesty's dinner
compelled him to relax his hold, and in an instant he was precipitated
among the Blackwall delicacies. The indignant cook immediately demanded
"his business there." "Don't you see," observed the younker, "I'm

[Illustration: ONE OF THE FRY?"]

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE.

NO. 4.

NATURAL HISTORY.

_Definition._--The history of "naturals"--which chiefly include the human
species--and of "simples" (herbs), occupies the branch of science we are
about to enlighten our readers upon. It treats, in fact, of animated
nature; while physical history--instead of being the history of
Apothecaries' Hall, as many suppose--deals exclusively with inanimate
matter.

_Of genus, species, and orders._--If, in the vegetable world, we commence
with the buttercup, and trace all the various kinds and sizes of plants
that exist, up to the pine (Norwegian), and down again to the hautboy
(Cormack's Princesses); if, among the lower animals, we begin with a gnat
and go up to an elephant, or select from the human species a Lord John
Russell, and place him beside a professor Whewell, we shall see that
nature provides an endless variety of all sorts of everything. Now, to
render a knowledge of everything in natural history as difficult of
acquirement as possible to everybody, the scientific world divides nature
into the above-mentioned classes, to which Latin names are given. For
instance, it would be vulgarly ridiculous to call a "cat" by its right
name; and when one says "cat," a dogmatic naturalist is justified in
thinking one means a lion or tiger, both these belonging to the _cat_egory
of "cats;" hence, a "cat" is denominated, for shortness, _felis
Ægyptiacus;_ an ass is turned into a horse, by being an _equus_; a woman
into a man, for with him she is equally _homo_.

Of this last species it is our purpose exclusively to treat. The variety
of it we commence with is,

THE BARBER (_homo emollientissimus_.--TRUEFIT).

_Physical structure and peculiarities_.--The most singular peculiarity of
the barber is, that although, in his avocations, he always is what is
termed a "strapper," yet his stature is usually short. His tongue,
however, makes up for this deficiency, being remarkably long,--a beautiful
provision of nature; for while he is seldom called upon to use his legs
with rapidity, his lingual organ is always obliged to be on the "run." His
eyes are keen, and his wits sharp; his mouth is tinged with humour, and
his hair--particularly when threatening to be gray--with _poudre unique_.
Manner, prepossessing; crop, close; fingers, dirty; toes, turned out. He
seldom indulges in whiskers, for his business is to shave.

1. _Habits, reproduction, and food._--A singular uniformity of _habits_ is
observable amongst barbers. They all live in shops curiously adorned with
play-bills and pomatum-pots, and use the same formulary of conversation to
every new customer. All are politicians on both sides of every subject;
and if there happen to be three sides to a question, they take a
triangular view of it.

2. _Reproduction._--Some men are born barbers, others have barberism
thrust upon them. The first class are brought forth in but small numbers,
for shavers seldom pair. The second take to the razor from disappointment
in trade or in love. This is evident, from the habits of the animal when
alone, at which period, if observed, a deep, mysterious, melo-dramatic
gloom will be seen to overspread his countenance. He is essentially a
social being; company is as necessary to his existence as beards.

3. _Food._--Upon this subject the most minute researches of the most
prying naturalists have not been able to procure a crumb of information.
That the barber does eat can only be inferred; it cannot be proved, for no
person was ever known to catch him in the act; if he does masticate, he
munches in silence and in secret[1].

    [1] Not so of drinking. Only last week we saw, with our own eyes, a
        pot of ale in a barber's shop; and very good ale it was, too,
        for we tasted it.

_Geographical distribution of barbers._--Although the majority of
barbers live near the _pole_, they are pretty diffusely disseminated
over the entire face of the globe. The advance of civilization has,
however, much lessened their numbers; for we find, wherever valets are
kept, barbers are not; and as the magnet turns towards the north, they
are attracted to the east. In St. James's, the shaver's "occupation's
gone;" but throughout the whole of Wapping, the distance is very short

[Illustration: "FROM POLE TO POLE."]

       *       *       *       *       *


A LECTURE ON MORALITY.--BY PUNCH.

Moral philosophers are the greatest fools in the world. I am a moral
philosopher; I am no fool though. Who contradicts me? If any, speak, and
come within reach of my cudgel. I am a moral philosopher of a new school.
The schoolmaster is abroad, and I am the schoolmaster; but if anybody says
that _I_ am abroad, I will knock him down. I am _at home_. And now, good
people, attend to me, and you will hear something worth learning.

The reason why I call all moral philosophers fools is, because they have
not gone properly to work. Each has given his own peculiar notions,
merely, to the world. Now, different people have different opinions: some
like apples, and others prefer another sort of fruit, with which, no
doubt, many of you are familiar. "Who shall decide when doctors disagree?"

My system of morality is the result of induction. I am very fond of
Bacon--I mean, the Bacon recommended to you by the "Society for the
Diffusion of Useful Knowledge"--_Lord_ Bacon. I therefore study the
actions of mankind, and draw my inferences accordingly. The people whose
conduct I attend to are those who get on best in the world; for the object
of all morality is to make ourselves happy, and as long as we are so,
what, my good friends, does it signify?

The first thing that you must do in the study of morals is, to get rid of
all prejudices. Bacon and I quite agree upon this point. By prejudices I
mean your previous notions concerning right and wrong.

Dr. Johnson calls morality "the doctrine of the duties of life." In this
definition I agree. The doctor was a clever man. I very much admire the
knock-down arguments that he was so fond of; it is the way in which I
usually reason myself. Now the duties of life are two-fold--our duty to
others and our duty to ourselves. Our duty to ourselves is to make
ourselves as comfortable as possible; our duty to others, is to make them
assist us to the best of their ability in so doing. This is the plan on
which all respectable persons act, and it is one which I have always
followed myself. What are the consequences? See how popular I am; and,
what is more, observe how fat I have got! Here is a corporation for you!
Here is a leg! What think you of such a cap as this? and of this
embroidered coat? Who says that I am not a fine fellow, and that my system
is not almost as fine? Let him argue the point with me, if he dare!

Happiness consists in pursuing our inclinations without disturbance, and
without getting into trouble. Make it, then, your first rule of conduct
always to do exactly as you please; that is, if you can. I am not like
other moralists, who talk in one way and act in another. What I advise you
to do, is nothing more than what I practise myself, as you have very often
observed, I dare say.

Be careful to show, invariably, a proper respect for the laws; that is to
say, when you do anything illegal, take all the precautions that you can
against being found out. Here, perhaps, my example is somewhat at variance
with my doctrine; but I am stronger, you know, than the executive, and
therefore, instead of my respecting it, it ought to respect me.

Be sure to keep a quiet conscience. In order that you may secure this
greatest of blessings, never allow yourselves to regret any part of your
past behaviour; and whenever you feel tempted to do so, take the readiest
means that you can think of to banish reflection, or, as Lord Byron very
properly terms it--

  "The blight of life, the demon Thought!"

You have observed that, after having knocked anybody on the head, I
generally begin to dance and sing. This I do, not because I am troubled
with any such weakness as remorse, but in order to instruct you. I do not
mean to say that you are to conduct yourselves precisely in the same
manner under similar circumstances; a pipe, or a pot, or a pinch of
snuff--in short, any means of diversion--will answer your purpose equally
well.

Adhere strictly to truth--whenever there is no occasion for lying. Be
particularly careful to conceal no one circumstance likely to redound to
your credit. But when two principles clash, the weaker, my good people,
must, as the saying is, go to the wall. If, therefore, it be to your
interest to lie, do so, and do it boldly. No one would wear false hair who
had hair of his own; but he who has none, must, of course, wear a wig. I
do not see any difference between false hair and false assertions; and I
think a lie a very useful invention. It is like a coat or a pair of
breeches, it serves to clothe the naked. But do not throw your
falsifications away: I like a proper economy. Some silly persons would
have you invariably speak the truth. My friends, if you were to act in
this way, in what department of commerce could you succeed? How could you
get on in the law? what vagabond would ever employ you to defend his
cause? What practice do you think you would be likely to procure as a
physician, if you were to tell every old woman who fancied herself ill,
that there was nothing the matter with her, or to prescribe abstinence to
an alderman, as a cure for indigestion? What would be your prospect in the
church, where, not to mention a few other little trifles, you would have,
when you came to be made a bishop, to say that you did not wish to be any
such thing? No, my friends, truth is all very well when the telling of it
is convenient; but when it is not, give me a bouncing lie. But that one
lie, object the advocates of uniform veracity, will require twenty more to
make it good: very well, then, tell them. Ever have a due regard to the
sanctity of oaths; this you will evince by never using them to support a
fiction, except on high and solemn occasions, such as when you are about
to be invested with some public dignity. But avoid any approach to a
superstitious veneration for them: it is to keep those thin-skinned and
impracticable individuals who are infected by this failing from the
management of public affairs, that they have been, in great measure,
devised.

Never break a promise, unless bound to do so by a previous one; and
promise yourselves from this time forth never to do anything that will put
you to inconvenience.

Never take what does not belong to you. For, as a young pupil who formerly
attended these lectures pathetically expressed himself, he furnishing, at
the time, in his own person, an illustration of the maxim--

  "Him as prigs wot isn't his'n,
  Ven 'a's cotch must go to pris'n!"

But what is it that does _not_ belong to you? I answer, whatever you
cannot take with impunity. Never fail, however, to appropriate that which
the law does not protect. This is a duty which you owe to yourselves. And
in order that you may thoroughly carry out this principle, procure, if you
can, a legal education; because there are a great many flaws in titles,
agreements, and the like, the knowledge of which will often enable you to
lay hands upon various kinds of property to which at first sight you might
appear to have no claim. Should you ever be so circumstanced as to be
beyond the control of the law, you will, of course, be able to take
whatever you want; because there will be nothing then that will _not_
belong to you. This, my friends, is a grand moral principle; and, as
illustrative of it, we have an example (as schoolboys say in their themes)
in Alexander the Great; and besides, in all other conquerors that have
ever lived, from Nimrod down to Napoleon inclusive.

Speak evil of no one behind his back, unless you are likely to get
anything by so doing. On the contrary, have a good word to say, if you
can, of everybody, provided that the person who is praised by you is
likely to be informed of the circumstance. And, the more to display the
generosity of your disposition, never hesitate, on convenient occasions,
to bestow the highest eulogies on those who do not deserve them.

Be abstemious--in eating and drinking at your own expense; but when you
feed at another person's, consume as much as you can possibly digest.

Let your behaviour be always distinguished by modesty. Never boast or
brag, when you are likely to be disbelieved; and do not contradict your
superiors--that is to say, when you are in the presence of people who are
richer than yourselves, never express an opinion of your own.

Live peaceably with all mankind, if you can; but, as you cannot, endeavor,
as the next best thing, to settle all disputes as speedily as possible, by
coming, without loss of time, to blows; provided always that the debate
promises to be terminated, by reason of your superior strength, in your
own favour, and that you are not likely to be taken up for knocking
another person down. It is very true that I, individually, _never_ shun
this kind of discussion, whatever may be the strength and pretensions of
my opponent; but then, I enjoy a consciousness of superiority over the
whole world, which you, perhaps, may not feel, and which might, in some
cases, mislead you. I think, however, that a supreme contempt for all but
yourselves is a very proper sentiment to entertain; and, from what I
observe of the conduct of certain teachers, I imagine that this is what is
meant by the word humility. You must, nevertheless, be careful how you
display it; do so only when you see a probability of overawing and
frightening those around you, so as to make them contributors to the great
aim of your existence--self-gratification.

Be firm, but not obstinate. Never change your mind when the result of the
alteration would be detrimental to your comfort and interest; but do not
maintain an inconvenient inflexibility of purpose. Do not, for instance,
in affairs of the heart, simply because you have declared, perhaps with an
oath or two, that you will be constant till death, think it necessary to
make any effort to remain so. The case stands thus: you enter into an
agreement with a being whose aggregate of perfections is expressible, we
will say, by 20. Now, if they would always keep at that point, there might
be some reason for your remaining unaltered, namely, your not being able
to help it. But suppose that they dwindle down to 19-1/2, the person, that
is, the whole sum of the qualities admired, no longer exists, and you, of
course, are absolved from your engagement. But mind, I do not say that you
are justified in changing _only_ in case of a change on the opposite side:
you may very possibly become simply tired. In this case, your prior
promise to yourself will absolve you from the performance of the one in
question.

And now, my good friends, before we part, let me beg of you not to allow
yourselves to be diverted from the right path by a parcel of cant. You
will hear my system stigmatised as selfish; and I advise you, whenever you
have occasion to speak of it in general society, to call it so too. You
will thus obtain a character for generosity; a very desirable thing to
have, if you can get it cheap. Selfish, indeed! is not self the axis of
the earth out of which you were taken? The fact is, good people, that just
as notions the very opposite of truth have prevailed in matters of
science, so have they, likewise, in those of morals. A set of
impracticable doctrines, under the name of virtue, have been preached up
by your teachers; and it is only fortunate that they have been practised
by so few; those few having been, almost to a man, poisoned, strangled,
burnt, or worse treated, for their pains.

But here comes the police, to interfere, as usual, with the dissemination
of useful truths. Farewell, my good people; and whenever you are disposed
for additional instruction, I can only say that I shall be very happy to
afford it to you for a reasonable consideration.

       *       *       *       *       *


A BOWER OF BLISS IN STANGATE.

    Oh, fly to the Bower--fly with me.--OLD OR NEW SONG (_I forget which_).

If you take a walk over Waterloo-bridge, and, after going straight on for
some distance, turn to the right, you will find yourself in the New-Cut,
where you may purchase everything, from a secretaire-bookcase to a
saveloy, on the most moderate terms possible. The tradesmen of the New-Cut
are a peculiar class, and the butchers, in particular, seem to be brimming
over with the milk of human kindness, for every female customer is
addressed as "My love," while every male passer-by is saluted with the
friendly greeting of "Now, old chap, what can I do for you?" The
greengrocers in this "happy land" earnestly invite the ladies to "pull
away" at the mountains of cabbages which their sheds display, while little
boys on the pavement offer what they playfully designate "a plummy
ha'p'orth," of onions to the casual passenger.

At the end of the New-Cut stands the Marsh-gate, which, at night, is all
gas and ghastliness, dirt and dazzle, blackguardism and brilliancy. The
illumination of the adjacent gin-palace throws a glare on the haggard
faces of those who are sauntering outside. Having arrived thus far, watch
your opportunity, by dodging the cabs and threading the maze of omnibuses,
to effect a crossing, when you will find Stangate-street, _running out_,
as some people say, of the Westminster-road; though of the fact that a
street ever ran out of a road, we take leave to be sceptical.

Well, go on down this Stangate-street, and when you get to the bottom, you
will find, on the left-hand, THE BOWER! And a pretty bower it is, not of
leaves and flowers, but of bricks and mortar. It is not

  "A bower of roses by Bendermere's stream,
    With the nightingale singing there all the day long;
  In the days of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream,
    To sit 'mid the roses and hear the birds' song.
  That bower, and its music, I never forget:
    But oft, when alone, at the close of the year,
  I think is the nightingale singing there yet,
    Are the roses still fresh by the calm Bendermere?"

No, there is none of this sentimental twaddle about the Bower to which we
are alluding. There are no roses, and no nightingale; but there are lots
of smoking, and plenty of vocalists. We will paraphrase Moore, since we
can hardly do less, and we may say, with truth,

  "There's a Bower in Stangate's respectable street,
    There's a company acting there all the night long;
  In the days of my childhood, egad--what a treat!
    To listen attentive to some thundering song.
  That Bower and its concert I never forget;
    But oft when of halfpence my pockets are clear,
  I think, are the audience sitting there yet,
    Still smoking their pipes, and imbibing their beer?"

Upon entering the door, you are called on to pay your money, which is
threepence for the saloon and sixpence for the boxes. The saloon is a
large space fitted up something like a chapel, or rather a court of
justice; there being in front of each seat a species of desk or ledge,
which, in the places last named would hold prayer-books or papers, but at
the Bower are designed for tumblers and pewter-pots. The audience, like
the spirits they imbibe, are very much mixed; the greater portion
consisting of respectable mechanics, while here and there may be seen an
individual, who, from his seedy coat, well-brushed four-and-nine hat,
highly polished but palpably patched highlows, outrageously shaved face
and absence of shirt collar, is decidedly an amateur, who now and then
plays a part, and as he is never mistaken for an actor on the stage, tries
when off to look as much like one as possible.

The boxes are nothing but a gallery, and are generally visited by a
certain class of ladies who resemble angels, at least, in one particular,
for they are "few and far between."

But what are the entertainments? A miscellaneous concert, in which the
first tenor, habited in a _surtout_, with the tails pinned back, to look
like a dress-coat, apostrophises his "pretty Jane," and begs particularly
to know her reason for looking so _sheyi_--_vulgo_, shy. Then there is
the bass, who disdains any attempt at a body-coat, but honestly comes
forward in a decided bearskin, and, while going down to G, protests
emphatically that "He's on the C (sea)." Then there is the _prima donna_,
in a pink gauze petticoat, over a yellow calico slip, with lots of jewels
(sham), an immense colour in the very middle of the cheek, but terribly
chalked just about the mouth, and shouting the "Soldier tired," with a
most insinuating simper at the corporal of the Foot-guards in front, who
returns the compliment by a most outrageous leer between each whiff of his
tobacco-pipe.

Then comes an _Overture by the band_, which is a little commonwealth, in
which none aspires to lead, none condescends to follow. At it they go
indiscriminately, and those who get first to the end of the composition,
strike in at the point where the others happen to have arrived; so that,
if they proceed at sixes and sevens, they generally contrive to end in
unison.

Occasionally we are treated with Musard's _Echo quadrilles_, when the
solos are all done by the octave flute, so are all the echoes, and so is
everything but the _cada_.

But the grand performance of the night is the dramatic piece, which is
generally a three-act opera, embracing the whole debility of the company.
There is the villain, who always looks so wretched as to impress on the
mind that, if honesty is not the best policy, rascality is certainly the
worst. Then there is the lover, whose woe-begone countenance and unhappy
gait, render it really surprising that the heroine, in dirty white
sarsnet, should have displayed so much constancy. The low comedy is
generally done by a gentleman who, while fully impressed with the
importance of the "low," seems wholly to overlook the "comedy;" and there
is now and then a banished nobleman, who appears to have entirely
forgotten everything in the shape of nobility during his banishment. There
is not unfrequently a display of one of the proprietor's children in a
part requiring "infant innocence;" and as our ideas of that angelic state
are associated principally with pudding heads and dirty faces, the
performance is generally got through with a nastiness approaching to
nicety. But it is time to make our escape from the _Bower_, and we
therefore leave them to get through the "Chough and Crow"--which is often
the wind-up, because it admits of a good deal of growling--in our
absence. We cannot be tempted to remain even to witness the pleasing
performances of the "Sons of Syria," nor the "Aunts of Abyssinia." We will
not wait to see Mr. Macdonald sing "Hot codlings" on his head, though the
bills inform us he has been honoured by a command to go through that
interesting process from "_nearly all the crowned heads in Europe_."

       *       *       *       *       *





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, September 18, 1841" ***

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