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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, September 25, 1841
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, September 25, 1841" ***

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.



FOR THE WEEK ENDING SEPTEMBER 25, 1841.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE.

CHAPTER V.

SHOWS THAT "THERE'S MANY A SLIP" BETWEEN OTHER THINGS BESIDE "THE CUP AND
THE LIP."

[Illustration: T]The heir of Applebite continued to squall and thrive, to
the infinite delight of his youthful mamma, who was determined that the
joyful occasion of his cutting his first tooth should be duly celebrated
by an evening party of great splendour; and accordingly cards were issued
to the following effect:--

          MR. AND MRS. APPLEBITE
          REQUEST THE HONOUR OF
              ----  ----'s
        COMPANY TO AN EVENING PARTY,
        On Thursday, the 12th inst.
    _Quadrilles_.     _An Answer will oblige_.

It was the first home-made party that Collumpsion had ever given; for
though during his bachelorhood he had been no niggard of his hospitality,
yet the confectioner had supplied the edibles, and the upholsterer
arranged the decorations; but now Mrs. Applebite, with a laudable spirit
of economy, converted No. 24, Pleasant-terrace, into a perfect _cuisine_
for a week preceding the eventful evening; and old John was kept in a
constant state of excitement by Mrs. Waddledot, who superintended the
ornamental department of these elaborate preparations.

Agamemnon felt that he was a cipher in the house, for no one condescended
to notice him for three whole days, and it was with extreme difficulty
that he could procure the means of "recruiting exhausted nature" at those
particular hours which had hitherto been devoted to the necessary
operation.

On the morning of the 12th, Agamemnon was anxiously engaged in
endeavouring to acquire a knowledge of the last alterations in the figure
of _La Pastorale_, when he fancied he heard an unusual commotion in the
lower apartments of his establishment. In a few moments his name was
vociferously pronounced by Mrs. Applebite, and the affrighted Collumpsion
rushed down stairs, expecting to find himself another Thyestes, whose
children, it is recorded, were made into a pie for his own consumption.

On entering the kitchen he perceived the cause of the uproar, although he
could see nothing else, for the dense suffocating vapour with which the
room was filled.

"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Applebite, "the chimney's on fire; one pound of fresh
butter--"

"And two pound o'lard's done it!" exclaimed Susan.

"What's to be done?" inquired Collumpsion.

"Send for my brother, sir," said Betty.

"Where does he live?" cried old John.

"On No. 746," replied Betty.

"Where's that?" cried the whole assembled party.

"I don't know, but it's a hackney-coach as he drives," said Betty.

A general chorus of "Pshaw!" greeted this very unsatisfactory rejoinder.
Another rush of smoke into the kitchen rendered some more active measures
necessary, and, after a short discussion, it was decided that John and
Betty should proceed to the roof of the house with two pailsful of water,
whilst Agamemnon remained below to watch the effects of the measure. When
John and Betty arrived at the chimney-pots, the pother was so confusing,
that they were undecided which was the rebellious flue! but, in order to
render assurance doubly sure, they each selected the one they conceived to
be the delinquent, and discharged the contents of their buckets
accordingly, without any apparent diminution of the intestine war which
was raging in the chimney. A fresh supply from a cistern on the roof,
similarly applied, produced no better effects, and Agamemnon, in an agony
of doubt, rushed up-stairs to ascertain the cause of non-abatement.
Accidentally popping his head into the drawing-room, what was his horror
at beholding the beautiful Brussels carpet, so lately "redolent of
brilliant hues," one sheet of inky liquid, into which Mrs. Waddledot (who
had followed him) instantly swooned. Agamemnon, in his alarm, never
thought of his wife's mother, but had rushed half-way up the next flight
of stairs, when a violent knocking arrested his ascent, and, with the fear
of the whole fire-brigade before his eyes, he re-rushed to open the door,
the knocker of which kept up an incessant clamour both in and out of the
house. The first person that met his view was a footman, 25, dyed with the
same sooty evidence of John and Betty's exertions, as he had encountered
on entering his own drawing-room. The dreadful fact flashed upon
Collumpsion's mind, and long before the winded and saturated servant could
detail the horrors he had witnessed in "his missuses best bed-room, in No.
25," the bewildered proprietor of No. 24 was franticly shaking his
innocently offending menials on the leads of his own establishment. Then
came a confused noise of little voices in the street, shouting and
hurraing in the fulness of that delight which we regret to say is too
frequently felt by the world at large at the misfortunes of one in
particular. Then came the sullen rumble of the parish engine, followed by
violent assaults on the bell and knocker, then another huzza! welcoming
the extraction of the fire-plug, and the sparkling fountain of "New
River," which followed as a providential consequence. Collumpsion again
descended, as John had at last discovered the right chimney, and having
inundated the stewpans and the kitchen, had succeeded in extinguishing the
sooty cause of all these disasters. The mob had, by this time, increased
to an alarming extent. Policemen were busily employed in making a ring for
the exhibition of the water-works--little boys were pushing each other
into the flowing gutters--small girls, with astonished infants in their
arms, were struggling for front places against the opposite railings; and
every window, from the drawing-rooms to the attics, in Pleasant-terrace
were studded with heads, in someway resembling the doll heads in a
gingerbread lottery, with which a man on a wooden leg was tempting the
monied portion of the juvenile alarmists. Agamemnon opened the door, and
being flanked by the whole of his household, proceeded to address the
populace on the present satisfactory state of his kitchen chimney. The
announcement was received by expressions of extreme disgust, as though
every auditor considered that a fire ought to have taken place, and that
they had been defrauded of their time and excitement, and that the
extinguishing of the same by any other means than by legitimate engines
was a gross imposition. He was about remonstrating with them on the
extreme inconvenience which would have attended a compliance with their
reasonable and humane objections, when his eloquence was suddenly cut
short by a _jet d'eau_ which a ragged urchin directed over him, by
scientifically placing his foot over the spouting plug-hole. This clever
manoeuvre in some way pacified the crowd, and after awaiting the
re-appearance of the parish engineer, who had insisted on a personal
inspection of the premises, they gave another shout of derision and
departed.

Thus commenced the festivities to celebrate the advent of the first tooth
of the Heir of Applebite.

       *       *       *       *       *


GRAVESEND.

(_From our own Correspondent_.)

This delightful watering-place is filled with beauty and fashion, there
being lots of large curls and small bonnets in every portion of the town
and neighbourhood.

We understand it is in contemplation to convert the mud on the banks of
the river into sand, in order that the idea of the sea-side may be
realised as far as possible. Two donkey cart-loads have already been laid
down by way of experiment, and the spot on which they were thrown was
literally thronged with pedestrians. The only difficulty likely to arise
is, that the tide washes the sand away, and leaves the mud just as usual.

The return of the imports and exports shows an immense increase in the
prosperity of this, if not salubrious sea-port, at least healthy
watercourse. It seems that the importation of Margate slippers this year,
as compared with that of the last, has been as two-and-three-quarters to
one-and-a-half, or rather more than double, while the consumption of
donkeys has been most gratifying, and proves beyond doubt that the
pedestrians and equestrians are not so numerous by any means as the
asinestrians. The first round of a new ladder for ascending the balconies
of the bathing-rooms was laid on Wednesday, amidst an inconvenient
concourse of visitors. With the exception of a rap on the toes received by
those who pressed so much on the carpenter employed as to retard the
progress of his work, all passed off quietly. After the ceremony, the man
was regaled by the proprietor of the rooms with some beer, at the tap of
the neighbouring hotel for families and gentlemen.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration]

PUNCH'S ESSENCE OF GUFFAW.

SCRUPULOUSLY PREPARED FROM THE RECIPE OF THE LATE

MR. JOSEPH MILLER,

AND PATRONISED BY

THE ROYAL FAMILY,

THE TWELVE JUDGES, THE LORD CHANCELLOR, THE SWELL MOB, MR. HOBLER, AND THE
COURT OF ALDERMEN;

ALSO BY THE

COMMISSIONERS OF POLICE, THE SEXTON OF ST. MARYLEBONE, THE PHOENIX LIFE
ASSURANCE COMPANY, THE KING OF THE SANDWICH ISLANDS,

AND THE

LONDON MISSIONARY SOCIETY.

This inestimable composition, which cures all disorders, and keeps in all
climates, may be had of every respectable bookseller on the face of the
globe. Price 3d.


TESTIMONIALS.

TO MR. PUNCH.

SIR,--Having incautiously witnessed two consecutive performances of Mr.
Macready in the "Lady of Lyons," the comic portions of them threw me into
a state of deep and chronic melancholy, which the various physicians
employed were unable to cure. Hearing, however, of your excellent
medicine, I took it regularly every Saturday for five weeks, and am now
able to go about my daily employment, which being that of a low comedian,
was materially interfered with by my late complaint.

I remain, with gratitude, yours truly,

JOHN SAUNDERS.

_New Strand Theatre_.

       *       *       *       *       *

SIR,--I was, till lately, private secretary to Lord John Russell. I had to
copy his somniferous dispatches, to endure a rehearsal of his prosy
speeches, to get up, at an immense labour to myself, incessant laughs at
his jokes. At length, by the enormous exertions the last duty imposed upon
me, I sunk into a hopeless state of cachinnatory impotence: my risible
muscles refused to perform their office, and I lost mine. I was
discharged. Fortunately, however, for me, I happened to meet with your
infallible "Pills to Purge Melancholy," and tried Nos. 1 to 10 inclusive
of them.

With feelings overflowing with gratitude, I now inform you, that I have
procured another situation with Sir James Graham; and to show you how
completely my roaring powers have returned, I have only to state, that it
was I who got up the screeching applause with which Sir James's recent
jokes about the Wilde and Tame serjeants were greeted.

I am, Sir, yours,

GEORGE STEPHEN,

Late "over"-Secretary, and Author of the "Canadian Rebellion."

       *       *       *       *       *

SIR,--Being the proprietor of several weekly newspapers, which I have
conducted for many years, my jocular powers gradually declined, from hard
usage and incessant labour, till I was reduced to a state of despair; for
my papers ceasing to sell, I experienced a complete stoppage of
circulation.

In this terrible state I had the happiness to meet with your "Essence of
Guffaw," and tried its effect upon my readers, by inserting several doses
of your Attic salt in my "New Weekly Messenger," "Planet," &c. &c. The
effects were wonderful. Their amount of sale increased at every joke, and
has now completely recovered.

I am, Sir,

JOHN BELL.

_Craven-street, Strand_.

_Note._--This testimonial is gratifying, as the gentleman has hitherto
failed to acknowledge the source of the wonderful cure we have effected in
his property.

       *       *       *       *       *

SIR,--As the author of the facetious political essays in the "Morning
Herald," it is but due to you that I should candidly state the reason why
my articles have, of late, so visibly improved.

In truth, sir, I am wholly indebted to you. Feeling a gradual debility
come over my facetiæ, I tried several potions of the "New Monthly" and
"Bentley's Miscellany," without experiencing the smallest relief. "PUNCH"
and his "Essence of Guffaw" were, however, most strongly recommended to me
by my friend the editor of "Cruikshank's Omnibus," who had wonderfully
revived after taking repeated doses. I followed his example, and am now
completely re-established in fine, jocular health.

I am, Sir,

THE "_OWN_ CORRESPONDENT."

_Shoe-lane_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Inestimable SIR,--A thousand blessings light upon your head! You have
snatched a too fond heart from a too early grave. My life-preserver, my
PUNCH! receive the grateful benedictions of a resuscitated soul, of a
saved Seraphina Simpkins!

Samuel, dearest PUNCH, was false! He took Jemima to the Pavilion; I
detected his perfidy, and determined to end my sorrows under the fourth
arch of Waterloo-bridge.

In my way to the fatal spot I passed--no, I could _not_ pass--your office.
By chance directed, or by fate constrained, I stopped to read a placard of
your infallible specific. I bought one dose--it was enough. I have now
forgotten Samuel, and am happy in the affection of another.

Publish this, if you please; it may be of service to young persons who are
crossed in love, and in want of straw-bonnets at 3s. 6d. each, best
Dunstable.

I am, yours,

SERAPHINA SIMPKINS,

Architect of Tuscan, straw, and other bonnets, Lant-street, Borough.

       *       *       *       *       *

CAUTION.--None are genuine unless duly stamped--with good humour, good
taste, and good jokes. Observe: "PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, price
Threepence," is on the cover. Several spurious imitations are abroad, at a
reduced price, the effects of which are dreadful upon the system.

       *       *       *       *       *


W(H)AT TYLER.

The following pictorial joke has been sent to us by Count D'Orsay, which
he denominates

[Illustration: TILING A FLAT.]

All our attempts to discover the wit of this _tableau d'esprit_ have been
quite fu-_tile_. Perhaps our readers will be more successful.

       *       *       *       *       *


A MESMERIC ADVERTISEMENT.

Wanted, by Mons. Lafontaine, a few fine able-bodied young men, who can
suffer the running of pins into their legs without flinching, and who can
stare out an ignited lucifer without winking. A few respectable-looking
men, to get up in the room and make speeches on the subject of the
mesmeric science, will also be treated with. Quakers' hats and coats are
kept on the premises. Any little boy who has been accustomed at school to
bear the cane without wincing will be liberally treated with.

       *       *       *       *       *


AN ALARMING STRIKE.

HORACE TWISS, on being told that the workmen employed at the New Houses of
Parliament struck last week, to the number of 468, declared that he would
follow their example unless Bob raised his wages.

       *       *       *       *       *


SIR RHUBARB PILL, M.P. & M.D.

    "Now the Poor Law is the only remedy for all the distresses
    referred to contained in the whole of the Baronet's
    speech."--_Morning Chronicle_, Sept. 21.

    Oh! dear Doctor,
      Great bill
      And pill
    Concoctor,
  Most worthy follower in the steps
    Of Dr. Epps,
  And eke that cannie man
    Old Dr. Hanneman--
  Two individuals of consummate gumption,
    Who declare,
    That whensoe'er
  The patient's labouring under a consumption,
  To save him from a trip across the Styx,
    To ancient Nick's
    In Charon's shallop,
  If the consumption be upon the canter,
  It should be put upon the gallop
    Instanter;
  For, "_similia similibus curantur_,"
    Great medicinal cod
    (Beating the mode
  Of old Hippocrates, whom M.D.'s mostly follow,
    Quite hollow);
  Which would make
    A patient take
  No end of verjuice for the belly-ache;
  And find, beyond a question,
    A power of good in
    A lump of cold plum-pudding
  For a case of indigestion.
    And just as sage,
    In this wise age,
  'Faith, Dr. Peel, is _your_ law;
    Which, as a remedy
    For poverty,
  Would recommend the Poor Law.

       *       *       *       *       *


MATINEE MESMERIQUE

_Or, Procédé Humbugaresque._

There is at present in London a gentleman with an enormous beard, who
professes the science of animal magnetism, and undertakes to deprive of
sense those who come under his hand; but as those who flock to his
exhibition have generally left all the sense they possess at home, he
finds it difficult to accomplish his purposes. If it is animal magnetism
to send another to sleep, what a series of _Soirées Mesmériques_ must take
place in the House of Commons during the sitting of Parliament! There is
no doubt that Sir Robert Peel is the Lafontaine of political
mesmerism--_the fountain_ of quackery--and every pass he makes with his
hand over poor John Bull serves to bring him into that state of
stupefaction in which he may be most easily victimised. While Lafontaine
thrusts pins into his patient, the Premier sends poor John into a swoon,
for the purpose of, as it is vulgarly termed, _sticking it into him_; and
as the French quack holds lucifers to the nostril, Peel plays the devil
under the very nose of the paralysed sufferer. One resorts to _electrics_,
the other to _election tricks_, but each has the same object in view--to
bring the subject of the operation into a state of unconsciousness. If the
Premier would give a _Matinée Politique_, it would prove a formidable
rival to the _Soirée Mesmérique_ of the gentleman in the beard, who seems
impressed with the now popular idea, that genius and a clean chin are
wholly incompatible.

       *       *       *       *       *


(H)ALL IS LOST NOW!

'Sir B. HALL is still Sir B. Hall. Where is the peerage--the "B-all and
end-all" of his patriotism? Really the Whigs ought to have given the poor
dog a bone, considering with what perseverance he has always been

[Illustration: STANDING FOR MARROWBONE (MARYLEBONE).]

       *       *       *       *       *


When a person holds an argument with his neighbour on the opposite aide of
the street, why is there no chance of their agreeing?--Because they argue
from different _premises_.

       *       *       *       *       *


NOVEL SUBSCRIPTIONS.

Looking into an Australian paper the other day, we cast our eye over a
list of subscriptions for the "St. Patrick's Orphan School, Windsor;"
which, after enumerating several sums, varying from 10l. to _five_
shillings, ended with the following singular contributions:--

    MR. BURKE--A supply of potatoes.
    A FRIEND--Five pounds of beef, and a coat.
    A FRIEND IN NEED--A shoulder of mutton.
    A POOR WOMAN--A large damper.
    AN EMIGRANT--Ten quarts of milk.
    AN EMIGRANT--A frying-pan.

At first we were disposed to be amused with the heterogeneous nature of
the contributions, but, on reflection, we felt disposed to applaud a plan
which enabled every one to bestow a portion of any article of which he
possesses a superabundance. If, for instance, a similar subscription were
began here, we might expect to find the following contributions:--

    SIR ROBERT PEEL--A large stock of political consistency.
    LORD LONDONDERRY--An ounce of wit.
    LORD NORMANBY--A complete copy of "Yes and No."
    COLONEL SIBTHORP--A calf's-head, garnished.
    THE BISHOP OF EXETER--His pastoral blessing.
    LORD MELBOURNE AND LORD JOHN RUSSELL--A pair of cast-off slippers.
    MR. WAKELY--A dish of Tory flummery.
    DAN O'CONNELL--A prime lot of

[Illustration: REAL IRISH BUTTER.]

       *       *       *       *       *


SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.--NO. 7.

  Fair Daphne has tresses as bright as the hue
    That illumines the west when a summer-day closes;
  Her eyes seem like violets laden with dew,
    Her lips will compare with the sweetest of roses.
  By Daphne's decree I am doom'd to despair,
    Though ofttimes I've pray'd the fair maid to revoke it.
  "No--Colin I love"--(thus will Daphne declare)
    "Put that in your pipe, if you will, sir, and smoke it."

  Once I thought that she loved me (O! fatal deceit),
    For she wore at the dance the gay wreath I had twined her;
  She smiled when I swore that I envied each sweet,
    And vow'd that in love's rosy chains I would bind her.
  I press'd her soft hand, and a blush dyed her cheek;
    "Oh! there's love," I exclaim'd, "in that eye's liquid glancing."
  She spoke, and I think I can _still_ hear her speak--
    "You know about love what a pig knows of dancing!"

       *       *       *       *       *


JOE HUM(E)ANITY.

The "late of" Middlesex, during his visit to Switzerland, happened to be
charged, at a cottage half-way up the Jura, three farthings for seven
eggs. Astonished and disgusted at the demand, he vehemently declared that
things were come to a pretty

[Illustration: PASS IN THE MOUNTAINS]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE MINISTERIAL TOP.

We understand Sir James Graham has lately been labouring under severe and
continued fits of vertigo, produced, as his medical attendants state, by
his extraordinary propensity for _turning round_.

       *       *       *       *       *


BERNARD CAVANAGH

AND THE POOR LAW COMMISSIONERS.

It is not generally known that the above gentleman has been officially
engaged by the eminent and philanthropic pauper-patrons, to put his
principles into practice throughout the whole of the Unions in the United
Kingdom.

Knowing the extraordinary appetite of the vulgar for anything approaching
the unintelligible and marvellous, we feel sorry to be obliged, by a brief
detail of this gentleman's early life and habits, to divest the present
phenomenon of much of its apparent wonder and romance.

Mr. Cavanagh was in infancy rather remarkable for the many sleepless
nights he occasioned his worthy parents by his juvenile intimations that
fasting at that time was no part of his system. He progressed rapidly in
his powers of consumption, and was indeed a child of

[Illustration: A FULL HABIT;]

or, as his nurse expressed it, he was _alwaist_ good for three rounds at
breakfast, not at all to be sneezed at luncheon, anything but bad at
dinner, hearty at tea (another three-rounder), and very consistent at
supper.

"Reverse of fortune changes friends"--reverse of circumstances, alas! too
often changes feeds!--pecuniary disappointments brought on a reduction of
circumstances--reduction of circumstances occasioned a reduction of meals,
and the necessity for such reduction being very apparent to a philosophic
mind, engendered a reduction of craving for the same. Perhaps nothing
could have proved more generally beneficial than the individual
misfortunes of Mr. Bernard Cavanagh, which transferred him to one of those
Elysiums of brick and mortar, the "Poor Law Union." Here, as he himself
expresses it, the fearful fallacies of his past system were made
beautifully apparent; he felt as if existence could be maintained by the
infinitesimal process, so benevolently advocated and regularly prepared,
that one step more was all that was necessary to arrive at dietary
perfectibility. That step he took, it being simply, instead of next to
nothing, to live on nothing at all; and now, such was his opinion of the
condiments supplied, he declares it to be by far the pleasantest of the
two.

It has been reported that Mr. Bernard Cavanagh's powers of abstinence have
their latent origin in enthusiasm. This he confesses to be the case, his
great admiration for fasting having arisen from the circumstance of his
frequently seeing the process of manufacturing the pauper gruel, which
sight filled him with most intense yearnings to hit upon some plan by
which, as far as he was concerned, he might for ever avoid any
participation in its consumption.

That immense cigar, the mild Cavanagh! favours us with the following
practical account of his system; by which he intends, through the means of
enthusiasm, to render breakfasts a superfluity--luncheons,
inutilities--dinners, dreadful extravagancies--teas, iniquitous
wastes--and suppers, supper-erogatories.

Mr. B.C. proposes the instant dismissal, without wages or warning, of all
the cooks, and substitution of the like number of Ciceros; thereby
affording a more ample mental diet, as the followers will be served out
with orations instead of rations. For the proper excitement of the
necessary enthusiasm, he submits the following Mental Bill of Fare:--

    FOR STRONG STOMACHS AND WEAK INTELLECTS:--

    Feargus O'Connor, as per Crown and Anchor.
    Mr. Vincent.
    Mr. Roebuck, with ancestral sauce--very fine, if not pitched too
        strong.
    N.B.--In case of surfeit from the above, the editor of the
        _Times_ may be resorted to as an antidote.
    Daniel O'Connell--whose successful practice of the exciting and
        fasting, or rather, starving system, among the rent
        contributors in Ireland, not only proves the truth of the
        theory, but enables B.C. to recommend him as the safest dish in
        the _carte_.

    FOR WEAK STOMACHS AND VERY SMALL IMAGINATIONS:--

    D'Israeli (Ben)--breakfast off the "Wondrous Tale of Alroy."
    Bulwer--lunch on "Siamese Twins."
    Stephens--dine off "The Hungarian Daughter."
    Heraud--tea off "The Deluge,"--sup off the whole Minerva Library.
    N.B.--None of the above, will bear the slightest dilution.

    FOR DELICATE DIGESTIONS, AND LIMITED UNDERSTANDINGS, PERUSALS OF

    "World of Fashion."
    Lord John Russell's "Don Carlos."
    Montgomery's "Satan" (very good as a devil).
    "Journal of Civilization."
    Any of F. Chorley's writings, Robins' advertisements, or poetry
        relating to Warren's Jet Blacking.

    FOR MENTAL BOLTERS

    Ainsworth's "Jack Sheppard."
    Harmer's "Weekly Dispatch."
    "Newgate Calendar."
    "Terrific Register," "Frankenstein," &c. &c. &c.

The above forms a brief abstract of Mr. B.C.'s plan, furnished and
approved by the Poor Law Commissioners. We are credibly informed that the
same enlightened gentleman is at present making arrangements with Sir
Robert Peel for the total repeal of the use of bread by all operatives,
and thereby tranquillising the present state of excitement upon the
corn-law question; proving bread, once erroneously considered the staff of
life, to be nothing more than a mere ornamental opera cane.

       *       *       *       *       *


SYNCRETIC LITERATURE.

_Concluding remarks on an Epic Poem of Giles Scroggins and Molly Brown._

The circumstance which rendered Giles Scroggins peculiarly ineligible as a
bridegroom eminently qualified him as a tenant for one of those
receptacles in which defunct mortals progress to "that bourne from whence
no traveller returns." Fancy the bereaved Molly, or, as she is in grief,
and grief is tragical, Mary Brown, denuded of her scarf and black gloves,
turning faintly from the untouched cake and tasteless wine, and retiring
to the virtuous couch, whereon, with aching heart, the poet asserts she,
the said

  "Poor Molly, laid her down to weep;"

and then contemplate her the victim of somnolent consequences, when--

  "She cried herself quite fast asleep,"

Here an ordinary mind might have left the maiden and reverted "to her
streaming eyes," inflamed lids, dishevelled locks, and bursting sigh, as
satisfactory evidences of the truth of her broken-heartedness, but the
"great anonymous" of whom we treat, scorns the application of such
external circumstances as agents whereby to depict the intenseness of the
passion of the ten thousand condensed turtle-doves glowing in the bosom of
_his_ heroine. Sleep falls upon her eyes; but the "life of death," the
subtle essence of the shrouded soul, the watchful sentinel and viewless
evidence of immortality, the wild and flitting air-wrought impalpabilities
of her fitful dreams, still haunt her in her seeming hours of rest. Fancy
her feelings--

  "When, standing fast by her bed-post,
  A figure tall her sight engross'd,"

and it cried--

  "'I be's Giles Scroggins' ghost.'"

Such is the frightful announcement commemorative of this visitation from
the wandering spirit of the erratic Giles. Death has indeed parted them.
Giles is cold, but still his love is warm! He loved and won her in
life--he hints at a right of possession in death; and this very
forgetfulness of what he _was_, and what he _is_, is the best essence of
the overwhelming intensity of his passion. He continues (with a beautiful
reliance on the faith and _living_ constancy of Molly, in reciprocation,
though dead, of his deathless attachment) to offer her a share, not of his
bed and board, but of his shell and shroud. There is somewhat of the
imperative in the invitation, which runs thus:--

  "The ghost it said so solemnly,
  'Oh, Molly, you _must_ go with me,
  All to the grave, your love to cool.'"

We have no doubt this assumption of command on the part of the ghost--an
assumption, be it remembered, never ventured upon by the living
Giles--gave rise to some unpleasant reflections in the mind of the
slumbering Molly. _Must_ is certainly an awkward word. Tell any lady that
she _must_ do this, or _must_ do that, and, however much her wishes may
have previously prompted the proceeding, we feel perfectly satisfied, that
on the very shortest notice she will find an absolute and undeniable
reason why such a proceeding is diametrically opposed to the line of
conduct she _will_, and therefore ought to, adopt.

With an intuitive knowledge of human nature, the great poet purposely uses
the above objectionable word. How could he do otherwise, or how more
effectually, and less offensively, extricate Molly Brown from the
unpleasant tenantry of the proposed under-ground floor? Command invariably
begets opposition, opposition as certainly leads to argument. So proves
our heroine, who, with a beautiful evasiveness, delivers the following
expostulation:--

  "Says she, 'I am not dead, you fool!'"

One would think _that_ was a pretty decent clincher, by way of a reason
for declining the proposed trip to Giles Scroggins' little property at his
own peculiar "Gravesend;" but as contradiction begets controversy, and the
enlightened poet is fully aware of the effect of that cause, the undaunted
sprite of the interred Giles instantly opposes this, to him, flimsy
excuse, and upon the peculiar veracity of a wandering ghost, triumphantly
exclaims, in the poet's words--words that, lest any mistake should arise
as to the speaker by the peculiar construction of the sentence, are
rendered _doubly_ individual, for--

  "_Says_ the _ghost_, says _he_, vy that's no rule!"

There's a staggerer! being alive no rule for _not_ being buried! how _is_
Molly Brown to get out of that high-pressure cleft-stick? how! that's the
question! Why not in a state of somnolency, not during the "death of each
day's life; no, it is clear, to escape such a consummation she must be
wide awake." The poet sees this, and with the energy of a master-mind, he
brings the invisible chimera of her entranced imagination into effective
operation. Argument with a man who denies first premises, and we submit
the assertion that vitality is no exception to the treatment of the dead,
amounts to that. We say, argument with such a man is worse than nothing;
it would be fallacious as the Eolian experiment of whistling the most
inspiriting jigs to an inanimate, and consequently unmusical, milestone,
opposing a transatlantic thunder-storm with "a more paper than powder"
"penny cracker," or setting an owl to outstare the meridian sun.

The poet knew and felt this, and therefore he ends the delusion and
controversy by an overt act:--

  "The ghost then seized her all so grim,
  All for to go along with him;
  'Come, come,' said he, 'e'er morning beam.'"

To which she replies with the following determined announcement:--

  "'I von't!' said she, and scream'd a scream,
  Then she voke, and found she'd dream'd a dream!"

These are the last words we have left to descant upon: they are such as
should be the last; and, like _Joseph Surface_, "moral to the end." The
glowing passions the fervent hopes, the anticipated future, of the loving
pair, all, all are frustrated! The great lesson of life imbues the
elaborate production; the thinking reader, led by its sublimity to a train
of deep reflection, sees at once the uncertainty of earthly projects, and
sighing owns the wholesome, though still painful truth, that the brightest
sun is ever the first cause of the darkest shadow; and from childhood
upwards, the blissful visions of our gayest fancy--forced by the cry of
stern reality--call back the mental wanderer from imaginary bliss, to be
again the worldly drudge; and, thus awakened to his real state, confess,
like our sad heroine, Molly Brown, he too, has _dreamt a dream_.

FUSBOS.

       *       *       *       *       *


FATHER O'FLYNN AND HIS CONGREGATION.


Father Francis O'Flynn, or, as he was generally called by his
parishioners, "Father Frank," was the choicest specimen you could desire
of a jolly, quiet-going, ease-loving, Irish country priest of the old
school.  His parish lay near a small town in the eastern part of the
county Cork, and for forty-five years he lived amongst his flock,
performing all the duties of his office, and taking his dues (when he got
them) with never-tiring good-humour. But age, that spares not priest nor
layman, had stolen upon Father Frank, and he gradually relinquished to his
younger curates the task of preaching, till at length his sermons dwindled
down to two in the year--one at Christmas, and the other at Easter, at
which times his clerical dues were about coming in. It was on one of these
memorable occasions that I first chanced to hear Father Frank address his
congregation.  I have him now before my mind's eye, as he then appeared; a
stout, middle-sized man, with ample shoulders, enveloped in a coat of
superfine black, and substantial legs encased in long straight boots,
reaching to the knee. His forehead, and the upper part of his head, were
bald; but the use of hair-powder gave a fine effect to his massive, but
good-humoured features, that glowed with the rich tint of a hale old age.
A bunch of large gold seals, depending from a massive jack-chain of the
same metal, oscillated with becoming dignity from the lower verge of his
waistcoat, over the goodly prominence of his "fair round belly."  Glancing
his half-closed, but piercing eye around his auditory, as if calculating
the contents of every pocket present, he commenced his address as
follows:--"Well, my good people, I suppose ye know that to-morrow will be
the _pattern_[1] of Saint Fineen, and no doubt ye'll all be for going to
the blessed well to say your _padhereens_;[2] but I'll go bail there's few
of you ever heard the rason why the water of that well won't raise a
lather, or wash anything clean, though you were to put all the soap in
Cork into it. Well, pay attintiou, and I'll tell you.--Mrs. Delany, can't
you keep your child quiet while I'm spaking?--It happened a long while
ago, that Saint Fineen, a holy and devout Christian, lived all alone,
convaynient to the well; there he was to be found ever and always praying
and reading his breviary upon a cowld stone that lay beside it. Onluckily
enough, there lived also in the neighbourhood a _callieen dhas_[3] called
Morieen, and this Morieen had a fashion of coming down to the well every
morning, at sunrise, to wash her legs and feet; and, by all accounts, you
couldn't meet a whiter or shapelier pair from this to Bantry. Saint
Fineen, however, was so disthracted in his heavenly meditations, poor man!
that he never once looked at them; but kept his eyes fast on his holy
books, while Morieen was rubbing and lathering away, till the legs used to
look like two beautiful pieces of alabasther in the clear water. Matters
went on this way for some time, Morieen coming regular to the well, till
one fine morning, as she stepped into the water, without minding what she
was about, she struck her foot against a a stone and cut it.

    [1] _Pattern_--a corruption of _Patron_--means, in Ireland, the
        anniversary of the Saint to whom a holy well has been
        consecrated, on which day the peasantry make pilgrimages to the
        well.

    [2] Beads

    [3] Pretty girl

"'Oh! Millia murdher! What'll I do?' cried the _callieen_, in the
pitifulles voice you ever heard.

"'What's the matter?' said Saint Fineen.

"'I've cut my foot agin this misfortinat stone,' says she, making answer.

"Then Saint Fineen lifted up his eyes from his blessed book, and he saw
Morieen's legs and feet.

"'Oh! Morieen!' says he, after looking awhile at them, 'what white legs
you have got!'

"'Have I?' says she, laughing, 'and how do _you_ know that?'

"Immediately the Saint remimbered himself, and being full of remorse and
conthrition for his fault, he laid his commands upon the well, that its
water should never wash anything white again.--and, as I mentioned before,
all the soap in Ireland wouldn't raise a lather on it since. Now that's
the thrue histhory of St. Fineen's blessed well; and I hope and thrust it
will be a saysonable and premonitory lesson to all the young men that
hears me, not to fall into the vaynial sin of admiring the white legs of
the girls."

As soon as his reverence paused, a buzz of admiration ran through the
chapel, accompanied by that peculiar rapid noise made by the lower class
of an Irish Roman Catholic congregation, when their feelings of awe,
astonishment, or piety, are excited by the preacher.[4]

    [4] This sound, which is produced by a quick motion of the tongue
        against the teeth and roof of the mouth, may be expressed thus;
        "tth, tth, tth, tth, tth."

Father Frank having taken breath, and wiped his forehead, resumed his
address.

"I'm going to change my subject now, and I expect attintion. Shawn Barry!
Where's Shawn Barry?"

"Here, your Rivirence," replies a voice from the depth of the crowd.

"Come up here, Shawn, 'till I examine you about your Catechism and
docthrines."

A rough-headed fellow elbowed his way slowly through the congregation, and
moulding his old hat into a thousand grotesque shapes, between his huge
palms, presented himself before his pastor, with very much the air of a
puzzled philosopher.

"Well, Shawn, my boy, do you know what is the meaning of Faith?"

"Parfictly, your Rivirence," replied the fellow, with a knowing grin.
"Faith means when Paddy Hogan gives me credit for half-a-pint of the
best."

"Get out of my sight, you ondaycent vagabond; you're a disgrace to my
flock. Here, you Tom M'Gawley, what's Charity?"

"Bating a process-sarver, your Rivirence," replied Tom, promptly.

"Oh! blessed saints! how I'm persecuted with ye, root and branch. Jim
Houlaghan, I'm looking at you, there, behind Peggy Callanane's cloak; come
up here, you hanging _bone slieveen_[5] and tell me what is the Last Day?"

    [5] A sly rogue.

"I didn't come to that yet, sir," replied Jim, scratching his head.

"I wouldn't fear you, you bosthoon. Well, listen, and I'll tell you. It's
the day when you'll all have to settle your accounts, and I'm thinking
there'll be a heavy score against some of you, if you don't mind what I'm
saying to you. When that day comes, I'll walk up to Heaven and rap at the
hall door. Then St. Pether, who will be takin' a nap after dinner in his
arm-chair, inside, and not liking ta be disturbed, will call out mighty
surly, 'Who's there?'"

"'It's I, my Lord,' I'll make answer.

"Av course, he'll know my voice, and, jumping up like a cricket, he'll
open the door as wide as the hinges will let it, and say quite politely--

"'I'm proud to see you here, Father Frank. Walk in, if you plase.'

"Upon that I'll scrape my feet, and walk in, and then St. Pether will say
agin--

"'Well, Father Frank, what have you got to say for yourself? Did you look
well afther your flock; and mind to have them all christened, and married,
and buried, according to the rites of our holy church?'

"Now, good people, I've been forty-five years amongst you, and didn't I
christen every mother's soul of you?"

_Congregation._--You did,--you did,--your Rivirence.

_Father Frank._--Well, and didn't I bury the most of you, too?

_Congregation._--You did, your Rivirence.

_Father Frank._--And didn't I do my best to get dacent matches for all
your little girls? I And didn't I get good wives for all the well-behaved
boys in my parish?--Why don't you spake up, Mick Donovan?

_Mick._--You did, your Rivirence.

_Father Frank._--Well, that's settled:--but then St. Pether will
say--"Father Frank," says he, "you're a proper man; but how did your flock
behave to you--did they pay you your dues regularly?" Ah! good Christians,
how shall I answer _that_ question?  Put it in my power to say something
good of you: don't be ashamed to come up and pay your priest's dues.
Come,--make a lane there, and let ye all come up with conthrite hearts and
open hands. Tim Delaney!--make way for Tim:--how much will you give, Tim?

_Tim._--I'll not be worse than another, your Riverence. I'll give a crown.

_Father Frank._--Thank you, Timothy: the dacent drop is in you. Keep a
lane, there!--any of ye that hasn't a crown, or half-a-crown, don't be
bashful of coming up with your _hog_ or your _testher_.[6]

    [6] A _shilling_ or a _sixpence_.

And thus Father Frank went on encouraging and wheedling his flock to pay
up his dues, until he had gone through his entire congregation, when I
left the chapel, highly amused at the characteristic scene I had
witnessed.

X.

       *       *       *       *       *


A PRUDENT REASON.

Our gallant Sibthorp was lately invited by a friend to accompany him in a
pleasure trip in his yacht to Cowes. "No!" exclaimed Sib.; "you don't
catch me venturing near _Cowes_." "And why not?" inquired his friend.
"Because I was never vaccinated," replied the hirsute hero.

       *       *       *       *       *


DOCTOR PEEL TAKING TIME TO CONSULT.

Once upon a time--says an old Italian novelist--a horse fell, as in a fit,
with his rider. The people, running from all sides, gathered about the
steed, and many and opposite were the opinions of the sudden malady of the
animal; as many the prescriptions tendered for his recovery. At length, a
great hubbub arose among the mob; and a fellow, with the brass of a
merryandrew, and the gravity of a quack-doctor, pressed through the
throng, and approached the beast. Suddenly there was silence. It was plain
to the vulgar that the solemn new-comer had brought with him some
exquisite specific: it was evident, from the grave self-complacency of the
stranger, that with a glance, he had detected the cause of sickness in the
horse,--and that, in a few seconds, the prostrate animal, revivified by
the cunning of the sage, would be up, and once more curvetting and
caracoling. The master of the steed eyed the stranger with an affectionate
anxiety; the mob were awed into breathless expectation. The wise man shook
his head, put his cane to his nose, and proceeded to open his mouth. It
was plain he was about to speak. Every ear throbbed and gaped to catch the
golden syllables. At length the doctor did speak: for casting about him a
look of the profoundest knowledge, and pointing to the steed, he said, in
a deep, solemn whisper,--"_Let the horse alone!_" Saying this, the doctor
vanished!

The reader will immediately make the application. The horse _John Bull_ is
prostrate. It will be remembered that Colonel SIBTHORP (that dull
mountebank) spoke learnedly upon glanders--that others declared the animal
needed a lighter burthen and a greater allowance of corn,--but that the
majority of the mob made way for a certain quacksalver PEEL, who being
regularly called in and fee'd for his advice, professed himself to be
possessed of some miraculous elixir for the suffering quadruped. All eyes
were upon the doctor--all ears open for him, when lo! on the 16th of
September,--PEEL, speaking with the voice of an oracle, said--"It is not
my intention in the present session of Parliament to submit any measures
for the consideration of the House!" In other words--"_Let the horse
alone!_"

The praises of the Tory mob are loud and long at this wisdom of the
doctor. He had loudly professed an intimate knowledge of the ailments of
the horse--he had long predicted the fall of the poor beast,--and now,
when the animal is down, and a remedy is looked for that shall once more
set the creature on his legs, the veterinary politician says--"_Let the
horse alone!_"

The speech of Sir ROBERT PEEL was a pithy illustration of the good old
Tory creed. He opens his oration with a benevolent and patriotic yearning
for the comforts of Parliamentary warmth and ventilation. He moves for
papers connected with "the building of the two houses of Parliament, and
with the adoption of measures for _warming and ventilating_ those houses!"
The whole policy of the Tories has ever exemplified their love of nice
warm places; though, certainly, they have not been very great sticklers
for atmospheric purity. Indeed, like certain other labourers, who work by
night, they have toiled in the foulest air,--have profited by the most
noisome labour. When Lord JOHN RUSSELL introduced that imperfect mode of
ventilation, the Reform Bill, into the house, had he provided for a full
and pure supply of public opinion,--had he ventilated the Commons by a
more extended franchise,--Sir ROBERT PEEL would not, as minister, have
shown such magnanimous concern for the creature comforts of Members of
Parliament--he might, indeed, have still displayed his undying love of a
warm place; but he would not have enjoyed it on the bench of the Treasury.
As for ventilation, why, the creature Toryism, like a frog, could live in
the heart of a tree;--it being always provided that the tree should bear
golden pippins.

We can, however, imagine that this solicitude of Sir ROBERT for the ease
and comfort of the legislative Magi may operate to his advantage in the
minds of certain honest folk, touched by the humanity which sheds so sweet
a light upon the opening oration of the new minister. "If"--they will
doubtless think--"the humane Baronet feels so acutely for the Lords
Spiritual and Temporal,--if he has this regard for the convenience of only
658 knights and burgesses,--if, in his enlarged humanity, he can feel for
so helpless a creature as the Earl of COVENTRY, so mild, so unassuming a
prelate as the Bishop of EXETER--if he can sympathise with the wants of
even a D'ISRAELI, and tax his mighty intellect to make even SIBTHORP
comfortable,--surely the same minister will have, aye, a morbid sense of
the wants, the daily wretchedness of hundreds of thousands, who, with the
fiend Corn Law grinning at their fireless hearths--pine and perish in
weavers' hovels, for the which there has as yet been _no_ 'adoption of
measures for the warming and ventilating.'" "Surely"--they will think--"the
man whose sympathy is active for a few of the 'meanest things that live'
will gush with sensibility towards a countless multitude, fluttering into
rags and gaunt with famine. He will go back to first principles; he will,
with a giant's arm, knock down all the conventionalities built by the
selfishness of man--(and what a labourer is selfishness! there was no such
hard worker at the Pyramids or the wall of China)--between him and his
fellow! Hunger will be fed--nakedness will be clothed--and God's image,
though stricken with age, and broken with disease, be acknowledged; not in
the cut-and-dried Pharisaical phrase of trading Church-goers, as a thing
vested with immortality--as a creature fashioned for everlasting
solemnities--but _practically_ treated as of the great family of man--a
brother, invited with the noblest of the Cæsars, to an immortal banquet!"

Such may be the hopes of a few, innocent of the knowledge of the
stony-heartedness of Toryism. For ourselves, we hope nothing from Sir
ROBERT PEEL. His flourish on the warming and ventilation of the new Houses
of Parliament, taken in connexion with his opinions on the Corn Laws,
reminds us of the benevolence of certain people in the East, who, careless
and ignorant of the claims of their fellow-men, yet take every pains to
erect comfortable hospitals and temples for dogs and vermin. Old
travellers speak of these places, and of men being hired that the sacred
fleas might feed upon their blood. Now, when we consider the history of
legislation--when we look upon many of the statutes emanating from
Parliament--how often might we call the House of Commons the House of
Fleas? To be sure, there is yet this great difference: the poor who give
their blood there, unlike the wretches of the East, give it for nothing!

Sir ROBERT'S speech promises nothing whatever as to his future policy. He
leaves everything open. He will not say that he will not go in precisely
the line chalked out by the Whigs. "Next session," says. Sir ROBERT, "you
shall see what you shall see." About next February, _Orson_, in the words
of the oracle in the melo-drama, will be "endowed with reason." Until
then, we must accept a note-of-hand for Sir ROBERT, that he may pay the
expenses of the government.

    "I have already expressed my opinion, that it is absolutely
    necessary to adopt some measures for equalising the revenue and
    expenditure, and we will avail ourselves of the earliest
    opportunity, after mature consideration of the circumstances of the
    country, to submit to a committee of the whole house measures for
    remedying the existing state of things. _Whether that can be best
    done by diminishing the expenditure of the country, or by
    increasing the revenue, or by a combination of those two means--the
    reduction of the expenditure and the increase of the revenue--I
    must postpone for future consideration._"

Why, Sir ROBERT was called in because he knew the disease of the patient.
He had his remedy about him. The pills and the draught were in his
pocket--yes, in his patriotic poke; but he refused to take the lid from
the box--resolutely determined that the cork should not be drawn from the
all-healing phial--until he was regularly called in; and, as the gypsies
say, his hand crossed with a bit of money. Well, he now swears with such
vigour to the excellence of his physic--he so talks for hours and hours
upon the virtues of his drugs, that at length a special messenger is sent
to him, and directions given that the Miraculous Doctor should be received
at the state entrance of the patient's castle, with every mark of
consideration. The Doctor is ensured his fee, and he sets to work.
Thousands and thousands of hearts are beating whilst his eye scrutinizes
John Bull's tongue--suspense weighs upon the bosom of millions as the
Doctor feels his pulse. Well, these little ceremonies settled, the Doctor
will, of course, pull out his phial, display his boluses, and take his
leave with a promise of speedy health. By no means. "I must go home," says
the Doctor, "and study your disease for a few months; cull simples by
moonlight; and consult the whole Materia Medica; after that I'll write you
a prescription. For the present, good morning."

"But, my dear Doctor," cries the patient, "I dismissed my old physician,
because you insisted that you knew my complaint and its, remedy already."

"That's very true," says Doctor PEEL, "but _then_ I wasn't called in."

The learned Baldæus tells us, that "Ceylon doctors give _jackall's flesh_
for consumptions." Now, consumption is evidently John Bull's malady;
hence, we would try the Ceylon prescription. The jackalls are the
landowners; take a little of _their flesh_, Sir ROBERT, and for once,
spare the bowels of the manufacturer.

Q.

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S PENCILLINGS.--No. XI.


[Illustration: PLAYING THE KNAVE.

DEDICATED TO THE MEMBERS OF ST. STEPHEN'S.]

       *       *       *       *       *


BUNKS'S DISCOVERIES IN THE THAMES.

A highly important and interesting survey of the coast between
Arundel-stairs and Hungerford-market pier, is now being executed, under
the superintendence of Bill Bunks, late commander of the coal-barge "Jim
Crow." The result of his labours hitherto have been of the most
interesting nature to the natural historian, the antiquarian, and the
navigator. In his first report to the magistrates of the Thames-police, he
states that he has advanced in his survey to Waterloo-bridge stairs, which
he describes as a good landing-place for wherries, funnies, and small
craft, but inadequate as a harbour for vessels of great burthen. The shore
from Arundel-street, as far as he has explored, consists chiefly of a
tenacious, dark-coloured substance, very closely resembling thick mud,
intermixed with loose shingles, pebbles, and coal-slates. The depth of
water is uncertain, as it varies with the tide, which he ascertains rises
and falls every six hours; the greatest depth of water being usually found
at the time when the tide is full in, and _vice versa_. He has also made
the valuable discovery, that a considerable portion of the shore is always
left uncovered at low water, at which periods he availed himself of the
opportunity afforded him of examining it more minutely, and of collecting
a large number of curious specimens in natural history, and interesting
antiquarian relics. As we have had the privilege of being permitted to
view them in the private museum of the
"Stangate-and-Milbank-both-sides-of-the-water-united-for-the-advancement-
of-Science-Association," we are enabled to lay before our readers the
particulars of a few of these spoils, which the perseverance and
intrepidity of our gallant countryman, Bill Bunks, has rescued from the
hungry jaws of the rapacious deep; viz.:--

1. "_A case of shells._" The greater number of the specimens are
pronounced, by competent judges, to be shells of the native oyster; a fact
worthy of note, as it proves the existence, in former ages, of an
oyster-bed on this spot, and oysters being a sea-fish, it appears evident
that either the sea has removed from London, or London has withdrawn
itself from the sea. The point is open to discussion. We hope that the
"Hookham-cum-Snivey Institution" will undertake the solution of it at one
of their early meetings.

2. "_The neck of a black bottle, with a cork in it._" This is a very
interesting object of art, and one which has given rise to considerable
discussion amongst the _literati_. The cork, which is inserted in the
fragment of the neck, is quite perfect; it has been impressed with a seal
in reddish-coloured wax; a portion of it remains, with a partly
obliterated inscription, in Roman characters, of which we have been
enabled to give the accompanying fac-simile.

[Illustration]

With considerable difficulty we have deciphered the legend thus:--The
first letter B has evidently been a mistake of the engraver, who meant it
for a P, the similarity of the sounds of the two letters being very likely
to lead him into such an error. With this slight alteration, we have only
to add the letter O to the first line, and we shall have "PRO." It
requires little acuteness to discover that the second word, if complete,
would be "PATRIA;" and the letters BR, the two lowest of the inscription,
only want the addition of the letters IT to make "BRIT." or
"BRITANNIARUM." The legend would then run, "PRO PATRIA BRITANNIARUM,"
which there is good reason to suppose was the inscription on the cellar
seal of Alfred the Great, though some presumptuous and common-minded
persons have asserted that the legend, if perfect, would read, "BRETT'S
PATENT BRANDY." Every antiquarian has, however, indignantly refused to
admit such a degrading supposition.

3. "_A perfect brick, and two broken tiles._" The first of these articles
is in a high state of preservation, and from the circumstance of portions
of mortar being found adhering to it, it is supposed that it formed part
of the old London Wall.  We examined the fragments of the tiles carefully,
but found no inscription or other data, by which to ascertain their
probable antiquity: the tiles, in short, are buried in mystery.

4. "_A fossil flat-iron._" This antediluvian relic was found imbedded in a
Sandy deposite opposite Surrey-street, near high-water mark.

5. "_An ancient leather buskin,_" supposed to have belonged to one of the
Saxon kings. This singular covering for the foot reaches no higher than
the ancle, and is laced up the front with a leathern thong, like a modern
highlow, to which it bears a very decided resemblance.

6. "_A skeleton of some unknown animal._"  Antiquarians cannot agree to
what genus this animal belonged; ignorant people imagine it to have been a
cat.

7. "_A piece of broken porcelain._" This is an undoubted relic of Roman
manufacture, and appears to have formed part of a plate. The blue "willow
pattern" painted on it shows the antiquity of that popular design.

There are several other extremely rare and curious antiquities to be seen
in this collection, which we have not space to notice at present, but
shall take an early opportunity of returning to the valuable discoveries
made by the indefatigable Mr. Bunks.

       *       *       *       *       *


A NEW CONJURING COMPANY.

A report of so extraordinary a nature has just reached us, that we hasten
to be the first, as usual, to lay the outlines of it before our readers,
with the same early authenticity that has characterised all our other
communications. Mr. Yates is at present in Paris, arranging matters with
Louis Philippe and his family, to appear at the Adelphi during the ensuing
season!!

It would appear that the mania for great people wishing to strut and fret
their four hours and a quarter upon the stage is on the increase--at least
according to our friends the constituent members of the daily press.
Despite the newspaper-death of the manager of the Surrey, by which his
enemies wished to "_spargere voces in vulgum ambiguas_" to his prejudice
(which means, in plain English, to tell lies of him behind his back), we
have seen the report contradicted, that Mrs. Norton was about to appear
there in a new equestrian spectacle, with double platforms, triple studs
of Tartar hordes, and the other amphitheatrical enticers. We ourselves can
declare, that there is no foundation in the announcement, no more than in
the _on dit_ that the Countess of Blessington was engaged as a
counter-attraction, for a limited number of nights, at the Victoria; or
her lovely niece--a _power_ in herself--had been prevailed upon to make
her _début_ at the Lyceum, in a new piece of a peculiar and unprecedented
plot, which was prevented from coming off by some disagreement as to terms
between the principal parties concerned. For true theatrical intelligence,
our columns alone are to be relied upon; bright as a column of sparkling
water, overpowering as a column of English cavalry, overlooking all London
at once, as the column of the Monument, but _not_ so heavy as the column
of the Duke of York.

_Mais revenons à nos moutons_: which implies (we are again compelled to
translate, and this time it is for the benefit of those who have not been
to Boulogne), "we spoke of Louis Philippe and his family." This sagacious
monarch, foreseeing that the French were in want of some new excitement,
and grieving to find that the _pompe funèbre_ of Napoleon, and the
inauguration of his statue upon the monument of the victories that never
took place, had not made the intense impression upon the minds of his
vivacious subjects that he had intended it should produce, begins to
think, that before long a fresh _émeute_ will once more throw up the
barricades and paving-stones in the Rue St. Honoré and Boulevard des
Italiens. As such, with the prudent foresight which has hitherto directed
all his proceedings, he is naturally looking forward to the best means of
gaining an honest livelihood for himself and family, should a corrupted
national guard, or an excited St. Antoine mob take it into their heads to
dine in the Tuileries without being asked. Having read in the English
newspapers, which he regularly peruses, of the astounding performances of
the Wizard of the North at the Adelphi, more especially as regards the
"paralysing gun delusion," he commences to imagine that he is well
qualified to undertake the same responsibility, more especially from the
practice he has had in that line from pistols, rifles, fowling-pieces,
and, above all, twenty-barrel infernal machines. He has therefore offered
his services at the Adelphi, and Mr. Yates, with his accustomed energy,
and avowed propensity for French translations, has agreed to bring him
over. If we remember truly, the Wizard says in his programme, that the
secret shall die with him. We beg to inform him, in all humility, that he
deceives himself, for Louis Philippe and the Duke d'Aumale know the trick
as well as he does. They would ride through two lines of _sans culottes_,
all armed to the teeth, without the least injury. They would catch the
bullets in their teeth, and take them home as curiosities.

Orleans, from his knowledge of the English language, will probably become
the adapter of the pieces "from the French" about to be produced. The Duke
de Nemours will be engaged to play the fops in the light comedies, a line
which, it is anticipated, he will shine in; and the Prince de Joinville
can dance a capital sailor's hornpipe, which he learnt on board the _Belle
Poule_, a name which our own sailors, with an excusable disregard for
genders, converted into "The Jolly Cock." Of course, from his late
experience, d'Aumale will assist Louis Philippe, upon emergency, in the
gun trick, and, with the other attractions, a profitable season is sure to
result.

       *       *       *       *       *


AN EXTENSIVE SACRIFICE.

By Dr. Reid's new plan for ventilating the House of Commons, a porous hair
carpet will be required for the floor; to provide materials for which Mr.
Muntz has, in the most handsome manner, offered to shave off his beard and
whiskers. This is true magnanimity--Muntz is a noble fellow! and the
lasting gratitude of the House is due to him and his _hairs_ for ever.

       *       *       *       *       *


FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE.

It is expected that Mr. Snooks and family will pass the winter at
Battersea, as the warmth of the climate is strongly recommended for the
restoration of the health of Mrs. Snooks, who is in a state of such
alarming delicacy, as almost to threaten a realisation of the fears of her
best friends and the hopes of the black-job master who usually serves the
family.

Mr. Snivins gave a large tea-party, last week, at Greenwich, where the
boiling water was supplied by the people of the house, the essentials
having been brought by the visitors.

Mr. Popkins has left his attic in the New-Cut, for a _tour_ on the Brixton
tread-mill.

K 32 left his official residence at the station-house, for his beat in
Leicester-square, and repaired at once to a public-house in the
neighbourhood, where he had an audience of several pickpockets.

We are authorised to state, that there is no foundation whatever for the
report that a certain well-known policeman is about to lead to the altar a
certain unknown lady. The rumour originated in his having been seen
leading her before the magistrate.

Dick Wiggins transacted business yesterday in Cold Bath-fields, and picked
the appointed quantity of oakum.

Mr. Baron Nathan has left Margate for Kennington. We have not heard
whether he was accompanied by the Baroness. The Honourable Miss Nathan,
when we last heard of her, was dancing a hornpipe among a shilling's worth
of new laid eggs, at Tivoli.

A few minutes after Sir Robert Peel left Privy-Gardens, in a carriage and
four, for Claremont, Sam Snoxell jumped up behind the Brighton stage, from
which he descended, after having been whipped down, at Kennington.

       *       *       *       *       *


IMPORTANT INVENTION.

The celebrated _savant_ Sir Peter Laurie, whose scientific labours to
discover the cause of the variation of the weathercock on Bow Church, have
astonished the Lord Mayor and the Board of Aldermen, has lately turned his
attention to the subject of railroads. The result of his profound
cogitations has been highly satisfactory. He has produced a plan for a
railway on an entirely new principle, which will combine cheapness and
security in an extraordinary degree. We have been favoured with a view of
the inventor's plans, and we have no hesitation in saying that, if
adopted, the most timid person may, with perfect safety, take

[Illustration: A RIDE ON  THE RAIL.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE BATTLE AND THE BREEZE.

Our readers are informed that, despite the belligerent character of the
correspondence between the fierce Fitz-Roy and the "Gentle" Shepherd,
although it came to a slight _blow_, there is nothing to warrant an
anticipation of their

[Illustration: GETTING UP THE BREEZE.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE FASTING PHENOMENON.

The Tories have engaged Bernard Cavanagh, the Irish fasting phenomenon, to
give lectures on his system of abstinence, which they think might be
beneficially introduced amongst the working-classes of England. This is a
truly Christian principle of government, for while the people _fast_, the
ministers will not fail to _prey_.

       *       *       *       *       *


TORY BOONS.

_Air_.--"NORA CREINA"

  The Whigs they promised every day
    To cure the ills which did surround us;
  It should have been, "no cure, no pay!"
    For now we're worse than when they found us.
  The Tory clique at length are in,
    And vow that they will save the nation,
  So kindly give us, to begin--
    Exchequer bills and ventilation.
      Oh! the artful Tories _dear_,
        Oh! the _dear_, the artful Tories
      They alone perceive, 'tis clear,
        That taxes tend to England's glories.

  The Whigs declared cheap bread was good;
    To satisfy the people's cravings
  They tried to take the tax off wood--
    Lord knows what might be done with shavings!
  The Tories vow these schemes were wrong,
    And adverse to good legislation;
  Therefore, propose (so runs our song)--
    Exchequer bills and ventilation.
      Oh! the artful Tories _dear_,
        Oh! the _dear_ and artful Tories;
      They alone perceive, 'tis clear,
        Taxes tend to England's glories.

  The Whigs became the poor man's foe,
    Mix'd ashes in his cup of sorrow;
  Nor thought the pauper's "lot of woe,"
    Perchance might be their own to-morrow.
  The Tories said they were his friend,
    That they abhorr'd procrastination;
  So give--till next July shall end--
    Exchequer bills and ventilation.
      Oh! the artful Tories _dear_,
        Oh! the _dear_ and artful Tories;
      They alone perceive, 'tis clear,
        Taxes tend to England's glories.

       *       *       *       *       *


RECREATION FOR THE PUBLIC.

Sir Robert Peel seems impressed with the necessity of providing the
citizens of London with additional parks, where they may recreate
themselves, and breathe the free air of heaven. But, strange as it may
seem, the people cannot live on fresh air, unaccompanied by some stomachic
of a more substantial nature; yet they are forbidden to grumble at the
diet, or, if they do, they are silenced according to the good old Tory
plan of

[Illustration: OPENING A PARK FOR THE PEOPLE.]

       *       *       *       *       *


Colonel Sibthorp thinks he recollects having been Hannibal once--long
ago--although he cannot account for his having been beaten in the _Pun_-ic
war.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LIGHT OF ALL NATIONS.

The public are aware that this important national undertaking, which is
now about to be commenced, is to be a prodigious cast-iron light-house on
the Goodwin Sands. Peter Borthwick and our Sibby are already candidates
for the office of universal illuminators. Peter rests his claims chiefly
on the brilliancy of his ideas, as exemplified in his plan for lighting
the metropolis with bottled moonshine; while Sib. proudly refers to our
columns for imperishable evidences of the intensity of his wit, conscious
that these alone would entitle him to be called "the light of all
nations." We trust that Sir Robert Peel will exercise a sound discretion
in bestowing this important situation. Highly as we esteem Peter's
dazzling talents--profoundly as we admire his bottled moonshine scheme--we
feel there is no man in the world more worthy of being elevated to the
lantern than our refulgent friend Sibthorp.

       *       *       *       *       *


A SHORT TREATISE OF DRAMATIC CASUALTIES.

VERY PROFITABLE TO READ.

Let our Treatise of Dramatic Casualties be that which treateth of the
misfortunes contingent upon the profession of dramatic authors. Now, of
unfortunate dramatic authors there be two grand kinds--namely, they that
be unfortunate before the production of their works, and they that be
unfortunate after the production of their works.

And first, among them that be unfortunate before the production of their
works may he enumerated--

    1.--He that, having but one manuscript of his piece leaveth the
        same with the manager for inspection, and it falleth out that
        he seeth it no more, neither heareth thereof.

    2.--He that having translated a piece from the French, and bestowed
        thereon much time, findeth himself forestalled.

    3.--He that, having written a pantomime, carrieth it in his pocket,
        and straight there cometh a dishonest person, who, taking the
        same, selleth it for waste paper.

    4.--He that presenteth his piece to all the theatres in succession,
        and lo! it ever returneth, accompanied with a polite note
        expressive of disapprobation or the like.

    5.--He whose piece is approved by the manager, but, nevertheless,
        the same produceth it not, for divers reasons, which do vary at
        every interview.

    6.--He that communicateth the idea of a yet unwritten drama to a
        friend, who, being of a fair wit, and prompt withal, useth the
        same to his own ends and reapeth the harvest thereof.

And secondly, of them that be unfortunate after the production of their
works, there be some whose pieces are successful, and there be some whose
pieces are not successful.

And firstly, of unfortunate authors whose pieces are unsuccessful there
be--

    1.--Those who write a piece which faileth through its own demerits,
        which may be, as--

        A.--He that writeth a farce or comedy, and neglecteth to
            introduce jokes in the same.

        B.--He that writeth a farce or comedy, and introduceth bad
            jokes in the same.

        C.--He that writeth a farce or comedy, and introduceth old
            jokes in the same.

        D.--He that writeth a tragedy, and introduceth matter for
            merriment therein.

        E.--He that, in either tragedy, comedy, farce, or other
            entertainment, shocketh the propriety of the audience, or
            causeth a division in the same, by political allusions.

    2.--He that writeth a piece which faileth, though not through its
        own demerits, which may be, as--

      A.--When the principal actor, not having the author's words by
          heart, and being of a suggestive wit and good assurance,
          substituteth others, which he deemeth sufficient.

      B.--When the principal actor, not having the author's words by
          heart, and being of a dull and heavy turn, and deaf withal,
          substituteth nothing, but standeth aghast, yearning for the
          voice of the prompter.

      C.--When the scene-shifter ingeniously introduceth a forest into
          a bed-chamber, or committeth the like incongruity, marvellous
          pleasant and mirthful to behold, but in no way conducive to
          success.

      D.--When pistols or other fire-arms do miss fire; when red fire
          igniteth not, or igniteth the scenes; when a trap-door
          refuseth to open, a rope to draw, and the like.

      E.--When the author intrusteth his principal part to a new actor,
          and it falleth out that the same doth grievously offend the
          audience, who straight insist that he do quit the stage,
          whereby the ruin of the piece is consummated.

      F.--Likewise there be misfortunes that arise from the audience;
          as, when at a momentous point of the plot there entereth one
          heated with liquor, and causeth a disturbance, or a woman
          with a huge bonnet becometh the subject of a discussion as to
          her right to wear the same, and impede the view of them that
          be behind; also when there cometh in a ruffian, or more, in a
          pea-coat, who having been charged by an enemy to work the
          ruin of the piece, endeavoureth to do the same, by dint of
          hisses or other unseemly noises, all of which be highly
          pernicious.

Secondly, of those unfortunate authors who have been successful, there
be--

    1.--He whose piece, albeit successful, is withdrawn to make room
        for the Christmas pantomine, Easter piece, or other
        entertainment equally cherished by the manager, who thereupon
        groundeth a plea of non-payment.

    2.--He who being a creditor of the manager, and the same being
        unable to meet his obligations, by an ingenious contrivance of
        the law becometh cleansed thereof, an operation which hath been
        conceitedly termed "whitewashing."

    3.--He that writeth a piece with a friend, and the same claimeth
        the entire authorship thereof and emolument therefrom.

And there be divers other calamities which we have neither space nor time
to enumerate, but which be all incentives to abstain from dramatic
writing.

PERDITUS.

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S THEATRE.

JACK KETCH; OR, A LEAF FROM TYBURN TREE.

Modern legislation is chiefly remarkable for its oppressive interference
with the elegant amusements of the mob. Bartholomew-fair is abolished;
bull-baiting, cock-pits, and duck-hunts are put down by act of Parliament;
prize-fighting, by the New Police--even those morally healthful
exhibitions, formerly afforded opposite the Debtors' Door of Newgate, for
the sake of _example_--that were attended by idlers in hundreds, and
thieves in thousands--are fast growing into disuse. The "masses" see no
pleasure now: even the hanging-matches are cut off.

Deeply compassionating the effects of so illiberal an innovation, Mr. G.
Almar the author to, and Mr. R. Honner the proprietor of, Sadler's Wells
Theatre, have produced an exhibition which in a great degree makes up for
the infrequent performances at the Old Bailey. Those whose moral
sensibilities are refined to the choking point--who can relish stage
strangulation in all its interesting varieties better than Shakspere, are
now provided with a rich treat. They need not wait for the Recorder's
black cap and a black Monday morning--the Sadler's Wells' people hang
every night with great success; for, unless one goes early, there is--as
is the case wherever hanging takes place--no _standing room_ to be had for
love or money.

The play is simply the history of Jack Ketch, a gentleman who flourished
at the beginning of the last century, and who, by industry and
perseverance, attained to the rank of public executioner; an office he
performed with such skill and effect that his successors have, as the
bills inform us, inherited "his soubriquet" with his office. He is
introduced to the audience as a ropemaker's apprentice, living in the
immediate neighbourhood of Execution-Dock, and loving _Barbara Allen_, "a
young spinster residing at the Cottage of Content, upon the borders of
Epping Forest, supporting herself by the produce of her wheel and the
cultivation of her flower-garden." He beguiles his time, while twisting
the hemp, by spinning a tedious yarn about this well-to-do spinster; from
which we infer _Barbara's_ barbarity, and that he is crossed in love. The
soliloquy is interrupted by an elderly man, who enters to remark that he
has come out for a little relaxation after a hard morning's work: no
wonder, for we soon learn that he is the _Jack Ketch_ of his day, and has,
but an hour before, tucked up two brace of pirates. With this pleasing
information, and a sharp dialogue on his favourite subject with the hero,
he retires.

Here the interest begins; three or four foot-stamps are heard behind;
_Jack_ starts--"Ah, that noise," &c.--and on comes the author of the
piece, "his first appearance here these five years." He approaches the
foot-lights--he turns up his eyes--he thumps his breast--and goes through
this exercise three or four times, before the audience understand that
they are to applaud. They do so; and the play goes on as if nothing had
happened; for this is an episode expressive of a "first appearance these
five years." _Gipsy George_ or Mr. G. Almar, whichever you please, having
assured _Jack Ketch_ that he is starving and in utter destitution,
proceeds to give five shillings for a piece of rope, and walks away, after
taking great pains to assure everybody that he is going to hang himself.
Before, however, he has had time to make the first coil of a hempen
collar, _Jack_ looks off, and descries the stranger in the last agonies of
strangulation, amidst the most deafening applause from the audience, whose
disgust is indignantly expressed by silence when he exits to cut the man
down. Their delight is only revived by the apparition of _Gipsy George_,
pale and ghastly, _with the rope round his neck_, and the exclamation that
he is "done for." _Barabbas_, the hangman, who re-appears with the rest,
is upbraided by _Jack_ for coolly looking on and letting the man hang
himself, without raising an alarm. Mr. B. answers, that "it was no
business of his." Like Sir Robert Peel and the rest of the profession, it
was evidently his maxim not to interfere, unless "regularly called in."
The _Gipsy_, so far from dying, recovers sufficiently to make to _Jack_
some important disclosures; but of that mysterious kind peculiar to
melodrama, by which nobody is the wiser. They, however, bear reference to
_Jack's_ deceased father, a clasp-knife, a certain _Sir Gregory_ of "the
gash," and the four gentlemen so recently suspended at Execution-Dock.

The residence of Content and Barbara Allen is a scene, the minute
correctness of which it would be wicked to doubt, when the bills so
solemnly guarantee that it is copied from the "best authorities."
_Barbara_ opens the door, makes a curtsey, produces a purse, and after
saying she is going to pay her rent, is, by an ingenious contrivance of
the Sadler's Wells' Shakspere, confronted with her landlord, the _Sir
Gregory_ before-mentioned. All stage-landlords are villains, who prefer
seduction to rent, and he of the "gash" is no exception. The struggle,
rescue, and duel, which follow, are got through in no time. The last would
certainly have been fatal, had not the assailant's servant come on to
announce that "a gentleman wished to speak to him at his own residence."
The lover (who is of course the rescuer) deems this a sufficient excuse to
let off his antagonist without a scratch; _Barbara_ rewards him with an
embrace and a rose, just as another rival intrudes himself in the person
of _Mr. John Ketch_. The altercation which now ensues is but slight; for
_Jack_, instead of fighting, goes off to Fairlop-fair with another young
lady, who seems to come upon the stage for no other purpose than to oblige
him. At the fair we find _Jack's_ spirits considerably damped by the
prediction of a gipsy, that he will marry a hangman's daughter; but, after
the jumping in sacks, which forms a part of the sports, he rescues
_Barbara_ from being once more assailed by her landlord. Thereupon another
component of the festive scene--our friend the hangman--declares that she
is his daughter! "Horror" tableau, and end of Act I.

After establishing a lapse of four years between the acts, the author
takes high ground;--we are presented with the summit of Primrose-hill, St.
Paul's in the distance, and a gentleman with black clothes, and literary
habits, reading in the foreground. This turns out to be "The Laird
Lawson," _Barbara's_ favoured lover and benevolent duellist. Though on the
top of Cockney Mount, he is suffering under a deep depression of spirits;
for he has never seen _Miss Allen_ during four years, come next
Fairlop-fair. Having heard this, the audience is, of course, quite
prepared for that lady's appearance; and, sure enough, on she comes,
accounting for her presence with great adroitness:--having left the city
to go to Holloway, she is taking a short cut over Primrose-hill. The
lovers go through the mode of recognition never departed from at minor
theatres, with the most frantic energy, and have nearly hugged themselves
out of breath, when the executioner papa interrupts the blissful scene,
without so much as saying how he got there; but "finishers" are mysterious
beings. _Barabbas_ denounces the laird; and when his consent is asked for
the hand of _Miss Barbara_, tells the lover "he will see him hanged
first!"

The moon, a dark stage, and _Jack Ketch_ in the character of a foot-pad,
now add to the romance of the drama. Not to leave anything unexplained,
the hero declares, that he has cut the walk of life he formerly trod in
the rope ditto, and has been induced to take to the road solely by Fate,
brandy and (not salt, but) _Barbara!_ By some extraordinary accident,
every character in the piece, with two exceptions, have occasion to tread
this scene--"Holloway and heath near the village of Holloway" (painted
from the best authorities), just exactly in time to be robbed by _Ketch_;
who shows himself a perfect master of his business, and a credit to his
instructor; for _Gipsy George_ rewards _Jack_ for saving him from hanging,
by showing his friend the shortest way to the gallows.

In the following scene, the plot breaks out in a fresh place. The man with
the "gash," and _Gipsy George_ are together, going over some youthful
reminiscences. It seems that once upon a time there were six pirates; four
were those pendents from the gibbet at Execution-Dock one hears so much
about at the commencement; the fifth is the speaker, _Gipsy George_; and
"you," exclaims that person, striking an attitude, and addressing _Sir
Gregory_, "make up the half-dozen!" They all formerly did business in a
ship called the "Morning Star," and whenever the ex-pirate number five is
in pecuniary distress, he bawls out into the ear of _ci-devant_ pirate
number six, the words "Morning Star!" and a purse of hush-money is forked
out in a trice. In this manner _Gipsy George_ accumulates, by the end of
the piece, a large property; for six or eight purses, all ready filled for
each occasion, thus pass into his pockets.

The "best authorities" furnish us, next, with an interior; that of "the
Mug, a chocolate house and tavern," where a new plot is hatched against
the crown and dignity of the late respected George the First, by a party
of Jacobites. These consist of a half-dozen of Hanoverian Whigs, who
enter, duly decorated with an equal number of hats of every variety of
cock and cockade. The heroine seems to have engaged herself here as
waitress, on purpose to meet her persecutor, _Sir Gregory_, and her late
lover, _Jack Ketch_. What comes of this rencontre it is impossible to make
out, for a general _mélée_ ensues, caused by a discovery of the plot;
which is by no means a gunpowder plot; for although a file of soldiers
present their arms for several minutes full at the conspirators, not a
single musket goes off. Perhaps gunpowder was expensive in the reign of
George the First. _Jack Ketch_ ends the act with a dream--an _apropos
finale_, for we caught several of our neighbours napping. The scene in
which this vision takes place is the crowning result of the painter's
researches amongst the "best authorities;" it being no less than "a garret
in Grub-street, _in which the great Daniel De Foe composed his romance of
Robinson Crusoe!!_"

A fishing-party--whose dulness is relieved by a suicide--opens the last
act: one of the anglers having finished a comic song--which from its
extreme gravity forms an appropriate dirge to the forthcoming
felo-de-se--goes off with his companion to leave the water clear for
_Barbara Allen_, who enters, takes an affecting leave of her laird lover,
and straightway drowns herself. _Jack Ketch_ is now, by a rapid change of
scene, discovered in limbo, and condemned to death; why, we were too
stupid to make out. The fatal cart--very likely modelled after "the best
authorities"--next occupies the stage, drawn by a real horse, and filled
with _Sir Gregory Gash_ (who it seems is going to be hanged) and _Jack
Ketch_ not as a prisoner, but as an officer of the crown; for we are to
suppose that _Mr. Barabbas_, having retired from the public scaffold to
private life, has seceded in favour of _Jack Ketch_, who is saved from the
rope himself, on condition of his using it upon the person of _Sir
Gregory_ and every succeeding criminal. All the characters come on with
the cart, and a _dénouement_ evidently impends. The distracted lover
demands of somebody to restore his mistress, which _Gipsy George_ is
really so polite as to do; for although the bills expressly inform us she
has committed "suicide," and we have actually seen her jump into the river
Lea; yet there she is safe and sound!--carefully preserved in an envelope
formed partly by the _Gipsy_ himself, and partly by his cloak. She, of
course, embraces her lover, and leaves _Jack Ketch_ to embrace his
profession with what appetite he may; all, in fact, ends happily, and _Sir
Gregory_ goes off to be hanged.

This, then, is the state to which the founders of the Newgate school of
dramatic literature, and the march of intellect, have brought us. Nothing
short of actual hanging--the most revolting and repulsive of all possible
subjects to enter, much less to dwell in any mind not actually
savage--must now be provided to meet the refined taste of play-goers. In
the present instance, nothing but the actual _spiciness_ of the subject
saved the piece from the last sentence of even Sadler's Wells' critical
law; for in construction and detail, it is the veriest mass of incoherent
rubbish that was ever shot upon the plains of common sense. The sketch we
have made is in no one instance exaggerated. Our readers may therefore
easily judge whether we speak truly or not.

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH AT THE NEW STRAND.

When Napoleon first appeared before the grand army after his return from
Elba--when Queen Victoria made her _débût_ at the assemblage of her first
parliament--when Kean performed "Othello" at Drury Lane immediately after
he had caused a certain friend of his to play the same part in the Court
of King's Bench--the public mind was terribly agitated, and the public's
legs instinctively carried them, on each occasion, to behold those great
performers. When--to give these circumstances their highest
application,--"Punch," on Thursday last, came out in the regular drama,
the excitement was no less intense. Boxes were besieged; the pit was
choked up, and the gallery creaked with its celestial encumbrance.

As the curtain drew up, there would have been a death-like silence but for
the unparalleled sales that were taking place in apples, oranges, and
ginger-beer. Expectation was on tip-toe, as were the persons occupying
that department of the theatre called "standing-room." The looked-for
moment came; the "drop" ascended, and the spectators beheld _Mr. Dionysius
Swivel_, a pint of ale, and Punch's theatre!

"Tragedy," saith the Aristotelian recipe for cooking up a serious drama,
"should have the probable, the marvellous, and the pathetic." In the
_tableau_ thus presented, the audience beheld the three conditions
strictly complied with all at once. "It was highly probable," as _Mr.
Swivel_ observed to the source of pipes, 'bacca, and malt--in other words,
to the landlady he was addressing--that his master, the showman, was
unable to pay the score he had run up; it was marvellous that the
proprietor of so popular a puppet as "Punch" should not have even the
price of a pint of ale in his treasury; lastly, that circumstance was
deeply pathetic; for what so heart-rending as the exhibition of fallen
greatness, of broken-down prosperity, of affluence regularly stumped and
hard-up! The fact is, that "Punch," his theatre, and _corps dramatique_,
are in pawn for eight-and-ninepence!

In the midst of this distress there appears a young gentleman, giving vent
to passionate exclamations, while furiously buttoning up a tight surtout.
The object of his love is the daughter of the object of his hate. _Mr.
Snozzle_, having previously made his bow, overhears him, and being the
acting manager of "Punch," and having a variety of plots for rescuing
injured lovers from inextricable difficulties on hand, offers one of them
to the lover, considerably over cost price; namely, for the
puppet-detaining eight-and-ninepence, and a glass of brandy-and-water. The
bargain being struck, the scene changes.

To the happiness of being the possessor of "Punch," _Mr. Snozzle_ adds
that of having a wonderful wife--a lady of universal talents; who dances
in spangled shoes, plays on the tamburine, and sings Whitechapel French
like a native. This inestimable creature has already gone round the town
on a singing, dancing, and cash-collecting expedition; accompanied by the
drum, mouth-organ, and _Swivel_. We now find her enchanting the
flinty-hearted father, _Old Fellum_. Having been instrumental, by means of
her vocal abilities, in drawing from him a declaration of amorous
attachment and half-a-crown, she retires, to bury herself in the arms of
her husband, and to eradicate the score, recorded in chalk, at _Mrs.
Rummer's_ hotel.

In the meantime _Snozzle_, having sold a plot, proceeds to fulfil the
bargain by executing it. He enters with PUNCH'S theatre, to treat _Old
Fellum_ with a second exhibition, and his daughter with an elopement; for
in the midst of the performance the young lady detects the big drum in the
act of "winking at her;" and she soon discovers that PUNCH'S orchestra is
no other than her own lover. _Fellum_ is delighted with the show, to which
he is attentive enough to allow of the lovers' escaping. He pursues them
when it is too late, and having been so precipitate in his exit as to
remember to forget to pay for his amusement, _Swivel_ steals a handsome
cage, parrot included.

Good gracious! what a scene of confusion and confabulation next takes
place! _Fellum's_ first stage in pursuit is the public-house; there he
unwittingly persuades _Mrs. Snozzle_ that her spouse is unfaithful--that
_he_ it was who "stole away the old man's daughter." _Mrs. Snozzle_ raves,
and threatens a divorce; _Snozzle_ himself trembles--he suspects the
police are after him for being the receiver of stolen goods, instead of
the deceiver of unsuspecting virtue. _Swivel_ dreads being taken up for
prigging the parrot; and a frightful catastrophe is only averted by the
entrance of the truant lovers, who have performed the comedy of
"Matrimony" in a much shorter time than is allowed by the act of
Parliament.

Mrs. Keeley played the tamburine, and the part of _Snozzle femme_. This
was more than acting; it was nature enriched with humour--character
broadly painted without a tinge of caricature. The solemnity of her
countenance, while performing with her feet, was a correct copy from the
expression of self-approbation--of the wonder-how-I-do-it-so-well--always
observable during the dances of the _fair_ sex; her tones when singing
were unerringly brought from the street; her spangled dress was assuredly
borrowed from Scowton's caravan. As a work of dramatic art, this
performance is, of its kind, most complete. Keeley's _Snozzle_ was quiet,
rich, and philosophical; and Saunders made a Judy of himself with
unparalleled success. _Frank Finch_ got his deserts in the hands of a Mr.
Everett; for being a lover, no matter how awkward and ungainly an actor is
made to represent him.

       *       *       *       *       *


"OH! DAY AND NIGHT, BUT THIS IS WONDROUS STRANGE!"

    "We believe, from the first, _Day_ was intended to mount, and
    wherefore it was made a mystery we know not.--DOINGS AT
    DONCASTER."--[Sunday Times.]

  Poor Coronation well may say,
    "A mystery I mark;
  Though jockey'd by the _lightest Day_
    They tried to keep me dark."

       *       *       *       *       *





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