A MESMERIC ADVERTISEMENT.

An aristocratic black man is fitted for a hat.TILING A FLAT.

TILING A FLAT.

All our attempts to discover the wit of thistableau d’esprithave been quite fu-tile. Perhaps our readers will be more successful.

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.

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.

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“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 billAnd pillConcoctor,Most worthy follower in the stepsOf Dr. Epps,And eke that cannie manOld Dr. Hanneman—Two individuals of consummate gumption,Who declare,That whensoe’erThe patient’s labouring under a consumption,To save him from a trip across the Styx,To ancient Nick’sIn Charon’s shallop,If the consumption be upon the canter,It should be put upon the gallopInstanter;For, “similia similibus curantur,”Great medicinal cod(Beating the modeOf old Hippocrates, whom M.D.’s mostly follow,Quite hollow);Which would makeA patient takeNo end of verjuice for the belly-ache;And find, beyond a question,A power of good inA lump of cold plum-puddingFor a case of indigestion.And just as sage,In this wise age,’Faith, Dr. Peel, isyourlaw;Which, as a remedyFor poverty,Would recommend the Poor Law.

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, isyourlaw;

Which, as a remedy

For poverty,

Would recommend the Poor Law.

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 ofSoirées Mesmériquesmust 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 fountainof 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 toelectrics, the other toelection 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 aMatinée Politique, it would prove a formidable rival to theSoirée Mesmériqueof the gentleman in the beard, who seems impressed with the now popular idea, that genius and a clean chin are wholly incompatible.

‘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

A poodle begs for a bone.STANDING FOR MARROWBONE (MARYLEBONE).

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 differentpremises.

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.tofiveshillings, ended with the following singular contributions:—

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:—

A goat butts a man.REAL IRISH BUTTER.

REAL IRISH BUTTER.

Fair Daphne has tresses as bright as the hueThat 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 canstillhear her speak—“You know about love what a pig knows of dancing!”

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 canstillhear her speak—“You know about love what a pig knows of dancing!”

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 canstillhear her speak—

“You know about love what a pig knows of dancing!”

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

A man stabs another with a rapier.PASS IN THE MOUNTAINS

PASS IN THE MOUNTAINS

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 forturning round.

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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

A portly matron in full regalia.A FULL HABIT;

A FULL HABIT;

or, as his nurse expressed it, he wasalwaistgood 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:—

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.

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 ofhisheroine. 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,”

“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 hewas, and what heis, is the best essence of the overwhelming intensity of his passion. He continues (with a beautiful reliance on the faith andlivingconstancy 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, youmustgo with me,All to the grave, your love to cool.’”

“The ghost it said so solemnly,

‘Oh, Molly, youmustgo 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.Mustis certainly an awkward word. Tell any lady that shemustdo this, ormustdo 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 shewill, 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 thinkthatwas a pretty decent clincher, by way of a reason[pg 125]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 rendereddoublyindividual, for—

“Saystheghost, sayshe, vy that’s no rule!”

There’s a staggerer! being alive no rule fornotbeing buried! howisMolly 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.’”

“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!”

“‘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, likeJoseph 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, hasdreamt a dream.

FUSBOS.

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 thepattern11.Pattern—a corruption ofPatron—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. Beads3. Pretty girlof Saint Fineen, and no doubt ye’ll all be for going to the blessed well to say yourpadhereens;2but 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 acallieen dhas3called 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.

“‘Oh! Millia murdher! What’ll I do?’ cried thecallieen, 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 doyouknow 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.44. 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 hangingbone slieveen55. A sly rogue.and tell me what is the Last Day?”

“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 answerthatquestion? 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 yourhogor yourtesther.66. Ashillingor asixpence.

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.

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 nearCowes.” “And why not?” inquired his friend. “Because I was never vaccinated,” replied the hirsute hero.

[pg 126]

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 horseJohn Bullis 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 forwarming and ventilatingthose 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 beenno‘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—butpracticallytreated 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, “butthenI wasn’t called in.”

The learned Baldæus tells us, that “Ceylon doctors givejackall’s fleshfor consumptions.” Now, consumption is evidently John Bull’s malady; hence, we would try the Ceylon prescription. The jackalls are the landowners; take a little oftheir flesh, Sir ROBERT, and for once, spare the bowels of the manufacturer.

[pg 127]

Two men play cards, surrounded by items marked 'Property Tax' and 'Cheap Bread'.PLAYING THE KNAVE.DEDICATED TO THE MEMBERS OF ST. STEPHEN’S.

PLAYING THE KNAVE.

DEDICATED TO THE MEMBERS OF ST. STEPHEN’S.

[pg 129]

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, andvice 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.:—

“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.

“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 theliterati. 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.

A partially obliterated seal, marked 'BR / PAT / BR'.

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.

“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.

“A fossil flat-iron.” This antediluvian relic was found imbedded in a Sandy deposite opposite Surrey-street, near high-water mark.

“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.

“A skeleton of some unknown animal.” Antiquarians cannot agree to what genus this animal belonged; ignorant people imagine it to have been a cat.

“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 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 theon ditthat the Countess of Blessington was engaged as a counter-attraction, for a limited number of nights, at the Victoria; or her lovely niece—apowerin herself—had been prevailed upon to make herdébutat 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, butnotso 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 thepompe funèbreof 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 freshémeutewill 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 ofsans 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 theBelle 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.

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 hishairsfor ever.

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