[pg 256]
Thesleeping-bedswhich are occupied by the prince’s beagles and her Majesty’sdogsare IN FIVE COMPARTMENTS AT THE EXTREMITY OF THE HOVELS—THE LATTER BEING WELL SUPPLIED WITH WATER AND PAVED WITH ASPHALTE, THE BOTTOMS HAVING GOOD PALLS, TO ENSURE THEIR DRYNESS AND CLEANLINESS. The hovels enter into three green yards, roomy and healthy. In the one at the near end a rustic ornamental seat has been erected, from which her Majesty and the prince are accustomed to inspect their favourites.
The boiling and distemper houses are now in course of erection, BUT DETACHED FROM THE OTHER PORTION OP THE BUILDING!—From the Sporting Magazine, extracted in the Times of Dec. 3, 1841.
“I KNOW the lying-in ward; there is but ONE, which is small: another room is used when required. There are two beds in the first. The walls, I should say, were clean; but at that time they could not he cleansed, as it was full of women. The room was very smoky and uncomfortable; the walls were as clean as they could be under the circumstances. I have always felt dissatisfied with the ward, and many times said it was the most uncomfortable place in the house; it always looked dirty….
“There have been six women there at one time: two were confined in one bed….
“It was impossible entirely to shut out the infection. I have known FIFTEEN CHILDREN SLEEP in two beds!”—From the sworn evidence of Mrs. Elizabeth Gain, late matron, and Mr. Adams, late medical attendant, at the Sevenoaks Union—extracted from the Times of Dec. 2, 1841.
Snuff is a sort of freemasonry amongst those who partake of it.
Those who do not partake of it cannot possibly understand those who do. It is just the same as music to the deaf—dancing to the lame—or painting to the blind.
Snuff-takers will assure you that there are as many different types of snuff-takers as there are different types of women in a church or in a theatre, or different species of roses in the flower-bed of an horticulturist.
But the section of snuff-takers has, in common with all social categories, its apostates, its false brethren.
For as sure as you carry about with you a snuff-box, of copper, of tortoise-shell, or of horn (the material matters absolutely nothing), you cannot fail to have met upon your path the man who carries no snuff-box, and yet is continually taking snuff.
The man who carries no snuff-box is an intimate nuisance—a hand-in-hand annoyance—a sort of authorised Jeremy Diddler to all snuff-takers.
He meets you everywhere. The first question he puts is not how “you do?” he assails you instantly with “Have you such a thing as a pinch of snuff about you?”
It is absolutely as if he said, “I have no snuff myself, but I knowyouhave—and you cannot refuse me levying a small contribution upon it.”
If it were onlyonepinch; but it is two—it is four—it is eight; it is all the week—all the month—it is all year round. The man who carries no snuff box is a regular Captain Macheath—a licensed Paul Clifford—to everyone that does. He meets you on the highway, and summonses you to stop by demanding “Your snuff-box or your life?”
A man can easily refuse to his most intimate friend his purse, or his razor, or his wife, or his horse; but with what decency can he refuse him—or to his coolest acquaintance even—a pinch of snuff? It is in this that the evilpinches.
The snuff-taker who carries no snuff-box is aware of this—and woe to the box into which his fingers gain admission to levy the pinch his nose distrains upon.
There is no man who has the trick so aptly at his fingers’ ends of absorbing so much in one given pinch, as the man who carries no snuff box. The quantity he takes proves he is not given tosamples.
Properly speaking he is the landlord of all the boxes in the kingdom. Those who carry snuff-boxes are only his tenants; and hold them merely by virtue of arack-rent, under him.
He is a perpetual plunderer—a petty purloiner—a pinching petitionerin forma pauperis—a contraband dealer in snuff. However, he is in general noted for his social qualities. He is affable, mild, harmless, insinuating, yielding, and submissive. He never fails to compliment you upon your good looks, and wonders in deep interest where you buy such excellent snuff. He agrees with you that Sir Peter Laurie is the first statesman of the day, and flies into the highest ecstacies when he learns that it is some of George the Fourth’s sold-off stock. He even acknowledges that Universal Suffrage is the only thing that can save the nation, and affects to be quite astonished that he has left his box behind him. He will beg to be remembered to your wife, and leaves you after begging for “the favour of another pinch.” Where is the man whose nature would not be susceptible of apinchwhen invoked in the name of his wife?
Goldsmith recommends a pair of boots, a silver pencil, or a horse of small value, as an infallible specific for getting rid of a troublesome guest. He always had the satisfaction to find he never came back to return them.
But with the man who carries no snuff-box this specific would lose its infallibility. It would be folly to lend him your snuff-box, for at this price snuff would lose all its flavour, all its perfume for him. The best box to give him would be perhaps a box on the ear.
If he were obliged to buy his own snuff, it would give him no sensation. The strongest would not make him sneeze, or wring from the sensibility of his eyes the smallest tribute to its pungency. He would turn up his nose at it, or, at the best, use it as sand-dust to receipt his washerwoman’s bills with.
These feelings aside, the man who carries no snuff-box is a good member of society; that is to say, quite as good a one as the man who does carry a snuff-box. He is in general a good friend (as long as he has theentréeof your box), a good parent, a good tenant, a good customer, a good voter, a good eater, a good talker, and especially a good judge of snuff. He knows by one touch, by one sniff, by onecoup d’œil, the good from the bad, the old from the new, the fragrant from the filthy, the colour which is natural from the colour which is coloured. If any one should want to lay in a stock of snuff, let him take the man who carries no snuff with him: hisipse dixitmay be relied upon with every certainty. He will choose it as if he were buying it for himself, and in return will never forget to look upon it as a property he is entitled to fully as much as you who have paid for it; for, in fact, would you be in possession of the snuff if he had not chosen it for you?
As for his complaint, it is like hydrophilia; no remedy has as yet been invented for it; and we can with comfortable consciences predict that, as long as snuff is taken, and men continue to carry it about with them in snuff-boxes, they are sure to be subject to the importunities of the man who carries no snuff box.
SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, who, like Byron, (in this one instance only) “wanted a hero,” had the good fortune to lay his hands upon the history of the celebrated George Barrington of picking-pocket notoriety. That worthy, describing the progress he made for the good of his country, related some strange particulars of a foreign bird, called the Secretary, or Snake-eater, which Sir Edward, from his knowledge of the natural history of his friend John Wilson Croker, declares to be the immediate connecting link between the English Admiralty Secretary, or “Toad-eater.”
“Have you been much at sea?”
“Why no,not exactly; but my brother married an admiral’s daughter!”
“Were you ever abroad?”
“No,not exactly; but my mother’s maiden name was ‘French.’”
[pg 257]
[A letter has found its way into our box, which was evidently intended for the ParisianCourrier des Dames; but as the month is so far advanced, we are fearful that the communication will be too late for the purposes of that fashionable journal. We have therefore with unparalleled liberality inserted it in PUNCH, and thus conferred an immortality on an ephemera! It is worthy of remark that the writer adopts the style of our foreign fashionable correspondents, who invariably introduce as much English as French into their communications.]
[A letter has found its way into our box, which was evidently intended for the ParisianCourrier des Dames; but as the month is so far advanced, we are fearful that the communication will be too late for the purposes of that fashionable journal. We have therefore with unparalleled liberality inserted it in PUNCH, and thus conferred an immortality on an ephemera! It is worthy of remark that the writer adopts the style of our foreign fashionable correspondents, who invariably introduce as much English as French into their communications.]
Rue de Dyotte,Derrière les Slommes à Saint Gilles.
MON JOVIAL ANCIEN COQ.
Les swelles de Londreshave now determined upon the winter fashions, subject only to such modifications as their wardrobes render imperative,et y vont comme des Briques. Butchers’ trays continue to be worn on the shoulders; and sprats may be found very generally upon the heads of thepoissonnières-faggeuses de la Porte de Billing. Short pipes are much patronised by architects’ assistants, and are worn either in the hatband or the side of the mouth,et point d’erreur. A few black eyes have been seendans la Rookerie; but these facial ornaments will not be general until after boxing-day,quand ils le deviendront bien forts. Highlows and anklejacks66. For an elaborate description of these elegances, vide PUNCH.7. TheFancy, we presume.—Printer's Devil.are still patronised byles imaginaires7of both sexes, the only alteration in the fashion being that the highlow is cut a little more on the instep, and the anklejack has retrograded a trifle towards the heel, with thosequi veulent le couper gras. A great many muslin caps are seen, frequently with a hole in the crown, through which the hair protrudes, and gives atrès épiceux et soufflet-hautappearance. They are calledles Capoles des Sept-Dialles.
Others have no opening at the top, but two streamers of the same material as the cap are allowed to play over the shoulders ofles immenses Cartes. The original colour of thesecapotesis white; but they are only worn byles grandes Cigarreswhen the white has been very much rubbed off.
Furs are much worn, both by the male and femalemagnifiques poussières. The latter usually carry them suspended from their apron-strings, and appear to give the preference to hare and rabbitmantelets, though sometimes domestic felines are denuded for the same purpose,que puisse m’aider, pomme-de-terre. The gentlemen, on the other hand, carry their furs at the end of a long pole, and towards Saturday-night a great numberde petits pots88. Query mugs—Anglicèfaces?—Printer’s Devil.may be seen enveloped in this costlymatériel. The fantails of thechapeaux d’Adelphiare spread rather broader over the shoulders, and are sometimes elevated behind,quand ils veulent le faire très soufflément. Pewter brooches are still in great request, as are also pewter-pots, which are used in the tap-rooms of somedes cribbes particulièrement flamboyants-haut.
But I mustfermer ma trappe de pomme-de-terre, et promener mes crayons; ainsi, adieu, mon joli tromp.
Votre chummi dévoué,Jusques tout est bleu,ALPHONSE JAMBES D’ARAIGNEE.
A juvenile party, among whom we noticed the two Biggses, attended in Piccadilly to inspect the sewer now being made. One of the workmen employed threw up a quantity of the soil, intending no doubt to give an opportunity to the party of inspecting its properties; but as it hit some of them in the eye, they retreated rapidly.
The venerable square-keeper in Golden-square took his usual airing round the railings yesterday, and afterwards partook of the pleasures of the chase, by pursuing a boy into John-street. He was attended by his usualsuiteof children, who cheered him in his progress, following him as he ran on, and turning back so as to precede him, when he abandoned the hunt and resumed his promenade, which he did almost immediately.
Bill Bumpus walked for several hours in the suburbs yesterday. In order to have the advantage of exercise, he carried a basket on his head, and was understood to intimate in a loud tone that it contained sprats, which he distributed to the humbler classes at a penny a plateful.
Now, Charlotte, dear, attend to me,You know you’re coming out,And in the best societyWill shine, beyond a doubt.Things were not always so with us,—But let oblivion’s sealFor ever shut out former days—They were so ungenteel.And as for country neighbours, child,You must forget them all;And never visit any placeThat is not Park or Hall.But if you know a titled name,That knowledge ne’er conceal;And mention nothing in the world,Except it be genteel.But think no more of Henry, child;His love is pure, I know;He writes delightful verses too;But cannot be yourbeau.He never as at Almack’s, sure,—From that there’s no appeal;For neither gifts nor graces nowCan make a man genteel.You know Lord Worthless,—Charlotte, wouldNot that be quite a match,If not so very often inThe keeping of the watch?He paid some damages last year,Though slippery as an eel;But then such vices in a peerAre perfectly genteel.And you must cut the Worthies—they’reNo company for you;Though all of them are lovely girls,And very clever too.’Tis true, we found them kind, when allThe world were cold as steel;’Tis true, they were your early friends;But, then, they’re not genteel.There’s Lady Waxwork, who, when dressed,Has nothing she can say;Miss Triffle of her lap-dog’s tailWill chatter half the day.The Honourable Mr. TrickAt cards can cheat or steal:—Theseare the friends that suit us now,For oh! they’resogenteel!But, Charlotte, dear, avoid the Blues,No matter when, or how;For literature is quite beneathThe higher classes now.Though Raphael paint, or Homer sing,Oh! never seem to feel;Young ladies should not have a soul,—It’s really ungenteel.
Now, Charlotte, dear, attend to me,You know you’re coming out,And in the best societyWill shine, beyond a doubt.Things were not always so with us,—But let oblivion’s sealFor ever shut out former days—They were so ungenteel.
Now, Charlotte, dear, attend to me,
You know you’re coming out,
And in the best society
Will shine, beyond a doubt.
Things were not always so with us,—
But let oblivion’s seal
For ever shut out former days—
They were so ungenteel.
And as for country neighbours, child,You must forget them all;And never visit any placeThat is not Park or Hall.But if you know a titled name,That knowledge ne’er conceal;And mention nothing in the world,Except it be genteel.
And as for country neighbours, child,
You must forget them all;
And never visit any place
That is not Park or Hall.
But if you know a titled name,
That knowledge ne’er conceal;
And mention nothing in the world,
Except it be genteel.
But think no more of Henry, child;His love is pure, I know;He writes delightful verses too;But cannot be yourbeau.He never as at Almack’s, sure,—From that there’s no appeal;For neither gifts nor graces nowCan make a man genteel.
But think no more of Henry, child;
His love is pure, I know;
He writes delightful verses too;
But cannot be yourbeau.
He never as at Almack’s, sure,—
From that there’s no appeal;
For neither gifts nor graces now
Can make a man genteel.
You know Lord Worthless,—Charlotte, wouldNot that be quite a match,If not so very often inThe keeping of the watch?He paid some damages last year,Though slippery as an eel;But then such vices in a peerAre perfectly genteel.
You know Lord Worthless,—Charlotte, would
Not that be quite a match,
If not so very often in
The keeping of the watch?
He paid some damages last year,
Though slippery as an eel;
But then such vices in a peer
Are perfectly genteel.
And you must cut the Worthies—they’reNo company for you;Though all of them are lovely girls,And very clever too.’Tis true, we found them kind, when allThe world were cold as steel;’Tis true, they were your early friends;But, then, they’re not genteel.
And you must cut the Worthies—they’re
No company for you;
Though all of them are lovely girls,
And very clever too.
’Tis true, we found them kind, when all
The world were cold as steel;
’Tis true, they were your early friends;
But, then, they’re not genteel.
There’s Lady Waxwork, who, when dressed,Has nothing she can say;Miss Triffle of her lap-dog’s tailWill chatter half the day.The Honourable Mr. TrickAt cards can cheat or steal:—Theseare the friends that suit us now,For oh! they’resogenteel!
There’s Lady Waxwork, who, when dressed,
Has nothing she can say;
Miss Triffle of her lap-dog’s tail
Will chatter half the day.
The Honourable Mr. Trick
At cards can cheat or steal:—
Theseare the friends that suit us now,
For oh! they’resogenteel!
But, Charlotte, dear, avoid the Blues,No matter when, or how;For literature is quite beneathThe higher classes now.Though Raphael paint, or Homer sing,Oh! never seem to feel;Young ladies should not have a soul,—It’s really ungenteel.
But, Charlotte, dear, avoid the Blues,
No matter when, or how;
For literature is quite beneath
The higher classes now.
Though Raphael paint, or Homer sing,
Oh! never seem to feel;
Young ladies should not have a soul,—
It’s really ungenteel.
SIR PETER LAURIE sent an order to a wine-merchant at the West End on Tuesday last for “six dozen of thebest Ottoman Porte.”
[pg 258]
“Half the dayat least“—says the editor of theAthenæum—“we arein fancyat the Palace, takingour turnof loyal watch by the cradle of the heir-apparent;the restat our own firesides, in that mood ofcheerful thankfulnesswhich makes fun and frolic welcome!” Half the day,at least!
A stroke of fancy—especially to a heavy man—is sometimes as discomposing as a stroke of paralysis. Our friend of theAthenæumis not to be carried away by fancy, cost free: his imaginative watch at the Palace—for who can doubt that for six hoursper diemhe is in Buckingham nursery?—has led him into the perpetration of various eccentricities which, when we reflect upon the fortune he must have hoarded, and the innate selfishness of our common nature, may possibly end in a commission of lunacy. As juries are now-a-days brought together (especially as Chartists abound), excessive loyalty may be returned—confirmed insanity. It is, however, our duty as good citizens and fellow-journalists to protest, in advance, against any such verdict; declaring that whatever may be adduced by the unreflecting persons in daily intercourse with the editor—that grave and learned scribe is in the enjoyment—of all the sense originally vouchsafed to him. We know the stories that are in the most unfeeling manner told to the disadvantage of the learned and inoffensive gentleman; we know them, and shall not shrink from meeting them.
It is said that for one hour a day “at least” since the birth of the Prince the unfortunate gentleman has been invariably occupied folding and refolding a copy of theAthenæum—now airing it and smoothing it down—now unfolding and now folding it up again. Well, What of this? The truth is, our poor friend has only been “taking his turn,” arranging “in fancy” the diaper of the royal nursery. That he should have selected a copy of theAthenæumas a type of the swaddling cloth bespeaks in our mind the presence of great judgment. It is madness with very considerable method.
A printer’s devil—sent either for copy or a proof—deposes that our friend seized him, and laying him in his lap, insisted upon feeding him with his goose-quill, at the same time dipping that noisome instrument in his ink-bottle. The said devil declares that with all his experience of the various qualities of various inks used by gentlemen upon town, he never met with ink at once so muddy and so sour as the ink of theAthenæum. We do not deny the statement of the devil as to what he calls the assault committed upon him; but the fact is, the editor was not in his own study, but was “taking his turn” at the pap-spoon of the Duke of CORNWALL!
Betty, the editor’s housemaid, has given warning, declaring that she cannot live with any gentleman who insists upon taking her in his arms, and tossing her up and down as if she was no more than a baby; at the same time making a chirruping noise with his mouth, and calling her “poppet” and “chickabiddy.” Well, we allow all this, and boldly ask, What of it? We grant the “poppet;” we concede the “chickabiddy;” and then sternly inquire if an excess of loyalty is to impugn the reason of the most ratiocinative editor? Does not the thing speak for itself? If BETTY were not a fool, she would know that her master—good, regular man!—meant nothing more than, under the auspices of Mrs. LILLY, to dandle the Duke of CORNWALL.
A taxgatherer, calling upon the editor for the Queen’s taxes, could get nothing out of our respected friend, but “Ride a cock-horse to Bamberry Cross!” If taxgatherers were not at once the most vindictive and the most stupid of men (it is said Sir ROBERT has ordered them to be very carnivorous this Christmas), the fellow would never have called in a broker to alarm our excellent coadjutor, but would at once have seen that the genius of theAthenæumwas taking his turn in Buckingham Palace, singing a nurserycanzonettato the Duke of CORNWALL!
And is it for these, to us beautiful evidences of an absorbing loyalty—of a feeling that is true as truth, for if it was a mere conventional flame we should take no note of it—that the editor of theAthenæum, a most grave, considerate gentleman, should be cited to Gray’s-inn Coffee-house, and by an ignorant and unimaginative mob of jurymen voted incapable of writing reviews upon his own books, or the books of other people?
The question that we would here open is one of great and social political importance. There is an end of personal liberty if the enthusiasm of loyalty is to be visited as madness. For our part, we have the fullest belief in the avowal of the poor man of theAthenæum, that for half a day he is—in fancy—watching the little Prince in Buckingham nursery; and yet we see that men are deprived of enormous fortunes (we tremble for the copyright of theAthenæum) for indulging in stories, with equal probability on the face of them. For instance, a few days since WEEKS, a Greenwich pensioner, (being suddenly rich, the reporters call himMisterWEEKS,) was fobbed out of 120,000l.for having boasted (among other things) that he had had children by Queen ELIZABETH (by the way, the virginity of Royal BETSY has before been questioned)—that he intended to marry Queen VICTORIA, and that, in fact, not GEORGE THE THIRD but WEEKS THE FIRST was the father of Queen CHARLOTTE’S offspring. Now, what is all this, but loyaltyin excess? Is it not precisely the same feeling that takes the editor of theAthenæumhalf of every day from his family, spellbinding him at the cradle of the Duke of CORNWALL? Cannot our readers just as easily believe the pensioner as the editor? We can.
“He told me he was going to marry the Queen” (thus speaks Sir R. DOBSON, chief medical officer of Greenwich Hospital, of poor WEEKS), “andI had him cuppedand treated as an insane patient!” Can the editor hope to escape blood-letting and a shaven head? “He told me he was going to dine to-day at Buckingham Palace.” Thus spoke WEEKS. “Half the day at least we are in fancy at the Palace;” thus boasteth theAthenæum. The pensioner is found “incapable of managing himself or his affairs:” the editor continues to review books and write articles! “He (WEEKS) also said he had once horse-whipped a lion until it became afraid of him!” Where is CARTER—where VAN AMBURGH, if not in Bedlam? Lucky, indeed, is it for the editor of theAthenæumthat his weekly miscellany (wherein hethinkshe sometimes horse-whips lions) is not quite worth 120,000l.Otherwise, certain would be his summons to Gray’s-inn.
We have rejoiced, as beseemed us, at the birth of the little Prince; it now becomes our grave moral duty to read a lesson of forbearance to those enthusiastic people who—especially if they have money—may by an excess of the principle of loyalty put in peril their personal freedom. Let them not take confidence from the safety enjoyed by theAthenæumeditor—the poverty of the press may protect him. If, however, he and other influential wizards of the broad sheet, succeed in making loyalty not a rational principle, but a mania—if, day by day, and week by week, they insist upon deifying poor infirm humanity, exalting themselves in their own conceit, in their very self-abasement—they may escape an individual accusation in the general folly. When we are all mad alike—when we all, with the editor of theAthenæum, take our half-day’s watch at the little Prince’s cradle—when every man and woman throughout the empire believe themselves making royal pap and airing royal baby-linen—then, whatever fortune we may have we may be safe from the fate of poor WEEKS, the Greenwich pensioner, who, we repeat, is most unjustly confined for his notions of royalty, seeing that many of our contemporaries are still left at liberty to write and publish. Poor dear little PRINCE! if fed and nourished from your cradle upwards upon such stuff as that pressed upon you since your birth, what deep, what powerful sympathies will be yours with the natures of your fellow-men—what lofty notions of kingly usefulness, and kingly duty!
It may be that certain writers think they best oppose the advancing spirit of the time—questioning as it does the “divinity” that hedges the throne—by adopting the worse than foolish adulation of a by-gone age. In a silly flippant book just published—a thing calledCecil—the author speaks of the first appearance of VICTORIA in the House of Lords. He says—
“An unaccountable feelingof trustrose in my bosom. I speak it not profanely—[when a writer says this, be sure of it that, as in the present case, he goes deep as he can in profanation]—when I saythat the idea of the yet unknown Saviour, a child among the Doctors of the Temple, occurred spontaneously to my mind!”
Now this book has been daubed with honey; the writer has been promised “an European reputation” (Madame LAFFARGE has a reputation equally extensive), and he is at this moment to be found upon drawing-tables, whose owners would scream—or affect to scream—as at an adder, at SHELLEY. Nay, Shelley’s publisher is found guilty of blasphemy in the Court of Queen’s Bench; and that within these few months. We should like to know Lord Denman’s opinions of Mr. BOONE. What would he say of Queen Victoria being compared to the Redeemer—of Lord LONDONDERRY,et hoc genus omne, being “Doctors of the Temple?”
A writer in theAlmanach des Gourmandssays, in praise of a certain viand, “this is a dish to be eaten on your knees.” There are writers who, with, goose-quill in hand, never approach royalty, but they—write upon their knees!
Q.
[pg 259]
A man carves 'Jack Russell' on a beam. Another beam is marked 'Timber Duties.'JACK CUTTING HIS NAME ON THE BEAM.
JACK CUTTING HIS NAME ON THE BEAM.
[pg 261]
The Fleet is a very peculiar isolated kingdom, bounded on the north by the wall to the north or north wall; on the south, by the wall to the south or south wall; on the east, by the wall to the east or east wall; and on the west, by the wall to the west or west wall. The manners and habits of the natives are marked with many extraordinary peculiarities; and some of the local customs are of an exceedingly interesting character.
The derivation of the word “Fleet” has caused many controversies, and we believe is even now involved in much mystery, and subject to much dispute.
Some commentators have endeavoured to establish an analogy between the words “fleet” and “fast,” with the view of showing that these being nearly synonymous terms, “the fleet is a corruption from the fast, or keepfast.” Others again contend the origin to be purely nautical, inasmuch as this country, like the ships in war time, is mostly peopled withpressed men. While a third class argue that the name was originally one of warning, traditionally handed down from father to son by the inhabitants of the surrounding countries (with whom this land has never been in high favour), and that the addition of the letterTrenders the phrase perfect, leaving the caution thus,Flee-it—now contracted and perverted into the commonly used term ofFleet.
As we are only the showmen about to exhibit “the lions and the dogs,” we merely put forward these deductions, and tell our readers they are welcome to choose “whichhever they please,hour little dears!” while we will at once proceed to describe the manners and habits of the natives.
One great peculiarity in connexion with this strange people is, that the inhabitants are, from the first moment of their appearance, invariably adults; and we can positively assert the almost incredible fact, that nobonâ fideoccupant of these realms was ever seen in any part of their domain in the hands of a nurse, enveloped in the long clothes worn by many of the infants of the surrounding nations. Like the Spartan youths, all these people undergo a long course of training, and exceed the age of one-and-twenty before they are deemed worthy of admission into the ranks of these singular hordes. They have no actual sovereign, but merely two traditionary beings, to whom they bow with most abject servility. These imaginary potentates are always alluded to under the fearful names of “John Doe and Richard Roe;” though they are never seen, still their edicts are all-powerful, their commands extending to the most distant regions, and carrying captivity and caption-fees wherever they go. Thesefirmansare entrusted to the charge of a peculiar race of beings, commonly called officers to the sheriff. There is something exceedingly interesting in the ceremonious attendant upon the execution of one of these potent fiats: the manner is as follows. Having received the orders of “John Doe and Richard Roe,” they proceed to the residence of their intended captive, and with consummate skill, like the Eastern tellers of tales, commence their business by the repetition of some ingenious story (called in the language of the captured,lie), wherein the Bumme Bayllyffe (such is their title) artfully represents himself “as a cousin from the country,” an “uncle from town,” or some near and dear long expected and anxiously-looked-for returned-from-abroad friend. Should their endeavours fail in procuring the desired interview, they frequently have resort to the following practice. With the right-hand finger and thumb they open a small aperture in the side of a species of garment, generally manufactured from drab broadcloth, in which they encase their lower extremities, and having thrust their hand to the very bottom of the said opening, they produce a peculiarly musical sound by jingling various round pieces of white money, which so entrances the feelings of the domestic with whom they are discoursing, that his eyes become fixed upon the hand of the operater the moment the sound ceases and it is withdrawn. The Bumme Bayllyffe then winketh his right eye, and with great rapidity depositeth a curious-looking coin, of the value of five shillings, in the hand of the domestic, who thereupon pointeth with his dexter thumb over his left shoulder to a small china closet, in which the enemy of John Doe and Richard Roe is found, his Wellington boots sticking out of the hamper, under the straw in which the rest of his person is deposited.
The Bumme Bayllyffe having called him loudly by his name, showeth his writ, steppeth up, and tappeth him once gently upon the shoulder, whereupon the ceremony is completed, and the future inmate of the Fleet departeth with the Bumme Bayllyffe.
The first thing that attracts the attention of the captured of John Doe and Richard Roe is the great care with which the entrance to his new country is guarded. Four officials of the warden or minister of the said John and Richard alternately remain in actual possession of that interesting pass, to each of whom the new-comer submits his face and figure for actual and earnest inspection, for the reason that should the said new arrival by any means pass their boundary, they themselves would suffer much disgrace and obliquy; having undergone this inspection, he then proceeds to the interior of these strange domains.
Walls! walls!! walls!!! meet him on every side; and by some strange manner of judging the new-comer is immediately known as such.
The costume of the natives differs widely from the usually sported habiliments of more extended nations; caps worn by small boys in other climes here decorated the heads of the most venerable elders, and peculiarly-cut dressing-gowns do duty for the discarded broadcloth of a Stultz, a Nugee, or a Willis.
The new man’s conformity with the various customs of the inmates is one of the most curious facts on record. We have been favoured with the following table or scale by which time regulates the gradual advancement to perfection of a genuine “Fleety”:—
First Week.—Ring; union-pin; watch; straps; clean boots; ditto shirt; shave; and light waistcoat.
Second Week.—Slippers in passage; no straps to boots; rub on toe; dirty hall; fresh dickey; black vest; two days’ beard.—[Exit ring.]
Third Week.—Full-bosomed stock; one bracer; indication of white chalk on seat of duck trousers; blue striped shirt; no vest; shooting jacket; small imperial.—[Exeunt union-pin and watch.]
Fourth Week.—White collar; blue shirt; slippers various; boots a little over at heel; incipient moustache; silk pocket-handkerchief round neck; and a fortnight’s splashes on trousers.
Fifth Week.—Red ochre outline of increased whiskers, flourishing imperial, and chevaux-de-frise moustache; dirty shirt; French cap; Jersey over-all; one slipper and a boot; meerschaum; dressing-gown; and principal seat at the free and easy.
Sixth.—Everything in the “worserline;” called by christian name by their bed-maker; hold their tongues, in consideration of three weeks’ arrears, at four shillings a week; and thenall’s done, and the inhabitant is complete.
There are people now-a-days who peruse with pleasure the works of Homer, Juvenal, and other poets and satirists of the old school; and it is not unlikely that centuries hence persons will be found turning back to the pages of the writers of the present day (especially PUNCH), and we rather just imagine they will be not a little puzzled and flabbergasted to discover the meaning, or wit, of some of those elegant phrases and figures of speech so generally used by this enlightened and reformed age! The following brief elucidation of a few of these may serve for present ignoramuses, and also for future inquirers.
That’s the Ticket for Soup.—Is one of the commonest, and originated several years ago, we have discovered, after much study and research, when a portion of the inhabitants of this wicked lower globe were suffering under a malady, called by learned and scientific men “poverty,” and were supplied by the rich and benevolent with a mixture of hot water, turnips, and a spice of beef, under the name of soup. There are two kinds of tickets for soups in existence in London at present—
The Ticket for Turtle Soup, or a ticket to a Lord Mayor’s Feast. It is only necessary to add, these are in much request.
The Ticket for Mendicity Society Soup. Beggars and such-like members of society monopolize these tickets; and it has lately been discovered by a celebrated philanthropist that no respectable person was ever known to make use of one of them. This is a remarkable fact, and worthy the attention of the anti-monopolists. These tickets are bought and sold like merchandise, and their average value in the market is about one halfpenny.
How’s your Mother.—This affectionate inquiry is generally coupled with
Has she Sold her Mangle.—“Mangling done here” is an announcement which meets the eye in several quarters of this metropolis; and when the last census was taken by the author of the “Lights and Shadows of London Life,” the important discovery was made that this branch of business is commonly carried on by old ladies. The importance (especially to the landlord) of the answer to this query is at once perceivable.
We scarcely expect a monument to be raised to PUNCH for these discoveries; though if we had our deserts—butverbum sap.
[pg 262]
Yes! we have said the word adieu!A blight has fallen on my soul!And bliss, that angels never knew,Is torn from me, by fate’s control!And yet the tear I shed at parting,Was “all my eye and Betty Martin!”Andthouhast sworn that never moreThy heart shall bow to passion’s spell;But ever sadly ponder o’erThe anguish of our last farewell!Yet, as you still are in your teens—Isay, “tell that to the Marines!”And still perchance thy faithful heartMay pine, and break, when I am gone!While bitter tears, unbidden, start,As oft thou musest—sad and lone!I’ve read such things in many a tale—But yet it’s “very like a whale!”
Yes! we have said the word adieu!A blight has fallen on my soul!And bliss, that angels never knew,Is torn from me, by fate’s control!And yet the tear I shed at parting,Was “all my eye and Betty Martin!”
Yes! we have said the word adieu!
A blight has fallen on my soul!
And bliss, that angels never knew,
Is torn from me, by fate’s control!
And yet the tear I shed at parting,
Was “all my eye and Betty Martin!”
Andthouhast sworn that never moreThy heart shall bow to passion’s spell;But ever sadly ponder o’erThe anguish of our last farewell!Yet, as you still are in your teens—Isay, “tell that to the Marines!”
Andthouhast sworn that never more
Thy heart shall bow to passion’s spell;
But ever sadly ponder o’er
The anguish of our last farewell!
Yet, as you still are in your teens—
Isay, “tell that to the Marines!”
And still perchance thy faithful heartMay pine, and break, when I am gone!While bitter tears, unbidden, start,As oft thou musest—sad and lone!I’ve read such things in many a tale—But yet it’s “very like a whale!”
And still perchance thy faithful heart
May pine, and break, when I am gone!
While bitter tears, unbidden, start,
As oft thou musest—sad and lone!
I’ve read such things in many a tale—
But yet it’s “very like a whale!”
Paris, Passage de l’Opéra, Escalier B. au 3ème.
MY DEAR PUNCH,
I salute you with reverence—I embrace you with affection—I thank you with devout gratitude, for the many delightful moments I have enjoyed in your society. I regularly read your “London Charivari:” it is magnificent—superb! What wit—whatagacerie—what exquisite badinage is contained in every line of it! You are the veritable monarch of English humour. Hail, then, greatfun-ambule, PUNCH THE FIRST! Long may you live, to flourish your invincible baton, and to increase the number of your laughing subjects. Your “Physiology of the Medical Student” has been translated, and the avidity with which it is read here has suggested to me the idea that sketches of French character might be equally popular amongst English readers. With this hope I send yon the commencement of a Physiological and Pictorial Portrait of “THE LOVER.” I have chosen him for my leading character, because his madness will be understood by the whole world. Love,mon cher ami, is not a local passion, it grows everywhere like—but I am anticipating my subject, which I now commit to your hands.
With sentiments of the profoundest respect and esteem,ALPHONSE LECOURT.
A despondent man sits on the ground.PORTRAIT OF THE LOVER.
PORTRAIT OF THE LOVER.
A Renaissance man stands next to a letter G.
Gentle woman!—Beautiful enigma!—whose magnetic glances and countless charms subdue man’s sterner nature—to you I dedicate the following pages. The subject on which I am about to treat is the gravest, the lightest, the most decided, the most undefined, the most earthly, the most spiritual, the saddest, and the gayest, the most individual, and at the same time the most universal you can imagine. To you, ladies, I address myself. You who form the keys on which the eternal and infinite gamut of love has been run from creation’s first hour till the present moment—tell me how I may best touch the chords of your hearts? Come around me, ye earthly divinities of every age, rank, and imaginable variety! Buds of blushing sixteen, full-blown roses of thirty, haughty court dames, and smiling city beauties, come like delicious phantoms, and fill my mind with images graceful as your own forms, and melting as your own hearts! Thanks, gentle spirits! ye have heard my call, and now, inspired by you, I seize my pen, and give to my paper the thoughts which crowd upon my mind.
It is easier to answer this question by a thousand instances, than by one definition, which can comprehend them all. What is Love? It is anything you please. It is a prism, through which the eye beholds the same object in various colours; it is a heaven of bliss, or a hell of torture; a thirst of the heart—an appetite which we spiritualize; a pure expansion of the soul, but which sooner or later becomes metamorphosed into an animal passion—a diamond statue with feet of clay. It is a dream—a delirium, a desire for danger, and a hope of conquest; it is that which everyone abjures, and everyone covets; it is the end, the great end, and the only end of life. Love, in short, is a tyrannical influence which none can escape; and however metaphysicians may define the passion, it appears to me that it is wholly dependent on the mysterious
A pair of lovers cuddle in front of a tree.LAWS OF ATTRACTION.
LAWS OF ATTRACTION.
A young lady, I mean one who has but recently thrown aside her dolls, is a bashful blushing little puppet, who only acts, speaks, and moves as mama directs. She is a statue of flesh and blood, not yet animated by the Promethean fire—a chrysalis, which may one day become a beautiful butterfly, fluttering on silken wing amidst a crowd of adorers; but she is yet only a chrysalis, pale and cold, and wrapped up in a thousand conventional restrictions, like a mummy in its swathes.
Theveryyoung lady is usually prodigiously careful of her little self: she regards men as her natural enemies. Poor innocent!—This absurdity is the fault of her education. They have made her believe that love is the most abominable, execrable, infernal thing in existence. They have taught her to lie and to dissimulate her most innocent emotions. But the time is not far distant when the natural impulses of her heart will break down the barriers that hypocrisy has placed around her. Woman was formed to love: she must obey the imperious law of her being, and will love the moment her inspirations for thebelle passionbecome stronger than her reason. I may add, also, that when a young lady discovers a tendency this way, it may be safely conjectured the object on which she will bestow her favour is not very distant.
It has been a long-established axiom that there is but one great principle[pg 263]of love; but then it assumes various phases, according to the thousands of circumstances under which it is exhibited, and which, to speak in the language of philosophy, it would be impossible to synthetise. Time, place, age, the very season of the year, the ruling passion, peace or war, education, the instincts of the heart, the health of the body and the mind (if it be possible for the latter to be in a sane state when we fall in love), the buoyancy of youth or the decrepitude of old age,—these, and numerous other causes which I cannot at present enumerate, serve to modify to infinity the form and character of the sentiment. Thus we do not love at eighteen as we do at forty, nor in the city as we do in the country, nor in spring as we do in autumn, nor in the camp as we do in the court; nor does the ignorant man love like a learned one; the merchant does not love like the lawyer; nor does the latter love like the doctor. It is upon these different phases in the character of love that I have founded my system. Next week I shall endeavour to describe some of the traits which distinguish “The Lover.” Till then, fair readers,—I remain your devoted slave.
WITNESS MY
A man kisses a woman's handHAND AND SEAL.
HAND AND SEAL.
A signature of Alph. Lecourt.
We had long considered ourselves the funniest dogs in Christendee; and, in the plenitude of our vanity, imagined that we monopolised the attention and admiration of the present and the future. We expected to be deified, and thus become the founders of a new mythology. PUNCH must be immortal! But how shorn of his pristine splendour—how denuded of his fancied glories! for theJohn Bullhas discovered—
Wretched as we must be at this reflection, we generously resort to—our scissors, and publish our own discomfiture.
In alluding to the author’s description of the London dining-room, theJohn Bullremarks:—
It will bring comfort to the savage bosoms of the late Ministry, for whose especial information we must make a few more extracts, concerning coffee-houses, or shops, as they are mostly termed.
The second class of coffee-houses, and those I have particularly in my eye, are altogether different from those I have just mentioned. The prices are remarkably moderate in most of these places; the charge is no more than three-halfpence for half a pint of coffee, orthreepence for a whole pint. The price of half a pint of tea is twopence,of a whole pint fourpence. If you simply ask bread to your tea or coffee, two large slices, well buttered, are brought you, for which you are charged twopence. Or should you prefer having a penny roll, or any other sort of bread, you can have it at the same price as at the baker’s.
In most coffee-houses, you may also have chops or steaks for dinner. If the party be arigid economist(!)he may, as regards some of theseestablishments, purchase his steak or chop himself, and it will be prepared gratuitously for him; but if that be too much trouble for him to take, and he prefers ordering it at once, he will get, in many houses, his chop with bread and potatoes with it for sixpence, and his steak for ninepence or tenpence.
These coffee-houses have many advantages over hotels, besides the great difference in the prices charged. In the first place, there is not so muchformalityoraffected dignityabout them, and they are far better provided with means of rational amusement; and the promptitude with which a customer is served is really surprising.
Are not these passages declarations of the individual? Winding himself up with twopenny-worth of cheese! Pleading for the additional penny for the waitress, whose personal charms and obliging disposition must be considered to extort the amount! And above all, unable to conceive any motive, except aversion to trouble, for disliking to carry “his chop” upon a skewer through the streets of London. How every line revels in the recollection of having dined, and speaks how seldom! while thewell-butteredbread infers the usual fare. Still it is not meanly written. There are a glorying and exultation in every word that redeem it, and show the author is more to be envied than compassionated; though a little further on we perceive the shifts to which his homeless state has reduced him.
You can order, if you please, a cup of coffee without anything to it; and, for so doing, you may sit if you wish for five or six hours in succession.
I have said that coffee-houses are excellent places for reading; I might have added, formeditationalso. For unlike public-houses, there are no noisy discussions and disputes in them. All is calm, tranquil, and comfortable. The beverage, too, which is drank as a beverage, as I before remarked in a previous chapter,cheers, but not inebriates.
The remarks are generally equally original, and the facts, no doubt in some degree truths, are all alike humorous; the more so when the aspect of the book and the names of the respectable publishers suggest the higher class of readers to whom it is addressed. Little anecdotes are interspersed, concerning Harriet, of Coventry-street, who didn’t mind her stops; and James, behind the Mansion-house, who knew everybody’s appetite, that enliven the descriptive portions of the work, which is in its very inappropriateness the more amusing, and cannot be read without reaping both information and instruction on topics which no other author would have had the temerity to discuss.
But these are only words. Let PUNCH, the rival of this Caledonian Asmodeus, do justice to the man whose “character is stamped on every page (of his own), who yet is above pity; poor, yet full of enjoyment; humble, yet glorious; ignorant, yet confident.”