Let Bulwer and Stephens write epics like mad,With lofty hexameters grapplin’,My theme is as good, though my verse be as bad,For ’tis all about Ellena Chaplin!As lovely a nymph as the rhapsodist seesTo inspire his romantical nap. LinNe’er saw such a charming celestial Chinese“Maid of Honour” as Ellena Chaplin.O Yates! let us give thee due credit for this:—Thou hast an infallible trap lain—For mouths cannot hiss, when they long for a kiss;As thou provest—with Ellena Chaplin.E’en the water wherein (in “Die Hexen am Rhein”)She dives (in an elegant wrap-lin-Sey-woolsey, I guess) seems bewitch’d into wine,When duck’d in by Ellena Chaplin.A fortunate blade will be he can persuadeThis nymph to some church or some chap’l in,—And change to a wife the most beautiful MaidOf the theatre—Ellena Chaplin!
Let Bulwer and Stephens write epics like mad,With lofty hexameters grapplin’,My theme is as good, though my verse be as bad,For ’tis all about Ellena Chaplin!
Let Bulwer and Stephens write epics like mad,
With lofty hexameters grapplin’,
My theme is as good, though my verse be as bad,
For ’tis all about Ellena Chaplin!
As lovely a nymph as the rhapsodist seesTo inspire his romantical nap. LinNe’er saw such a charming celestial Chinese“Maid of Honour” as Ellena Chaplin.
As lovely a nymph as the rhapsodist sees
To inspire his romantical nap. Lin
Ne’er saw such a charming celestial Chinese
“Maid of Honour” as Ellena Chaplin.
O Yates! let us give thee due credit for this:—Thou hast an infallible trap lain—For mouths cannot hiss, when they long for a kiss;As thou provest—with Ellena Chaplin.
O Yates! let us give thee due credit for this:—
Thou hast an infallible trap lain—
For mouths cannot hiss, when they long for a kiss;
As thou provest—with Ellena Chaplin.
E’en the water wherein (in “Die Hexen am Rhein”)She dives (in an elegant wrap-lin-Sey-woolsey, I guess) seems bewitch’d into wine,When duck’d in by Ellena Chaplin.
E’en the water wherein (in “Die Hexen am Rhein”)
She dives (in an elegant wrap-lin-
Sey-woolsey, I guess) seems bewitch’d into wine,
When duck’d in by Ellena Chaplin.
A fortunate blade will be he can persuadeThis nymph to some church or some chap’l in,—And change to a wife the most beautiful MaidOf the theatre—Ellena Chaplin!
A fortunate blade will be he can persuade
This nymph to some church or some chap’l in,—
And change to a wife the most beautiful Maid
Of the theatre—Ellena Chaplin!
The active and speculative Alderman Humphrey, being always ready to turn a penny, has entered into a contract to supply a tribe of North American Indians with second-hand wearing apparel during the ensuing winter. In pursuance of this object he applied yesterday at the Court of Chancery to purchase the “530 suits, including 40 removed from the ‘Equity Exchequer,’ which occupy the cause list for the present term.” Upon the discovery of his mistake the Alderman wisely determined on
A boy walks to school.GOING TO BRIGHTEN.
GOING TO BRIGHTEN.
Public curiosity has been a good deal excited lately by mysterious rumours concerning some valuable jewels, which, it was said, had been discovered at the Exchequer. The pill-box supposed to enclose these costly gems being solemnly opened, it was found to contain nothing but an antique pair of false promises, set in copper, once the property of Sir Francis Burdett; and a bloodstone amulet, ascertained to have belonged to the Duke of Wellington. The box was singularly enough tied with red official tape, and sealed with treasury wax, the motto on the seal being “Requiscat in Pace.”
[pg 239]
We are enabled to assure our readers that his Royal Highness the Duke of Cornwall has appointed Lord Glengall pap-spoon in waiting to his Royal Highness.
The Lord Mayor, Lord Londonderry, Sir Peter Laurie, Sir John Key, Colonel Sibthorp, Mr. Goulburn, Peter Borthwick, Lord Ashburton, and Sir E.L. Bulwer, were admitted to an interview with his Royal Highness, who received them in “full cry,” and was graciously pleased to confer on our Sir Peter extraordinary proofs of his royal condescension. The distinguished party afterwards had the honour of partaking of caudle with the nursery-maids.
Sir John Scott Lillie has informed us confidentially, that he is not the individual of that name who has been appointed monthly nurse in the Palace. Sir John feels that his qualifications ought to have entitled him to a preference.
The captain of theBritanniastates that he fell in with two large whales between Dover and Boulogne on last Monday. There is every reason to believe they were coming up the Thames to offer their congratulations to the future Prince ofWhales.
We understand that Sir Peter Laurie has been presented with the Freedom of the Barber’s Company, enclosed in a pewter shaving-box of the value of fourpence-halfpenny. On the lid is a medallion of
A rabbit sits next to a baby's basket.THE HARE A PARENT.
THE HARE A PARENT.
A difficulty, it is thought, may arise in bestowing the customary honour upon the chief magistrate of the city, upon the birth of a male heir to the throne, in consequence of the Prince being born on the day on which the late Mayor went out and the present one came into office. Sir Peter Laurie suggests that a petition be presented to the Queen, praying that her Majesty may (in order to avoid a recurrence of such an awkward dilemma) be pleased in future to
A shopwoman yells after a boy running with a box marked 'Dates'.MIND HER DATES.
MIND HER DATES.
The other evening, the public were put in possession, at Covent Garden Theatre, of a new branch of art in play concoction, which may be called “dramatic distillation.” By this process the essence of two or more old comedies is extracted; their characters and plots amalgamated; and the whole “rectified” by the careful expunction of equivocal passages. Finally, thedrameis offered to the public inactive potions; five of which are a dose.
The forgotten plays put into the still on this occasion were “The Discovery,” by Mrs. Frances Sheridan, and “The Tender Husband,” by Sir Richard Steele. From one, that portion which relates to the “City,” is taken; the “Court” end of the piece belonging to the other. In fact, even in their modern dress, they are two distinct dramas, only both are played at once—a wholesome economy being thus exercised over time, actors, scenery, and decorations: the only profusion required is in the article of patience, of which the audience must be very liberal.
The courtiers consist ofLord Dangerfield, who although, or—to speak in a sense more strictly domestic—because, he has got a wife of his own, falls in love with the young spouse of youngLord Whiffle; then there isSir Paladin Scruple, who, having owned to eighteen separate tender declarations during fourteen years, dangles afterMrs. Charmington, an enchanting widow, andLouisa Dangerfield, an insipid spinster, the latter being in love with his son.
The citizens consist of thefamille Bearbinder, parents and daughter, together withSir Hector Rumbushand a clownish son, who the former insists shall marry the sentimentalBarbara Bearbinder, but who, accordingly, does no such thing.
The dialogues of these two “sets” go on quite independent of each other, action there is none, nor plot, nor, indeed, any progression of incident whatever.Lord Dangerfieldtells you, in the first scene, he is trying to seduceLady Whiffle, and you know he won’t get her. Directly you hear thatSir Paladin Scruplehas declared in favour ofMiss Dangerfield, you are quite sure she will marry the son; in short, there is not the glimmer of an incident throughout either department of the play which you are not scrupulously prepared for—so that the least approach to expectation is nipped in the bud. The whole fable is carefully developed after all the characters have once made their introduction; hence, at least three of the acts consist entirely of events you have been told are going to happen, and of the fulfilment of intentions already expressed.
One character our enumeration has omitted—that ofMr. Winnington, who being a lawyer, stock and marriage broker, is the bosom friend and confident of every character in the piece, and, consequently, is the only person who has intercourse with the two sets of characters. This is a part patched up to be the sticking plaster which holds the two plots together—-the flux that joins themettlesomeCaptain Dangerfield(son of the Lord) to the sentimentalcitoyenneBarbara Bearbinder. In fact,Winningtonis the author’s go-between, by which he maketh the twain comedies one—the Temple Bar of the play—for he joineth the “Court” with the “City.”
So much for construction: now for detail. The legitimate object of comedy is the truthful delineation of manners. In life, manners are displayed by what people do, and by what they say. Comedy, therefore, ought to consist of action and dialogue. (“Thank you,” exclaims our reader, “for this wonderful discovery!”) Now we have seen that in “Court and City” there is little action: hence it may be supposed that the brilliancy of the dialogue it was that tempted the author to brush away the well-deserved dust under which the “Discovery” and the “Tender Husband” have been half-a-century imbedded. But this supposition would be entirely erroneous. The courtiers and citizens themselves were but dull company: it was chiefly the acting that kept the audience on the benches and out of their beds.
Without action or wit, what then renders the comedy endurable? It is this: all the parts are individualities—they speak, each and every of them, exactly such words, by which they give utterance to such thoughts, as are characteristic of him or herself, each after his kind. In this respect the “Court and City” presents as pure a delineation of manners as a play without incident can do—a truer one, perhaps, than if it were studded with brilliancies; for in private life neither the denizens of St. James’s, nor those of St. Botolph’s, were ever celebrated for the brilliancy of their wit. Nor are they at present; if we may judge from the fact of Colonel Sibthorp being the representative of the one class, and Sir Peter Laurie the oracle of the other.
This nice adaptation of the dialogue to the various characters, therefore, offers scope for good acting, and gets it. Mr. Farren, inSir Paladin Scruple, affords what tradition and social history assure us is a perfect portraiture of an old gentleman of the last century;—more than that, of a singular, peculiar old gentleman. And yet this excellent artist, in portraying the peculiarities of the individual, still preserves the general features of the class. The part itself is the most difficult in nature to make tolerable on the stage, its leading characteristic being wordiness.Sir Paladin, a gentleman (in the ultra strict sense of that term) seventy years of age, is desirous of the character ofun homme de bonnes fortunes. Cold, precise, and pedantic, he tells the objects—not of his flame—but of his declarations, that he is consumed with passion, dying of despair, devoured with love—talking at the same time in parenthetical apologies, nicely-balanced antitheses, and behaving himself with the most frigid formality. His bow (that old-fashioned and elaborate manual exercise called “making a leg”) is in itself an epitome of the manners and customs of the ancients.
Madame Vestris and Mr. C. Matthews playedLadyandLord Whiffle—two also exceedingly difficult characters, but by these performers most delicately handled. They are a very young, inexperienced (almost childish), and quarrelsome couple. Frivolity so extreme as they were required to represent demands the utmost nicety of colouring to rescue it from silliness and inanity. But the actors kept their portraits well up to a pleasing standard, and made them both quitespirituels(more French—thatMorning Postwill be the ruin of us), as well as in a high degree natural.
All the rest of the players, being always and altogether actors, within the most literal meaning of the word, were exactly the same in this comedy as they are in any other. Mr. Diddear had inLord Dangerfieldone of those[pg 240]parts which is generally confided to gentlemen who deliver the dialogue with one hand thrust into the bosom of the vest—the other remaining at liberty, with which to saw the air, or to shake hands with a friend. Mr. Harley played the part of Mr. Harley (called in the billsHumphrey Rumbush) precisely in the same style as Mr. Harley ever did and ever will, whatever dress he has worn or may wear. The rest of the people we will not mention, not being anxious for a repetition of the unpleasant fits of yawning which a too vivid recollection of their dulness might re-produce. The only merit of “Court and City” being in the dialogue—the only merit of that consisting of minute and subtle representations of character, and these folks being utterly innocent of the smallest perception of its meaning or intention—the draughts they drew upon the patience of the audience were enormous, and but grudgingly met. But for the acting of Farren and the managers, the whole thing would have been an unendurable infliction. As it was, it afforded a capital illustration of
Two men carry a palanquin in opposite directions.ATTRACTION AND REPULSION.
ATTRACTION AND REPULSION.
The dramatic capabilities of “Ten Thousand a-Year,” as manifested in the vicissitudes that happen to the Yatton Borough (appropriately recorded by Mr. Warren inBlackwood’s Magazine), have been fairly put to the test by a popular andPeake-ante play-wright. What a subject! With ten thousand a-year a man may do anything. There is attraction in the very sound of the words. It is well worth the penny one gives for a bill to con over those rich, euphonious, delicious syllables—TEN THOUSAND A-YEAR! Why, the magic letters express the concentrated essence of human felicity—thesummum bonumof mortal bliss!
Charles Aubrey, of Yatton, in the county of York, Esquire, possesses ten thousand a-year in landed property, a lovely sister in yellow satin, a wife who can sing, and two charming children, who dance the mazourka as well as they do it at Almack’s, or at Mr. Baron Nathan’s. As is generally the case with gentlemen of large fortunes, he is the repository of all the cardinal virtues, and of all the talents. Good husbands, good fathers, good brothers, and idolised landlords, are plenty enough; but a man who, likeAubrey, is all these put together, is indeed a scarce article; the more so, as he is also a profound scholar, and an honest statesman. In short, though pretty well versed in the paragons of virtue that belong to the drama, we find thisCharles Aubreyto be the veriest angel that ever wore black trousers and pumps.
The most exalted virtue of the stage is, in the long run, seen in good circumstances, andvice versa; for, in this country, one of the chief elements of crime is poverty. Hence the picture is reversed; we behold a striking contrast—a scene antithetical. We are shown into a miserable garret, and introduced to a vulgar, illiterate, cockneyfied, dirty, dandified linendraper’s shopman, in the person ofTittlebat Titmouse. In the midst of his distresses his attention is directed to a “Next of Kin” advertisement. It relates to him and to the Yatton property; and if you be the least conversant with stage effect, you know what is coming: though the author thinks he is leaving you in a state of agonising suspense by closing the act.
The next scene is the robing-room of the York Court-house; and the curtains at the back are afterwards drawn aside to disclose a large cupboard, meant to represent an assize-court. On one shelf of it is seated a supposititious Judge, surrounded by some half-dozen pseudo female spectators; the bottom shelf being occupied by counsel, attorney, crier of the court, and plaintiff. The special jury are severally called in to occupy the right-hand shelf; and when the cupboard is quite full, all the forms of returning a verdict are gone through. This is for the plaintiff! Mr. Aubrey is ruined; andMr. Titmousejumps about, at the imminent risk of breaking the cupboard to pieces, having already knocked down a counsel or two, and rolled over his own attorney.
This idea of dramatising proceedings atnisi priusonly shows the state of destitution into which the promoters of stage excitement have fallen. The Baileys, Old and New, have, from constant use, lost their charms; the police officers were completely worn out by Tom and Jerry, Oliver Twist, &c.; so that now, all the courts left to be “done” for the drama are the Exchequer and Ecclesiastical, Secondaries and Summonsing, Petty Sessions and Prerogative. But what is to happen when these are exhausted? The answer is obvious:—Mr. Yates will turn his attention to the Church! Depend upon it, we shall soon have the potent Paul Bedford, or the grave and reverend Mr. John Saunders, in solemn sables,convertingthe stage into a Baptist meeting, and repentant supernumeraries with the real water!
Hoping to be forgiven for this, perhaps misplaced, levity, we proceed to Act III., in which we find that, fortune having shuffled the cards, and the judge and jury cut them,Mr. Titmouseturns up possessor of Yatton and ten thousand a-year; whileAubrey, quite at the bottom of the pack, is in a state of destitution. To show the depth of distress into which he has fallen, a happy expedient is hit upon: he is described as turning his attention and attainments to literature; and that the unfathomable straits he is put to may be fully understood, he is made a reviewer! Thus the highest degree of sympathy is excited towards him; for everybody knows that no person would willingly resort to criticism (literary or dramatic) as a means of livelihood, if he could command a broom and a crossing to earn a penny by, or while there exists a Mendicity Society to get soup from.
We have yet to mention one character; and considering that he is the main-spring of the whole matter, we cannot put it off any longer.Mr. Gammonis a lawyer—that is quite enough; we need not say more. You all know that stage solicitors are more outrageous villains than even their originals.Mr. Gammonis, of course, a “fine speciment of the specious,” as Mr. Hood’s Mr. Higgings says. It is he who, finding out a flaw inAubrey’stitle, angled per advertisement for the heir, and caught aTittlebat—Titmouse. It is he who has so disinterestedly made that gentleman’s fortune.—“Only just merely for the sake of the costs?” one naturally asks. Oh no; there is a stronger reason (with which, however, reason has nothing to do)—love!Mr. Gammonbecame desperately enamoured ofMiss Aubrey; but she was silly enough to prefer the heir to a peerage,Mr. Delamere. Mr. Gammonnever forgave her, and so ruins her brother.
Having brought the whole family to a state in which he supposes they will refuse nothing,GammonvisitsMiss Aubrey, and, in the most handsome manner, offers her—notwithstanding the disparity in their circumstances—his hand, heart, and fortune. More than that, he promises to restore the estate of Yatton to its late possessor. To his astonishment the lady rejects him; and, he showing what the bills call the “cloven foot,”Miss Aubreyorders him to be shown out. Meantime,Mr. Tittlebat Titmouse, having been returned M.P. for Yatton, has made a great noise in house, not by his oratorical powers, but by his proficient imitations of cock-crowing and donkey-braying.
This being Act IV., it is quite clear thatGammon’svillany andTittlebat’sprosperity cannot last much longer. Both are ended in an original manner. True to the principle with which the Adelphi commenced its season—that of putting stage villany into comedy—Mr. Gammon concludes thefacetiæwith which his part abounds by a comic suicide! All the details of this revolting operation are gone through amidst the most ponderous levity; insomuch, that the audience had virtue enough to hiss most lustily33. While this page was passing through the press, we witnessed a representation of “Ten Thousand a-Year” a second time, and observed that the offensiveness of this scene was considerably abated. Mr. Lyon deserves a word of praise for his acting in that passage of the piece as it now stands..
Thus the string of rascality by which the piece is held together being cut, it naturally finishes by the reinstatement of Aubrey—together with a view of Yatton in sunshine, a procession of charity children, mutual embraces by all the characters, and a song by Mrs. Grattan. What becomes ofTitmouseis not known, and did not seem to be much cared about.
This piece is interesting, not because it is cleverly constructed (for it is not), nor becauseMr. Titmousedyes his hair green with a barber’s nostrum, nor on account of the cupboard court ofNisi Prius, nor of the charity children, nor because Mr. Wieland, instead of playing the devil himself, playedMr. Snap, one of his limbs—but because many of the scenes are well-drawn pictures of life. The children’s ball in the first “epoch,” for instance, was altogether excellently managed andtrue; and though many of the characters are overcharged, yet we have seen people like them in Chancery-lane, at Messrs. Swan and Edgar’s, in country houses, and elsewhere. The suicide incident is, however, a disgusting drawback.
The acting was also good, but too extravagantly so. Mr. Wright, asTitmouse, thought perhaps that a Cockney dandy could not be caricatured, and he consequently went desperate lengths, but threw in here and there a touch of nature. Mr. Lyon was as energetic as ever inGammon; Mrs. Yates as lugubrious as is her wont inMiss Aubrey; Mrs. Grattan acted and looked as if she were quite deserving of a man with ten thousand a year. As to her singing, if her husband were in possession of twenty thousand per annum, (would to the gods he were!) it could not have been more charmingly tasteful. The pathetics of Wilkinson (asQuirk) in the suicide scene, and just before the event, deserve the attention and imitation of Macready. We hope the former comedian’s next character will be Ion, or, at least, Othello. He has now proved that smaller parts are beneath his purely histrionic talents.
Mr. Yates did not make a speech! This extraordinary omission set the house in a buzz of conjectural wonderment till “The Maid of Honour” put a stop to it.
NOTE.—A critique on this piece would have appeared last week, if it had pleased some of the people at the post-office (through which the MS. was sent to the Editors) not to steal it. Perhaps they took it for something valuable; and, perhaps, they were not mistaken. Thanks be to Mercury, we have plenty of wit to spare, and can afford some of it to be stolen now and then. Still we entreat Colonel Maberly (Editor of the “Post” in St. Martin’s-le-Grand) to supply his clerks with jokes enough to keep them alive, that they may not be driven to steal other people’s. The most effectual way to preserve them in a state of jocular honesty would be for him to present every person on the establishment with a copy of “Punch” from week to week.
[pg 241]
The document with this title, that has got into the newspapers, has been dressed up for the public eye. We have obtained the originaldraft, and beg to administer it to our readersneat, in the precise language it was written in.
MR. SNOOKS says, that it being his turn to be on watch on the night of Saturday, October 30th, he went to his duty as usual, and having turned into his box, slept until he was amazed by shouts and the rolling of wheels in all directions. The upper door of his box being open, he looked out of it, and his head struck violently against something hard, upon which he attempted to open the lower door of his box, when he found he could not. Thinking there was something wrong, he became very active in raising an alarm, but could obtain no attention; and he has since found that in the hurry of moving property from different parts of the building, his box had been closely barricaded; and he, consequently, was compelled to remain in it until the following morning. He says, however, that everything was quite safe in the middle of the day when he took his great-coat to his box, and trimmed his lantern ready for the evening.
MRS. SNOOKS, wife of the above witness, corroborates the account of her husband, so far as trimming the lanthern in the daytime is concerned, and also as to his being encased in his box until the morning. She had no anxiety about him, because she had been distinctly told that the fire did not break out until past ten, and her husband she knew was sure to be snug in his box by that time.
JOHN JONES, a publican, says, at about nine o’clock on Saturday, the 30th of October, he saw a light in the Tower, which flickered very much like a candle, as if somebody was continually blowing one out and blowing it in again. He observed this for about half an hour, when it began to look as if several gas-lights were in the room and some one was turning the gas on and off very rapidly. After this he went to bed, and was disturbed shortly before midnight by hearing that the Tower was in flames.
SERGEANT FIPS, of the Scotch Fusileer (Qy.Few sillier) Guards, was at a public-house on Tower-hill, when, happening to go to the door, he observed a large quantity of thick smoke issuing from one of the windows of the Tower. Knowing that Major Elrington, the deputy governor, was fond of a cigar, he thought nothing of the circumstance of the smoke, and was surprised in about half an hour to see flames issuing from the building.
GEORGE SNIVEL saw the fire bursting from the Tower on Saturday night, and being greatly frightened he ran home to his mother as soon as possible. His mother called him a fool, and said it was the gas-works.
THOMAS POPKINS rents a back attic at Rotherhithe; he had been peeling an onion on the 30th of October, and went to the window for the purpose of throwing out the external coat of the vegetable mentioned in the beginning of his testimony, when he saw a large fire burning somewhere, with some violence. Not thinking it could be the Tower, he went to bed after eating the onion—which has been already twice alluded to in the course of his evidence.
MR. SWIFT, of the Jewel-office, says, that he saw the Tower burning at the distance of about three acres from where the jewels are kept, when his first thought was to save the regalia. For this purpose he rushed to the scene of the conflagration and desired everybody who would obey him, to leave what they were about and follow him to that part of the Tower set apart for the jewels. Several firemen were induced to quit the pumps, and having prevailed on a large body of soldiers, he led them and a vast miscellaneous mob to the apartments where the crown, &c., were deposited. After a considerable quantity of squeezing, screaming, cursing, and swearing, it was discovered that the key was missing, when the jewel-room was carried by storm, and the jewels safely lodged in some other part of the building. When witness returned to the fire, it was quite out, and the armoury totally demolished.
The whole of the official report is in the same satisfactory strain, but we do not feel ourselves justified in printing any more of it.
“When is the helm of a ship like a certain English composer?”—said the double bass to the trombone in the orchestra of Covent Garden Theatre, while resting themselves the other evening between the acts of Norma.—The trombone wished he might beblowedif he could tell.—“When it isA-lee” quoth the bass—rosining his bow with extraordinary delight at his own conceit.
Two literary partisans were lately contending with considerable warmth, for the superiority of Tait’s or Blackwood’s Magazine—till from words they fell to blows, and decided the dispute by theargumentum ad hominem.—Doctor Maginn, hearing of the circumstance, observed to a friend, that however the pugnacious gentleman’s opinions might differ with respect toTaitandBlackwood, it was evident they were content to decide them by aFrazer(fray sir).
The state of the weather, at all times an object of intense interest and general conversation amongst Englishmen, has latterly engaged much of our attention; and the observations which we have made on the extraordinary changes which have taken place in the weathercock during the last week warrant us in saying “there must be something in the wind.” It has been remarked that Mr. Macready’sHamletand Mr. Dubourg’s chimneys have notdrawnwell of late. A smart breeze sprung up between Mr. and Mrs. Smith, of Brixton, on last Monday afternoon, which increased during the night, and ended in a perfect storm. Sir Peter Laurie on the same evening retired to bed rather misty, and was exceedingly foggy all the following morning. At the Lord Mayor’s dinner theglasswas observed to rise and fall several times in a most remarkable manner, and at last settled at “heavy wet.” A flock of gulls were seen hovering near Crockford’s on Tuesday, and on that morning the milkman who goes the Russell-square walk was observed to blow the tips of his fingers at the areas of numerous houses. Applications for food were made by some starving paupers to the Relieving Officers of different workhouses, but the hearts of those worthy individuals were found to be completely frozen. Notwithstanding the severity of the weather, the nose of the beadle of St. Clement Danes has been seen for nearly the last fortnight in full blossom. A heavy fall of blankets took place on Wednesday, and the fleecy covering still lies on several beds in and near the metropolis. Expecting frost to set in, Sir Robert Peel has been busily employed on hissliding scale; in fact, affairs are becoming very slippery in the Cabinet, and Sir James Graham is already preparing to trim his sail to the next change of wind. Watercresses, we understand, are likely to be scarce; there is a brisk demand for “bosom friends” amongst unmarried ladies; and it is feared that the intense cold which prevails at nights will drive some unprovided young men into theunion.
We are requested to state that the insane person who lately attempted to obtain an entrance into Buckingham Palace was not the Finsbury renegade, Mr. Wakley. We are somewhat surprised that the rumour should have obtained circulation, as the unfortunate man is described as being of respectable appearance.
The sky was dark—the sea was rough;The Corsair’s heart was brave and tough;The wind was high—the waves were steep;The moon was veil’d—the ocean deep;The foam against the vessel dash’d:The Corsair overboard was wash’d.A rope in vain was thrown to save—The brine is now the Corsair’s grave!
The sky was dark—the sea was rough;The Corsair’s heart was brave and tough;The wind was high—the waves were steep;The moon was veil’d—the ocean deep;The foam against the vessel dash’d:The Corsair overboard was wash’d.A rope in vain was thrown to save—The brine is now the Corsair’s grave!
The sky was dark—the sea was rough;
The Corsair’s heart was brave and tough;
The wind was high—the waves were steep;
The moon was veil’d—the ocean deep;
The foam against the vessel dash’d:
The Corsair overboard was wash’d.
A rope in vain was thrown to save—
The brine is now the Corsair’s grave!
As it is expected that the jogging and jerking, or the sudden passing through tunnels, may in some degree interfere with the perusal of this poem, we give it with the abbreviations, as it is likely to be read with the drawbacks alluded to.
Wherever there is a dash—it is supposed there will be a jolt of the vehicle.
—sky—dark—sea—rough;—Corsair—brave—tough;—wind—high—waves steep;—moon—veil’d—oce—deep;—foam—gainst—vess—dash’d;—Corsair—board—wash’d.—rope—vain—to save,—brine—Cors—grave.
—sky—dark—sea—rough;—Corsair—brave—tough;—wind—high—waves steep;—moon—veil’d—oce—deep;—foam—gainst—vess—dash’d;—Corsair—board—wash’d.—rope—vain—to save,—brine—Cors—grave.
—sky—dark—sea—rough;
—Corsair—brave—tough;
—wind—high—waves steep;
—moon—veil’d—oce—deep;
—foam—gainst—vess—dash’d;
—Corsair—board—wash’d.
—rope—vain—to save,
—brine—Cors—grave.
TheMorning Posthas made another blunder. Lord Abinger, it seems, is too Conservative to resign. After all the editorial boasting about “exclusive information,” “official intelligence,” &c. it is very evident that the “Morning Twaddler” must not be looked upon as a directionpost.
We learn that a drama of startling interest, founded upon a recent event of singular horror, is in active preparation at the Victoria Theatre. It is to be entitled “Cavanagh the Culprit; or, the Irish Saveloyard.” The interest of the drama will be immensely strengthened by the introduction of the genuine knife with which the fatal ham was cut. Real saveloys will also be eaten by the Fasting Phenomenon before the audience.
“Never saw suchstirringtimes,” as the spoon said to the saucepan.
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A very large man is surprised by a very small man in a box.
Having expressed the great gratification I should enjoy at being permitted to become a member of so agreeable a society, I was formally presented by the chairman with a capacious meerschaum, richly mounted in silver, and dark with honoured age, filled with choice tobacco, which he informed me was the initiatory pipe to be smoked by every neophyte on his admission amongst the “Puffs.” I shall not attempt to describe with what profound respect I received that venerable tube into my hands—how gently I applied the blazing match to its fragrant contents—how affectionately I placed the amber mouth-piece between my lips, and propelled the thick wreaths of smoke in circling eddies to the ceiling:—to dilate upon all this might savour of an egotistical desire to exalt my own merits—a species ofpuffingI mortally abhor. Suffice it to say, that when I had smoked the pipe of peace, I was heartily congratulated by the chairman and the company generally upon the manner in which I had acquitted myself, and I was declared without a dissentient voice a duly-elected member of the “Puffs.”
The business of the night, which my entrance had interrupted, was now resumed; and the chairman, whom I shall call Arden, striking his hammer upon a small mahogany box which was placed before him on the table, requested silence. Before I permit him to speak, I must give my readers a pen-and-ink sketch of his person. He was rather tall and erect in his person—his head was finely formed—and he had a quick grey eye, which would have given an unpleasant sharpness to his features, had it not been softened by the benevolent smile which played around his mouth. In his attire he was somewhat formal, and he affected an antiquated style in the fashion of his dress. When he spoke, his words fell with measured precision from his lips; but the mellow tone of his voice, and a certain courteousempressementin his manner, at once interested me in his favour; and I set him down in my mind as a gentleman of the old English school. How far I was right in my conjecture my readers will hereafter have an opportunity of determining.
“Our new member,” said the chairman, turning towards me, “should now be informed that we have amongst us some individuals who possess a taste for literary pursuits.”
“A very small taste,” whispered a droll-looking ‘Puff,’ with a particularly florid nose, who was sitting on my right hand, and who appeared to be watching all the evening for opportunities of letting off his jokes, which were always applauded longest and loudest by himself. My comical neighbour’s name, I afterwards learned, was Bayles; he was the licensed jester of the club; he had been a punster from his youth; and it was his chief boast that he had joked himself into the best society and out of the largest fortune of any individual in the three kingdoms.
This incorrigible wag having broken the thread of the chairman’s speech, I shall only add the substance of it. It was, that the literary members of the “Puffs” had agreed to contribute from time to time articles in prose and verse; tales, legends, and sketches of life and manners—all which contributions were deposited in the mahogany box on the table; and from this literary fund a paper was extracted by the chairman on one of the nights of meeting in each week, and read by him aloud to the club.
These manuscripts, I need scarcely say, will form the series of THE PUFF PAPERS, which, for the special information of the thousands of the fair sex who will peruse them, are like the best black teas, strongly recommended for their finecurling leaf.
The first paper drawn by the chairman was an Irish Tale; which, after a humorous protest by Mr. Bayles against the introduction of foreign extremities, was ordered to be read.
The candles being snuffed, and the chairman’s spectacles adjusted to the proper focus, he commenced as follows:—
“Don’t be for quitting us so airly, Felix,ma bouchal, it’s a taring night without, and you’re better sitting there opposite that fire than facing this unmarciful storm,” said Tim Carthy, drawing his stool closer to the turf-piled hearth, and addressing himself to a young man who occupied a seat in the chimney nook, whose quick bright eye and somewhat humorous curl of the corner of the mouth indicated his character pretty accurately, and left no doubt that he was one of those who would laugh their laugh out, if theould boystood at the door. The reply to Tim’s proposal was a jerk of Felix’s great-coat on his left shoulder, and a sly glance at the earthen mug which he held, as he gradually bent it from its upright position, until it was evident that the process of absorption had been rapidly acting on its contents. Tim, who understood the freemasonry of the manoeuvre, removed all the latent scruples of Felix by adding—“There’s more of that stuff—where you know; and by the crook of St. Patrick we’ll have another drop of it to comfort us this blessed night. Whisht! do you hear how the wind comes sweeping over the hills? God help the poor souls at say!”
“Wissha amen!” replied Tim’s wife, dropping her knitting, and devoutly making the sign of the cross upon her forehead.
A silence of a few moments ensued; during which, each person present offered up a secret prayer for the safety of those who might at that moment be exposed to the fury of the warring elements.
I should here inform my readers that the cottage of Tim Carthy was situated in the deep valley which runs inland from the strand at Monkstown, a pretty little bathing village, that forms an interesting object on the banks of the romantic Lee, near the “beautiful city” of Cork.
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“I never heard such a jearful storm since the night Mahoon, the ould giant, who lives in the cave under theGiants Stairs, sunk the three West Ingee-men that lay at anchor near the rocks,” observed Mrs. Carthy.
“It’s Felix can tell us, if he plazes, a quare story about that same Mahoon,” added Tim, addressing himself to the young man.
“You’re right there, anyhow, Tim,” replied Felix; “and as my pipe is just out, I’ll give you the whole truth of the story as if I was after kissing the book upon it.
“You must know, then, it was one fine morning near Midsummer, about five years ago, that I got up very airly to go down to the beach and launch my boat, for I meant to try my luck at fishing for conger eels under the Giant’s Stairs. I wasn’t long pulling to the spot, and I soon had my lines baited and thrown out; but not so much as a bite did I get to keep up my spirits all that blessed morning, till I was fairly kilt with fatigue and disappointment. Well, I was thinking of returning home again, when all at once I felt something mortial heavy upon one of my lines. At first I thought it was a big conger, but then I knew that no fish would hang so dead upon my hand, so I hauled in with fear and thrembling, for I was afeard every minnit my line or my hook would break, and at last I got my prize to the top of the water, and then safe upon the gunnel of the boat;—and what do you think it was?”
“In troth, Felix, sorra one of us knows.”
“Well, then, it was nothing else but a little dirty black oak box, hooped round with iron, and covered with say-weed and barnacles, as if it had lain a long time in the water. ‘Oh, ho!’ says myself, ‘it’s in rale good luck I am this beautiful morning. Phew! as sure as turf, ’tis full of goold, or silver, or dollars, the box is.’ For, by dad, it was so heavy intirely I could scarcely move it, and it sunk my little boat a’most to the water’s edge; so I pulled back for bare life to the shore, and ran the boat into a lonesome little creek in the rocks. There I managed somehow to heave out the little box upon dry land, and, finding a handy lump of a stone, I wasn’t long smashing the iron fastenings, and lifting up the lid. I looked in, and saw a weeshy ould weasened fellow sitting in it, with his legs gothered up under him like a tailor. He was dressed in a green coat, all covered with goold lace, a red scarlet waistcoat down to his hips, and a little three-cornered cocked hat upon the top of his head, with a cock’s feather sticking out of it as smart as you plase.
“‘Good morrow to you, Felix Donovan,’ says the small chap, taking off his hat to me, as polite as a dancing-masther.
“‘Musha! then the tip top of the morning to you,’ says I, ‘it’s ashamed of yourself you ought to be, for putting me to such a dale of throuble.’
“‘Don’t mention it, Felix,’ says he, ‘I’ll be proud to do as much for you another time. But why don’t you open the box, and let me out? ’tis many a long day I have been shut up here in this could dark place.’ All the time I was only holding the lid partly open.
“‘Thank you kindly, my tight fellow,’ says myself, quite ’cute; ‘maybe you think I don’t know you, but plase God you’ll not stir a peg out of where you are until you pay me for my throuble.’
“‘Millia murdher!’ says the little chap. ‘What could a poor crather like me have in the world? Haven’t I been shut up here without bite or sup?’ and then he began howling and bating his head agin the side of the box, and making most pitiful moans. But I wasn’t to be deceived by his thricks, so I put down the lid of the box and began to hammer away at it, when he roared out,—
“‘Tare an’ agers! Felix Donovan, sure you won’t be so cruel as to shut me up again? Open the box, man, till I spake to you.’
“‘Well, what do you want now’!’ savs I, lifting up the lid the laste taste in life.
“‘I’ll tell you what, Felix, I’ll give you twenty goolden guineas if you’ll let me out.’
“‘Soft was your horn, my little fellow; your offer don’t shoot.’
“‘I’ll give you fifty.
“‘No.’
“‘A hundred.’
“’T won’t do. If you were to offer me all the money in the Cork bank I wouldn’t take it.’
“‘What the diaoul will you take then?’ says the little ould chap, reddening like a turkey-cock in the gills with anger.
“‘I’ll tell you,’ says I, making answer; ‘I’ll take the three best gifts that you can bestow.’”
(To be continued.)
Why is a butcher like a language master?—Because he is aretailer of tongues.
A meeting, unequalled in numbers and respectability, was held during the past week at the sign of “The Conservative Cauliflower,” Duck-lane, Westminster, for the purpose of presenting an address, and anything else, that the meeting might decide upon, to Sir Edward Knatchbull, for his patriotic opposition to ’pikes.
Mr. ADAM BELL, the well-known literary dustman, was unanimously called to the Chair. The learned gentleman immediately responded to the call, and having gracefully removed his fan tail with one hand and his pipe with the other, bowed to the assembled multitude, and deposited himself in the seat of honour. As there was no hammer in the room, the inventive genius of the learned chairman, suggested the substitution of his bell, and having agitated its clapper three times, and shouted “Orger” with stentorian emphasis, he proceeded to address the meeting:—
“Wedgetable wendors and purweyors of promiscus poulte-ry, it isn’t often that a cheer is taken in this room for no other than harmonic meetings or club-nights, and it is, therefore, with oncommon pride that I feels myself in my present proud persition. (Werry good! and Hear, hear!) You are all pretty well aware of my familiar acquaintance with the nobs of this here great nation. (We is! and cheers.) For some years I’ve had the honour to collect for Mr. Dark, night and day, I may say; and in my mind the werry best standard of a real gentleman is his dust-hole. (Hear, hear! and He’s vide avake!) You’re hailed,” continued the eloquent Adam, “you’re hailed by a sarvant in a dimity jacket; you pulls up alongside of the curb; you collars your basket, and with your shovel in your mawley, makes a cast into the hairy; one glance at the dust conwinces you vether you’re to have sixpence or a swig of lamen-table beer. (It does! and cheers.) A man as sifteses his dust is a disgrace to humanity! (Immense cheering, which was rendered more exhilarating by the introduction of Dirk’s dangle-dangles, otherwise bells.) But you’ll say, Vot is this here to do with Sir Eddard? I’ll tell you. It has been my werry great happiness to clear out Sir Eddard, and werry well I was paid for doing it. The Tories knows whatjobsis, and pays according-ly. (Here the Meeting gave the Conservative Costermonger fire.) The ’pinion I then formed of Sir Eddard has jist been werrified, for hasn’t he comed forrard to oppose them rascally taxes on commercial industry and Fairlop-fair—on enterprising higgling and ‘twelve in a tax-cart?’ need I say I alludes to them blessed ‘pikes? (Long and continued cheers.) Sir Eddard is fully aware that the ‘pike-men didn’t make the dirt that makes the road, and werry justly refuses to fork out tuppence-ha’penny! It’s werry true Sir Eddard says that the t’other taxes must be paid, as what’s to pay the ministers? But it’s highly unreasonable that ’pike-men is to be put alongside of Prime Ministers, wedgetable wendors, and purveyors of promiscus polte-ry! Had that great man succeeded in bilking the toll, what a thing it would ha’ been for us! Gatter is but 3d. a pot, and that’s the price of a reasonable ‘pike-ticket. That wenerable and wenerated liquor as bears the cognominum of ‘Old Tom’ is come-atable for the walley of them werry browns. But Sir Eddard has failed in his bould endeavour—the ’pikes has it! (Shame!) It’s for us to reward him. I therefore proposes that a collection of turnpike tickets is made, and then elegantly mounted, framed and glaziered, and presented to the Right Honourable Barrownight.” (Immense applause.)
Mr. ALEC BILL JONES, the celebrated early-tater and spring-ingen dealer, seconded the proposition, at the same time suggesting that “Old ’pike-tickets would do as well as new ’uns; and everybody know’d that second-hand tumpike-tickets warn’t werry waluable, so the thing could be done handsome and reasonable.”
A collection was immediately commenced in the room, and in a few minutes the subscription included the whole of the Metropolitan trusts, together with three Waterloo-bridge tickets, which the donor stated “could ony be ’ad for axing for.”
A deputation was then formed for the purpose of presenting this unique testimonial when completed to Sir Edward Knatchbull.
It is rumoured that the lessees of the gates in the neighbourhood of the Metropolis are trying to get up a counter meeting. We have written to Mr. Levy on the subject.
We perceive from a foreign paper that a criminal who has been imprisoned for a considerable period at Presburg has acquired a complete mastery over the violin. It has been announced that he will shortly make an appearance in public. Doubtless, his performance will bea solo on one string.