FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A person sits on a fence rail.A RIDE ON THE RAIL.

A RIDE ON THE RAIL.

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

A person scales a ladder to dump a basket in a cart.GETTING UP THE BREEZE.

GETTING UP THE BREEZE.

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

The Whigs they promised every dayTo cure the ills which did surround us;It should have been, “no cure, no pay!”For now we’re worse than when they found us.The Tory clique at length are in,And vow that they will save the nation,So kindly give us, to begin—Exchequer bills and ventilation.Oh! the artful Toriesdear,Oh! thedear, the artful ToriesThey alone perceive, ’tis clear,That taxes tend to England’s glories.The Whigs declared cheap bread was good;To satisfy the people’s cravingsThey tried to take the tax off wood—Lord knows what might be done with shavings!The Tories vow these schemes were wrong,And adverse to good legislation;Therefore, propose (so runs our song)—Exchequer bills and ventilation.Oh! the artful Toriesdear,Oh! thedearand artful Tories;They alone perceive, ’tis clear,Taxes tend to England’s glories.The Whigs became the poor man’s foe,Mix’d ashes in his cup of sorrow;Nor thought the pauper’s “lot of woe,”Perchance might be their own to-morrow.The Tories said they were his friend,That they abhorr’d procrastination;So give—till next July shall end—Exchequer bills and ventilation.Oh! the artful Toriesdear,Oh! thedearand artful Tories;They alone perceive, ’tis clear,Taxes tend to England’s glories.

The Whigs they promised every dayTo cure the ills which did surround us;It should have been, “no cure, no pay!”For now we’re worse than when they found us.The Tory clique at length are in,And vow that they will save the nation,So kindly give us, to begin—Exchequer bills and ventilation.Oh! the artful Toriesdear,Oh! thedear, the artful ToriesThey alone perceive, ’tis clear,That taxes tend to England’s glories.

The Whigs they promised every day

To cure the ills which did surround us;

It should have been, “no cure, no pay!”

For now we’re worse than when they found us.

The Tory clique at length are in,

And vow that they will save the nation,

So kindly give us, to begin—

Exchequer bills and ventilation.

Oh! the artful Toriesdear,

Oh! thedear, the artful Tories

They alone perceive, ’tis clear,

That taxes tend to England’s glories.

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

The Whigs declared cheap bread was good;

To satisfy the people’s cravings

They tried to take the tax off wood—

Lord knows what might be done with shavings!

The Tories vow these schemes were wrong,

And adverse to good legislation;

Therefore, propose (so runs our song)—

Exchequer bills and ventilation.

Oh! the artful Toriesdear,

Oh! thedearand artful Tories;

They alone perceive, ’tis clear,

Taxes tend to England’s glories.

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

The Whigs became the poor man’s foe,

Mix’d ashes in his cup of sorrow;

Nor thought the pauper’s “lot of woe,”

Perchance might be their own to-morrow.

The Tories said they were his friend,

That they abhorr’d procrastination;

So give—till next July shall end—

Exchequer bills and ventilation.

Oh! the artful Toriesdear,

Oh! thedearand artful Tories;

They alone perceive, ’tis clear,

Taxes tend to England’s glories.

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

Canons fire on people carrying signs reading 'THE CHARTER'OPENING A PARK FOR THE PEOPLE.

OPENING A PARK FOR THE PEOPLE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PERDITUS.

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

Deeply compassionating the effects of so illiberal an innovation, Mr. G. Almar the author to, and Mr. R. Honner the proprietor of, Sadler’s Wells Theatre, have produced an exhibition which in a great degree makes up for the infrequent performances at the Old Bailey. Those whose moral sensibilities are refined to the choking point—who can relish stage strangulation in all its interesting varieties better than Shakspere, are now provided with a rich treat. They need not wait for the Recorder’s black cap and a black Monday morning—the Sadler’s Wells’ people hang every night with great success; for, unless one goes early, there is—as is the case wherever hanging takes place—nostanding roomto be had for love or money.

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

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

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

After establishing a lapse of four years between the acts, the author takes[pg 132]high ground;—we are presented with the summit of Primrose-hill, St. Paul’s in the distance, and a gentleman with black clothes, and literary habits, reading in the foreground. This turns out to be “The Laird Lawson,”Barbara’sfavoured lover and benevolent duellist. Though on the top of Cockney Mount, he is suffering under a deep depression of spirits; for he has never seenMiss Allenduring four years, come next Fairlop-fair. Having heard this, the audience is, of course, quite prepared for that lady’s appearance; and, sure enough, on she comes, accounting for her presence with great adroitness:—having left the city to go to Holloway, she is taking a short cut over Primrose-hill. The lovers go through the mode of recognition never departed from at minor theatres, with the most frantic energy, and have nearly hugged themselves out of breath, when the executioner papa interrupts the blissful scene, without so much as saying how he got there; but “finishers” are mysterious beings.Barabbasdenounces the laird; and when his consent is asked for the hand ofMiss Barbara, tells the lover “he will see him hanged first!”

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

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

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

A fishing-party—whose dulness is relieved by a suicide—opens the last act: one of the anglers having finished a comic song—which from its extreme gravity forms an appropriate dirge to the forthcoming felo-de-se—goes off with his companion to leave the water clear forBarbara Allen, who enters, takes an affecting leave of her laird lover, and straightway drowns herself.Jack Ketchis now, by a rapid change of scene, discovered in limbo, and condemned to death; why, we were too stupid to make out. The fatal cart—very likely modelled after “the best authorities”—next occupies the stage, drawn by a real horse, and filled withSir Gregory Gash(who it seems is going to be hanged) andJack Ketchnot as a prisoner, but as an officer of the crown; for we are to suppose thatMr. Barabbas, having retired from the public scaffold to private life, has seceded in favour ofJack Ketch, who is saved from the rope himself, on condition of his using it upon the person ofSir Gregoryand every succeeding criminal. All the characters come on with the cart, and adénouementevidently impends. The distracted lover demands of somebody to restore his mistress, whichGipsy Georgeis really so polite as to do; for although the bills expressly inform us she has committed “suicide,” and we have actually seen her jump into the river Lea; yet there she is safe and sound!—carefully preserved in an envelope formed partly by theGipsyhimself, and partly by his cloak. She, of course, embraces her lover, and leavesJack Ketchto embrace his profession with what appetite he may; all, in fact, ends happily, andSir Gregorygoes off to be hanged.

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

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

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

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

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

To the happiness of being the possessor of “Punch,”Mr. Snozzleadds that of having a wonderful wife—a lady of universal talents; who dances in spangled shoes, plays on the tamburine, and sings Whitechapel French like a native. This inestimable creature has already gone round the town on a singing, dancing, and cash-collecting expedition; accompanied by the drum, mouth-organ, andSwivel. We now find her enchanting the flinty-hearted father,Old Fellum. Having been instrumental, by means of her vocal abilities, in drawing from him a declaration of amorous attachment and half-a-crown, she retires, to bury herself in the arms of her husband, and to eradicate the score, recorded in chalk, atMrs. Rummer’shotel.

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

Good gracious! what a scene of confusion and confabulation next takes place!Fellum’sfirst stage in pursuit is the public-house; there he unwittingly persuadesMrs. Snozzlethat her spouse is unfaithful—thatheit was who “stole away the old man’s daughter.”Mrs. Snozzleraves, and threatens a divorce;Snozzlehimself trembles—he suspects the police are after him for being the receiver of stolen goods, instead of the deceiver of unsuspecting virtue.Swiveldreads being taken up for prigging the parrot; and a frightful catastrophe is only averted by the entrance of the truant lovers, who have performed the comedy of “Matrimony” in a much shorter time than is allowed by the act of Parliament.

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

“We believe, from the first,Daywas intended to mount, and wherefore it was made a mystery we know not.—DOINGS AT DONCASTER.”—[Sunday Times.]

Poor Coronation well may say,“A mystery I mark;Though jockey’d by thelightest DayThey tried to keep me dark.”

Poor Coronation well may say,“A mystery I mark;Though jockey’d by thelightest DayThey tried to keep me dark.”

Poor Coronation well may say,

“A mystery I mark;

Though jockey’d by thelightest Day

They tried to keep me dark.”

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"The Wrongheads have been a considerable family ever since England was England."VANBRUGH.

"The Wrongheads have been a considerable family ever since England was England."

VANBRUGH.

Two women on stilts for a letter M.

Morning and evening, from every village within three or four miles of the metropolis, may be remarked a tide of young men wending diurnal way to and from their respective desks and counters in the city, preceded by a ripple of errand-boys, and light porters, and followed by an ebb of plethoric elderly gentlemen in drab gaiters. Now these individuals compose—for the most part—that particular, yet indefinite class of people, who call themselves “gentlemen,” and are called by everybody else “persons.” They are a body—the advanced guard—of the “Tiptoes;” an army which invaded us some thirty years ago, and which, since that time, has been actively and perseveringly spoiling and desolating our modest, quiet, comfortable English homes, turning our parlours into “boudoirs,” ripping our fragrant patches of roses into fantastic “parterres,” covering our centre tables with albums and wax flowers, and, in short (for these details pain us), stripping our nooks and corners of the welcome warm air of pleasant homeliness, which was wont to be a charm and a privilege, to substitute for it a chilly gloss—an unwholesome straining after effect—a something less definite in its operation than in its result, which is called—gentility.

To have done with simile. Our matrons have discovered that luxury is specifically cheaper than comfort (and they regard them as independent, if not incompatible terms); and more than this, that comfort is, after all, but an irrelevant and dispensable corollary to gentility, while luxury is its main prop and stay. Furthermore, that improvidence is a virtue of such lustre, that itself or its likeness is essential to the very existence of respectability; and, by carrying out this proposition, that in order to make the least amount of extravagance produce the utmost admiration and envy, it is desirable to be improvident as publicly as possible; the means for such expenditure being gleaned from retrenchments in the home department. Thus, by a system of domestic alchemy, the education of the children is resolved into a vehicle; a couple of maids are amalgamated into a man in livery; while to a single drudge, superintended and aided by the mistress and elder girls, is confided the economy of the pantry, from whose meagre shelves are supplied supplementary blondes and kalydors.

Now a system of economy which can induce a mother to “bring up her children at home,” while she regards a phaeton as absolutely necessary to convey her to church and to her tradespeople, and an annual visit to the sea-side as perfectly indispensable to restore the faded complexions of Frances and Jemima, ruined by late hours and hot cream, may be considered open to censure by the philosopher who places women (and girls,i.e.unmarried women) in the rank of responsible or even rational creatures. But in this disposition he would be clearly wrong. Before venturing to define the precise capacity of either an individual or a class, their own opinion on the subject should assuredly be consulted; and we are quite sure that there is not one of the lady Tiptoes who would not recoil with horror from the suspicion of advancing or even of entertaining an idea—it having been ascertained that everything original (sin and all) is quite inconformable with the feminine character—unless indeed it be a method of finding the third side of a turned silk—or of defining that zero of fortune, to stand below which constitutes a “detrimental.”

The Misses Tiptoe are an indefinite number of young ladies, of whom it is commonly remarked that some may have been pretty, and others may, hereafter, be pretty. But they neverareso; and, consequently, they are very fearful of being eclipsed by their dependents, and take care to engage only ill-favoured governesses, and (but ‘tis an old pun) very plain cooks. The great business of their lives is fascination, and in its pursuit they are unremitting. It is divided in distinct departments, among the sisters; each of whom is characterised at home by some laudatory epithet, strikingly illustrative of what they would like to be. There is Miss Tiptoe, such an amiable girl! that is, she has a large mouth, and a Mallan in the middle of it. There is Jemima, “who enjoys such delicate health “—thatis, she has no bust, and wears a scarf. Then there is Grace, who is all for evening rambles, and the “Pilgrim of Love;” and Fanny, who cannothelp talking; and whom, in its turn, talking certainly cannot help. They are remarkable for doing a little of everything at all times. Whether it be designing on worsted or on bachelors—whether concerting overtures musical or matrimonial; the same pretty development of the shoulder through that troublesome scarf—the same hasty confusion in drawing it on again, and referring to the watch to see what time it is—displays the mind ever intent on the great object of their career. But they seldom marry (unless, in desperation, their cousins), for they despise the rank which they affect to have quitted—and no man of sense ever loved a Tiptoe. So they continue at home until the house is broken up; and then they retire in a galaxy to some provincial Belle Vue-terrace or Prospect-place; where they endeavour to forestall the bachelors with promiscuous orange-blossoms and maidenly susceptibilities. We have characterised these heart-burning efforts after “station,” as originating with, and maintained by, the female branches of the family; and they are so—but, nevertheless, their influence on the young men is no less destructive than certain. It is a fact, that, the more restraint that is inflicted on these individuals in the gilded drawing-room at home, the more do they crave after the unshackled enjoyment of their animal vulgarity abroad. Their principal characteristics are a love of large plaids, and a choice vocabulary of popular idiomatic forms of speech; and these will sufficiently define them in the saloons of the theatres and in the cigar divans. But they are not ever thus. By no means. At home (which does not naturally indicate their own house), having donned their “other waistcoat” and their pin (emblematic of a blue hand grasping an egg, or of a butterfly poised on a wheel)—pop! they aregentlemen. With the hebdomadal sovereign straggling in the extreme verge of their pockets—with the afternoon rebuke of the “principal,” or peradventure of some senior clerk, still echoing in their ears—they are GENTLEMEN. They are desired to be such by their mother and sisters, and so they talk about cool hundreds—and the points of horses—and (on the strength of the dramatic criticisms in theSatirist) of Grisi inNorma, and Persiani inLa Sonnambula—of Taglioni and Cerito—of last season and the season before that.

We know not how far the readers of PUNCH may be inclined to approve so prosy an article as this in their pet periodical; but we have ventured to appeal to them (as the most sensible people in the country) against a class of shallow empirics, who have managed to glide unchidden into our homes and our families, to chill the one and to estrange the other. Surely, surely, we were unworthy of our descent, could we see unmoved our lovely English girls, whose modesty was wont to be equalled only by their beauty, concentrating all their desires and their energies on a good match; or our reverend English matrons, the pride and honour of the land, employing themselves in the manufacture of fish-bone blanc-mange and mucilaginous tipsy-cakes; or our young Englishmen, our hope and our resource, spending themselves in the debasing contamination of cigars and alcohol.

VideExaminer.

On a recent visit of Lord Waterford to the “Holy Land,” then to sojourn in the hostel or caravansera of the protectingBanksof that classic ground, that interesting young nobleman adopted, as the seat of his precedency, a Brobdignag hod, the private property of some descendant from one of the defunct kings of Ulster; at the close of an eloquent harangue; his lordship expressed an earnest wish that he should be able to continue

One man carries another on some sort of stick.GOING IT LIKE BRICKS—

GOING IT LIKE BRICKS—

a hope instantly gratified by the stalwart proprietor, who, wildly exclaiming, “Sit aisy!” hoisted the lordly burden on his shoulders, and gave him the full benefit of a shilling fare in that most unusual vehicle.

“SIR ROBERT PEEL thinks a great deal of himself,” says theBritish Critic. “Yes,” asserts PUNCH, “he is just the man to trouble himself about trifles.”

[pg 134]

A god throws 'Leader' bolts at three men.

Roebuck was seated in his great arm chair,Looking as senatorial and wiseAs a calf’s head, when taken in surprise;A half-munch’d muffin did his fingers bear—An empty egg-shell proved his meal nigh o’er.When, lo! there came a tapping at the door:“Come in!” he cried,And in another minute by his sideStood John the footboy, with the morning paper,Wet from the press. O’er Roebuck’s cheekThere passed a momentary gleam of joy,Which spoke, as plainly as a smile could speak,“Your master’s speech is in that paper, boy.”He waved his hand—the footboy left the room—Roebuck pour’d out a cup of Hyson bloom;And, having sipp’d the tea and sniff’d the vapour,Spread out the “Thunderer” before his eyes—When, to his great surprise,He saw imprinted there, in black and white,That he, THE ROE-buck—HE, whom all men knew,Had been expressly born to set worlds right—That HE was nothing but aparvenu.Jove! was it possible they lack’d the knowledge heBoasted a literary and scientific genealogy!That he had had some ancestors before him—(Beside the Pa who wed the Ma who bore him)—Men whom the world had slighted, it is true,Because it never knewThe greatness of the genius which had lain,Like unwrought ore, within each vasty brain;And as a prejudice exists that thoseWho never do discloseThe knowledge that they boast of, seldom have any,Each of his learned ancestors had died,By an ungrateful world belied,And dubb’d a Zany.That HE should beDenied a pedigree!Appeared so monstrous in this land of freedom,He instantly conceived the notionTo go down to the House and make a motion,That all men had a right to those who breed ‘em.Behold him in his seat, his face carnation,Just like an ace of hearts,Not red and white in parts,But one complete illumination.He rises--members blow their noses,And cough and hem! till one supposes,A general catarrh prevails from want of ventilation.He speaks:—Mr. Speaker, Sir, in me you seeA member of this house (hear, hear),With whose proud pedigreeThe “Thunderer” has dared to interfere.Now I implore,That Lawson may be brought upon the floor,And beg my pardon on his bended knees.In whatsoever terms I please.(Oh! oh!)(No! no!)I, too, propose,To pull his nose:No matter if the law objects or not;And if the printer’s nose cannot be got,The small proboscis of the printer’s devilShall serve my turn for language so uncivil!The “Thunderer” I defy,And its vile lie.(As Ajax did the lightning flash of yore.)I likewise move this House requires—No, that’s too complimentary—desires,That Mr. Lawson’s brought upon the floor.The thing was done:The house divided, and the Ayes were—ONE!

Roebuck was seated in his great arm chair,Looking as senatorial and wiseAs a calf’s head, when taken in surprise;A half-munch’d muffin did his fingers bear—An empty egg-shell proved his meal nigh o’er.When, lo! there came a tapping at the door:“Come in!” he cried,And in another minute by his sideStood John the footboy, with the morning paper,Wet from the press. O’er Roebuck’s cheekThere passed a momentary gleam of joy,Which spoke, as plainly as a smile could speak,“Your master’s speech is in that paper, boy.”He waved his hand—the footboy left the room—Roebuck pour’d out a cup of Hyson bloom;And, having sipp’d the tea and sniff’d the vapour,Spread out the “Thunderer” before his eyes—When, to his great surprise,He saw imprinted there, in black and white,That he, THE ROE-buck—HE, whom all men knew,Had been expressly born to set worlds right—That HE was nothing but aparvenu.Jove! was it possible they lack’d the knowledge heBoasted a literary and scientific genealogy!That he had had some ancestors before him—(Beside the Pa who wed the Ma who bore him)—Men whom the world had slighted, it is true,Because it never knewThe greatness of the genius which had lain,Like unwrought ore, within each vasty brain;And as a prejudice exists that thoseWho never do discloseThe knowledge that they boast of, seldom have any,Each of his learned ancestors had died,By an ungrateful world belied,And dubb’d a Zany.That HE should beDenied a pedigree!Appeared so monstrous in this land of freedom,He instantly conceived the notionTo go down to the House and make a motion,That all men had a right to those who breed ‘em.Behold him in his seat, his face carnation,Just like an ace of hearts,Not red and white in parts,But one complete illumination.He rises--members blow their noses,And cough and hem! till one supposes,A general catarrh prevails from want of ventilation.He speaks:—Mr. Speaker, Sir, in me you seeA member of this house (hear, hear),With whose proud pedigreeThe “Thunderer” has dared to interfere.Now I implore,That Lawson may be brought upon the floor,And beg my pardon on his bended knees.In whatsoever terms I please.(Oh! oh!)(No! no!)I, too, propose,To pull his nose:No matter if the law objects or not;And if the printer’s nose cannot be got,The small proboscis of the printer’s devilShall serve my turn for language so uncivil!The “Thunderer” I defy,And its vile lie.(As Ajax did the lightning flash of yore.)I likewise move this House requires—No, that’s too complimentary—desires,That Mr. Lawson’s brought upon the floor.The thing was done:The house divided, and the Ayes were—ONE!

Roebuck was seated in his great arm chair,

Looking as senatorial and wise

As a calf’s head, when taken in surprise;

A half-munch’d muffin did his fingers bear—

An empty egg-shell proved his meal nigh o’er.

When, lo! there came a tapping at the door:

“Come in!” he cried,

And in another minute by his side

Stood John the footboy, with the morning paper,

Wet from the press. O’er Roebuck’s cheek

There passed a momentary gleam of joy,

Which spoke, as plainly as a smile could speak,

“Your master’s speech is in that paper, boy.”

He waved his hand—the footboy left the room—

Roebuck pour’d out a cup of Hyson bloom;

And, having sipp’d the tea and sniff’d the vapour,

Spread out the “Thunderer” before his eyes—

When, to his great surprise,

He saw imprinted there, in black and white,

That he, THE ROE-buck—HE, whom all men knew,

Had been expressly born to set worlds right—

That HE was nothing but aparvenu.

Jove! was it possible they lack’d the knowledge he

Boasted a literary and scientific genealogy!

That he had had some ancestors before him—

(Beside the Pa who wed the Ma who bore him)—

Men whom the world had slighted, it is true,

Because it never knew

The greatness of the genius which had lain,

Like unwrought ore, within each vasty brain;

And as a prejudice exists that those

Who never do disclose

The knowledge that they boast of, seldom have any,

Each of his learned ancestors had died,

By an ungrateful world belied,

And dubb’d a Zany.

That HE should be

Denied a pedigree!

Appeared so monstrous in this land of freedom,

He instantly conceived the notion

To go down to the House and make a motion,

That all men had a right to those who breed ‘em.

Behold him in his seat, his face carnation,

Just like an ace of hearts,

Not red and white in parts,

But one complete illumination.

He rises--members blow their noses,

And cough and hem! till one supposes,

A general catarrh prevails from want of ventilation.

He speaks:—

Mr. Speaker, Sir, in me you see

A member of this house (hear, hear),

With whose proud pedigree

The “Thunderer” has dared to interfere.

Now I implore,

That Lawson may be brought upon the floor,

And beg my pardon on his bended knees.

In whatsoever terms I please.

(Oh! oh!)

(No! no!)

I, too, propose,

To pull his nose:

No matter if the law objects or not;

And if the printer’s nose cannot be got,

The small proboscis of the printer’s devil

Shall serve my turn for language so uncivil!

The “Thunderer” I defy,

And its vile lie.

(As Ajax did the lightning flash of yore.)

I likewise move this House requires—

No, that’s too complimentary—desires,

That Mr. Lawson’s brought upon the floor.

The thing was done:

The house divided, and the Ayes were—ONE!

Last evening a most diabolical, and, it is to be regretted successful, attempt, was made to kiss the Princess Royal. It appears that the Royal Babe was taking an airing in the park, reclining in the arms of her principal nurse, and accompanied by several ladies of the court, who were amusing the noble infant by playing rattles, when a man of ferocious appearance emerged from behind some trees, walked deliberately up to the noble group, placed his hands on the nurse, and bent his head over the Princess. The Honourable Miss Stanley, guessing the ruffian’s intention, earnestly implored him to kiss her instead, in which request she was backed by all the ladies present.11. This circumstance alone must at once convince every unprejudiced person of the utter falsity of the reports (promulgated by certain interested parties) of the disloyalty of the Tory ladies, when we see several dames placed in the most imminent danger, yet possessing sufficient presence of mind to offerlip-serviceto their sovereign.—EDITOR.Morn. Post.He was not, however, to be frustrated in the attempt, which no sooner had he accomplished, than he hurried off amidst the suppressed screams of the ladies. The Royal Infant was immediately carried to the palace, where her heart-rending cries attracted the attention of her Majesty, who, on hurrying to the child, and hearing the painful narration, would, in the burst of her maternal affection, have kissed the infant, had not Sir J. Clarke, who was fortunately present, prevented her so doing.

Dr. Locock was sent for from town, who, immediately on his arrival at Windsor, held a conference with Sir J. Clarke, and a basin of pap was prepared by them, which being administered to the Royal Infant, produced the most satisfactory results.

We are prohibited from stating the measures taken for the detection of the ruffian, lest their disclosure should frustrate the ends of justice.

His Royal Highness Prince Albert, during the sojourn of the Court at Windsor Castle, became, by constant practice in the Thames, so expert a swimmer, that, with the help of a cork jacket, he could, like Jones of the celebrated firm of “Brown, Jones, and Robinson,” swim “anywhere over the river.” Her Majesty, however, with true conjugal regard for the safety of the royal duck, never permitted him to venture into the water without

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