HARVEST PROSPECTS.

A silhouette of a group of people riding in an open carriage.

Mention the most liberal pawnbrokers in the neighbourhood of Guy’s and Bartholomew’s; and state under what head of diseases you class the spring outbreak of dissecting cases and tooth-drawing instruments in their windows.

Mention the cheapest tailors in the metropolis, and especially name those who charge you three pounds for dress coats (“best Saxony, any other colour than blue or black”), and write down five in the bills to send to your governor. Describe the anatomical difference between a peacoat, a spencer, and a Taglioni, and also state who gave the best “prish” for old ones.

Public attention being at this particular season anxiously directed to the prospects of the approaching harvest, we are enabled to lay before our readers some authentic information on the subject. Notwithstanding the fears which the late unfavourable weather induced, we have ascertained that reaping is proceeding vigorously at all the barbers’ establishments in the kingdom. Several extensive chins were cut on Saturday last, and the returns proved most abundant.

Sugar-barley is a comparative failure; but that description of oats, called wild oats, promises well in the neighbourhood of Oxford.Turn-upshave had a favourable season at the écarté tables of several dowagers in the West-end district. Beans are looking poorly—particularly thehave-beens—whom we meet with seedy frocks and napless hats, gliding about late in the evenings. Clover, we are informed by some luxurious old codgers, who are living in the midst of it, was never in better condition. The best description of hops, it is thought, will fetch high prices in the Haymarket. The vegetation of wheat has been considerably retarded by the cold weather. Sportsmen, however, began to shoot vigorously on the 12th of this month.

All things considered, though we cannot anticipate a rich harvest, we think that the speculators have exaggerated the

Two farmers looking very surprised--eyes wide and hair standing on end.ALARMING STATE OF THE CROPS.

ALARMING STATE OF THE CROPS.

[pg 52]

Before entering on this series of papers, I have only one request to make of the reader, which is this: that, however absurd or incredible my statements may appear, he will take them all forGrant-ed.

It will hardly be necessary to apologise for making the hero of Waterloo the subject of this article; for, having had always free access to the parlour of the Duke of Wellington, I flatter myself that I am peculiarly fitted for the task I have undertaken.

My acquaintance with the duke commenced in a very singular manner. During the discussions on the Reform Bill, his grace was often the object of popular pelting; and I was, on one occasion, among a crowd of free-born Englishmen who, disliking his political opinions, were exercising the constitutional privilege of hooting him. Fired by the true spirit of British patriotism, and roused to a pitch of enthusiasm by observing that the crowd were all of one opinion, decidedly against the duke, worked up, too, with momentary boldness by perceiving that there was not a policeman in sight, I seized a cabbage-leaf, with which I caught his nose, when, turning round suddenly to look whence the blow proceeded, I caught his eye. It was a single glance; but there was something in it which said more than, perhaps, if I had attempted to lead him into conversation, he would at that moment have been inclined to say to me. The recognition was brief, lasting scarcely an instant; for a policeman coming round the corner, the great constitutional party with whom I had been acting retired in haste, rather than bring on a collision with a force which was at that time particularly obnoxious to all the true friends of excessive liberty.

It will, perhaps, surprise my readers, when I inform them that this is the only personal interview I ever enjoyed with the illustrious duke; but accustomed as I am to take in character at a glance, and to form my conclusions at a wink, I gained, perhaps, as much, or more, information with regard to the illustrious hero, as I have been enabled to do with regard to many of those members of the House of Lords whom, in the course of my “Random Recollections,” it is my intention to treat of.

I never, positively, dined with the Duke of Wellington; but on one occasion I was very near doing so. Whether the duke himself is aware of the circumstances that prevented our meeting at the same table I never knew, and have no wish to inquire; but when his grace peruses these pages, he will perceive that our political views are not so opposite as thedastardly enemiesof both would have made the world suppose them to have been. The story of the dinner is simply this:—there was to be a meeting for the purpose of some charity at the Freemasons’-hall, and the Duke of Wellington was to take the chair. I was offered a ticket by a friend connected with the press. My friend broke his word. I did not attend the dinner. But those virulent liars much malign me who say I stopped away because the duke was in the chair; and much more do they libel me who would hint that my absence was caused by a difference with the duke on the subject of politics. Whether Wellington observed that I did not attend I never knew, nor shall I stop to inquire; but when I say that his grace spoke several times, and never once mentioned my name, it will be seen that whatever may have been histhoughtson the occasion, he had the delicacy and good taste to make no allusion whatever to the subject, which, but for its intrinsic importance, I should not so long have dwelt upon,

Looking over some papers the other day in my drawer, with the intention of selecting any correspondence that might have passed between myself and the duke, I found that his grace had never written to me more than once; but the single communication I had received from him was so truly characteristic of the man, that I cannot refrain from giving the whole of it. Having heard it reported that the duke answered with his own hand every letter that he received, I, who generally prefer judging in all things for myself, determined to put his grace’s epistolary punctuality to the test of experience. With this view I took up my pen, and dashed off a few lines, in which I made no allusion, either to my first interview, or the affair of the dinner; but simply putting forward a few general observations on the state of the country, signed with my own name, and dated from Whetstone-park, which was, at that time, my residence. The following was the reply I received from the duke, which I printverbatim, as an index—short, but comprehensive, as an index ought to be—to the noble duke’s character.

“Apsley-house.“The Duke of Wellington begs to return the enclosed letter, as he neither knows the person who wrote it, nor the reason of sending it.”

“Apsley-house.

“The Duke of Wellington begs to return the enclosed letter, as he neither knows the person who wrote it, nor the reason of sending it.”

This, as I said before, is perhaps one of the most graphictraitson record of the peculiar disposition of the hero of Waterloo. It bespeaks at once the soldier and the politician. He answers the letter with military precision, but with political astuteness—he pretends to be ignorant of the object I had in sending it. His ready reply was the first impulse of the man; his crafty and guarded mode of expression was the cautious act of the minister. Had I been disposed to have written a second time to my illustrious correspondent, I now had a fine opportunity of doing so; but I preferred letting the matter drop, and from that day to this, all communication between myself and the duke has ceased.Ishall not be the first to take any step for the purpose of resuming it. The duke must, by this time, know me too well to suppose that I have any desire to keep up a correspondence which could lead to no practical result, and might only tear open afresh wounds that the healing hand of time has long ago restored to their former salubrity.

It may be expected I should say a few words of the duke’s person. He generally wears a frock coat, and rides frequently on horseback. His nose is slightly curved; but there is nothing peculiar in his hat or boots, the latter of which are, of course, Wellington’s. His habits are still those of a soldier, for he gets up and goes to bed again much as he was accustomed to do in the days of the Peninsula. His speeches in Parliament I have never heard; but I have read some of them in the newspapers. He is now getting old; but I cannot tell his exact age: and he has a son who, if he should survive his father, will undoubtedly attain to the title of Duke of Wellington.

Our esteemed friend and staunch supporter Colonel Sibthorp has lately, in the most heroic manner, submitted to an unprecedented and wonderfully successful operation. Our gallant friend was suffering from a severe elongation of the auricular organs; amputation was proposed, and submitted to with most heroic patience. We are happy to state the only inconvenience resulting from the operation is the establishment of a new hat block, and a slight difficulty of recognition on the part of some of his oldest friends.

One of the morning papers gave its readers last week a piece of extraordinary assize intelligence, headed—“Cutting a wife’s throat—before Mr. Serjeant Taddy” We advise the learned Serjeant to look to this: ’tis a too serious joke to be set down as an accessary to the cutting of a wife’s throat.

“For Ireland’s weal!” hear turncoat S—y rave,Who’d trust thewheelthat own’d so sad aknave?

“For Ireland’s weal!” hear turncoat S—y rave,

Who’d trust thewheelthat own’d so sad aknave?

In the parish of Llanelly, Breconshire, the males exceed the females by more than one thousand. At Worcester, says theExaminer, the same majority is in favour of the ladies. We should propose a conference and a general swap of the sexes next market-day, as we understand there is not a window in Worcester without a notice of “Lodgings to let for single men,” whilst at Llanelly the gentlemen declare sweethearts can’t be had for “love nor money.”

“There’ll soon be rare work (cry the journals in fear),When Peel is call’d in inhisregular way;”True—for when we’ve to pay all the Tories, ’tis clear,It is much the same thing as thedevil to pay.

“There’ll soon be rare work (cry the journals in fear),

When Peel is call’d in inhisregular way;”

True—for when we’ve to pay all the Tories, ’tis clear,

It is much the same thing as thedevil to pay.

“Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen, feeding is going to commence Wellington and Peel are now giving their opening dinners to their friends and admirers. All who wantplacesmust come early. Walk up! walk up!—This is the real constitutional tavern. Here we are! gratis feeding for the greedy! Make way there for those hungry-looking gentlemen—walk up, sir—leave your vote at the bar, and take a ticket for your hat.”

The Tories vow the Whigs are black as night,And boast that they are only blessed with light.Peel’s politics to both sides so incline,His may be called theequinoctial line.

The Tories vow the Whigs are black as night,

And boast that they are only blessed with light.

Peel’s politics to both sides so incline,

His may be called theequinoctial line.

Baron Campbell, who has sat altogether about 20 hours in the Irish Court of Chancery, will receive 4,000l. a-year, on the death of either Lord Manners or Lord Plunkett, (both octogenarians;) which, says theDublin Monitor, “taking the average of human life, he will enjoy thirty years;” and adds, “20 hours contain 1,200 minutes; and 4,000l. a-year for thirty years gives 120,000l. So that he will receive for the term of his natural life just one hundred pounds for every minute that he sat as Lord Chancellor.” Pleasant incubation this! Sitting 20 hours, and hatching a fortune. If there be any truth in metempsychosis, Jocky Campbell must be thegoose that laid golden eggs.

SHEIL’S oratory’s like bottled Dublin stout;For, draw the cork, and only froth comes out.

SHEIL’S oratory’s like bottled Dublin stout;

For, draw the cork, and only froth comes out.

We can state on the most positive authority that the recent fire at the Army and Navy Club did not originate from a spark of Colonel Sibthorp’s wit falling amongst some loose jokes which Captain Marryatt had been scribbling on the backs of some unedited purser’s bills.

The Whigs resemble nails—How so, my master?Because, like nails, whenbeattheyhold the faster.

The Whigs resemble nails—How so, my master?

Because, like nails, whenbeattheyhold the faster.

“Do you admire Campbell’s ‘Pleasures of Hope’?” said Croker to Hook. “Which do you mean, the Scotch poet’s or the Irish Chancellor’s? the real or the ideal—Tommy’s four thousand lines or Jocky’s four thousand pounds a-year?” inquired Theodore. Croker has been in a brown study ever since.

[pg 53]

MR. PUNCH,—Myself and a few other old Etonians have read with inexpressible scorn, disgust, and indignation, the heartless and malignant attempts, in your scoundrel journal, to blast the full-blown fame of that most transcendant actor, and most unexceptionable son, Mr. Charles Kean. Now, PUNCH, fair play is beyond any of the crown jewels. I will advance only one proof, amongst a thousand others that cart-horses sha’n’t draw from me, to show that Charles Kean makes more—mind, I say, makesmore—of Shakspere, than every other actor living or dead. Last night I went to the Haymarket—Lady Georgiana L—— and other fine girls were of the party. The play was “Romeo and Juliet,” and there are in that tragedy two slap-up lines; they are, to the best of my recollection, as follow:—

“Oh!that I were a glove upon that hand,That I might touch thatcheek.”

“Oh!that I were a glove upon that hand,

That I might touch thatcheek.”

Now, ninety-nine actors out of a hundred make nothing of this—not so Charles Kean. Here’s my proof. Feeling devilish hungry, I thought I’d step out for a snack, and left the box, just as Charles Kean, my old schoolfellow, was beginning—

“Oh!—”

Well, I crossed the way, stepped into Dubourg’s, swallowed two dozen oysters, took a bottom of brandy, and booked a small bet with Jack Spavin for the St. Leger, returned to the theatre, and was comfortably seated in my box, as Charles Kean, my old school-fellow, had arrived at

“———cheek!”

Now, PUNCH, if this isn’t making much of Shakspere, what is?

Yours (you scoundrel),ETONIAN.

The following ode is somewhat freely translated from the original of a Chinese emigrant named CA-TA-NA-CH, or the “illustrious minstrel.”We have given a short specimen of the original, merely substituting the Roman for the Chinese characters.

The following ode is somewhat freely translated from the original of a Chinese emigrant named CA-TA-NA-CH, or the “illustrious minstrel.”

We have given a short specimen of the original, merely substituting the Roman for the Chinese characters.

As-ye-Te-i-anp-o-et-sli-reY-oun-g-li-ae-us-di-din-spi-reWen-ye-ba-r-da-wo-Ke-i-sla-isLo-ve-et-wi-nea-li-ket-op-ra-isSo-i-lus-tri-ou-spi-din-th-o-uIn-s-pi-re-thi-Te-ur-nv-ot-a-rin-ow&c. &c.

As-ye-Te-i-anp-o-et-sli-re

Y-oun-g-li-ae-us-di-din-spi-re

Wen-ye-ba-r-da-wo-Ke-i-sla-is

Lo-ve-et-wi-nea-li-ket-op-ra-is

So-i-lus-tri-ou-spi-din-th-o-u

In-s-pi-re-thi-Te-ur-nv-ot-a-rin-ow

&c. &c.

As the Teian poet’s lyreYoung Lyæus did inspire;When the bard awoke his lays,Love and wine alike to praise.So, illustrious Pidding, thouInspire thytea-urn votary now,Whilst the tea-pot circles round—Whilst the toast is being brown’d—Let me, ere I quaff my tea,Sing a paean unto thee,IO PIDDING! who foretold,Chinamen would keep their gold;Who foresaw our ships would beHomeward bound, yet wanting tea;Who, to cheer the mourning land,Said, “I’ve Howqua still on hand!”Who, my Pidding, who but thee?Io Pidding! Evoe!

As the Teian poet’s lyre

Young Lyæus did inspire;

When the bard awoke his lays,

Love and wine alike to praise.

So, illustrious Pidding, thou

Inspire thytea-urn votary now,

Whilst the tea-pot circles round—

Whilst the toast is being brown’d—

Let me, ere I quaff my tea,

Sing a paean unto thee,

IO PIDDING! who foretold,

Chinamen would keep their gold;

Who foresaw our ships would be

Homeward bound, yet wanting tea;

Who, to cheer the mourning land,

Said, “I’ve Howqua still on hand!”

Who, my Pidding, who but thee?

Io Pidding! Evoe!

SCENE.Tamworth.

The Doctor and his Man are discovered in a large waggon, surrounded by a crowd of people.

RHUBARB PILL.—Balaam, blow the trumpet.

BALAAM (blows).—Too-too-tooit! Silence for the doctor!

RHUBARB PILL.—Now, friends and neighbours, now’s your time for getting rid of all your complaints, whether of the pocket or the person, for I, Rhubarb Pill, professor of sophistry and doctorer of laws, have now come amongst you with my old and infallible remedies and restoratives, which, although they have not already worked wonders, I promise shall do so, and render the constitution sound and vigorous, however it may have been injured by poor-law-bill-ious pills, cheap bread, andblacksugar, prescribed by wooden-headed quacks. (Aside.) Balaam, blow the trumpet.

BALAAM (blows).—Too-too-tooit! Hurrah for the doctor!

RHUBARB PILL.—These infallible remedies have been in my possession since the years 1835 and 1837, but owing to the opposition of the Cabinet of Physicians, I have not been able to use them for the benefit of the public—and myself. (Bows.) These invaluable remedies—

COUNTRYMAN.—What be they?

RHUBARB PILL.—That’s not a fair question—wait till I’m regularly called in11. Sir Robert Peel at Tamworth.. It’s not that I care about the fee—mine is a liberal profession, and though I have a large family, and as many relations as most people, I really think I should refuse a guinea if it was offered to me.

COUNTRYMAN.—Then why doant’ee tell us?

RHUBARB PILL.—It’s not professional. Besides, it’s quite requisite that I should “feel the patient’s pulse,” or I might make the dose too powerful, and so—

COUNTRYMAN.—Get the sack, Mr. Doctor.

RHUBARB PILL (aside).—Blow the trumpet, Balaam.

BALAAM.—Too-too-tooit—tooit-too-too!

RHUBARB PILL.—And so do more harm than good. Besides, I should require to have the “necessary consultations” over the dinner-table. Diet does a great deal—not that I care about the “loaves and fishes”—but patients are always more tractable after a good dinner. Now there’s an old lady in these parts—

COUNTRYMAN.—What, my old missus?

RHUBARB PILL.—The same. She’s in a desperate way.

COUNTRYMAN.—Ees. Dr. Russell says it’s all owing to your nasty nosdrums.

RHUBARB PILL.—Doctor Russell’s a—never mind. I say sheisvery bad, and I AM the only man that can cure her.

COUNTRYMAN—Then out wi’it, doctor—what will?

RHUBARB PILL.—Wait till I’m regularly called in.

COUNTRYMAN.—But suppose she dies in the meantime?

RHUBARB PILL.—That’s her fault. I won’t do anything by proxy. I must direct my ownadministration, appoint my own nurses for the bed-chamber, have my own herbalists and assistants, and see Doctor Russell’s “purge” thrown out of the window. In short,I must be regularly called in. Balaam, blow the trumpet.

[Balaam blows the trumpet, the crowd shout, and the Doctor bows gracefully, with one hand on his heart and the other in his breeches pocket. At the end of the applause he commences singing].

I am called Doctor Pill, the political quack,And a quack of considerable standing and note;I’ve clapp’d many a blister on many a back,And cramm’d many a bolus down many a throat,I have always stuck close, like the rest of my tribe,And physick’d my patient as long as he’d pay;And I say, when I’m ask’d to advise or prescribe,“You must wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.”Old England has grown rather sickly of late,For Russell’sreducedher almost to a shade;And I’ve honestly told him, for nights in debate,He’s a quack that should never have follow’d the trade.And, Lord! how he fumes, and exultingly cries,“Were you in my place, Pill, pray what wouldyousay?”But I only reply, “If I am to advise,I shall wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.”It’s rather “too bad,” if an ignorant elf,Who has caught a rich patient ’twere madness to kill,Should have all the credit, and pocket the pelf,Whilst you are requested to furnish the skill.No! no!amor patriæ’s a phrase I admire,But I own to anamorthat stands in its way;And if England should e’er my assistance require,She must—

I am called Doctor Pill, the political quack,

And a quack of considerable standing and note;

I’ve clapp’d many a blister on many a back,

And cramm’d many a bolus down many a throat,

I have always stuck close, like the rest of my tribe,

And physick’d my patient as long as he’d pay;

And I say, when I’m ask’d to advise or prescribe,

“You must wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.”

Old England has grown rather sickly of late,For Russell’sreducedher almost to a shade;And I’ve honestly told him, for nights in debate,He’s a quack that should never have follow’d the trade.And, Lord! how he fumes, and exultingly cries,“Were you in my place, Pill, pray what wouldyousay?”But I only reply, “If I am to advise,I shall wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.”

Old England has grown rather sickly of late,

For Russell’sreducedher almost to a shade;

And I’ve honestly told him, for nights in debate,

He’s a quack that should never have follow’d the trade.

And, Lord! how he fumes, and exultingly cries,

“Were you in my place, Pill, pray what wouldyousay?”

But I only reply, “If I am to advise,

I shall wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.”

It’s rather “too bad,” if an ignorant elf,Who has caught a rich patient ’twere madness to kill,Should have all the credit, and pocket the pelf,Whilst you are requested to furnish the skill.No! no!amor patriæ’s a phrase I admire,But I own to anamorthat stands in its way;And if England should e’er my assistance require,She must—

It’s rather “too bad,” if an ignorant elf,

Who has caught a rich patient ’twere madness to kill,

Should have all the credit, and pocket the pelf,

Whilst you are requested to furnish the skill.

No! no!amor patriæ’s a phrase I admire,

But I own to anamorthat stands in its way;

And if England should e’er my assistance require,

She must—

A man thumbs his nose at another man who is pointing towards a building on fire.“WAIT TILL I’M CALL’D IN A REGULAR WAY.”

“WAIT TILL I’M CALL’D IN A REGULAR WAY.”

Peter Borthwich has expressed his determination—not to accept of the speakership of the House of Commons.

C.M. Westmacott has announced his intention ofnotjoining the new administration; in consequence of which serious defection, he asserts that Sir Robert Peel will be unable to form a cabinet.

“You have heard,” said his Grace of Buckingham, to Lord Abinger, a few evenings ago, “how scandalously Peel and his crew have treated me—they have actually thrown me overboard. A man of my weight, too!” “That was the very objection, my Lord,” replied the rubicund functionary. “Their rotten craft could not carry a statesman of your ponderous abilities. Your dead weight would have brought them to the bottom in five minutes.”

[pg 54]

Alas! that poor old Whiggery should have been so silly as to go a-wooing. Infirm and tottering as he is, it was the height of insanity. Down he dropped on his bended knees before the object of his love; out he poured his touching addresses, lisped in the blandest, most persuasive tones; and what was his answer? Scoffs, laughs, kicks, rejection! Even Johnny Russell’s muse availed not, though it deserved a better fate. It gained him a wife, but could not win the electors. Our readers will discover the genius of the witty author of “Don Carlos” in the address, which, though rejected, we in pity immortalise in PUNCH.

Loved friends—kind electors, once more we are hereTo beg your sweet voices—to tell you our deeds.Though our Budget is empty, we’ve got—never fear—A long full privy purse, to stand bribing and feeds.For, oh! we are out-and-out Whigs—thorough Whigs!Then, shout till your throttles, good people, ye crack;Hurrah! for the troop of sublime “Thimble-rigs!”Hurrah! for the jolly old Downing-street pack.What we’ve done, and will do for you, haply you’ll ask:All, all, gentle folks, you shall presently see.Off your sugar we’ll take justone penny a cask!Only adding a shilling a pound on your tea.That’s the style for your Whigs—yourreformingold Whigs!Then, shout, &c.Off your broad—think of this!—we will take—(if we can)—A whole farthing a loaf; then, when wages decline,By one-half—as they must—and you’re starving, each manIn our New Poor Law Bastiles may go lodge, and go dine.That’s the plan of your Whigs—your kind-hearted, true Whigs!Then, shout, &c.Off the fine Memel timber, we’d take—if we could—All tax, ’cause ’tis used in the palace and hall;On the cottager’s, tradesman’s coarse Canada wood,We will clap such a tax as shall pay us for all.That’s the “dodge” for your Whigs—your poor-loving, true Whigs!Then, shout, &c.To free our dear brothers, the niggers, you knowTwenty millions and more we have fix’d on your backs.’Twas gammon—’twas humbug—’twas swindle! for, lo!Weundoall we’ve done—we go trade in the blacks.YourhumanityWhigs!—anti-slaveryWhigs!Then, shout, &c.When to Office we came, fulltwo millionsin storeWe found safe and snug. Now, that surplus instead,Besides having spentit, andsixmillions more,Lo! we’re short,on the year, only two millions dead.That’s the “go” for your Whigs—yourretrenchingold WhigsThen, shout, &c.In a word, round the throne we’ve stuck sisters and wives,Our brothers and cousins fill bench, church, and steeple;Assist us to stick in, at least forourlives,And nicely “we’ll sarve out” Queen, Lords, ay, and People.That’s the fun for your Whigs—your bed-chamber old Whigs!Shout, shout, &c.

Loved friends—kind electors, once more we are here

To beg your sweet voices—to tell you our deeds.

Though our Budget is empty, we’ve got—never fear—

A long full privy purse, to stand bribing and feeds.

For, oh! we are out-and-out Whigs—thorough Whigs!

Then, shout till your throttles, good people, ye crack;

Hurrah! for the troop of sublime “Thimble-rigs!”

Hurrah! for the jolly old Downing-street pack.

What we’ve done, and will do for you, haply you’ll ask:All, all, gentle folks, you shall presently see.Off your sugar we’ll take justone penny a cask!Only adding a shilling a pound on your tea.That’s the style for your Whigs—yourreformingold Whigs!Then, shout, &c.

What we’ve done, and will do for you, haply you’ll ask:

All, all, gentle folks, you shall presently see.

Off your sugar we’ll take justone penny a cask!

Only adding a shilling a pound on your tea.

That’s the style for your Whigs—yourreformingold Whigs!

Then, shout, &c.

Off your broad—think of this!—we will take—(if we can)—A whole farthing a loaf; then, when wages decline,By one-half—as they must—and you’re starving, each manIn our New Poor Law Bastiles may go lodge, and go dine.That’s the plan of your Whigs—your kind-hearted, true Whigs!Then, shout, &c.

Off your broad—think of this!—we will take—(if we can)—

A whole farthing a loaf; then, when wages decline,

By one-half—as they must—and you’re starving, each man

In our New Poor Law Bastiles may go lodge, and go dine.

That’s the plan of your Whigs—your kind-hearted, true Whigs!

Then, shout, &c.

Off the fine Memel timber, we’d take—if we could—All tax, ’cause ’tis used in the palace and hall;On the cottager’s, tradesman’s coarse Canada wood,We will clap such a tax as shall pay us for all.That’s the “dodge” for your Whigs—your poor-loving, true Whigs!Then, shout, &c.

Off the fine Memel timber, we’d take—if we could—

All tax, ’cause ’tis used in the palace and hall;

On the cottager’s, tradesman’s coarse Canada wood,

We will clap such a tax as shall pay us for all.

That’s the “dodge” for your Whigs—your poor-loving, true Whigs!

Then, shout, &c.

To free our dear brothers, the niggers, you knowTwenty millions and more we have fix’d on your backs.’Twas gammon—’twas humbug—’twas swindle! for, lo!Weundoall we’ve done—we go trade in the blacks.YourhumanityWhigs!—anti-slaveryWhigs!Then, shout, &c.

To free our dear brothers, the niggers, you know

Twenty millions and more we have fix’d on your backs.

’Twas gammon—’twas humbug—’twas swindle! for, lo!

Weundoall we’ve done—we go trade in the blacks.

YourhumanityWhigs!—anti-slaveryWhigs!

Then, shout, &c.

When to Office we came, fulltwo millionsin storeWe found safe and snug. Now, that surplus instead,Besides having spentit, andsixmillions more,Lo! we’re short,on the year, only two millions dead.That’s the “go” for your Whigs—yourretrenchingold WhigsThen, shout, &c.

When to Office we came, fulltwo millionsin store

We found safe and snug. Now, that surplus instead,

Besides having spentit, andsixmillions more,

Lo! we’re short,on the year, only two millions dead.

That’s the “go” for your Whigs—yourretrenchingold Whigs

Then, shout, &c.

In a word, round the throne we’ve stuck sisters and wives,Our brothers and cousins fill bench, church, and steeple;Assist us to stick in, at least forourlives,And nicely “we’ll sarve out” Queen, Lords, ay, and People.That’s the fun for your Whigs—your bed-chamber old Whigs!Shout, shout, &c.

In a word, round the throne we’ve stuck sisters and wives,

Our brothers and cousins fill bench, church, and steeple;

Assist us to stick in, at least forourlives,

And nicely “we’ll sarve out” Queen, Lords, ay, and People.

That’s the fun for your Whigs—your bed-chamber old Whigs!

Shout, shout, &c.

What was the reply to this pathetic, this generous appeal? Name it not at Woburn-abbey—whisper it not at Panshanger—breathe it not in the epicurean retreat of Brocket-hall! Tears, big tears, roll down our sympathetic checks as we write it. It was simply—“Cock-a-doodle-do!”

Lord John Russell, on his arrival with his bride at Selkirk the other day, was invested with the burghship of that ancient town. In this ceremony, “licking the birse,” that is, dipping a bunch of shoemaker’s bristles in a glass of wine and drawing them across the mouth, was performed with all due solemnity by his lordship. The circumstance has given rise to the followingjeu d’esprit, which the author, Young Ben D’Israeli, has kindly dropped into PUNCH’S mouth:—

Lord Johnny, that comical dog,At trifles in politics whistles;In London he wentthe whole hog,At Selkirk he’sgoing the bristles.

Lord Johnny, that comical dog,

At trifles in politics whistles;

In London he wentthe whole hog,

At Selkirk he’sgoing the bristles.

“Why are Sir Robert Peel and Sir James Graham like two persons with only one intellect?”—“Because there is an understanding between them.”

“Why is Sir Robert Peel like a confounded and detected malefactor?”—“Because he has nothing at all to say for himself.”

TheSalisbury Heraldsays, that Sir John Pollen stated, in reference to his defeat at the Andover election, “that from the bribery and corruption resorted to for that purpose, they (the electors) would have returned a jackass to parliament.” Indeed! How is it that he tried and failed?

LORD HOWICK, it is said, has gone abroad for the benefit of his health; he feels that he has not been properly treated at home.

As much anxiety necessarily exists for the future well-being of our beloved infant Princess, we have determined to take upon ourselves the onerous duties of her education. In accordance with the taste of her Royal mother for that soft language which

“—sounds as if it should be writ on satin,”

we have commenced by translating the old nursery song of “Ride a cock-horse” into most choice Italian, and have had it set to music by Rossini; who, we are happy to state, has performed his task entirely to the satisfaction of Mrs. Ratsey, the nurse of her Royal Highness; a lady equally anxious with ourselves to instil into the infant mind an utter contempt for everything English, except those effigies of her illustrious mother which emanate from the Mint. The original of this exquisite and simple ballad is too well known to need a transcript; the Italian version, we doubt not, will become equally popular with aristocratic mamas and fashionable nurses.

Several lines of music, with many trills and fancy notes. The text reads:Su gàl - lo ca - vàl - - - lo A / Ban - bu - ri crò - ce, An - dia - mo a / mi-rar La - - vec chia - a trot - tar. / Ai dìta ha gli anelli Ai piè i campanelli, E musica avra Do- / vùnque sen va - - - - - - - -

We have seen, with deep regret, a paragraph going the round of the papers headed, “THE LADY THIEF AT LINCOLN,” as if aladycould commit larceny! “Her disorder,” says the newspapers, “is ascribed to a morbid or irrrepressible propensity, or monomania;” in proof of which we beg to subjoin the following prescriptions of her family physician, which have been politely forwarded to us.

FOR A JEWELLERY AFFECTION.R.—Spoons—silv.viRings—pearlsiiDitto—diamondjBrooches—emer. et turq.iiCombs—tortois. et dia.iiFiat sumendum bis hodie cum magno reticulo aut muffo,J.K.FOR A DETERMINATION OF HABERDASHERY TO THE HANDS.R.—Balls—worstedxxivveils {Chantilly} jMec. et Bruss.Hose—Chi. rib. et cot. tops cum toevj prs.Ribbons—sat. gau. et sarse. (pieces)ivFiat sumendum cum cloko capace pocteque maneque.J.K.

J.K.

[pg 55]

A gentleman taking snuff from a box marked 'Treasury', surrounded by pamphlets and books, one of which says 'Natural History of the Sponge by Lord Melb'THE LAST PINCH.

THE LAST PINCH.

[pg 56]

[pg 57]

Mr. Combe, the great phrenologist, or, as some call him, Mr.Comb—perhaps on account of his being so busy about the head—has given it as his opinion, that in less than a hundred years public affairs will be (in America at least) carried on by the rules of phrenology. By postponing the proof of his assertion for a century, he seems determined that no one shall ever give him the lie while living, and when dead it will, of course, be of no consequence. We are inclined to think there may be some truth in the anticipation, and we therefore throw out a few hints as to how the science ought to be applied, if posterity should ever agree on making practical use of it. Ministers of state must undoubtedly be chosen according to their bumps, and of course, therefore, no chancellor or any other legal functionary will be selected who has the smallest symptom of the bump ofbenevolence. The judges must possesscausalityin a very high degree; andtime, which gives rise tothe perception of duration(which they could apply to Chancery suits), would be a great qualification for a Master of the Rolls or a Vice-chancellor. The framers of royal speeches should be picked out from the number of those who have the largest bumps ofsecretiveness; and those possessinginhabitiveness, producing the desire ofpermanence in place, should be shunned as much as possible. No bishop should be appointed whose bump ofvenerationwould not require him to wear a hat constructed like that of PUNCH, to allow hisorganfullplay; and the development ofnumber, if large, might ensure a Chancellor of the Exchequer whose calculations could at least be relied upon.

Our great objection to the plan is this—that it might be abused by parties bumping their own heads, and raising tumours for the sake of obtaining credit for different qualities. Thus a terrific crack at the back of the ear might produce so great an elevation of the organ ofcombativenessas might obtain for the greatest coward a reputation for the greatest courage; and a thundering rap on the centre of the head might raise on the skull of the veriest brute a bump of, and name for,benevolence.

Well, come my dear, I will confess—(Though really you too hard are)So dry these tears and smooth each tress—Let Betty search the larder;Then o’er a chop and genial glass,Though I so late have tarried,I will recount what came to passI’ the days before I married.Then, every place where fashion hies,Wealth, health, and youth to squander,I sought—shot folly as it flies,’Till I could shoot no longer.Still at the opera, playhouse, clubs,’Till midnight’s hour I tarried;Mixed in each scene that fashion dubs“The Cheese”—before I married.Soon grown familiar with the town,Through Pleasure’s haze I hurried;(Don’t feel alarmed—suppress that frown—Another glass—you’re flurried)Subscribed to Crockford’s, betted high—Such specs too oft miscarried;My purse was full (nay, check that sigh)—It was before I married.At Ascot I was quite the thing,Where all admired my tandem;I sparkled in the stand and ring,Talked, betted (though at random);At Epsom, and at Goodwood too,I flying colours carried.Flatterers and followers not a fewWere mine—before I married.My cash I lent to every one,And gay crowds thronged around me;My credit, when my cash was gone,’Till bills and bailiffs bound me.With honeyed promises so sweet,Each friend his object carried,Till I was marshalled to the Fleet;But—’twas before I married.Then sober thoughts of wedlock came,Suggested by the papers;TheSunday Timessoon raised a flame,ThePostcured all my vapours;And spite of what Romance may say’Gainst courtship so on carried,Thanks to the fates and fair “Z.A.”I now am blest and—married.

Well, come my dear, I will confess—

(Though really you too hard are)

So dry these tears and smooth each tress—

Let Betty search the larder;

Then o’er a chop and genial glass,

Though I so late have tarried,

I will recount what came to pass

I’ the days before I married.

Then, every place where fashion hies,Wealth, health, and youth to squander,I sought—shot folly as it flies,’Till I could shoot no longer.Still at the opera, playhouse, clubs,’Till midnight’s hour I tarried;Mixed in each scene that fashion dubs“The Cheese”—before I married.

Then, every place where fashion hies,

Wealth, health, and youth to squander,

I sought—shot folly as it flies,

’Till I could shoot no longer.

Still at the opera, playhouse, clubs,

’Till midnight’s hour I tarried;

Mixed in each scene that fashion dubs

“The Cheese”—before I married.

Soon grown familiar with the town,Through Pleasure’s haze I hurried;(Don’t feel alarmed—suppress that frown—Another glass—you’re flurried)Subscribed to Crockford’s, betted high—Such specs too oft miscarried;My purse was full (nay, check that sigh)—It was before I married.

Soon grown familiar with the town,

Through Pleasure’s haze I hurried;

(Don’t feel alarmed—suppress that frown—

Another glass—you’re flurried)

Subscribed to Crockford’s, betted high—

Such specs too oft miscarried;

My purse was full (nay, check that sigh)—

It was before I married.

At Ascot I was quite the thing,Where all admired my tandem;I sparkled in the stand and ring,Talked, betted (though at random);At Epsom, and at Goodwood too,I flying colours carried.Flatterers and followers not a fewWere mine—before I married.

At Ascot I was quite the thing,

Where all admired my tandem;

I sparkled in the stand and ring,

Talked, betted (though at random);

At Epsom, and at Goodwood too,

I flying colours carried.

Flatterers and followers not a few

Were mine—before I married.

My cash I lent to every one,And gay crowds thronged around me;My credit, when my cash was gone,’Till bills and bailiffs bound me.With honeyed promises so sweet,Each friend his object carried,Till I was marshalled to the Fleet;But—’twas before I married.

My cash I lent to every one,

And gay crowds thronged around me;

My credit, when my cash was gone,

’Till bills and bailiffs bound me.

With honeyed promises so sweet,

Each friend his object carried,

Till I was marshalled to the Fleet;

But—’twas before I married.

Then sober thoughts of wedlock came,Suggested by the papers;TheSunday Timessoon raised a flame,ThePostcured all my vapours;And spite of what Romance may say’Gainst courtship so on carried,Thanks to the fates and fair “Z.A.”I now am blest and—married.

Then sober thoughts of wedlock came,

Suggested by the papers;

TheSunday Timessoon raised a flame,

ThePostcured all my vapours;

And spite of what Romance may say

’Gainst courtship so on carried,

Thanks to the fates and fair “Z.A.”

I now am blest and—married.

Jockey Campbell, who has secured 4,000l. a-year by crossing the water and occupying for 20 hours the IrishWoolsack, strongly reminds us of Jason’s Argonautic expedition, after thegolden fleece.

The immense importance of the signals now used in the royal navy, by facilitating the communication between ships at sea; has suggested to an ingenious member of the Scientific Association, the introduction of a telegraphic code of signals to be employed in society generally, where theviva vocemode of communication might be either inconvenient or embarrassing. The inventor has specially devoted his attention to the topics peculiarly interesting to both sexes, and proposes by his system to remove all those impediments to a free and unreserved interchange of sentiment between a lady and gentleman, which feminine timidity on the one side—naturalgaucherieon the other—dread of committing one’s self, or fear of transgressing the rules of good breeding, now throw in the way of many well-disposed young persons. He explains his system, by supposing that an unmarried lady and gentleman meet for the first time at a public ball:heis enchanted with the sylph-like grace of the lady in a waltz—she, fascinated with the superb black moustaches of the gentleman. Mutual interest is created in their bosoms, and the gentleman signalizes:—

“Do you perceive how much I am struck by your beauty?”—by twisting the tip of his right moustache with the finger and thumb of the corresponding hand. If the gentleman be unprovided with these foreign appendages, the right ear must be substituted.

The lady replies by an affirmative signal, or the contrary:—e.g.“Yes,” the lady arranges her bouquet with the left hand. “No,” a similar operation with the right hand. Assuming the answer to have been favourable, the gentleman, by slowly throwing back his head, and gently drawing up his stock with the left hand, signals—

“How do you likethisstyle of person?”

The lady must instantly lower her eyelids, and appear to count the sticks of her fan, which will express—“Immensely.”

The gentleman then thrusts the thumb of his left-hand into the arm-hole of his waistcoat, taps three times carelessly with his fingers upon his chest. By this signal he means to say—

“How is your little heart?”

The lady plucks a leaf out of her bouquet, and flings it playfully over her left shoulder, meaning thereby to intimate that her vital organ is “as free asthat.”

The gentleman, encouraged by the last signal, clasps his hands, and by placing both his thumbs together, protests that “Heaven has formed them for each other.”

Whereupon the lady must, unhesitatingly, touch the fourth finger of her left hand with the index finger of the right; by which emphatic signal she means to say—“No nonsense, though?”

The gentleman instantly repels the idea, by expanding the palms of both hands, and elevating his eyebrows. This is the point at which he should make the most important signal in the code. It is done by inserting the finger and thumb of the right hand into the waistcoat pocket, and expresses, “What metal do you carry?” or, more popularly, “What is the amount of your banker’s account?”

The lady replies by tapping her fan on the back of her left hand;onedistinct tap for every thousand pounds she possesses. If the number of taps be satisfactory to the gentleman, he must, by a deep inspiration, inflate his lungs so as to cause a visible heaving of his chest, and then, fixing his eyes upon the chandelier, slap his forehead with an expression of suicidal determination. This is a very difficult signal, which will require some practice to execute properly. It means—

“Pity my sad state! If you refuse to love me, I’ll blow my miserable brains out.” The lady may, by shaking her head incredulously, express a reasonable doubt that the gentleman possesses any brains.

After a few more preliminary signals, the lover comes to the point by dropping his gloves on the floor, thereby beseeching the lady to allow him to offer her his hand and fortune.

To which she, by letting fall her handkerchief, replies—

“Ask papa and mamma.”

This is only an imperfect outline of the code which the inventor asserts may be introduced with wonderful advantage in the streets, the theatres, at churches, and dissenting chapels; and, in short, everywhere that the language of the lips cannot be used.

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