Dear J——, Send me a shilling.Yours, B——,P.S.—On second thoughts, make ittwo.
Dear J——, Send me a shilling.Yours, B——,P.S.—On second thoughts, make ittwo.
Dear J——, Send me a shilling.
Yours, B——,
P.S.—On second thoughts, make ittwo.
To which his friend replied—
Dear B——, I have but one shilling in the world.Yours, J——,P.S.—On second thoughts, I want that for dinner.
Dear B——, I have but one shilling in the world.Yours, J——,P.S.—On second thoughts, I want that for dinner.
Dear B——, I have but one shilling in the world.
Yours, J——,
P.S.—On second thoughts, I want that for dinner.
A young artist in Picayune takes such perfect likenesses, that a lady married the portrait of her lover instead of the original.
[pg 18]
READER.—God bless us, Mr. PUNCH! who is that tall, fair-haired, somewhat parrot-faced gentleman, smiling like a schoolboy over a mess of treacle, and now kissing the tips of his five fingers as gingerly as if he were doomed to kiss a nettle?
PUNCH.—That, Mr. Reader, is the great cotton-plant, Sir Robert Peel; and at this moment he has, in his own conceit, seized upon “the white wonder” of Victoria’s hand, and is kissing it with Saint James’s devotion.
READER.—What for, Mr. PUNCH?
PUNCH.—What for! At court, Mr. Reader, you always kiss when you obtain an honour. ‘Tis a very old fashion, sir—old as the court of King David. Well do I recollect what a smack Uriah gave to his majesty when he was appointed to the post which made Bathsheba a widow. Poor Uriah! as we say of the stag, that was when his horns were in the velvet.
READER.—Yourecollect it, Mr. PUNCH!—youat the court of King David!
PUNCH.—I, Mr. Reader, I!—and at every court, from the court of Cain in Mesopotamia to the court of Victoria in this present, flinty-hearted London; only the truth is, as I have travelled I have changed my name. Bless you, half theProverbsgiven to Solomon are mine. What I have lost by keeping company with kings, not even Joseph Hume can calculate.
READER.—And are you really in court confidence at this moment?
PUNCH.—Am I? What! Hav’n’t you heard of the elections? Have you not heard the shoutsIo Punch? Doesn’t my nose glow like coral—ar’n’t my chops radiant as a rainbow—hath not my hunch gone up at least two inches—am I not, from crown to toe-nails, brightened, sublimated? Like Alexander—he was a particular friend of mine, that same Alexander, and therefore stole many of my best sayings—I only know that I am mortal by two sensations—a yearning for loaves and fishes, and a love for Judy.
READER.—And you really take office under Peel?
PUNCH.—Ha! ha! ha! A good joke! Peel takes office underme. Ha! ha! I’m only thinking what sport I shall have with the bedchamber women. But out they must go. The constitution gives a minister the selection of his own petticoats; and therefore there sha’n’t be a yard of Welsh flannel about her Majesty that isn’t of my choice.
READER.—Do you really think that the royal bedchamber is in fact a third house of Parliament—that the affairs of the state are always to be put in the feminine gender?
PUNCH.—Most certainly: the ropes of the state rudder are nothing more than cap-ribbons; if the minister hav’n’t hold of them, what can he do with the ship? As for the debates in parliament, they have no more to do with the real affairs of the country than the gossip of the apple-women in Palace-yard. They’re made, like the maccaroni in Naples, for the poor to swallow; and so that they gulp down length, they think, poor fellows, they get strength. But for the real affairs of the country! Who shall tell what correspondence can be conveyed in a warming-pan, what intelligence—for
“There may be wisdom in a papillote”—
“There may be wisdom in a papillote”—
“There may be wisdom in a papillote”—
may be wrapt up in the curl-papers of the Crown? What subtle, sinister advice may, by a crafty disposition of royal pins, be given on the royal pincushion? What minister shall answer for the sound repose of Royalty, if he be not permitted to make Royalty’s bed? How shall he answer for the comely appearance of Royalty, if he do not, by his own delegated hands, lace Royalty’s stays? I shudder to think of it; but, without the key of the bedchamber, could my friend Peel be made responsible for the health of the Princess? Instead of the very best and most scrupulously-aired diaper, might not—by negligence or design, it matters not which—the Princess Royal be rolled in an Act of Parliament, wet from Hansard’s press?
READER.—Dreadful, soul perturbing suggestion! Go on, Mr. PUNCH.
PUNCH.—Not but what I think it—if their constitution will stand damp paper—an admirable way of rearing young princesses. Queen Elizabeth—my wife Judy was her wet nurse—was reared after that fashion.
READER.—David Hume says nothing of it.
PUNCH.—David Hume was one of the wonders of the earth—he was a lazy Scotchman; but had he searched the State Paper Office, he would have found the documents there—yes, the very Acts of Parliament—the very printed rollers. To those rollers Queen Elizabeth owed her knowledge of the English Constitution.
READER.—Explain—I can’t see how.
PUNCH.—Then you are very dull. Is not Parliament the assembled wisdom of the country?
READER.—By a fiction, Mr. PUNCH.
PUNCH—Very well, Mr. Reader; what’s all the world but a fiction? I say, the assembled wisdom; an Act of Parliament is the sifted wisdom of the wise—the essence of an essence. Very well; know you not the mystic, the medicinal effects of printer’s ink? The devil himself isn’t proof to a blister of printer’s ink. Well, you take an Act of Parliament—and what is it but the finest plaster of the finest brains—wet, reeking wet from the press. Eschewing diaper, you roll the Act round the royal infant; you roll it up and pin it in the conglomerated wisdom of the nation. Now, consider the tenderness of a baby’s cuticle; the pores are open, and a rapid and continual absorption takes place, so that long before the Royal infant cuts its first tooth, it has taken up into its system the whole body of the Statutes.
READER.—Might not some patriots object to the application of the wisdom of the country to so domestic a purpose?
PUNCH.—Such patriots are more squeamish than wise. Sir, how many grown up kings have we had, who have shown no more respect for the laws of the country, than if they had been swaddled in ‘em?
READER.—Do you think your friend Sir Robert is for statute rollers?
PUNCH.—I can answer for Sir Robert on every point. His first attack before he kisses hands—and he has, as you perceive, been practising this half-hour—will be upon the women of the bedchamber. The war with China—the price of sugar—the corn-laws—the fourteen new Bishops about to be hatched—timber—cotton—a property tax, and the penny post—all these matters and persons are of secondary importance to this greater question—whether the female who hands the Queen her gown shall think Lord Melbourne a “very pretty fellow in his day;” or whether she shall believe my friend Sir Robert to be as great a conjuror as Roger Bacon or the Wizard of the North—if the lady can look upon O’Connell and not call for burnt feathers or scream forsal volatile; or if she really thinks the Pope to be a woman with a naughty name, clothed in most exceptionable scarlet. It is whether Lady Mary thinks black, or Lady Clementina thinks white; whether her father who begot her voted with the Marquis of Londonderry or Earl Grey—thatis the grand question to be solved, before my friend Sir Robert can condescend to be the saviour of his country. To have the privilege of making a batch of peers, or a handful of bishops is nothing, positively nothing—no, the crowning work is to manufacture a lady’s maid. What’s a mitre to a mob-cap—what the garters of a peer to the garters of the Lady Adeliza?
READER.—You are getting warm, Mr. PUNCH—very warm.
PUNCH.—I always do get warm when I talk of the delicious sex: for though now and then I thrash my wife before company, who shall imagine how cosy we are when we’re alone? Do you not remember that great axiom of Sir Robert’s—an axiom that should make Machiavelli howl with envy—that “the battle of the Constitution is to fought in the bedchamber.”
READER.—I remember it.
PUNCH.—That was a great sentence. Had Sir Robert known his true fame, he would never after have opened his mouth.
READER.—Has the Queen sent for Sir Robert yet?
PUNCH.—No: though I know he has staid at home these ten days, and answers every knock at the door himself, in expectation of a message.
READER.—They say the Queen doesn’t like Sir Robert.
PUNCH.—I’m also told that her Majesty has a great antipathy to physic—yet when the Constitution requires medicine, why—
READER.—Sir Robert must be swallowed.
PUNCH.—Exactly so. We shall have warm work of it, no doubt—but I fear nothing, when we have once got rid of the women. And then, we have a few such nice wenches of our own to place about her Majesty; the Queen shall take Conservatism as she might take measles—without knowing it.
READER.—And when, Mr. PUNCH—when you have got rid of the women, what do you and Sir Robert purpose then?
PUNCH.—I beg your pardon: we shall meet again next week: it’s now two o’clock. I have an appointment with half-a-dozen of my godsons; I have promised them all places in the new government, and they’re come to take their choice.
READER.—Do tell me this: Who has Peel selected for Commander of the Forces?
PUNCH.—Who? Colonel Sibthorp.
READER.—And who for Chancellor of the Exchequer?
PUNCH.—Mr. Henry Moreton Dyer!
[pg 19]
A man in a lion's skin holding up the upper half of a smaller man. The bottom half of the small man remains on a bench marked TREASURY BENCHHERCULES TEARING THESEUS FROM THE ROCK TO WHICH HE HAD GROWN.(MODERNIZED.)APOLLODORUS relates that THESEUS sat so long on a rock, that at length he grew to it, so that when HERCULES tore him forcibly away, he left all the nether part of the man behind him.
HERCULES TEARING THESEUS FROM THE ROCK TO WHICH HE HAD GROWN.
(MODERNIZED.)
APOLLODORUS relates that THESEUS sat so long on a rock, that at length he grew to it, so that when HERCULES tore him forcibly away, he left all the nether part of the man behind him.
[pg 20]
[pg 21]
We have been at considerable expense in procuring the subjoined account of the election which has just terminated in the borough of Ballinafad, in Ireland. Our readers may rest assured that our report is perfectly exclusive, being taken, as the artists say, “on the spot,” by a special bullet-proof reporter whom we engaged, at an enormous expense, for this double hazardous service.
BALLINAFAD, 20th JULY.
Tuesday Morning, Eight o’clock.—The contest has begun! The struggle for the independence of Ballinafad has commenced! Griggles, the opposition candidate, is in the field, backed by a vile faction. The rank, wealth, and independence of Ballinafad are all ranged under the banner of Figsby and freedom. A party of Griggles’ voters have just marched into the town, preceded by a piper and a blind fiddler, playing the most obnoxious tunes. A barrel of beer has been broached at Griggles’ committee-rooms. We are all in a state of the greatest excitement.
Half-past Eight.—Mr. Figsby is this moment proceeding from his hotel to the hustings, surrounded by his friends and a large body of the independent teetotal electors. A wheelbarrow full of rotten eggs has been sent up to the hustings, to be used, as occasion requires, by the Figsby voters, who are bent upon
A fellow trying to pull a hog from a lake, but the rope broke“GOING THE WHOLE HOG.”
“GOING THE WHOLE HOG.”
A serious riot has occurred at the town pump, where two of the independent teetotalers have been ducked by the opposite party. Stones are beginning to fly in all directions. A general row is expected.
Nine o’clock.—Polling has commenced. Tom Daly, of Galway, the fighting friend of Mr. Figsby, has just arrived, with three brace of duelling pistols, and a carpet-bag full of powder and ball. This looks like business. I have heard that six of Mr. Figsby’s voters have been locked up in a barn by Griggles’ people. The poll is proceeding vigorously.
Ten o’clock.—State of the poll to this time:—
The most barefaced bribery is being employed by Griggles. A lady, known to be in his interest, was seen buying half-a-pound of tea, in the shop of Mr. Fad, the grocer, for which she paid with a whole sovereign,and took no change.Two legs of muttonhave also been sent up to Griggles’ house, by Reilly, the butcher. Heaven knows what will be the result. The voting is become serious—four men with fractured skulls have, within these ten minutes, been carried into the apothecary’s over the way. A couple of policemen have been thrown over the bridge; but we are in too great a state of agitation to mind trifles.
Half-past Twelve o’clock.—State of the poll to this time:—
You can have no idea of the frightful state of the town. The faction are employing all sorts of bribery and intimidation. The wife of a liberal greengrocer has just been seen with the Griggles ribbons in her cap. Five pounds have been offered for a sucking-pig. Figsby must come in, notwithstanding two cart-loads of the temperance voters are now riding up to the poll, most of them being too drunk to walk. Three duels have been this morning reported. Results not known. The coroner has been holding inquests in the market-house all the morning.
Three o’clock.—State of the poll to this time:—
The rascally corrupt assessor has decided that the temperance electors who came up to vote for the Liberal candidate, being too drunk to speak, were disentitled to vote. Some dead men had been polled by Griggles.
The verdict of the coroner’s inquest on those who unfortunately lost their lives this morning, has been, “Found dead.” Everybody admires the sagacious conclusion at which the jury have arrived. It is reported that Figsby has resigned! I am able to contradict the gross falsehood. Mr. F. is now addressing the electors from his committee-room window, and has this instant received a plumper—in the eye—in the shape of a rotten potato. I have ascertained that the casualties amount to no more than six men, two pigs, and two policemen, killed; thirteen men, women, and children, wounded.
Four o’clock—State of the poll up to this time:—
The poll-clerks on both sides are drunk, the assessor has closed the booths, and I am grieved to inform you that Griggles has just been duly elected.
Half past Four o’clock.—Figsby has given Grigglcs the lie on the open hustings. Will Griggles fight?
Five o’clock.—His wife insists he shall; so, of course, he must. I hear that a message has just been delivered to Figsby. Tom Daly and his carpet-bag passed under my window a few minutes ago.
Half-past Five o’clock.—Two post-chaises have just dashed by at full speed—I got a glimpse of Tom Daly smoking a cigar in one of them.
Six o’clock.—I open my letter to tell you that Figsby is the favourite; 3 to 1 has been offered at the club, that he wings his man; and 3 to 2 that he drills him. The public anxiety is intense.
Half-past Six.—I again open my letter to say, that I have nothing further to add, except that the betting continues in favour of the popular candidate.
Seven o’clock.—Huzza!—Griggles is shot! The glorious principles of constitutional freedom have been triumphant! The town is in an uproar of delight! We are making preparations to illuminate. BALLINAFAD IS SAVED! FIGSBY FOR EVER!
Lord Johnny from Stroud thought it best to retreat.Being certain of getting the sack,So he ran to the City, and begged for a seat,Crying, “Please tore-member Poor Jack!”
Lord Johnny from Stroud thought it best to retreat.Being certain of getting the sack,So he ran to the City, and begged for a seat,Crying, “Please tore-member Poor Jack!”
Lord Johnny from Stroud thought it best to retreat.
Being certain of getting the sack,
So he ran to the City, and begged for a seat,
Crying, “Please tore-member Poor Jack!”
Why is a tall nobleman like a poker?—Because he’s ahigh’unbelonging to thegreat.
Why is a defunct mother like a dog?—Because she’s ama-stiff.
When isa horselikea herring?—When he’shard rode.
One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop,To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop:“Alas!” cried one as round in air he spun,“That miserable wretch’srace is run.”“True,” said the other drily, “to his cost,The race is run—but, by aneck‘tis lost.”
One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop,To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop:“Alas!” cried one as round in air he spun,“That miserable wretch’srace is run.”“True,” said the other drily, “to his cost,The race is run—but, by aneck‘tis lost.”
One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop,
To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop:
“Alas!” cried one as round in air he spun,
“That miserable wretch’srace is run.”
“True,” said the other drily, “to his cost,
The race is run—but, by aneck‘tis lost.”
Lord John Russell has arrived at a conviction—that the Whigs are not so popular as they were.
Sir Peter Laurie has arrived at the conclusion—that Solon was a greater man than himself.
To win the maid the poet tries,And sonnets writes to Julia’s eyes;—She likes averse—but cruel whim,She still appearsa-verseto him.
To win the maid the poet tries,And sonnets writes to Julia’s eyes;—She likes averse—but cruel whim,She still appearsa-verseto him.
To win the maid the poet tries,
And sonnets writes to Julia’s eyes;—
She likes averse—but cruel whim,
She still appearsa-verseto him.
A most cruel hoax has recently been played off upon that deserving class the housemaids of London, by the insertion of an advertisement in the morning papers, announcing that a servant in the above capacity was wanted by Lord Melbourne. Had it been for acook, the absurdity would have been too palpable, as Melbourne has frequently expressed his opposition to sinecures.
Now B—y P—l has beat the Whigs,The Church can’t understandWhy Bot’ny Bay should be all sea,And have noseeon land.For such a lamentable wantOur good Archbishop grieves;’Tis very strange the Tories shouldRemind himof the thieves!
Now B—y P—l has beat the Whigs,The Church can’t understandWhy Bot’ny Bay should be all sea,And have noseeon land.
Now B—y P—l has beat the Whigs,
The Church can’t understand
Why Bot’ny Bay should be all sea,
And have noseeon land.
For such a lamentable wantOur good Archbishop grieves;’Tis very strange the Tories shouldRemind himof the thieves!
For such a lamentable want
Our good Archbishop grieves;
Remind himof the thieves!
An American paper tells us of a woman named Dobbs, who was killed in a preaching-house at Nashville, by the fall of a chandelier on her head. Brett’s Patent Brandy poet, who would as soon make a witticism on a cracked crown as a cracked bottle, has sent us the following:—
“Thelight of lifecomes from above,”Old Dingdrum snuffling said;“Thelightcame down on Peggy Dobbs,And Peggy Dobbs wasdead.”
“Thelight of lifecomes from above,”Old Dingdrum snuffling said;“Thelightcame down on Peggy Dobbs,And Peggy Dobbs wasdead.”
“Thelight of lifecomes from above,”
Old Dingdrum snuffling said;
“Thelightcame down on Peggy Dobbs,
And Peggy Dobbs wasdead.”
A man in Kentucky was so absent, that he put himself on the toasting-fork, and did not discover his mistake until he wasdone brown.
No wonder Tory landlords flout“Fix’d Duty,” for ’tis plain,With them the Anti-Corn-Law BillMustgo against the grain.
No wonder Tory landlords flout“Fix’d Duty,” for ’tis plain,With them the Anti-Corn-Law BillMustgo against the grain.
No wonder Tory landlords flout
“Fix’d Duty,” for ’tis plain,
With them the Anti-Corn-Law Bill
Mustgo against the grain.
The anticipated eruption of Mount Vesuvius is said to have been prevented by throwing a box of Holloway’s Ointment into the crater.
[pg 22]
In the year—let me see—but no matter about the date—my father and mother died of a typhus fever, leaving me to the care of an only relative, and uncle, by my father’s side. His name was Box, as my name is Box. I was a babby in long clothes at that time, not even so much as christened; so uncle, taking the hint, I suppose, from the lid of his sea-chest, had me called Bellophron Box. Bellophron being the name of the ship of which he was sailing-master.
I sha’n’t say anything about my education; though I was brought up in
A Pirate Boarding BattleA FIRST RATE BOARDING-SCHOOL.
A FIRST RATE BOARDING-SCHOOL.
It’s not much to boast of; but as soon as I could bear the weight of a cockade and a dirk, uncle got me a berth as midshipman on board his own ship. So there I was,Mr.Bellophron Box. I didn’t like the sea or the service, being continually disgusted at the partiality shown towards me, for in less than a month I was put over the heads of all my superior officers. You may stare—but it’s true; forI was mast-headedfor a week at a stretch. When we put into port, Captain —— called me into his cabin, and politely informed me that if I chose to go on shore, and should find it inconvenient to return, no impertinent inquiries should be made after me. I availed myself of the hint, and exactly one year and two months after setting foot on board the Bellophron, I wasMasterBellophron Box again.
Well, now for my story. There was one Tom Johnson on board, afok’sellman, as they called him, who was very kind to me; he tried to teach me to turn a quid, and generously helped me to drink my grog. As I was unmercifully quizzed in the cockpit, I grew more partial to the society of Tom than to that of my brother middies. Tom always addressed me,’Sir,’ and they named me Puddinghead; till at last we might be called friends. During many a night-watch, when I have sneaked away for a snooze among the hen-coops, has Tom saved me from detection, and the consequent pleasant occupation of carrying about a bucket of water on the end of a capstan bar.
I had been on board about a month—perhaps two—when the order came down from the Admiralty, for the men to cut off their tails. Lord, what a scene was there! I wonder it didn’t cause a mutiny! I think it would have done so, but half the crew were laid up with colds in their heads, from the suddenness of the change, though an extra allowance of rum was served out to rub them with to prevent such consequences; but the purser not giving any definite directions, whether the application was to be external or internal, the liquor, I regret to say, for the honour of the British navy, was applied much lower down. For some weeks the men seemed half-crazed, and were almost as unmanageable as ships that had lost their rudders. Well, so they had! It was a melancholy sight to see piles of beautiful tails with little labels tied to them, like the instructions on a physic-bottle; each directed to some favoured relative or sweetheart of thecurtailedseamen. What a strange appearance must Portsmouth, and Falmouth, and Plymouth, and all the other mouths that are filled with sea-stores, have presented, when the precious remembrances were distributed! I wish some artist would consider it; for I think it’s a shame that there should be no record of such an interesting circumstance.
One night, shortly after this visitation, it blew great guns. Large black clouds, like chimney-sweepers’ feather-beds, scudded over our heads, and the rain came pouring down like—like winking. Tom had been promoted, and was sent up aloft to reef a sail, when one of the horses giving way, down came Tom Johnson, and snap went a leg and an arm. I was ordered to see him carried below, an office which I readily performed, for I liked the man—and they don’t allow umbrellas in the navy.
“What’s the matter?” said the surgeon.
“Nothing particular, sir; on’y Tom’s broke his legs and his arms by a fall from the yard,” replied a seaman.
Tom groaned, as though hedidconsider it somethingveryparticular.
He was soon stripped and the shattered bones set, which was no easy matter, the ship pitching and tossing about as she did. I sat down beside his berth, holding on as well as I could. The wind howled through the rigging, making the vessel seem like an infernal Eolian harp; the thunder rumbled like an indisposed giant, and to make things more agreeable, a gun broke from its lashings, and had it all its own way for about a quarter of an hour. Tom groaned most pitiably. I looked at him, and if I were to live for a thousand years, I shall never forget the expression of his face. His lips were blue, and—no matter, I’m not clever at portrait painting: but imagine an old-fashioned Saracen’s Head—not the fine handsome fellow they have stuck on Snow Hill, but one of the griffins of 1809—and you have Tom’s phiz, only it wants touching with all the colours of a painter’s palette. I was quite frightened, and could only stammer out, “Why T-o-o-m!”
“It’s all up, sir,” says he; “I must go; I feel it.”
“Don’t be foolish,” I replied; “Don’t die till I call the surgeon.” It was a stupid speech, I acknowledge, but I could not help it at the time.
“No, no; don’t call the surgeon, Mr. Box; he’s done all he can, sir. But it’s here—it’s here!” and then he made an effort to thump his heart, or the back of his head, I couldn’t make out which.
I trembled like a jelly. I had once seen a melodrama, and I recollected that the villain of the piece had used the same action, the same words.
“Mr. Box,” groaned Tom, “I’ve a-a-secret as makes me very uneasy, sir,”
“Indeed, Tom,” I replied; “hadn’t you better confess the mur—” murder, I was a going to say, but I thought it might not be polite, considering Tom’s situation.
The ruffian, for such he looked then, tried to raise himself, but another lurch of the Bellophron sent him on his back, and myself on my beam-ends. As soon as I recovered my former position, Tom continued—
“Mr. Box, dare I trust you, sir? if I could do so, I’m sartin as how I should soon be easier.”
“Of course,” said I, “of course; out with it, and I promise never to betray your confidence.”
“Then come, come here,” gasped the suffering wretch; “give us your hand, sir.”
I instinctively shrunk back with horror!
“Don’t be long, Mr. Box, for every minute makes it worse,” and then his Saracen’s Head changed to a feminine expression, and resembled theBelle Sauvage.
I couldn’t resist the appeal; so placing my hand in his, Tom put it over his shoulder, and, with a ghastly smile, said, “Pull it out, sir!”
“Pull what out?”
“My secret, Mr. Box; it’s hurting on me!”
I thought that he had grown delirious; so, in order to soothe him as much as possible, I forced my hand under his shirt-collar, and what do you think I found? Why, a PIGTAIL—his pigtail, which he had contrived to conceal between his shirt and his skin, when the barbarous order of the Admiralty had been put into execution.
A silhouette of a bulldog pulling a sailor's pigtailA NAUTICAL TALE.
A NAUTICAL TALE.
You say you would findBut one, and one only,Who’d feel without youThat the revel was lonely:That when you were near,Time ever was fleetest,And deem your loved voiceOf all music the sweetest.Who would own her heart thine,Though a monarch beset it,And love on unchanged—Don’t you wish you may get it?You say you would roveWhere the bud cannot wither;Where Araby’s perfumesEach breeze wafteth thither.Where the lute hath no stringThat can waken a sorrow;Where the soft twilight blendsWith the dawn of the morrow;Where joy kindles joy,Ere you learn to forget it,And care never comes—Don’t you wish you may get it?
You say you would findBut one, and one only,Who’d feel without youThat the revel was lonely:That when you were near,Time ever was fleetest,And deem your loved voiceOf all music the sweetest.Who would own her heart thine,Though a monarch beset it,And love on unchanged—Don’t you wish you may get it?
You say you would find
But one, and one only,
Who’d feel without you
That the revel was lonely:
That when you were near,
Time ever was fleetest,
And deem your loved voice
Of all music the sweetest.
Who would own her heart thine,
Though a monarch beset it,
And love on unchanged—
Don’t you wish you may get it?
You say you would roveWhere the bud cannot wither;Where Araby’s perfumesEach breeze wafteth thither.Where the lute hath no stringThat can waken a sorrow;Where the soft twilight blendsWith the dawn of the morrow;Where joy kindles joy,Ere you learn to forget it,And care never comes—Don’t you wish you may get it?
You say you would rove
Where the bud cannot wither;
Where Araby’s perfumes
Each breeze wafteth thither.
Where the lute hath no string
That can waken a sorrow;
Where the soft twilight blends
With the dawn of the morrow;
Where joy kindles joy,
Ere you learn to forget it,
And care never comes—
Don’t you wish you may get it?
JOEY HUME is about to depart for Switzerland: for, finding his flummery of no avail at Leeds, we presume he intends to go toSchaff-hausen, to try theCant-on.
We beg to congratulate Lord John Russell on his approaching union with Lady Fanny Elliot. His lordship is such a persevering votary of Hymen, that we think he should be named “Union-Jack.”
LORD PALMERSTON, on his road to Windsor, narrowly escaped being upset by a gentleman in a gig. We have been privately informed that the party with whom he came in collision was—Sir Robert Peel.
[pg 23]
(REC.)If you ever should beIn a state ofennui,Just listen to me,And without any feeI’ll give you a hint how to set yourself free.Though dearth of intelligence weaken the news,And you feel an incipient attack of the blues,For amusement you never need be at a loss,If you take up the paper andread itacross.(INTER ARIA DEMI LOQUI.)Here’s theTimes, apropos,And so,With your patience, I’ll showWhat I mean, by perusing a passage or two.(ARIA.)“Hem! Mr. George Robins is anxious to tell,In very plain prose, he’s instructed to sell”—“A vote for the county”—“packed neatly in straw”—“Set by Holloway’s Ointment”—“a limb of the law.”“The army has had secret orders to seize”—“As soon as they can”—“the industrious fleas.”For amusement you never need be at a loss,If you take a newspaper and read it across.“The opera opens with”—“elegant coats”—“For silver and gold we exchange foreign notes”—“Specific to soften mortality’s ills”—“And cure Yorkshire bacon”—“take Morison’s pills.”“Curious coincidence”—“steam to Gravesend.”“Tale of deep interest”—“money to lend”—“Louisa is waiting for William to send.”For amusement you never need be at a loss,If you take a newspaper and read it across.“For relief of the Poles”—“an astounding feat!”—“A respectable man”—“for a water will eat”—“The Macadamised portion of Parliament-street.”“Mysterious occurrence!”—“expectedincog.”“To be viewed by cards only”—“a terrible fog.”“At eight in the morning the steam carriage starts”—“Takes passengers now”—“to be finished in parts.”For amusement you never need be at a loss,If you take a newspaper and read it across.“Left in a cab, and”—“the number not known”“A famous prize ox, weighing 200 stone”—“He speaks with a lisp”—“has a delicate shape”—“And hadon, when he quitted, a Macintosh cape.”“For China direct, a fine”—“dealer in slops.”“To the curious in shaving”—“new way to dress chops.”“Repeal of the corn”—“was roasted for lunch”—“Teetotal beverage “—“Triumph of PUNCH!”For amusement you never need be at a loss,If you take a newspaper and read it across.
(REC.)If you ever should beIn a state ofennui,Just listen to me,And without any feeI’ll give you a hint how to set yourself free.Though dearth of intelligence weaken the news,And you feel an incipient attack of the blues,For amusement you never need be at a loss,If you take up the paper andread itacross.
(REC.)
If you ever should be
In a state ofennui,
Just listen to me,
And without any fee
I’ll give you a hint how to set yourself free.
Though dearth of intelligence weaken the news,
And you feel an incipient attack of the blues,
For amusement you never need be at a loss,
If you take up the paper andread itacross.
(INTER ARIA DEMI LOQUI.)Here’s theTimes, apropos,And so,With your patience, I’ll showWhat I mean, by perusing a passage or two.
(INTER ARIA DEMI LOQUI.)
Here’s theTimes, apropos,
And so,
With your patience, I’ll show
What I mean, by perusing a passage or two.
(ARIA.)“Hem! Mr. George Robins is anxious to tell,In very plain prose, he’s instructed to sell”—“A vote for the county”—“packed neatly in straw”—“Set by Holloway’s Ointment”—“a limb of the law.”“The army has had secret orders to seize”—“As soon as they can”—“the industrious fleas.”For amusement you never need be at a loss,If you take a newspaper and read it across.
(ARIA.)
“Hem! Mr. George Robins is anxious to tell,
In very plain prose, he’s instructed to sell”—
“A vote for the county”—“packed neatly in straw”—
“Set by Holloway’s Ointment”—“a limb of the law.”
“The army has had secret orders to seize”—
“As soon as they can”—“the industrious fleas.”
For amusement you never need be at a loss,
If you take a newspaper and read it across.
“The opera opens with”—“elegant coats”—“For silver and gold we exchange foreign notes”—“Specific to soften mortality’s ills”—“And cure Yorkshire bacon”—“take Morison’s pills.”“Curious coincidence”—“steam to Gravesend.”“Tale of deep interest”—“money to lend”—“Louisa is waiting for William to send.”For amusement you never need be at a loss,If you take a newspaper and read it across.
“The opera opens with”—“elegant coats”—
“For silver and gold we exchange foreign notes”—
“Specific to soften mortality’s ills”—
“And cure Yorkshire bacon”—“take Morison’s pills.”
“Curious coincidence”—“steam to Gravesend.”
“Tale of deep interest”—“money to lend”—
“Louisa is waiting for William to send.”
For amusement you never need be at a loss,
If you take a newspaper and read it across.
“For relief of the Poles”—“an astounding feat!”—“A respectable man”—“for a water will eat”—“The Macadamised portion of Parliament-street.”“Mysterious occurrence!”—“expectedincog.”“To be viewed by cards only”—“a terrible fog.”“At eight in the morning the steam carriage starts”—“Takes passengers now”—“to be finished in parts.”For amusement you never need be at a loss,If you take a newspaper and read it across.
“For relief of the Poles”—“an astounding feat!”—
“A respectable man”—“for a water will eat”—
“The Macadamised portion of Parliament-street.”
“Mysterious occurrence!”—“expectedincog.”
“To be viewed by cards only”—“a terrible fog.”
“At eight in the morning the steam carriage starts”—
“Takes passengers now”—“to be finished in parts.”
For amusement you never need be at a loss,
If you take a newspaper and read it across.
“Left in a cab, and”—“the number not known”“A famous prize ox, weighing 200 stone”—“He speaks with a lisp”—“has a delicate shape”—“And hadon, when he quitted, a Macintosh cape.”“For China direct, a fine”—“dealer in slops.”“To the curious in shaving”—“new way to dress chops.”“Repeal of the corn”—“was roasted for lunch”—“Teetotal beverage “—“Triumph of PUNCH!”For amusement you never need be at a loss,If you take a newspaper and read it across.
“Left in a cab, and”—“the number not known”
“A famous prize ox, weighing 200 stone”—
“He speaks with a lisp”—“has a delicate shape”—
“And hadon, when he quitted, a Macintosh cape.”
“For China direct, a fine”—“dealer in slops.”
“To the curious in shaving”—“new way to dress chops.”
“Repeal of the corn”—“was roasted for lunch”—
“Teetotal beverage “—“Triumph of PUNCH!”
For amusement you never need be at a loss,
If you take a newspaper and read it across.
“Why are four thousand eight hundred and forty yards of land obtained on credit like a drinking song?”—“Because it’san-acre-on-tic.”—“I think I had you there!”
A correspondent of one of the morning papers exultingly observes, that thewood-blockswhich are about being removed from Whitehall are inexcellent condition. If this is an allusion to the present ministry, we should say, emphatically, NOT.
The Tories in Beverley have been wreaking their vengeance on their opponents at the late election, by ordering their tradesmen who voted against the Conservative candidate tosend in their bills. Mr. Duncombe declares that this is a mode of revenge he never would condescend to adopt.
If Farren, cleverest of men,Should go to the right about,What part of town will he be then?—Why,Farren-done-without!
If Farren, cleverest of men,Should go to the right about,What part of town will he be then?—Why,Farren-done-without!
If Farren, cleverest of men,
Should go to the right about,
What part of town will he be then?—
Why,Farren-done-without!
Cox, a pill-doctor at Leeds, it is reported, modestly requested a check for £10, for the honour of his vote. Had his demand been complied with, we presume the bribe would have been endorsed, “This draught to be taken at poll time.”
Why do men who are about to fight a duel generally choose afieldfor the place of action?
I really cannot tell; unless it be for the purpose of allowing the balls tograze.
Two Prize Essays. By LORD MELBOURNE and SIR ROBERT PEEL. 8 vols. folio. London: Messrs. SOFTSKIN and TINGLE, Downing-street.
We congratulate the refined and sensitive publishers on the production of these elaborately-written gilt-edged folios, and trust that no remarks will issue from the press calculated to affect the digestion of any of the parties concerned. The sale of the volumes will, no doubt, be commensurate with the public spirit, the wisdom, and the benevolence which has uniformly characterised the career of their illustrated authors. Two morestatesmanlikevolumes never issued from the press; in fact, the books may be regarded as typical ofallstatesmen. The subject, or rather the line of argument, is thus designated by the respective writers:—
ESSAY I.—“On the Fine Art of Government, or how to do the least possible good to the country in the longest possible time, and enjoy, meanwhile, the most ease and luxury.” By LORD MELBOURNE.
ESSAY II.—“On the Science of Governing, or how to do the utmost possible good for ourselves in the shortest possible time, under the name of our altars, and our throne, and everybody that is good and wise.” By SIR ROBERT PEEL.
We are quite unable to enter into a review of these very costly productions, an estimate of thevalueof which the public will be sure to receive from “authority,” and be required to meet the amount, not only with cheerful loyalty, but a more weighty and less noisyacknowledgment.
As to the Prize, it has been adjudged by PUNCH to be divided equally between the two illustrious essayists; to the one, in virtue of his incorrigible laziness, and to the other, in honour of his audacious rapacity.
PUNCH begs to inform the inhabitants of Great Britain, Ireland, and the Isle of Dogs, that he has just opened on an entirely new line, an Universal Comic Railroad, and Cosmopolitan Pleasure Van for the transmission ofbon mots, puns, witticisms, humorous passengers, and queer figures, to every part of the world. The engines have been constructed on the most laughable principles, and being on the high-pressure principle, the manager has provided a vast number of patent anti-explosive fun-belts, to secure his passengers against the danger of suddenly bursting.
The train starts every Saturday morning, under the guidance of an experienced punster. The departure of the train is always attended with immense laughter, and a tremendous rush to the booking-office. PUNCH, therefore, requests those who purpose taking places to apply early, as there will be no
A group of shadows leaping off of a benchRESERVED SEATS!
RESERVED SEATS!
N.B.—Light jokes booked, and forwarded free of expense. Heavy articles not admitted at any price.
∴ Wanted an epigrammatic porter, who can carry on a smart dialogue, and occasionally deliver light jokes.
Time—old Time—whither away?Linger a moment with us, I pray;Too soon thou spreadest thy wings for flight;Dip, boy, dipIn the bowl thy lip,And be jolly, old Time, with us to-night.Dip, dip, &c.Time—old Time—thy scythe fling down;Garland thy pate with a myrtle crown,And fill thy goblet with rosy wine;—Fill, fill up,The joy-giving cup,Till it foams and flows o’er the brim like mine.Fill, fill, &c.Time—old Time—sighing is vain,Pleasure from thee not a moment can gain;Fly, old greybeard, but leave us your glassTo fill as we please,And drink at our ease,And count by our brimmers the hours as they pass.
Time—old Time—whither away?Linger a moment with us, I pray;Too soon thou spreadest thy wings for flight;Dip, boy, dipIn the bowl thy lip,And be jolly, old Time, with us to-night.Dip, dip, &c.
Time—old Time—whither away?
Linger a moment with us, I pray;
Too soon thou spreadest thy wings for flight;
Dip, boy, dip
In the bowl thy lip,
And be jolly, old Time, with us to-night.
Dip, dip, &c.
Time—old Time—thy scythe fling down;Garland thy pate with a myrtle crown,And fill thy goblet with rosy wine;—Fill, fill up,The joy-giving cup,Till it foams and flows o’er the brim like mine.Fill, fill, &c.
Time—old Time—thy scythe fling down;
Garland thy pate with a myrtle crown,
And fill thy goblet with rosy wine;—
Fill, fill up,
The joy-giving cup,
Fill, fill, &c.
Time—old Time—sighing is vain,Pleasure from thee not a moment can gain;Fly, old greybeard, but leave us your glassTo fill as we please,And drink at our ease,And count by our brimmers the hours as they pass.
Time—old Time—sighing is vain,
Pleasure from thee not a moment can gain;
Fly, old greybeard, but leave us your glass
To fill as we please,
And drink at our ease,
And count by our brimmers the hours as they pass.
[pg 24]
Italy! land of love and maccaroni, of pathos and puppets—tomb of Romeo and Juliet—birth-place of Punch and Judy—region of romance—country of the concentrated essences of all these;—carnivals—I, PUNCH, the first and last, the alpha and omega of fun, adore thee! From the moment when I was cast upon thy shores, like Venus, out of the sea, to this sad day, when I am forced to descend from my own stage to mere criticism; have I preserved every token that would endear my memory to thee! My nose is still Roman, my mouth-organ plays the “genteelest of” Italian “tunes”—my scenes represent the choicest of Italian villas—in “choice Italian” doth my devil swear—to wit, “shal-la-bella!”
Longing to be still more reminded of thee, dear Italy, I threw a large cloak over my hunch, and a huge pair of spectacles over my nose, and ensconced myself in a box at the Haymarket Theatre, to witness the fourth appearance of my rival puppet, Charles Kean, in Romeo. He is an actor! What a deep voice—what an interesting lisp—what a charming whine—what a vigorous stamp, he hath! How hard he strikes his forehead when he is going into a rage—how flat he falls upon the ground when he is going to die! And then, when he has killed Tybalt, what an attitude he strikes, what an appalling grin he indulges his gaping admirers withal!
This is real acting that one pays one’s money to see, and not such an unblushing imposition as Miss Tree practises upon us. Do we go to the play to see nature? of course not: we only desire to see the actors playing at being natural, like Mr. Gallot, Mr. Howe, Mr. Worral, or Mr. Kean, and other actors. This system of being too natural will, in the end, be the ruin of the drama. It has already driven me from the Stage, and will, I fear, serve the great performers I nave named above in the same manner. But the Haymarket Juliet overdoes it; she is more natural than nature, for she makes one or two improbabilities in the plot of the play seem like every-day matters of fact. Whether she falls madly in love at the first glance, agrees to be married the next afternoon, takes a sleeping draught, throws herself lifeless upon the bed, or wakes in the tomb to behold her poisoned lover, still in all these situations she behaves like a sensible, high-minded girl, that takes such circumstances, and makes them appear to the audience—quite as a matter of course! What let me ask, was the use of the author—whose name, I believe, was Shakspere—purposely contriving these improbabilities, if the actors do not make the most of them? I do hope Miss Tree will no longer impose upon the public by pretending toactJuliet. Let her try some of the characters in Bulwer’s plays, which want all her help to make them resemble women of any nation, kindred, or country.
Much as I admire Kean, I always prefer the acting of Wallack; there is more variety in the tones of his voice, for Kean tunes his pipes exactly as my long-drummer sets his drum;—to one pitch: but as to action, Wallack—more like my drummer—beats him hollow; he points his toes, stands a-kimbo, takes off his hat, and puts it on again, quite as naturally as if he belonged to the really legitimate drama, and was worked by strings cleverly pulled to suit the action toeveryword. Wallack is an honest performer;hedon’t impose upon you, like Webster, for instance, who as the Apothecary, speaks with a hungry voice, walks with a tottering step, moves with a helpless gait, which plainly shows that he never studied the part—he must have starved for it. Where will this confounded naturalness end?
The play is “got up,” as we managers call it, capitally. The dresses are superb, and so are the properties. The scenery exhibited views of different parts of the city, and was, so far as I am a judge, well painted. I have only one objection to the balcony scene. Plagiarism is mean and contemptible—I despise it. I will not apply to the Vice-Chancellor for an injunction, because the imitation is so vilely caricatured; but the balcony itself is the very counterpart of PUNCH’S theatre!—PUNCH.
When a new farce begins with duck and green peas, it promises well; the sympathies of the audience are secured, especially as the curtain rises but a short time before every sober play-goer is ready for his supper. Mr. Gabriel Snoxall is seated before the comsstibles above mentioned—he is just established in a new lodging. It is snug—the furniture is neat—being his own property, for he is anunfurnished lodger. A bachelor so situated must be a happy fellow. Mr. Snoxall is happy—a smile radiates his face—he takes wine with himself; but has scarcely tapped the decanter for his first glass, before he hears a tap at his door. The hospitable “Come in!” is answered by the appearance of Mr. Dunne Brown, a captain by courtesy, and Snoxall’s neighbour by misfortune. Here business begins.
The ancient natural historian has divided thegenus homointo the two grand divisions of victimiser and victim. Behold one of each class before you—the yeast and sweat-wort, as it were, which brew the plot! Brown invites himself to dinner, and does the invitation ample justice; for he finds the peas as green as the host; who he determines shall be done no less brown than the duck. He possesses two valuable qualifications in a diner-out—an excellent appetite, and a habit of eating fast, consequently the meal is soon over. Mr. Brown’s own tiger clears away, by the ingenious method of eating up what is left. Mr. Snoxall is angry, for he is hungry; but, good easy man, allows himself to be mollified to a degree of softness that allows Mr. Brown to borrow, not only his tables and chairs, but his coat, hat, and watch; just, too, in the very nick of time, for the bailiffs are announced. What is the hunted creditor to do? Exit by the window to be sure.
A character invented by farce-writers, and retained exclusively for their use—for such folks are seldom met with out of a farce—lives in the next street. He has a lovely daughter, and a nephew momentarily expected from India, and with those persons he has, of course, not the slighest acquaintance; and a niece, by marriage, of whose relationship he is also entirely unconscious. His parlours are made with French windows; they are open, and invite the bailiff-hunted Brown into the house. What so natural as that he should find out the state of family affairs from a loquacious Abigail, and should personate the expected nephew? Mr. Tidmarsh (the property old gentleman of the farce-writers) is in ecstacics. Mrs. T. sees in the supposed Selbourne a son-in-law for her daughter, whose vision is directed to the same prospects. Happy, domestic circle! unequalled family felicity! too soon, alas! to be disturbed by a singular coincidence. Mr. Snoxall, the victim, is in love with Miss Sophia, the daughter. Ruin impends over Brown; but he is master of his art: he persuades Snoxall not to undeceive the family of Tidmarsh, and kindly undertakes to pop the question to Sophia on behalf of his friend, whose sheepishness quite equals his softness. Thus emboldened, Brown inquires after a “few loose sovereigns,” and Snoxall, having been already done out of his chairs, clothes, and watch, of course lends the victimiser his purse, which contains twenty.
Mr. Brown’s career advances prosperously; he makes love in the dark to his supposed cousinproSnoxall, in the hearing of the supposed wife (for the real Selbourne has been married privately) and his supposed friend, both supposing him false, mightily abuse him, all being still in the dark. At length the real Selbourne enters, and all supposition ends, as does the farce, poetical justice being administered upon the captain by courtesy, by the bailiffs who arrest him. Thus he, at last, becomes really Mr. Dunne Brown.
The farce was successful, for the actors were perfect, and the audience good-humoured. We need hardly say who played the hero; and having named Wrench, as the nephew, who was much as usual, everybody will know how. Mr. David Rees is well adapted for Snoxall, being a good figure for the part, especially in the duck-and-green-peas season. The ladies, of whom there were four, performed as ladies generally do in farces on a first night.
We recommend the readers of PUNCH to cultivate the acquaintance of “My Friend the Captain.” They will find him at home every evening at the Haymarket. We suspect his paternity may be traced to a certaincorner, from whose merit several equally successful broad-pieces have been issued.
“What romance is that which outght to be most admired in the kitchen?”
“Don Quixote; because it was written byCervantes—(servantes).—Rather low, Sir Ned.”
“When is a lady’s neck not a neck?”
“For shame now!—When it is alittle bare(bear), I suppose.”
The following is a correct report of a speech made by one of the candidates at a recent election in the north of England.
THOMAS SMITH, Esq., then presented himself, and said—“ * * ** * * * * crisis * * * ** * * * * * * * * importantdreadful * * * * * industry * * ** * * enemies * * slaves * *independence * * * * * * freedom* * * * * firmly * * * *gloriously * * * * contested * * ** * * support * * * * victory,Hurrah!——”
Mr. Smith then sat down; but we regret that the uproar which prevailed, prevents us giving a fuller report of his very eloquent and impressive speech.
COUNT D’ORSAY declares that no gentleman having the slightest pretensions to fashionable consideration can be seen out of doors except on a Sunday, as on that day bailiffs and other low people keep at home.