THE LIMERICK MARES.

A tower with a face on it glares out.TOWER STARES.

TOWER STARES.

The borough of Limerick at present enjoys the singular advantage of having two civic heads to the city. The newmare, Martin Honan, Esq., after being duly elected, civilly requested the oldmare, C. S. Vereker, Esq., to turn out; to which he as civilly replied that he would see him blessed first, and as he was himself the only genuine and original donkey, he was resolved not to yield his place at the corporate manger to the new animal. Thus matters remain at present—the oldMareresolutely refusing to take his head out of the halter until he is compelled to do so.

By the Author of the “Great Metropolis.”

It is a remarkable fact that, in spite of the recent Act, there are no less than three hundred sweeps who still continue to cry “sweep,” in the very teeth of the legislative measure alluded to. I have been in the habit of meeting many of these sweeps at the house I use for my breakfast; and in the course of conversation with them, I have generally found that they know they are breaking the law in calling out “sweep,” but they do not raise the cry for the mere purpose of law-breaking. I am sure it would be found on inquiry that it is only with the view of getting business that they call out at all; and this shows the impolicy of making a law which is not enforced; for they all know that it is very seldom acted upon.

The same argument will apply to the punishment of death; and my friend Jack Ketch, whom I meet at the Frog and Frying-pan, tells me that he has hanged a great many who never expected it. If I were to be asked to make all the laws for this country, I certainly should manage things in a very different manner; and I am glad to say that I have legal authority on my side, for the lad who opens the door at Mr. Adolphus’s chambers—with whom I am on terms of the closest intimacy—thinks as I do upon every great question of legal and constitutional policy. But this is “neither here nor there,” as my publisher told me when I asked him for the profits of my last book, and I shall therefore drop the subject.

In speaking of eminent publishers, I must not forget to mention Mr. Catnach, to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for having been the first to introduce me to the literary career I have since so successfully followed. I believe I was the first who carried into effect Mr. Catnach’s admirable idea of having the last dying speeches all struck off on the night before an execution, so as to get them into the hands of the public as early as possible. It was, moreover, my own suggestion to stereotype one speech, to be used on all occasions; and I also must claim the merit of having recommended the fixing a man’s head at the top of the document as “a portrait of the murderer.” Catnach and I have always been on the best of terms, but he is naturally rather angry that I have not always published with him, which he thinks—and many others tell me the same thing—I always should have done. At all events, Catnach has not much right to complain, for he has on two occasions wholly repainted his shop-shutters from effusions of mine; and I know that he has greatly extended his toy and marble business through the profits of a poetical version of the fate of Fauntleroy, which was very popular in its day, and which I wrote for him.

I have never until lately had much to do with Pitts, of Seven Dials; but I have found him an intelligent tradesman, and a very spirited publisher. He undertook to get out in five days a new edition of the celebrated pennyworth of poetry, known some time back, and still occasionally met with, as the “Three Yards of Popular Songs,” which were all selected by me, and for which I chose every one of the vignettes that were prefixed to them. I have had extensive dealings both with Pitts and Catnach; and in comparing the two men, I should say one was the Napoleon of literature, the other the Mrs. Fry. Catnach is all for dying speeches and executions, while Pitts is peculiarly partial to poetry. Pitts, for instance, has printed thousands of “My Pretty Jane,” while Catnach had the execution of Frost all in type for many months before his trial. It is true that Frost never was hanged, but Blakesley was; and the public, to whom the document was issued when the latter event occurred, had nothing to do but to bear in mind the difference of the names, and the account would do as well for one as for the other. Catnach has been blamed for this; but it will not be expected thatIshall censure any one for the grossest literary quackery.

The success of the Polish Ball has induced some humane individuals to propose that a similar festival should take place for the relief of the distressed Spitalfields weavers. We like the notion of a charitable quadrille—or a benevolent waltz; and it delights us to see a philanthropic designset on foot, through the medium of a gallopade. A dance which has for its object the putting of bread in the mouths of our fellow-creatures, may be truly called

Three buns with arms and legs do a dance.A-BUN-DANCE.

A-BUN-DANCE.

[pg 232]

A medieval man walks through a letter D towards a god-like figure.

Doctors Spurzheim and Gall have acquired immense renown for their ingenious and plausible system of phrenology. These eminent philosophers have by a novel and wonderful process divided that which is indivisible, and parcelled out the human mind into several small lots, which they call “organs,” numbering and labelling them like the drawers or bottles in a chemist’s shop; so that, should any individual acquainted with the science of phrenology chance to get into what is vulgarly termed “a row,” and being withal of a meek and lamb like disposition, which prompts him rather to trust to his heels than to his fists, he has only to excite his organ ofcombativenessby scratching vigorously behind his ear, and he will forthwith become bold as a lion, valiant as a game-cock—in short, a very lad ofwhacks, ready to fight the devil if he dared him. In like manner, a constant irritation of the organ ofvenerationon the top of his head will make him an accomplished courtier, and imbue him with a profound respect for stars and coronets. Now if it be possible—and that it is, no one will now attempt to deny—to divide the brain into distinct faculties, why may not the stomach, which, it has been admitted by the Lord Mayor and the Board of Aldermen, is a far nobler organ than the brain,—why may it not also possess several faculties? As we know that a particular part of the brain is appropriated for the faculty oftime, another for that ofwit, and so on, is it not reasonable to suppose that there is a certain portion of the stomach appropriated to the faculty ofroast beef, another for that ofdevilled kidneyand so forth?

It may be said that the stomach is a single organ, and therefore incapable of performing more than one function. As well might it be asserted that it was a steam-engine, with a single furnace consuming Whitehaven, Scotch, or Newcastle coals indiscriminately. The fact is, the stomach is not a single organ, but in reality a congeries of organs, each receiving its own proper kind of aliment, and developing itself by outward bumps and prominences, which indicate with amazing accuracy the existence of the particular faculty to which it has been assigned.

It is upon these facts that I have founded my system of Stomachology; and contemplating what has been done, what is doing, and what is likely to be done, in the analogous science of phrenology, I do not despair of seeing the human body mapped out, and marked all over with faculties, feelings, propensities, and powers, like a tattooed New Zealander. The study of anatomy will then be entirely superseded, and the scientific world would be guided, as the fashionable world is now, entirely by externals.

The circumstances which led me to the discovery of this important constitution of the stomach were partly accidental, and partly owing to my own intuitive sagacity. I had long observed that Judy, “my soul’s far dearer part,” entertained a decided partiality for a leg of pork and pease-pudding—to whichIhave a positive dislike. On extending my observations, I found that different individuals were characterised by different tastes in food, and that one man liked mint sauce with his roast lamb, while others detested it. I discovered also that in most persons there is a predominance of some particular organ over the surrounding ones, in which case a corresponding external protuberance may be looked for, which indicates the gastronomic character of the individual. This rule, however, is not absolute, as the prominence of one faculty may be modified by the influence of another; thus the faculty ofhammay be modified by that ofroast veal, or the desire to indulge in a sentiment for anomelettemay be counteracted by a propensity for africandeau, or by the regulating power of aStrasbourg pie. The activity of theomeletteemotion is here not abated; the result to which it would lead, is merely modified.

It would be tedious to detail the successive steps of my inquiries, until I had at last ascertained distinctly that the power of the eating faculties is,cæteris paribus, in proportion to the size of those compartments in the stomach by which they are manifested. I propose at a future time to explain my system more fully, and shall conclude my present lecture by giving a list of the organs into which I have classified the stomach, according to my most careful observations.

Of the last organ I have not been able to discover the function; it is probably miscellaneous, and disposes of all that is not included in the others.

(By the Reporter of the Court Journal.)

Yesterday Paddy Green, Esq. gave a granddéjeuner à la fourchetteto a distinguished party of friends, at his house in Vere-street. Amongst the guests we noticed Charles Mears, J.M., Mister Jim Connell, Bill Paul, Deaf Burke, Esq., Jerry Donovan, M.P.R., Herr Von Joel, &c. &c. Mister Jim Connell and Jerry Donovan went the “odd man” who should stand glasses round. The favourite game ofshove-halfpennywas kept up till a late hour, when the party broke up highly delighted.

A great party mustered on Friday last, in the New Cut, to hear Mr. Briggles chant a new song, written on the occasion of the birth of the young Prince. He was accompanied by his friend Mr. Handel Purcell Mozart Muggins on the drum and mouth-organ, who afterwards went round with his hat.

On Friday the lady of Paddy Green paid a morning call to Clare Market, at the celebrated tripe shop; she purchased two slices of canine comestibles which she carried home on a skewer.

Mrs. Paddy Green on Wednesday visited Mrs. Joel, to take tea. She indulged in two crumpets and a dash of rum in the congou. It is confidently reported that on Wednesday next Mrs. Joel will pay a visit to Mrs. G. at her residence in Vere-street, to supper; after which Mr. Paddy Green will leave for hisseatin Maiden-lane.

Jeremiah Donovan, it is stated, is negotiating for the three-pair back room in Surrey, late the residence of Charles Mears, J.M.

“Pa,” said an interesting little Polyglot, down in the West, with his French Rudiments before him, “why should one egg be sufficient for a dozen men’s breakfasts?”—“Can’t say, child.”—“Becauseun œuf—is as good as a feast.”—“Stop that boy’s grub, mother, and save it at once; he’s too clever to live much longer.”

[pg 233]

To the bashful, the hesitating, and the ignorant, the following hints may prove useful.

If you call on the “loved one,” and observe that she blushes when you approach, give her hand a gentle squeeze, and if she returns it, consider it “all right”—get the parents out of the room, sit down on the sofa beside the “must adorable of her sex”—talk of the joys of wedded life. If she appears pleased, rise, seem excited, and at once ask her to say the important, the life-or-death-deciding, the suicide-or-happiness-settling question. If she pulls out her cambric, be assured you are accepted. Call her “My darling Fanny!”—“My own dear creature!”—and a few such-like names, and this completes the scene. Ask her to name the day, and fancy yourself already in Heaven.

A good plan is to call on the “object of your affections” in the forenoon—propose a walk—mamma consents, in the hope you will declare your intentions. Wander through the green fields—talk of “love in a cottage,”—“requited attachment”—and “rural felicity.” If a child happens to pass, of course intimate your fondness for the dear little creatures—this will be a splendid hit. If the coast is clear, down you must fall on your knee, right or left (there is no rule as to this), and swear never to rise until she agrees to take you “for better and for worse.” If, however, the grass is wet, and you have white ducks on, or if your unmentionables are tightly made—of course you must pursue another plan—say, vow you will blow your brains out, or swallow arsenic, or drown yourself, if she won’t say “yes.”

If you are at a ball, and your charmer is there, captivating all around her, get her into a corner, and “pop the question.” Some delay until after supper, but “delays are dangerous”—Round-hand copy.

A young lady’s “tears,” when accepting you, mean “I am too happy to speak.” The dumb show of staring into each other’s faces, squeezing fingers, and sighing, originated, we have reason to believe, with the ancient Romans. It is much practised now-a-days—as saving breath, and being more lover-like than talking.

We could give many more valuable hints, but Punch has something better to do than to teach ninnies the art of amorifying.

Now harems being very lonely places,Hemm’d in with bolts and bars on every side,The fifty-two who shared Te-pott’s embracesWere glad to see a stranger, though a bride—And so received her with their gentlest graces,And questions—though the questions are implied,For ladies, from Great Britain to the Tropics,Are very orthodox in their choice of topics.They ask’d her, who was married? who was dead?What were the newest things in silks and ivories?And had Y—Y—, who had eloped with Z—,Been yet forgiven? andhadshe seen his liveries?And weren’t they something between grey and red?And hadn’t Z’s papa refused to give her his?So Hy-son told them everything she knewAnd all was very well a day or two.But, when the Multifarious forsookBo-hea, Pe-koe, and Wiry-leaf’d Gun-pow-der,To revel in the lip and sunny lookOf the young stranger; spite of all they’d vow’d her,The ladies each with jealous anger shook,And rail’d against the simple maid aloud—Ah!This woman’s pride is a fine thing to tell us of—But a small matter serves her to be jealous of.One said she was indecorously florid—One thought “she only squinted, nothing more—”A third, convulsively pronounced her “horrid “—While Bo-hea, who waslow(at four-and-four),Glanced from her fingers up at Hy-son’s forehead,Who, inkling such a tendency before,Cared for no rival’s nails—but paid—I own,Particular attention to her own.Well, this was bad enough; but worse than thisWere the attentions of our ancient hero,Whose frequent vow, and frequenter caress,Unwelcome were for any one to hear, whoHad charms for better pleasure than a kissFrom feeble dotard ten degrees from zero.So, as one does when circumstances harass one,Hy-son began to draw up a comparison.“Was ever maiden so abused as I am?Teazed into such a marriage—then to beDosed with my husband twenty timesper diem,Withrepetetur haustusafter tea!And, if he should die, what can I get by him?A jointure’s nothing among fifty-three!I’m meek enough—but this I cannotbear—I wish: I wish:—I wish a girl might swear!”In such a mood, she—(stop! I’ll mend my pen;For now all our preliminariesaredone,And I am come unto the crisis, whenHer fate depends on a kind reader’s pardon)—Wandering forth beyond the ladies’ ken,She thought she spied a male face in the garden—She hasten’d thither—she was not mistaken,For sure enough, a man was there a-raking.A man complete he was who own’d the visage,A man of thirty-three, or may-be longer—So young, she could not well distinguish his age—So old, she knew he had one day been younger.Now thirty-three, although a very nice age,Is not so nice as twenty, twenty-one, orSo; but of lovers when a lady’s caught one,She seldom stops to stipulate what sort o’ one.Now, the first moment Hy-son saw the gardener—A gardener, by his tools and dress she knew—She felt her bosom round her heart in a—A—just as if her heart was breaking through;And so she blush’d, and hoped that he would pardon herIntruding on his grounds—“so nice they grew!—Such roses! what a pink!—and then that peony;Might she die if she ever look’d to see any!”The gardener offer’d her a budding rose:She took it with a smile, and colour’d high;While, as she gave its fragrance to her nose,He took the opportunity to sigh.And Hy-son’s cheek blush’d like the daylight’s close!She glanced around to see that none were nigh,Then sigh’d again and thought, “Although a peasant,His manners are refined, and really pleasant.”They stood each looking in the other’s eyes,Till Hy-son dropp’d her gaze, and then—good lackLove is a cunning chapman: smiles, and sighs.And tears, the choicest treasures in his pack!Still barters he such baubles for the prize,Which all regret when lost, yet can’t get back—The heart—a useful matter in a bosom—Though some folks won’t believe it till they lose ’em.Love can say much, yet not a word be spoken.Straight, as a wasp careering staid to sipThe dewy rose she held, the gardener’s token,He, seizing on her hand, with hasty grip,The stem sway’d earthward with its blossom, broken.The gardener raised her hand unto his lip,And kiss’d it—when a rough voice, hoarse with halloas,Cried, “Harkye’ fellow! I’ll permit no followers!”

Now harems being very lonely places,

Hemm’d in with bolts and bars on every side,

The fifty-two who shared Te-pott’s embraces

Were glad to see a stranger, though a bride—

And so received her with their gentlest graces,

And questions—though the questions are implied,

For ladies, from Great Britain to the Tropics,

Are very orthodox in their choice of topics.

They ask’d her, who was married? who was dead?What were the newest things in silks and ivories?And had Y—Y—, who had eloped with Z—,Been yet forgiven? andhadshe seen his liveries?And weren’t they something between grey and red?And hadn’t Z’s papa refused to give her his?So Hy-son told them everything she knewAnd all was very well a day or two.

They ask’d her, who was married? who was dead?

What were the newest things in silks and ivories?

And had Y—Y—, who had eloped with Z—,

Been yet forgiven? andhadshe seen his liveries?

And weren’t they something between grey and red?

And hadn’t Z’s papa refused to give her his?

So Hy-son told them everything she knew

And all was very well a day or two.

But, when the Multifarious forsookBo-hea, Pe-koe, and Wiry-leaf’d Gun-pow-der,To revel in the lip and sunny lookOf the young stranger; spite of all they’d vow’d her,The ladies each with jealous anger shook,And rail’d against the simple maid aloud—Ah!This woman’s pride is a fine thing to tell us of—But a small matter serves her to be jealous of.

But, when the Multifarious forsook

Bo-hea, Pe-koe, and Wiry-leaf’d Gun-pow-der,

To revel in the lip and sunny look

Of the young stranger; spite of all they’d vow’d her,

The ladies each with jealous anger shook,

And rail’d against the simple maid aloud—Ah!

This woman’s pride is a fine thing to tell us of—

But a small matter serves her to be jealous of.

One said she was indecorously florid—One thought “she only squinted, nothing more—”A third, convulsively pronounced her “horrid “—While Bo-hea, who waslow(at four-and-four),Glanced from her fingers up at Hy-son’s forehead,Who, inkling such a tendency before,Cared for no rival’s nails—but paid—I own,Particular attention to her own.

One said she was indecorously florid—

One thought “she only squinted, nothing more—”

A third, convulsively pronounced her “horrid “—

While Bo-hea, who waslow(at four-and-four),

Glanced from her fingers up at Hy-son’s forehead,

Who, inkling such a tendency before,

Cared for no rival’s nails—but paid—I own,

Particular attention to her own.

Well, this was bad enough; but worse than thisWere the attentions of our ancient hero,Whose frequent vow, and frequenter caress,Unwelcome were for any one to hear, whoHad charms for better pleasure than a kissFrom feeble dotard ten degrees from zero.So, as one does when circumstances harass one,Hy-son began to draw up a comparison.

Well, this was bad enough; but worse than this

Were the attentions of our ancient hero,

Whose frequent vow, and frequenter caress,

Unwelcome were for any one to hear, who

Had charms for better pleasure than a kiss

From feeble dotard ten degrees from zero.

So, as one does when circumstances harass one,

Hy-son began to draw up a comparison.

“Was ever maiden so abused as I am?Teazed into such a marriage—then to beDosed with my husband twenty timesper diem,Withrepetetur haustusafter tea!And, if he should die, what can I get by him?A jointure’s nothing among fifty-three!I’m meek enough—but this I cannotbear—I wish: I wish:—I wish a girl might swear!”

“Was ever maiden so abused as I am?

Teazed into such a marriage—then to be

Dosed with my husband twenty timesper diem,

Withrepetetur haustusafter tea!

And, if he should die, what can I get by him?

A jointure’s nothing among fifty-three!

I’m meek enough—but this I cannotbear—

I wish: I wish:—I wish a girl might swear!”

In such a mood, she—(stop! I’ll mend my pen;For now all our preliminariesaredone,And I am come unto the crisis, whenHer fate depends on a kind reader’s pardon)—Wandering forth beyond the ladies’ ken,She thought she spied a male face in the garden—She hasten’d thither—she was not mistaken,For sure enough, a man was there a-raking.

In such a mood, she—(stop! I’ll mend my pen;

For now all our preliminariesaredone,

And I am come unto the crisis, when

Her fate depends on a kind reader’s pardon)—

Wandering forth beyond the ladies’ ken,

She thought she spied a male face in the garden—

She hasten’d thither—she was not mistaken,

For sure enough, a man was there a-raking.

A man complete he was who own’d the visage,A man of thirty-three, or may-be longer—So young, she could not well distinguish his age—So old, she knew he had one day been younger.Now thirty-three, although a very nice age,Is not so nice as twenty, twenty-one, orSo; but of lovers when a lady’s caught one,She seldom stops to stipulate what sort o’ one.

A man complete he was who own’d the visage,

A man of thirty-three, or may-be longer—

So young, she could not well distinguish his age—

So old, she knew he had one day been younger.

Now thirty-three, although a very nice age,

Is not so nice as twenty, twenty-one, or

So; but of lovers when a lady’s caught one,

She seldom stops to stipulate what sort o’ one.

Now, the first moment Hy-son saw the gardener—A gardener, by his tools and dress she knew—She felt her bosom round her heart in a—A—just as if her heart was breaking through;And so she blush’d, and hoped that he would pardon herIntruding on his grounds—“so nice they grew!—Such roses! what a pink!—and then that peony;Might she die if she ever look’d to see any!”

Now, the first moment Hy-son saw the gardener—

A gardener, by his tools and dress she knew—

She felt her bosom round her heart in a—

A—just as if her heart was breaking through;

And so she blush’d, and hoped that he would pardon her

Intruding on his grounds—“so nice they grew!—

Such roses! what a pink!—and then that peony;

Might she die if she ever look’d to see any!”

The gardener offer’d her a budding rose:She took it with a smile, and colour’d high;While, as she gave its fragrance to her nose,He took the opportunity to sigh.And Hy-son’s cheek blush’d like the daylight’s close!She glanced around to see that none were nigh,Then sigh’d again and thought, “Although a peasant,His manners are refined, and really pleasant.”

The gardener offer’d her a budding rose:

She took it with a smile, and colour’d high;

While, as she gave its fragrance to her nose,

He took the opportunity to sigh.

And Hy-son’s cheek blush’d like the daylight’s close!

She glanced around to see that none were nigh,

Then sigh’d again and thought, “Although a peasant,

His manners are refined, and really pleasant.”

They stood each looking in the other’s eyes,Till Hy-son dropp’d her gaze, and then—good lackLove is a cunning chapman: smiles, and sighs.And tears, the choicest treasures in his pack!Still barters he such baubles for the prize,Which all regret when lost, yet can’t get back—The heart—a useful matter in a bosom—Though some folks won’t believe it till they lose ’em.

They stood each looking in the other’s eyes,

Till Hy-son dropp’d her gaze, and then—good lack

Love is a cunning chapman: smiles, and sighs.

And tears, the choicest treasures in his pack!

Still barters he such baubles for the prize,

Which all regret when lost, yet can’t get back—

The heart—a useful matter in a bosom—

Though some folks won’t believe it till they lose ’em.

Love can say much, yet not a word be spoken.Straight, as a wasp careering staid to sipThe dewy rose she held, the gardener’s token,He, seizing on her hand, with hasty grip,The stem sway’d earthward with its blossom, broken.The gardener raised her hand unto his lip,And kiss’d it—when a rough voice, hoarse with halloas,Cried, “Harkye’ fellow! I’ll permit no followers!”

Love can say much, yet not a word be spoken.

Straight, as a wasp careering staid to sip

The dewy rose she held, the gardener’s token,

He, seizing on her hand, with hasty grip,

The stem sway’d earthward with its blossom, broken.

The gardener raised her hand unto his lip,

And kiss’d it—when a rough voice, hoarse with halloas,

Cried, “Harkye’ fellow! I’ll permit no followers!”

The lists were made—the trumpet’s blastRang pealing through the air.My ’squire made lace and rivet fastAnd brought my trieddestrerre.I rode where sat fair IsidoreInez Mathilde Borghese;From spur to crest she scann’d me o’er,Then said “He’s not the cheese!”O, Mary mother! how burn’d my cheek!I proudly rode away;And vow’d “Woe’s his I who dares to breakA lance with me to-day!”I won the prize! (Revenge is sweet,I thought me of aruse;)I laid it at her rival’s feet,And thus I cook’d her goose.

The lists were made—the trumpet’s blast

Rang pealing through the air.

My ’squire made lace and rivet fast

And brought my trieddestrerre.

I rode where sat fair Isidore

Inez Mathilde Borghese;

From spur to crest she scann’d me o’er,

Then said “He’s not the cheese!”

O, Mary mother! how burn’d my cheek!I proudly rode away;And vow’d “Woe’s his I who dares to breakA lance with me to-day!”I won the prize! (Revenge is sweet,I thought me of aruse;)I laid it at her rival’s feet,And thus I cook’d her goose.

O, Mary mother! how burn’d my cheek!

I proudly rode away;

And vow’d “Woe’s his I who dares to break

A lance with me to-day!”

I won the prize! (Revenge is sweet,

I thought me of aruse;)

I laid it at her rival’s feet,

And thus I cook’d her goose.

What difference is there between a farrier and Dr. Locock?—Because the one is ahorse-shoer, and the other isa-cow-shoer. (accoucheur).

Why is the Prince of Wales Duke of Cornwall?—Because he is aminor.

“Bar that,” as the Sheriff’s Officer said to his first-floor window.

[pg 234]

In a manuscript life ofJemmy Twitcher—the work will shortly appear under the philosophical auspices of SIR LYTTON BULWER—we find a curious circumstance, curiously paralleled by a recent political event.Jemmyhad managed to pass himself off as a shrewd, cunning, but withal very honest sort of fellow; he was, nevertheless, in heart and soul, a housebreaker of the first order. One night,Jemmyquitted his respectable abode, and, furnished with dark lantern, pistol, crowbar, and crape, joined half-a-dozen neophyte burglars—his pupils and his victims. The hostelry chosen for attack was “The Spaniards.” The host and his servants were, however, on the alert; and, after a smart struggle in the passage, the housebreakers were worsted; two or three of them being killed, and the others—save and except the cautiousJemmy, who had only directed the movement from without—being fast in the clutches of the constables.Jemmy, flinging away his crape and his crowbar, ran home to his house—he was then living somewhere in Petty France—went to bed, and the next morning appeared as snug and as respectable as ever to his neighbours. Vehement was his disgust at the knaves killed and caught in the attack on “The Spaniards;” and though there were not wanting bold speakers, who averred thatTwitcherwas at the bottom of the burglary, nevertheless, his grave look, and the character he had contrived to piece together for honest dealing, secured him from conviction.

Jemmy Twitcherwas what the world calls a warm fellow. He had gold in his chest, silver tankards on his board, pictures on his walls; and more, he had a fine family of promisingTwitchers. One night, greatly to his horror at the iniquity of man, miscreants surrounded his dwelling and fired bullets at his children. The villains were apprehended; and the hair ofJemmy—who had evidently forgotten all about the affair at “The Spaniards”—stood on end, as the conspiracy of the villains was revealed, as it was shown how, in anticipation of a wicked success, they had shared among them, not only his gold and his tankards, but the money and plate of all his honest neighbours.Jemmy, still forgetful of “The Spaniards” cried aloud for justice and the gibbet!

Have we not here the late revolution in Spain—the QUENISSET conspiracy—and in the prime mover of the first, and the intended victim of the second rascality, KING LOUIS-PHILIPPE, the JEMMY TWITCHER OF THE FRENCH?

The commission recently appointed in France for the examination of the Communists and Equalised Operatives, taken in connexion with the recent bloodshed under French royal authority, is another of the ten thousand illustrations of the peculiar morality of crowned heads. Here is a sawyer, a cabinet-maker, a cobbler, and such sort, all food for the guillotine for attempting to do no more than has been most treacherously perpetrated by the present King of the French and the ex-Queen of Spain. How is it that LOUIS-PHILIPPE feels no touch of sympathy for that pusillanimous scoundrel—Just? He is naturally his veritable double; but thenJustis only a carpenter, LOUIS-PHILIPPE is King of the French!

The reader has only to read Madrid for Paris—has only to consider the sawyer Quenisset (the poor tool, trapped byJust), the murdered Don Leon, or any other of the gallant foolish victims of the French monarchy in the late atrocity in Spain, to see the moral identity of the scoundrel carpenter and the rascal king. We quote from the report:—

Quénisset(alias DON LEON) examined.—“Justsaid to me, pointing to the body of officers, ‘You must fireinto the midst of those;’ I then drew the pistol from under my shirt, and discharged it with my left handin the direction I was desired.”

O’DONNELL, LEON, ORA, BORIA, FULGOSIO, drew their pistols at the order of LOUIS-PHILIPPE and CHRISTINA, and merely fired in the direction they were desired!

“Where was this society (the Ouvriers Egalitaires) held?”—“Generally at the house of Colombier, keeper of a wine-shop, Rue Traversière.”“What formed the subject of discourse in these meetings, when you were there?”—“Different crimes. They talked ofoverthrowing the throne, assassinating the agents of the government—shedding blood, in fact!”

“Where was this society (the Ouvriers Egalitaires) held?”—“Generally at the house of Colombier, keeper of a wine-shop, Rue Traversière.”

“What formed the subject of discourse in these meetings, when you were there?”—“Different crimes. They talked ofoverthrowing the throne, assassinating the agents of the government—shedding blood, in fact!”

For the Rue Traversière we have only to read the Rue de Courcelles—for Colombier the wine seller, CHRISTINA ex-Queen of Spain. As for the subject of discourse at her Majesty’s hotel, events have bloodily proved that it was the overthrow of a throne—the murder of the constituted authorities of Spain—and, in the comprehensive meaning of Quénisset—“shedding blood, in fact!” At the wine-shop meetings the French conspirator tells us that there was “an old man, a locksmith,” who would read revolutionary themes, and “electrify the souls of the young men about him!” The locksmith of the Rue de Courcelles was the crafty, sanguinary policy of the monarch of the barricades. We now come to MADAME COLOMBIER,aliasQUEEN CHRISTINA.—

“Do you know whether your comrades had many cartridges?”—“I do not know exactly what the quantity was, but I heard a man say, and, Madame Colombieralso boasted to another woman, that they had worked very hard, and for some time past, at making cartridges.”

Madame COLOMBIER, however, must cede in energy and boldness to the reckless devilry of the Spanish ex-Queen; for the cartridges manufactured by the wine-seller’s wife were not to be discharged into the bed-room of her own infant daughters! They were certain not to shed the blood of her own children. Now the cartridges of the Rue de Courcelles were made for any service.

One more extract from the confessions of QUENISSET (aliasDON LEON):—

“At the corner of the Rue Traversière I saw Just, Auguste, and several other young men, whom I had seen in the morning receiving cartridges. Upon my asking whether the attack was to be made,Just answered, Yes. He felt for his pistols; my comrade got his ready under his blouse. I seized mine under my shirt. Just called to me, ‘There, there, it is there you are to fire.’ I fired. I thought that all the others would do the same; but they made me swallow the hook, and then left me to my fate, the rascals!”

Poor DON LEON! So far the parallel is complete. The pistol was fired against Spanish liberty; and the royal Just, finding the object missed, sneaks off, and leaves his dupe for the executioner. There, however, the similitude fails. LOUIS-PHILIPPE sleeps in safety—if, indeed, the ghosts of his Spanish victims let him sleep at all; whilst forJust, the carpenter, he is marked for the guillotine. Could Justice have her own, we should see the King of the French at the bar of Spain; were the world guided by abstract right, one fate would fall to the carpenter and the King. History, however, will award his Majesty his just deserts. There is a Newgate Calendar for Kings as well as for meaner culprits.

There are, it is said, at the present moment in France fifty thousand communists; foolish, vicious men; many of them, doubtless, worthy of the galleys; and many, for whom the wholesome discipline of the mad-house would be at once the best remedy and punishment. Fifty thousand men organised in societies, the object of which is—what young France would denominate—philosophical plunder; a relief from the canker-eating chains of matrimony; a total destruction of all objects of art; and the common enjoyment of stolen goods. It is against this unholy confederacy that the moral force of LOUIS-PHILIPPE’S Government is opposed. It is to put down and destroy these bands of social brigands that the King of the French burns his midnight oil; and then, having extirpated the robber and the anarchist from France, his Majesty—for the advancement of political and social freedom—would kidnap the baby-Queen of Spain and her sister, to hold them as trump cards in the bloody game of revolution. That LOUIS-PHILIPPE, theJustof Spain, can consign his fellow-conspirator, theJustof Paris, to the scaffold, is a grave proof that there is no honour among a certain set of enterprising men, whom the crude phraseology of the world has denominated thieves.

It is to make the blood boil in our veins to read the account of the execution of such men as LEON, ORA, and BORIA, the foolish martyrs to a wicked cause. Never was a great social wrong dignified by higher courage. Our admiration of the boldness with which these men have faced their fate is mingled with the deepest regret that the prime conspirators are safe in Paris; that one sits in derision of justice on fellow criminals—on men whose crime may have some slight extenuation from ignorance, want, or fancied cause of revenge; that the other, with the surpassing meekness of Christianity, goes to mass in her carriage, distributes her alms to the poor, and, with her soul dyed with the blood of the young, the chivalrous, and the brave, makes mouths at Heaven in very mockery of prayer.

We once were sufficiently credulous to believe in the honesty of LOUIS-PHILIPPE; we sympathised with him as a bold, able, high-principled man fighting the fight of good government against a faction of smoke-headed fools and scoundrel desperadoes. He has out-lived our good opinion—the good opinion of the world. He is, after all, a lump of crowned vulgarity. Pity it is that men, the trusting and the brave, are made the puppets, the martyrs, of such regality!

As for Queen CHRISTINA, her path, if she have any touch of conscience, must be dogged by the spectres of her dupes. She is the Madame LAFFARGE of royalty; nay, worse—the incarnation of Mrs. BROWNRIGG. Indeed, what JOHNSON applied to another less criminal person may be justly dealt upon her:—“Sir, she is not a woman, she is a speaking cat!”

[pg 235]

A group of men in military dress (including a fife and drum) have slogans like 'POPULARITY' and 'TAXES' and 'CORN LAWS' and 'JUST GIVE US TIME' written on them.THE RECRUITING SERGEANT.“LIST, WAKLEY! LIST!—”—New Shaksperian Readings.

THE RECRUITING SERGEANT.

“LIST, WAKLEY! LIST!—”—New Shaksperian Readings.

[pg 237]

“They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.”“Oh, how the wheel becomes it.”—SHAKSPEARE.

“They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.”

“Oh, how the wheel becomes it.”—SHAKSPEARE.

That immense cigar, our mild Cavannah, has at length met with his deserts, and left the sage savans of the fool’s hotbed, London, the undisturbed possession of the diligently-achieved fool’s-caps their extreme absurdity, egregious folly, and lout-like gullibility, have so splendidly qualified them to support.

This extraordinary and Heaven-gifted faster is at length laid by the heels. The full blown imposition has exploded—the wretched cheat is consigned to merited durance; while the trebly-gammonedand unexampled spoons who were his willing dupes are in full possession of the enviable notoriety necessarily attendant upon their extreme amount of unmitigated folly.

This egregious liar and finger-post for thrice inoculated fools set out upon a provincial “Starring and Starving Expedition,” issuing bills, announcing his wish to be open to public inspection, and delicately hinting the absolute necessity of shelling-out the browns, as though he, Bernard Cavanagh, did not eat, yet he had a brother “as did;” consequently, ways and means for the establishment and continuance of a small commissariat for the ungifted fraternal was delicately hinted at in the various documents containing the pressing invitations to “yokel population” to honour him with an inspection.

Numerous were the visitors and small the contributions attendant upon the circulation of these “documents in madness.” Many men are rather notorious in our great metropolis for “living upon nothing,” that is, existing without the aid of such hard food as starved the ass-eared Midas; out these gentlemen of invisible ways and means have a very decent notion of employing four out of the twenty four hours in supplying their internal economy with such creature comforts as, in days of yore, disinherited Esau, and procured a somewhat gastronomic celebrity for the far-famed Heliogabalus. But a gentleman who could treat his stomach like a postponed bill in the House of Commons—that is, adjourn itsine die, or take it into consideration “this day seven years”—was really a likely person to attract attention and excite curiosity: accordingly, Bernard Cavanagh was questioned closely by some of his visitors; but he, like the speculation, appeared to be “one not likely to answer.”

Apparent efforts at concealment invariably lead to doubt, and, doubt engendering curiosity, is very like to undergo, especially from one of the fair sex, a scrutiny of the most searching kind. Eve caused the fall of Adam—a daughter of Eve has discovered and crushed this heretofore hidden mystery. This peculiarlyemptyindividual was discovered by the good lady—despite the disguise of a black patch upon his nose and an immeasurable outspread of Bandana superficially covering that (as he asserted) useless orifice, his mouth—sneaking into the far-off premises of a miscellaneous vendor of ready-dressed eatables; and there Bernard the faster—the anti-nourishment and terrestrial food-defying wonder—the certificated of Heaven knows how many deacons, parsons, physicians, and fools—demanded the very moderate allowance for his breakfast of a twopenny loaf, a sausage, and a quarter of a pound of hamcut fat: that’s the beauty of it—cut fat! The astonished witness of this singular purchase rushed at once to the hotel: Cavanagh might contain the edibles, she could not: the affair was blown; an investigation very properly adjudicated upon the case; and three months’ discipline at the tread-mill is now the reward of this arch-impostor’s merits. So far so good; but in the name of common sense let some experienced practitioner in the art of “cutting for the simples” be furnished with a correct list of the awful asses he has cozened at “hood-man blind;” and pray Heaven they may each and severally be operated on with all convenient speed!

During the vacation, the Judges’ bench in each of the Courts at Westminster Hall has been furnished with luxurious air-cushions, and heated with the warm-air apparatus. Baron Parke declares that the Bench is now really a snug berth,—and, during one of Sergeant Bompas’s long speeches, a most desirable place for taking

A man sits in a chair at a table, where a spider web connects his nose to a bottle and a cup.A SOUND NAP.

A SOUND NAP.

DEAR SIMON,If I were a Parliament man,I’d make a long speech, and I’d bring in a plan,And prevail on the House to support a new clauseIn the very first chapter of Criminal Laws!But, to guard against getting too nervous or low(For my speech you’re aware would be then a no-go),I’d attack, ere I went, some two bottles of Sherry,And chaunt all the way Row di-dow di-down-derry!11. The exact tune of this interesting song it has not been in our power to discover—it is, however, undoubtedly a truly national melody.Then having arrived (just to drive down the phlegm),I’d clear out my throat and pronounce a loud “Hem!”(So th’ appearance of summer’s preceded by swallows,)Make my bow to the House, and address it as follows:—“Mr. Speaker! the state of the Criminal Laws”(Thus, like Cicero, at once go right into the cause)Is such as demands our most serious attention,And strong reprobation, and quick intervention.”(This rattling of words, which is quite in the fashion,Shows the depth of my zeal, and the force of my passion.)“Though the traitor’s obligingly eased of his head—Though a Wilde22. After due inquiry we have satisfied ourselves that the individual here mentioned isnotH.M.’s late Solicitor-General, but one Jonathan Wilde, touching whose historyvideJack Sheppard.to the dark-frowning gallows is led—Tho’ the robber, when caught, is most kindly sent henceBeyond the blue wave, at his country’s expense!—Yet so bad, so disgracefully bad, seems to meThe state of the law in this ‘Land of the free’”—(Speak these words in a manner most zealous and fervid)—That there’s no law for those who most richly deserve it!Yes, Sir, ’tis a fact not less true than astounding—A fact—to the wise with instruction abounding,That those who the face of the country destroy,And hurl o’er the best scenes of Nature alloy—Who Earth’s brightest portions cut through at a dash—Who mix beauty and beastliness all in one hash”—(I don’t dwell upon deaths, since a reason so brittleIs but worthy of minds unpoetic and little)—“Base scum of the Earth, and sweet Nature’s dissectors,Meet with no just reward—these same Railway Directors!”I’ve not mentioned the “Laughters,” the “Bravos,” the “Hears,”“Agitations,” “Sensations,” and “Deafening Cheers,”Which of course would attend a speechsopatriotic,So truly exciting, and anti-narcotic!In this style I’d proceed, ’till I’d proved to the HouseThat these railways, in fact, were a nationalchouse,And the best thing to do for poor Earth, to protect her,Would be—to hang daily a Railway Director!Of coursethe Hon. Members could ne’er have a thoughtOf opposing a motion with kindness so fraught;But would welcome with fervent and loud acclamation⎫A project so teeming with consideration,⎬As a model of justice, a boon to the nation!⎭Such, Simon, if I were a Parliament man,The basis would be, and the scope, of my plan!But my rushlight is drooping—so trusting diurnally,To hear your opinion—believe me eternally(Whilst swearing affection, best swear in the lump)Your obedient,devoted,admiring,JOHN STUMP.

DEAR SIMON,

If I were a Parliament man,I’d make a long speech, and I’d bring in a plan,And prevail on the House to support a new clauseIn the very first chapter of Criminal Laws!But, to guard against getting too nervous or low(For my speech you’re aware would be then a no-go),I’d attack, ere I went, some two bottles of Sherry,And chaunt all the way Row di-dow di-down-derry!11. The exact tune of this interesting song it has not been in our power to discover—it is, however, undoubtedly a truly national melody.Then having arrived (just to drive down the phlegm),I’d clear out my throat and pronounce a loud “Hem!”(So th’ appearance of summer’s preceded by swallows,)Make my bow to the House, and address it as follows:—“Mr. Speaker! the state of the Criminal Laws”(Thus, like Cicero, at once go right into the cause)Is such as demands our most serious attention,And strong reprobation, and quick intervention.”(This rattling of words, which is quite in the fashion,Shows the depth of my zeal, and the force of my passion.)“Though the traitor’s obligingly eased of his head—Though a Wilde22. After due inquiry we have satisfied ourselves that the individual here mentioned isnotH.M.’s late Solicitor-General, but one Jonathan Wilde, touching whose historyvideJack Sheppard.to the dark-frowning gallows is led—Tho’ the robber, when caught, is most kindly sent henceBeyond the blue wave, at his country’s expense!—Yet so bad, so disgracefully bad, seems to meThe state of the law in this ‘Land of the free’”—(Speak these words in a manner most zealous and fervid)—That there’s no law for those who most richly deserve it!Yes, Sir, ’tis a fact not less true than astounding—A fact—to the wise with instruction abounding,That those who the face of the country destroy,And hurl o’er the best scenes of Nature alloy—Who Earth’s brightest portions cut through at a dash—Who mix beauty and beastliness all in one hash”—(I don’t dwell upon deaths, since a reason so brittleIs but worthy of minds unpoetic and little)—“Base scum of the Earth, and sweet Nature’s dissectors,Meet with no just reward—these same Railway Directors!”I’ve not mentioned the “Laughters,” the “Bravos,” the “Hears,”“Agitations,” “Sensations,” and “Deafening Cheers,”Which of course would attend a speechsopatriotic,So truly exciting, and anti-narcotic!In this style I’d proceed, ’till I’d proved to the HouseThat these railways, in fact, were a nationalchouse,And the best thing to do for poor Earth, to protect her,Would be—to hang daily a Railway Director!Of coursethe Hon. Members could ne’er have a thoughtOf opposing a motion with kindness so fraught;But would welcome with fervent and loud acclamation⎫A project so teeming with consideration,⎬As a model of justice, a boon to the nation!⎭Such, Simon, if I were a Parliament man,The basis would be, and the scope, of my plan!But my rushlight is drooping—so trusting diurnally,To hear your opinion—believe me eternally(Whilst swearing affection, best swear in the lump)Your obedient,devoted,admiring,JOHN STUMP.

If I were a Parliament man,

I’d make a long speech, and I’d bring in a plan,

And prevail on the House to support a new clause

In the very first chapter of Criminal Laws!

But, to guard against getting too nervous or low

(For my speech you’re aware would be then a no-go),

I’d attack, ere I went, some two bottles of Sherry,

And chaunt all the way Row di-dow di-down-derry!11. The exact tune of this interesting song it has not been in our power to discover—it is, however, undoubtedly a truly national melody.

Then having arrived (just to drive down the phlegm),

I’d clear out my throat and pronounce a loud “Hem!”

(So th’ appearance of summer’s preceded by swallows,)

Make my bow to the House, and address it as follows:—

“Mr. Speaker! the state of the Criminal Laws”

(Thus, like Cicero, at once go right into the cause)

Is such as demands our most serious attention,

And strong reprobation, and quick intervention.”

(This rattling of words, which is quite in the fashion,

Shows the depth of my zeal, and the force of my passion.)

“Though the traitor’s obligingly eased of his head—

Though a Wilde22. After due inquiry we have satisfied ourselves that the individual here mentioned isnotH.M.’s late Solicitor-General, but one Jonathan Wilde, touching whose historyvideJack Sheppard.to the dark-frowning gallows is led—

Tho’ the robber, when caught, is most kindly sent hence

Beyond the blue wave, at his country’s expense!—

Yet so bad, so disgracefully bad, seems to me

The state of the law in this ‘Land of the free’”—

(Speak these words in a manner most zealous and fervid)—

That there’s no law for those who most richly deserve it!

Yes, Sir, ’tis a fact not less true than astounding—

A fact—to the wise with instruction abounding,

That those who the face of the country destroy,

And hurl o’er the best scenes of Nature alloy—

Who Earth’s brightest portions cut through at a dash—

Who mix beauty and beastliness all in one hash”—

(I don’t dwell upon deaths, since a reason so brittle

Is but worthy of minds unpoetic and little)—

“Base scum of the Earth, and sweet Nature’s dissectors,

Meet with no just reward—these same Railway Directors!”

I’ve not mentioned the “Laughters,” the “Bravos,” the “Hears,”

“Agitations,” “Sensations,” and “Deafening Cheers,”

Which of course would attend a speechsopatriotic,

So truly exciting, and anti-narcotic!

In this style I’d proceed, ’till I’d proved to the House

That these railways, in fact, were a nationalchouse,

And the best thing to do for poor Earth, to protect her,

Would be—to hang daily a Railway Director!

Of coursethe Hon. Members could ne’er have a thought

Of opposing a motion with kindness so fraught;

But would welcome with fervent and loud acclamation⎫

A project so teeming with consideration,⎬

As a model of justice, a boon to the nation!⎭

Such, Simon, if I were a Parliament man,

The basis would be, and the scope, of my plan!

But my rushlight is drooping—so trusting diurnally,

To hear your opinion—believe me eternally

(Whilst swearing affection, best swear in the lump)

Your obedient,

devoted,

admiring,

JOHN STUMP.

[pg 238]

“All the world’s a joke, and all the men and women merely jokers.”—Shakspeare. From the text of Joseph Miller.

Messrs. GAG and GAMMON beg most respectfully to call the strict attention of the reading public to the following brief prospectus of their forthcoming work “On Jokes for all subjects.” Messrs. GAG and GAMMON pledge themselves to produce an article at present unmatched for application and originality, upon such terms as must secure them the patronage and lasting gratitude of their many admirers. Messrs. GAG and GAMMON propose dividing their highly-seasoned and warranted-to-keep-in-any-climate universal facetiæ into the following various heads, departments, or classes:—

General jokes for all occasions; chiefly applicable to individuals’ names, expressive of peculiar colours.

A very superior article onBrowns—if required, bringing in said Browns in Black and White.

Embarrassed do., very humorous, withDuns; and a choice selection of unique references to the copper coin of the realm. Worthy the attention of young beginners, and very safe for small country towns, with one wit possessed of a good horse-laugh for his own, or rather Messrs. G. and G.’s jokes.

Do. do. onGreens, very various: bring inSapsuperbly, andPeawith peculiar power; with a short cut toLettus (Lettuce), and Hanson’s Patent Safety,—a beautiful allusion to the “Cab-age.” May be tried when there is an attorney and young doctor, with a perfect certainty of success.

Do. do. do. OnWiggins; very pungent, suitable to the present political position; offering a beautiful contrast of Wig-insand Wig-outs; capable of great ramifications, and may be done at least twice a-night in a half whisper in mixed society.

Also some “Delightful Dinner Diversions, or Joke Sauces for all Joints.”

Calves-head.—Brings in fellow-feeling; family likeness; cannibalism; “tête-à-tête”; while the brain sauce and tongue are never-failing.

Goose.—Same as above, with allusions to the “sage;” two or three thatstick in the gizzard; and a beautiful work up with a “long liver.”

Ducks.—Very military: bring indrill; drumsticks; breastwork; and pair of ducks for light clothing and summer wear.

Snipes.—Good for lawyers; long bill. Gallantry; “Toast be dear Woman.” Mercantile; run on banks. And infants; living on suction.

Herring.—Capital forbride:her-ring; petticoats, flannel and otherwise,herring-boned. Fat people;bloaters; &c. &c. &c.

Venison.—Superior, for offering everybody some of your sauce. Sad subject, as it ought to be looked upon with a grave eye (gravy). Wish your friends might always give you sucha cut. &c. &c. &c.

Port.—Like well-baked bread, best when crusty; flies out of glass because of the “bee’s wing.” Always happy to become aporteron such occasions; object to general breakages, but partial to the cracking of a bottle; comes from a good “cellar” and a good buyer, though no wish to be a good-bye-er to it. All the above with beautiful leading cues, and really with two or three rehearsals the very best things ever done.

Sherry.—“Do you sherry?” “Not just yet.” “Rather unlucky,white whining: like a bottle of port; but no objection toshare he. Hope never to be out of the Pale of do.; if so, will submit to be done Brown.”

N.B.—After an election dinner, any of the above valued at a six weeks’ invitation from any voter under the influence of his third bottle; and absolute reversion of the chair, when original chairman disappears under table.

Champagne.—Real pleasure (quite new—never thought of before)—must beWright’s; nothingleftabout it; intoxicating portion of a bird, getting drunk with pheasant’s eye. What gender’s wine?Why hen’sfeminine. Safe three rounds; and some others not quite compact.

Hock.—Hic, hec, do.

Hugeous.—Glass by all means (very new); never could decline it, &c. &c. &c.

Dessert.—Wish every one had it; join hands withladies’ fingersand bishops’ thumbs: Prince Albert and Queen very choice “Windsor pairs;” medlars; unpleasant neighbour: nuts; decidedly lunatic, sure to be cracked; disbanding Field Officers shelling out the kernels, &c. &c. &c.

The above are but a few samples from the very extensive joke manufactory of Messrs. Gammon and Gag, sole patentees of the powerful and prolific steam-joke double-action press. They are all warranted of the very best quality, and last date.

Old jokes taken in exchange—of course allowing a liberal per-centage.

Gentlemen’s own materials made up in the most superior style, and at the very shortest notice.

Election squibs going off—a decided sacrifice of splendid talent.

Ideas convertible in cons., puns, and epigrams, always on hand.

Laughs taught in six lessons.

A treatise on leading subjects for experienced jokers just completed.

A large volume of choice sells will be put up by Mr. George Robins on the 1st of April next, unless previously disposed of by private contract.

N.B.—Well worthy the attention of sporting and other punsters.

Also a choice cachinatory chronicle, entitled “How to Laugh, and what to Laugh at.”

For further particulars apply to Messrs. Gag and Gammon, new and second-hand depôt for gentlemen’s left-off facetiæ, Monmouth-street; and at their West-end establishment, opposite the Black Doll, and next door to Mr. Catnach, Seven-dials.

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