THE NEW ADMINISTRATION.

“Gavea ring withposytrue!”

Think of this. Not only does he “give a ring,” but he annihilates the suppositionary fiction in which poets are supposed to revel, and the ring’s accompaniment, though the child of a creative brain—the burning emanation from some Apollo-stricken votary of “the lying nine,” imbued with all his stern morality, is strictly “true.” This startling fact is not left wrapped in mystery. The veriest sceptic cannot, in imagination, grave a fancied double meaning on that richest gift. No—the motto follows, and seems to say—Now, as the champion of Giles Scroggins, hurl I this gauntlet down; let him that dare, uplift it! Here I am—

“If youlovesI, as Ilovesyou!”

Pray mark the syncretic force of the above line. Giles, in expressing his affection, felt the singular too small, and the vast plural quick supplied the void—Lovesmust be more than love.

“If you loves I, as I loves you,No knife shall cut our loves in two!”

“If you loves I, as I loves you,

No knife shall cut our loves in two!”

This is really sublime! “No knife!” Can anything exceed the assertion? Nothing but the rejoinder—a rejoinder in which the talented author not only stands proudly forward as a poet, but patriotically proves theamor propriæ, which has induced him to study the staple manufactures of his beloved country! What but a diligent investigation of thecutlerian process could have prompted the illustration of practical knowledge of the Birmingham and Sheffield artificers contained in the following exquisitely explanatory line. But—pray mark thebut—

“Butscissorscut as well as knives!”

Sublime announcement! startling information! leading us, by degrees, to the highest of all earthly contemplations, exalting us to fate and her peculiar shears, and preparing us for the exquisitely poetical sequel contained in the following line:—

“And so unsartain’s all our lives.”

Can anything exceed this? The uncertainty of life evidently superinduced the conviction of all other uncertainties, and the sublime poet bears out the intenseness of his impressions by the uncertainty of his spelling! Now, reader, mark the next line, and its context:—

“The very night they were to wed!”

Fancy this: the full blossoming of all their budding joys, anticipations, death, and hope’s accomplishment, the crowning hour of their youth’s great bliss, “the very night they were to wed,” is, withextra syncreticskill, chosen as the awful one in which

“Fate’s scissors cut Giles Scroggins’ thread!”

Now, reader, do you see the subtle use of practical knowledge? Are you convinced of the impotent prescription fromknivesonly? Can you not perceive in “Fate’s scissors” a parallel for the unthought-of host “that bore the mighty wood of Dunsinane against the blood-stained murderer of the pious Duncan?” Does not the fatal truth rush, like an unseen draught into rheumatic crannies, slick through your soul’s perception? Are you not prepared for this—to be resumed in our next?

Lord Lyndhurst is to have the seals; but it is not yet decided who is to be entrusted with the wafer-stamps. Gold-stick has not been appointed, and there are so many of the Conservatives whose qualities peculiarly fit them for the office ofstick, that the choice will be exceedingly embarrassing.

Though the Duke of Wellington does not take office, an extra chair has been ordered, to allow of his having a seat in the Cabinet. And though Lord Melbourne is no longer minister, he is still to be indulged with a lounge on the sofa.

If the Duke of Beaufort is to be Master of the Horse, it is probable that a new office will be made, to allow Colonel Sibthorp to take office as Comptroller of the Donkeys: and it is said that Horace Twiss is to join the administration as Clerk of the Kitchen.

It was remarked, that after Sir Robert Peel had kissed hands, the Queen called for soap and water, for the purpose of washing them.

The Duchess of Buccleugh having refused the office of Mistress of the Robes, it will not be necessary to make the contemplated new appointment of Keeper of the Flannel Petticoats.

The Grooms of the Bedchamber are, for the future, to be styled Postilions of the Dressing-room; because, as the Sovereign is a lady, instead of a gentleman, it is thought that the latter title, for the officers alluded to, will be more in accordance with propriety. For the same excellent reason, it is expected that the Knights of the Bath will henceforth be designated the Chevaliers of the Foot-pan.

Prince Albert’s household is to be entirely re-modelled, and one or two new offices are to be added, the want of which has hitherto occasioned his Royal Highness much inconvenience. Of these, we are only authorised in alluding, at present, to Tooth-brush in Ordinary, and Shaving-pot in Waiting. There is no foundation for the report that there is to be a Lord High Clothes-brush, or Privy Boot-jack.

The following letter has been addressed to us by a certain party, who, as our readers will perceive, has been one of the sufferers by the lateclearancemade in a fashionable establishment at the West-end:—

DEAR PUNCH.—As you may not be awair of the mallancoly change wich as okkurred to the pore sarvunts here, I hassen to let you no—that every sole on us as lost our plaices, and are turnd owt—wich is a dredful klamity, seeing as we was all very comfittible and appy as we was. I must say, in gustis to our Missus, that she was very fond of us, and wouldn’t have parted with one of us if she had her will: but she’s only a O in her own howse, and is never aloud to do as she licks. We got warning reglar enuff, but we still thort that somethink might turn up in our fever. However, when the day cum that we was to go, it fell upon us like a thunderboat. You can’t imagine the kunfewshion we was all threw into—every body packing up their little afares, and rummidging about for any trifele that wasn’t worth leaving behind. The sarvunts as is cum in upon us is a nice sett; they have been a long wile trying after our places, and at last they have suckseeded in underminding us; but it’s my oppinion they’ll never be able to get through the work of the house;—all they cares for is the vails and purkussites. I forgot to menshun that they hadn’t the decency to wait till we was off the peremasses, wich I bleave is theetticatin sich cases, but rushed in on last Friday, and tuck possession of all our plaices before we had left the concirn. I leave you to judge by this what a hurry they was to get in. There’s one comfurt, however, that is—we’ve left things in sich a mess in the howse, that I don’t think they’ll ever be able to set them to rites again. This is all at present from your afflickted friend,

JOHN THE FOOTMAN.

“I declare I never knew aflattercompanion than yourself,” said Tom of Finsbury, the other evening, to the lion of Lambeth. “Thank you, Tom,” replied the latter; “but all the world knows that you’re aflatter-er.” Tom, in nautical phrase, swore, if he ever came athwart hisHawes, that he would return the compliment with interest.

[pg 101]

—“Here, methinks,Truth wants no ornament.”—ROGERS.

—“Here, methinks,

Truth wants no ornament.”—ROGERS.

We have the happiness to know a gentleman of the name of Tom, who officiates in the capacity of ostler. We have enjoyed a long acquaintance with him—we mean an acquaintance a long way off—i.e.from the window of our dormitory, which overlooks A—s—n’s stables. We believe we are the first of our family, for some years, who has not kept a horse; and we derive a melancholy gratification in gazing for hours, from our lonely height, at the zoological possessions of more favoured mortals.

“The horse is a noble animal,” as a gentleman once wittily observed, when he found himself, for the first time in his life, in a position to make love; and we beg leave to repeat the remark—“the horse is a noble animal,” whether we consider him in his usefulness or in his beauty; whether caparisoned in thechamfreinanddemi-peakeof the chivalry of olden times, or scarcely fettered and surmounted by the snaffle and hog-skin of the present; whether he excites our envy when bounding over the sandy deserts of Arabia, or awakens our sympathies when drawing sand from Hampstead and the parts adjacent; whether we see him as romance pictures him, foaming in the lists, or bearing, “through flood and field,” the brave, the beautiful, and the benighted; or, as we know him in reality, the companion of our pleasures, the slave of our necessities, the dislocator of our necks, or one of the performers at our funeral; whether—but we are not drawing a “bill in Chancery.”

With such impressions in favour of the horse, we have ever felt a deep anxiety about those to whom his conduct and comfort are confided.

The breeder—we envy.The breaker—we pity.The owner—we esteem.The groom—we respect.ANDThe ostler—we pay.

The breeder—we envy.

The breaker—we pity.

The owner—we esteem.

The groom—we respect.

AND

The ostler—we pay.

Do not suppose that we wish to cast a slur upon the latter personage, but it is too much to require that he who keeps a caravansera should look upon every wayfarer as a brother. It is thus with the ostler:hisfeelings are never allowed to twine

“Around one object, till he feels his heartOf its sweet being form a deathless part.”

“Around one object, till he feels his heart

Of its sweet being form a deathless part.”

No—to rub them down, give them a quartern and three pen’orth, and not too much water, are all that he has to connect him with the offspring of Childers, Eclipse, or Pot-8-o’s; ergo, we pay him.

My friend Tom is a fine specimen of the genus. He is about fifteen hands high, rising thirty, herring-bowelled, small head, large ears, close mane, broad chest, and legs à la parentheses ( ). His dress is a long brown-holland jacket, covering the protuberance known in Bavaria by the name ofpudo, and in England by that ofbustle. His breeches are of cord about an inch in width, and of such capacious dimensions, that a truss of hay, or a quarter of oats, might be stowed away in them with perfect convenience: not that we mean to insinuate they are ever thus employed, for when we have seen them, they have been in a collapsed state, hanging (like the skin of an elephant) in graceful festoons about the mid-person of the wearer. These necessaries are confined at the knee by a transverse row of pearl buttons crossing thegenu patella. Thepars pendulais about twelve inches wide, and supplies, during conversation or rumination, a resting-place for the thumbs or little fingers. His legs are encased either in white ribbed cotton stockings, or that peculiar kind of gaiter ’ycleptkicksies. His feet know only one pattern shoe, theancle-jack(orhighlowas it is sometimes called), resplendent with “Day and Martin,” or the no less brilliant “Warren.” Genius of propriety, we have described his tail before that index of the mind, that idol of phrenologists, his pimple!—we beg pardon, we mean his head. Round, and rosy as a pippin, it stands alone in its native loveliness, on the heap of clothes beneath.

Tom is not a low man; he has not a particle of costermongerism in his composition, though his discourse savours of that peculiar slang that might be considered rather objectionable in thesalonsof theélite.

The bell which he has the honour to answer hangs at the gate of a west-end livery-stables, and his consequence is proportionate. To none under the degree of a groom does he condescend a nod of recognition—with a second coachman he drinks porter—and purl (a compound of beer and blue ruin) with the more respectable individual who occupies the hammer-cloth on court-days. Tom estimates a man according to his horse, and his civility is regulated according to his estimation. He pockets a gratuity with as much ease as a state pensioner; but if some unhappy wight should, in the plenitude of his ignorance, proffer a sixpence, Tom buttons his pockets with a smile, and politely “begs to leave it till it becomes more.”

With an old meerschaum and a pint of tolerable sherry, we seat ourselves at our window, and hold many an imaginative conversation with our friend Tom. Sometimes we are blest with more than ideality; but that is only when he unbends and becomes jocular and noisy, or chooses a snug corner opposite our window to enjoy hisotium—confound that phrase!—we would say his indolence and swagger—

“A pound to a hay-seed agin’ the bay.”

Hallo! that’s Tom! Yes—there he comes laughing out of “Box 4,” with three others—allfirstcoachmen. One is making some very significant motions to the potboy at the “Ram and Radish,” and, lo! Ganymede appears with a foaming tankard of ale. Tom has taken his seat on an inverted pail, and the others are grouped easily, if not classically, around him.

One is resting his head between the prongs of a stable-fork; another is spread out like the Colossus of Rhodes; whilst a gentleman in a blue uniform has thrown himself into an attitude à la Cribb, with the facetious intention of “letting daylight into thewittlingdepartment” of the pot-boy of the “Ram and Radish.”

Tom has blown the froth from the tankard, and (as he elegantly designates it) “bit his name in the pot.” A second has “looked at the maker’s name;” and another has taken one of those positive draughts which evince a settled conviction that it is a last chance.

Our friend has thrust his hands into the deepest depths of his breeches-pocket, and cocking one eye at the afore-named blue uniform, asks—

“Willyou back the bay?”

The inquiry has been made in such a do-if-you-dare tone, that to hesitate would evince a cowardice unworthy of the first coachman to the first peer in Belgrave-square, and a leg of mutton and trimmings are duly entered in a greasy pocket-book, as dependent upon the result of the Derby.

“The son of Tros, fair Ganymede,” is again called into requisition, and the party are getting, as Tom says, “As happy as Harry Stockracy.”

“I’ve often heerd that chap mentioned,” remarks the blue uniform, “but I never seed no one as know’d him.”

“No more did I,” replies Tom, “though he must be a fellow such as us, up to everything.”

All the coachmen cough, strike an attitude, and look wise.

“Now here comes a sort of chap I despises,” remarks Tom, pointing to a steady-looking man, without encumbrance, who had just entered the yard, evidently a coachman to a pious family; “see him handle ahoss. Smear—smear—like bees-waxing a table. Nothing varminty about him—nothing of this sort of thing (spreading himself out to the gaze of his admiring auditory), but I suppose he’s useful with slow cattle, and that’s a consolation to us as can’t abear them.” And with this negative compliment Tom has broken up hisconversazione.

I once knew a country ostler—by name Peter Staggs—he was a lower species of the same genus—a sort of compound of my friend Tom and a waggoner—thedelfof the profession. He was a character in his way; he knew the exact moment of every coach’s transit on his line of road, and the birth, parentage, and education of every cab, hack, and draught-horse in the neighbourhood. He had heard of a mane-comb, but had never seen one; he considered a shilling for a “feed” perfectly apocryphal, as he had never received one. He kept a rough terrier-dog, that would kill anything in the country, and exhibited three rows of putrified rats, nailed at the back of the stable, as evidences of the prowess of his dog. He swore long country oaths, for which he will be unaccountable, as not even an angel could transcribe them. In short, he was a little “varminty,” but very little.

We will conclude this “lytle historie” with the epitaph of poor Peter Staggs, which we copied from a rail in Swaffham churchyard.

“EPITAPH ON PETER STAGGS.

Poor Peter Staggs now rests beneath this rail,Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale;For twenty years he did the duties well,Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the ‘Bell.’But Death stepp’d in, and order’d Peter StaggsTo feed his worms, and leave the farmers’ nags.The church clock struck one—alas! ’twas Peter’s knell,Who sigh’d, ‘I’m coming—that’s the ostler’s bell!’”

Poor Peter Staggs now rests beneath this rail,

Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale;

For twenty years he did the duties well,

Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the ‘Bell.’

But Death stepp’d in, and order’d Peter Staggs

To feed his worms, and leave the farmers’ nags.

The church clock struck one—alas! ’twas Peter’s knell,

Who sigh’d, ‘I’m coming—that’s the ostler’s bell!’”

Peace to his manes!

“If you won’t turn,Iwill,” as the mill-wheel said to the stream.

“Why did not Wellington take a post in the new Cabinet?” asked Dicky Sheil of O’Connell.—“Bathershin!” replied theheadof thetail, “the Duke is too old a soldier to lean on a rottenstick.”

Lord Morpeth intends proceeding to Canada immediately. The object of his journey is purely scientific; he wishes to ascertain if theFall of Niagarabe really greater than thefall of the Whigs.

“When is Peel not Peel?”—“When he’scandi(e)d.”

We have heard of the very dead being endowed, by galvanic action, with the temporary powers of life, and on such occasions the extreme force of the apparatus has ever received the highest praise. The Syncretic march of mind rectifies the above error—with them, weakness is strength. Fancy the alliterative littleness of a “Stephens” and a “Selby,” as the tools from which the drama must receive its glorious resuscitation!

Bedlam, the celebrated receptacle for lunatics, is situated in St. George’s-fields,within five minutes’ walk of the King’s Bench. There is also another noble establishment in the neighbourhood of Finsbury-square, where the unhappy victims of extraordinary delusions are treated with the care and consideration their several hallucinations require.

[pg 102]

At length, PEEL is called in “in a regular way.” Being assured of his quarterly fee, the state physician may now, in the magnanimity of his soul, prescribe new life for moribund John Bull. Whether he has resolved within himself to emulate the generous dealing of kindred professors—of those sanative philosophers, whose benevolence, stamped in modest handbills, “crieth out in the street,” exclaiming “No cure no pay,”—we know not; certain we are, that such is not the old Tory practice. On the contrary, the healing, with Tory doctors, has ever been in an inverse ratio to the reward. Like the faculty at large, the Tories have flourished on the sickness of the patient. They have, withFalstaff, “turned diseases to commodity;” their only concern being to keep out the undertaker. Whilst there’s life, there’s profit,—is the philosophy of the Tory College; hence, poor Mr. Bull, though shrunk, attenuated,—with a blister on his head, and cataplasms at his soles,—has been kept just alive enough to pay. And then his patience under Tory treatment—the obedience of his swallow! “Admirable, excellent!” cried a certain doctor (we will not swear that his name was not PEEL), when his patient pointed to a dozen empty phials. “Taken them all, eh? Delightful! My dear sir, you areworthyto be ill.” JOHN BULL having again called in the Tories, is “worthy to be ill;” and very ill he will be.

The tenacity of life displayed by BULL is paralleled by a case quoted by LE VAILLANT. That naturalist speaks of a turtle that continued to live after its brain was taken from its skull, and the cavity stuffedwith cotton. Is not England, with spinning-jenny PEEL at the head of its affairs, in this precise predicament? England may live; but inactive, torpid; unfitted for all healthful exertion,—deprived of its grandest functions—paralyzed in its noblest strength. We have a Tory Cabinet, but where is thebrainof statesmanship?

Now, however, there are no Tories. Oh, no! Sir ROBERT PEEL is a Conservative—LYNDHURST is a Conservative—all are Conservative. Toryism has sloughed its old skin, and rejoices in a new coat of many colours; but the sting remains—the venom is the same; the reptile that would have struck to the heart the freedom of Europe, elaborates the self-same poison, is endowed with the same subtilty, the same grovelling, tortuous action. It still creeps upon its belly, and wriggles to its purpose. When adders shall become eels, then will we believe that Conservatives cannot be Tories.

When folks change their names—unless by the gracious permission of theGazette—they rarely do so to avoid the fame of brilliant deeds. It is not the act of an over-sensitive modesty that inducesPeter Wigginsto dub himselfJohn Smith. Be certain of it,Peterhas not saved half a boarding-school from the tremendous fire that entirely destroyed “Ringworm House”—Peterhas not dived into the Thames, and rescued some respectable attorney from a death hitherto deemed by his friends impossible to him. It is from no such heroism thatPeter Wigginsis compelled to take refuge inJohn Smithfrom the oppressive admiration of the world about him. Certainly not. Depend upon it,Peterhas been signalised in theHue and Cry, as one endowed with a love for the silver spoons of other men—as an individual who, abusing the hospitality of his lodgings, has conveyed away and sold the best goose feathers of his landlady. What then, with his name ripe enough to drop from the tree of life, remains toWiggins, but to subside intoSmith? What hope was there for the well-known swindler, the posted pickpocket, the callous-hearted, slug-brainedTory? None: he was hooted, pelted at; all men stopped the nose at his approach. He was voted a nuisance, and turned forth into the world, with all his vices, like ulcers, upon him. Well,Toryadopts the inevitable policy ofWiggins; he changes his name! He comes forth, curled and sweetened, and with a smile upon his mealy face, and placing his felon hand above thevacuumon the left side of his bosom—declares, whilst the tears he weeps would make a crocodile blush—that he is by no means theToryhis wicked, heartless enemies would call him. Certainly not. His name is—Conservative!There was, once, to be sure, aTory—in existence;

“But he is dead, and nailed in his chest!”

He is a creature extinct, gone with the wolves annihilated by the Saxon monarch. There may be the skeleton of the animal in some rare collections in the kingdom; but for the living creature, you shall as soon find a phoenix building in the trees of Windsor Park, as aTorykissing hands in Windsor Castle!

The lie is but gulped as a truth, andConservativeis taken into service. Once more, he is thefactotumto JOHN BULL. But when the knave shall have worn out his second name—when he shall again be turned away—look to your feather-beds, oh, JOHN! and foolish, credulous, leathern-eared Mr. BULL—be sure and count your spoons!

Can it be supposed that the loss of office, that the ten years’ hunger for the loaves and fishes endured by the Tory party, has disciplined them into a wiser humanity? Can it be believed that they have arrived at a more comprehensive grasp of intellect—that they are ennobled by a loftier consideration of the social rights of man—that they are gifted with a more stirring sympathy for the wants that, in the present iniquitous system of society, reduce him to little less than pining idiotcy, or madden him to what the statutes call crime, and what judges, sleek as their ermine, preach upon as rebellion to the government—the government that, in fact, having stung starvation into treason, takes to itself the loftiest praise for refusing the hangman—a task—for appeasingJusticewith simple transportation?

Already the Tories have declared themselves. In the flush of anticipated success, PEEL at the Tamworth election denounced the French Revolution that escorted Charles the Tenth—with his foolish head still upon his shoulders—out of France, as the “triumph of might over right.” It was the right—the divine right of Charles—(the sacredampoule, yet dropping with the heavenly oil brought by the mystic dove for Clovis, had bestowed the privilege)—to gag the mouth of man; to scourge a nation with decrees, begot by bigot tyranny upon folly—to reduce a people into uncomplaining slavery. Such was his right: and the burst of indignation, the irresistible assertion of the native dignity of man, that shivered the throne of Charles like glass, was a felonious might—a rebellious, treasonous potency—the very wickedness of strength. Such is the opinion of Conservative PEEL! Such the old Tory faith of the child of Toryism!

Since the Tamworth speech—since the scourging of Sir ROBERT by the French press—PEEL has essayed a small philanthropic oration. He has endeavoured to paint—and certainly in the most delicate water-colours—the horrors of war. The premier makes his speech to the nations with the palm-branch in his hand—with the olive around his brow. He has applied arithmetic to war, and finds it expensive. He would therefore induce France to disarm, that by reductions at home he may not be compelled to risk what would certainly jerk him out of the premiership—the imposition of new taxes. He may then keep his Corn Laws—he may then securely enjoy his sliding scale. Such are the hopes that dictate the intimation to disarm. It is sweet to prevent war; and, oh! far sweeter still to keep out the Wigs!

The Duke of WELLINGTON, who is to be the moral force of the Tory Cabinet, is a great soldier; and by the very greatness of his martial fame, has been enabled to carry certain political questions which, proposed by a lesser genius, had been scouted by the party otherwise irresistibly compelled to admit them. (Imagine, for instance, the Marquis of Londonderry handling Catholic Emancipation.) Nevertheless, should “The follies of the Wise”—a chronicle much wanted—be ever collected for the world, his Grace of Wellington will certainly shine as a conspicuous contributor. In the name of famine, what could have induced his Grace to insult the misery at this moment, eating the hearts of thousands of Englishmen? For, within these few days, the Victor of Waterloo expressed his conviction that England was the only country in which “the poor man, if only sober and industrious, WAS QUITE CERTAINof acquiring a competency!” And it is this man, imbued with this opinion, who is to be hailed as the presiding wisdom—the great moral strength—the healing humanity of the Tory Cabinet. If rags and starvation put up their prayer to the present Ministry, what must be the answer delivered by the Duke of Wellington? “YE ARE DRUNKEN AND LAZY!”

If on the night of the 24th of August—the memorable night on which this heartless insult was thrown in the idle teeth of famishing thousands—the ghosts of the victims of the Corn Laws,—the spectres of the wretches who had been ground out of life by the infamy of Tory taxation, could have been permitted to lift the bed-curtains of Apsley-House,—his Grace the Duke of Wellington would have been scared by even a greater majority than ultimately awaits his fellowship in the present Cabinet. Still we can only visit upon the Duke the censure of ignorance. “He knows not what he says.” If it be his belief that England suffers only because she is drunken and idle, he knows no more of England than the Icelander in his sledge: if, on the other hand, he used the libel as a party warfare, he is still one of the “old set,”—and his “crowning carnage, Waterloo,” with all its greatness, is but a poor set-off against the more lasting iniquities which he would visit upon his fellow-men. Anyhow, he cannot—he must not—escape from his opinion; we will nail him to it, as we would nail a weasel to a barn-door; “if Englishmen want competence, they must be drunken—they must be idle.” Gentlemen Tories, shuffle the cards as you will, the Duke of Wellington either lacks principle or brains.

Next week we will speak of the Whigs; of the good they have done—of the good they have, with an instinct towards aristocracy—most foolishly, most traitorously, missed.

[pg 103]

Red Riding Hood (the Queen) faces a wolf (Peel) in the Royal Preserve of Mount Peelion.THE ROYAL RED RIDING HOOD,AND THE MINISTERIAL WOLF.

THE ROYAL RED RIDING HOOD,AND THE MINISTERIAL WOLF.

[pg 105]

Who Kill’d Cock Russell?I, said Bob Peel,The political eel,I kill’d Cock Russell.Who saw him die?We, said the nation,At each polling station,We saw him die.Who caught his place?I, for Icanlie,Said turn-aboutStanley,I caught his place.Who’ll make his shroud?We, cried the poorFrom each Union door,We’ll make his shroud.Who’ll dig his grave?Cried the corn-laws, The foolHas long been our tool,We’ll dig his grave.Who’ll be the parson?I, London’s bishop,A sermon will dish up,I’ll be the parson.Who’ll be the clerk?Sibthorp, for a lark,If you’ll all keep it dark,He’ll be the clerk.Who’ll carry him to his grave?The Chartists, with pleasure,Will wait on his leisure,They’ll carry him to his grave.Who’ll carry the link?Said Wakley, in a minute,Imustbe in it,I’ll carry the link.Who’ll be chief mourners?We, shouted dozensOf out-of-place cousins,We’ll be chief mourners.Who’ll bear the pall?As they loudly bewail,Both O’Connell and tail,They’ll bear the pall.Who’ll go before?I, said old Cupid,I’ll still head the stupid,I’ll go before.Who’ll sing a psalm?I, Colonel Perceval,(Oh, Peel, be merciful!)I’ll sing a psalm.Who’ll throw in the dirt?I, said theTimes,In lampoons and rhymes,I’ll throw in the dirt.Who’ll toll the bell?I, said John Bull,With pleasure I’ll pull,—I’ll toll the bell.All the Whigs in the worldFell a sighing and sobbing,When wicked Bob PeelPut an end to their jobbing.

Who Kill’d Cock Russell?I, said Bob Peel,The political eel,I kill’d Cock Russell.

Who Kill’d Cock Russell?

I, said Bob Peel,

The political eel,

I kill’d Cock Russell.

Who saw him die?We, said the nation,At each polling station,We saw him die.

Who saw him die?

We, said the nation,

At each polling station,

We saw him die.

Who caught his place?I, for Icanlie,Said turn-aboutStanley,I caught his place.

Who caught his place?

I, for Icanlie,

Said turn-aboutStanley,

I caught his place.

Who’ll make his shroud?We, cried the poorFrom each Union door,We’ll make his shroud.

Who’ll make his shroud?

We, cried the poor

From each Union door,

We’ll make his shroud.

Who’ll dig his grave?Cried the corn-laws, The foolHas long been our tool,We’ll dig his grave.

Who’ll dig his grave?

Cried the corn-laws, The fool

Has long been our tool,

We’ll dig his grave.

Who’ll be the parson?I, London’s bishop,A sermon will dish up,I’ll be the parson.

Who’ll be the parson?

I, London’s bishop,

A sermon will dish up,

I’ll be the parson.

Who’ll be the clerk?Sibthorp, for a lark,If you’ll all keep it dark,He’ll be the clerk.

Who’ll be the clerk?

Sibthorp, for a lark,

If you’ll all keep it dark,

He’ll be the clerk.

Who’ll carry him to his grave?The Chartists, with pleasure,Will wait on his leisure,They’ll carry him to his grave.

Who’ll carry him to his grave?

The Chartists, with pleasure,

Will wait on his leisure,

They’ll carry him to his grave.

Who’ll carry the link?Said Wakley, in a minute,Imustbe in it,I’ll carry the link.

Who’ll carry the link?

Said Wakley, in a minute,

Imustbe in it,

I’ll carry the link.

Who’ll be chief mourners?We, shouted dozensOf out-of-place cousins,We’ll be chief mourners.

Who’ll be chief mourners?

We, shouted dozens

Of out-of-place cousins,

We’ll be chief mourners.

Who’ll bear the pall?As they loudly bewail,Both O’Connell and tail,They’ll bear the pall.

Who’ll bear the pall?

As they loudly bewail,

Both O’Connell and tail,

They’ll bear the pall.

Who’ll go before?I, said old Cupid,I’ll still head the stupid,I’ll go before.

Who’ll go before?

I, said old Cupid,

I’ll still head the stupid,

I’ll go before.

Who’ll sing a psalm?I, Colonel Perceval,(Oh, Peel, be merciful!)I’ll sing a psalm.

Who’ll sing a psalm?

I, Colonel Perceval,

(Oh, Peel, be merciful!)

I’ll sing a psalm.

Who’ll throw in the dirt?I, said theTimes,In lampoons and rhymes,I’ll throw in the dirt.

Who’ll throw in the dirt?

I, said theTimes,

In lampoons and rhymes,

I’ll throw in the dirt.

Who’ll toll the bell?I, said John Bull,With pleasure I’ll pull,—I’ll toll the bell.

Who’ll toll the bell?

I, said John Bull,

With pleasure I’ll pull,—

I’ll toll the bell.

All the Whigs in the worldFell a sighing and sobbing,When wicked Bob PeelPut an end to their jobbing.

All the Whigs in the world

Fell a sighing and sobbing,

When wicked Bob Peel

Put an end to their jobbing.

Collected and elaborated expressly for “PUNCH,” by Tiddledy Winks, Esq., Hon. Sec., and Editor of thePeckham Evening PostandCamberwell-Green Advertiser.

Previously to placing the results of my unwearied application before the public, I think it will be both interesting and appropriate to trace, in a few words, the origin of this admirable society, by whose indefatigable exertions the air-pump has become necessary to the domestic economy of every peasant’s cottage; and the Budelight and beer-shops, optics and out-door relief, and Daguerrotypes and dirt, have become subjects with which they are equally familiar.

About the close of last year, a few scientific labourers were in the habit of meeting at a “Jerry” in their neighbourhood, for the purpose of discussing such matters as the comprehensive and plainly-written reports of the British Association, as furnished by theAthenæum, offered to their notice, in any way connected with philosophy or thebelles lettres. The numbers increasing, it was proposed that they should meet weekly at one another’s cottages, and there deliver a lecture on any scientific subject; and the preliminary matters being arranged, the first discourse was given “On the Advantage of an Air-gun over a Fowling-piece, in bringing Pheasants down without making a noise.” This was so eminently successful, that the following discourses were delivered in quick succession:—

On the Toxicological Powers of Coculus Indicus in Stupifying Fish.On the Combustion of Park-palings and loose Gate-posts.On the tendency of Out-of-door Spray-piles to Spontaneous Evaporation, during dark nights.On the Comparative Inflammatory properties of Lucifer Matches, Phosphorus Bottles, Tinder-boxes, and Congreves, as well as Incandescens Short Pipes, applied to Hay in particular and Ricks in general.On the value of Cheap Literature, and Intrinsic Worth (by weight) of the various Publications of the Society for the Confusion of Useless Knowledge.

On the Toxicological Powers of Coculus Indicus in Stupifying Fish.

On the Combustion of Park-palings and loose Gate-posts.

On the tendency of Out-of-door Spray-piles to Spontaneous Evaporation, during dark nights.

On the Comparative Inflammatory properties of Lucifer Matches, Phosphorus Bottles, Tinder-boxes, and Congreves, as well as Incandescens Short Pipes, applied to Hay in particular and Ricks in general.

On the value of Cheap Literature, and Intrinsic Worth (by weight) of the various Publications of the Society for the Confusion of Useless Knowledge.

The lectures were all admirably illustrated, and the society appeared to be in a prosperous state. At length the government selected two or three of its most active members, and despatched them on a voyage of discovery to a distant part of the globe. The institution now drooped for a while, until some friends of education firmly impressed with the importance of their undertaking, once more revived its former greatness, at the same time entirely reorganizing its arrangements. Subscriptions were collected, sufficient to erect a handsome turf edifice, with a massy thatched roof, upon Timber Common; a committee was appointed to manage the scientific department, at a liberal salary, including the room to sit in, turf, and rushlights, with the addition, on committee nights, of a pint of intermediate beer, a pipe, and a screw, to each member. Gentlemen fond of hearing their own voices were invited to give gratuitous discourses from sister institutions: a museum and library were added to the building already mentioned, and an annual meeting ofilluminatiwas agreed upon.

Amongst the papers contributed to be read at the evening meetings of the society, perhaps the most interesting was that communicated by Mr. Octavius Spiff, being a startling and probing investigation as to whether Sir Isaac Newton had his hat on when the apple tumbled on his head, what sort of an apple it most probably was, and whether it actually fell from the tree upon him, or, being found too hard and sour to eat, had been pitched over his garden wall by the hand of an irritated little boy. I ought also to make mention of Mr. Plummycram’s “Narrative of an Ascent to the summit of Highgate-hill,” with Mr. Mulltour’s “Handbook for Travellers from the Bank to Lisson-grove,” and “A Summer’s-day on Kennington-common.” Mr. Tinhunt has also announced an attractive work, to be called “Hackney: its Manufactures, Economy, and Political Resources.”

It is the intention of the society, should its funds increase, to take a high place next year in the scientific transactions of the country. Led by the spirit of enterprise now so universally prevalent, arrangements are pending with Mr. Purdy, to fit up two punts for the Shepperton expedition, which will set out in the course of the ensuing summer. The subject for the Prize Essay for the Victoria Penny Coronation Medal this year is, “The possibility of totally obliterating the black stamp on the post-office Queen’s heads, so as to render them serviceable a second time;” and, in imitation of the learned investigations of sister institutions, the Copper Jinks Medal will also be given to the author of the best essay upon “The existing analogy between the mental subdivision of invisible agencies and circulating decompositions.”—(To be continued.)

[pg 106]

“Be still, my mighty soul! These ribs of mineAre all too fragile for thy narrow cage.By heaven! I will unlock my bosom’s door.And blow thee forth upon the boundless tideOf thought’s creation, where thy eagle wingMay soar from this dull terrene mass away,To yonder empyrean vault—like rocket (sky)—To mingle with thy cognate essencesOf Love and Immortality, untilThou burstest with thine own intensity,And scatterest into millions of bright stars,Eachonea part of that refulgent wholeWhich once was ME.”

“Be still, my mighty soul! These ribs of mine

Are all too fragile for thy narrow cage.

By heaven! I will unlock my bosom’s door.

And blow thee forth upon the boundless tide

Of thought’s creation, where thy eagle wing

May soar from this dull terrene mass away,

To yonder empyrean vault—like rocket (sky)—

To mingle with thy cognate essences

Of Love and Immortality, until

Thou burstest with thine own intensity,

And scatterest into millions of bright stars,

Eachonea part of that refulgent whole

Which once was ME.”

Thus spoke, or thought—for, in a metaphysical point of view, it does not much matter whether the passage above quoted was uttered, or only conceived—by the sublime philosopher and author of the tragedy of “Martinuzzi,” now being nightly played at the English Opera House, with unbounded success, to overflowing audiences22. Has this paragraph been paid for as an advertisement?—PRINTER’S DEVIL.—Undoubtedly.—ED.. These were the aspirations of his gigantic mind, as he sat, on last Monday morning, like a simple mortal, in a striped-cotton dressing-gown and drab slippers, over a cup of weak coffee. (We love to be minute on great subjects.) The door opened, and a female figure—not the Tragic muse—but Sally, the maid of-all-work, entered, holding in a corner of her dingy apron, between her delicate finger and thumb, a piece of not too snowy paper, folded into an exact parallelogram.

“A letter for you, sir,” said the maid of-all-work, dropping a reverential curtsey.

George Stephens, Esq. took the despatch in his inspired fingers, broke the seal, and read as follows:—

Surrey Theatre.

SIR,—I have seen your tragedy of “Martinuzzi,” and pronounce it magnificent! I have had, for some time, an idea in my head (how it came there I don’t know), to produce, after the Boulogne affair, a grand Inauguration of the Statue of Shakspere, on the stage of the Surrey, but not having an image of him amongst our properties, I could not put my plan into execution. Now, sir, as it appears that you are the exact ditto of the bard, I shouldn’t mind making an arrangement with you to undertake the character ofour friend Billyon the occasion. I shall do the liberal in the way of terms, and get up the gag properly, with laurels and other greens, of which I have a large stock on hand; so that with your popularity the thing will be sure to draw. If you consent to come, I’ll post you in six-feet letters against every dead wall in town.

Yours,WILLIS JONES.

When the author of the “magnificent poem” had finished reading the letter he appeared deeply moved, and the maid of-all-work saw three plump tears roll down his manly cheek, and rest upon his shirt collar. “I expected nothing less,” said he, stroking his chin with a mysterious air. “The manager of the Surrey, at least, understands me—heappreciates the immensity of my genius. Iwillaccept his offer, and show the world—great Shakspere’s rival in myself.”

Having thus spoken, the immortal dramatist wiped his hands on the tail of his dressing-gown, and performed apas seul“as the act directs,” after which he dressed himself, and emerged into the open air.

The sun was shining brilliantly, and Phoebus remarked, with evident pleasure, that his brother had bestowed considerable pains in adorning his person. His boots shone with unparalleled splendour, and his waistcoat—

[We omit the remainder of the inventory of the great poet’s wardrobe, and proceed at once to the ceremony of the Inauguration at the Surrey Theatre.]

Never on any former occasion had public curiosity over the water been so strongly excited. Long before the doors of the theatre were opened, several passengers in the street were observed to pause before the building, and regard it with looks of profound awe. At half-past six, two young sweeps and a sand-boy were seen waiting anxiously at the gallery entrance, determined to secure front seats at any personal sacrifice. At seven precisely the doors were opened, and a tremendous rush of four persons was made to the pit; the boxes had been previously occupied by the “Dramatic Council” and the “Syncretic Society.” The silence which pervaded the house, until the musicians began to tune their violins in the orchestra, was thrilling; and during the performance of the overture, expectation stood on tip-toe, awaiting the great event of the night.

At length the curtain slowly rose, and we discovered the author of “Martinuzzi” elevated on a pedestal formed of the cask used by the celebrated German tub-runner (a delicate compliment, by the way, to the genius of the poet). On this appropriate foundation stood the great man, with his august head enveloped in a capacious bread-bag. At a given signal, a vast quantity of crackers were let off, the envious bag was withdrawn, and the illustrious dramatist was revealed to the enraptured spectators, in the statuesque resemblance of his elder, but not more celebrated brother, WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. At this moment the plaudits were vigorously enthusiastic. Thrice did the flattered statue bow its head, and once it laid its hand upon its grateful bosom, in acknowledgment of the honour that was paid it. As soon as the applause had partially subsided, the manager, in the character ofMidas, surrounded by the nine Muses, advanced to the foot of the pedestal, and, to use the language of the reporters of public dinners, “in a neat and appropriate speech,” deposed a laurel crown upon the brows of Shakspere’s effigy. Thereupon loud cheers rent the air, and the statue, deeply affected, extended its right hand gracefully towards the audience. In a moment the thunders of applause sank into hushed and listening awe, while the author of the “magnificent poem” addressed the house as follows:—

“My friends,—You at length behold me in the position to which my immense talents have raised me, in despite of ‘those laws which press so fatally on dramatic genius,’ and blight the budding hopes of aspiring authors.”

This commencement softened the hearts of his auditors, who clapped their handkerchiefs to their noses.

“The world,” continued the statue, “may regard me with envy; but I despise the world, particularly the critics who have dared to laugh at me. (Groans.) The object of my ambition is attained—I am now the equal and representative of Shakspere—detraction cannot wither the laurels that shadow my brows—Finis coronat opus!—I have done. To-morrow I retire into private life; but though fortune has made me great, she has not made me proud, and I shall be always happy to shake hands with a friend when I meet him.”

At the conclusion of this pathetic address, loud cheers, mingled with tears and sighs, arose from the audience, one-half of whom sunk into the arms of the other half, and were borne out of the house in a fainting state; and thus terminated this imposing ceremony, which will be long remembered with delight by every lover of

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