Two men appear angry with each other -- and there are cards strewn about.CARD CASE.
CARD CASE.
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(By the Observer’s Own Correspondent.)
Knowing the anxiety that will be felt on this subject, though we doubt if the future King can be calleda subjectat all, we have collected the following exclusive particulars:—
His Royal Highness will for the present go by the title of “Poppet,” affectionately conferred upon him by Mrs. Lilly at the moment of his birth. Poppet is a title of very great antiquity, and has from time immemorial been used as a mark of endearment towards a newly-born child in all genteel families. Lovey-Dovey has been spoken of; but it is not likely that His Royal Highness will assume the style and dignity of Lovey-Dovey for a considerable period.
Considerable mistakes have been fallen into by some of our contemporaries on this important subject. What may be the present wishes of His Royal Highness it is impossible for any one to ascertain, for he is able to articulate nothing on this point with his little pipe; but the piper, we know, must be eventually paid. He becomes immediately entitled to all the loose halfpence in his mother’s reticule, and sixpence a-week will be at once payable out of his father’s estates at Saxe Gotha. The whole of the revenues attached to the Duchy of Cornwall are also his by the mere fact of his birth: but there is a difficulty as to his giving a receipt for the money, if it should be paid to him. It is believed, that on the meeting of Parliament a Bill will pass for granting peg-top money to His Royal Highness, and a lollipop allowance will be among the earliest estimates.
The Prince of Wales is by birth at the head of all theInfantryin the kingdom, and is Colonel in his own right of a regiment of tin soldiers.
The Prince falls at once into all the long frocks that are required, and has an estate tail in six dozen napkins.
This important matter will be confined at present to teaching His Royal Highness how to take his pap without spilling it. A professor from the pap-al states will, it is expected, be entrusted with this branch of the royal economy.
Our contemporaries are wrong in stating that the individual to whom the post of wet-nurse has been assigned is nothing but a housemaid. We have full authority to state that she is no maid at all, but a respectable married woman.
His Royal Highness has not yet been created a Knight of the Garter, though Sir James Clark insisted on his being admitted to the Bath, against which ceremony the infant Prince entered a vociferous protest.
The whole of the above particulars may be relied on as having been furnished from the very highest authority.
SIR WILLOUGHBY COTTON, during his visit to the Mansion-House Feast, in a moment of forgetfulness after the song of “Hurrah for the Road,” being asked to take wine with the new Lord Mayor, declined the honour in the genuine long-stage phraseology, declaring he had already whacked his fare, and was quite
One man pushes another in a wheelbarrow.FULL INSIDE.
FULL INSIDE.
An Irishman willswear anything.—Mr. Grove.
A man who wears long hair iscapable of anything.—Sir Peter Laurie.
The documents lately shown at Buckingham Palace are spurious, and the real ones have been suppressed from party motives, which we shall not allude to. The following are genuine; they relate only to the Prince, the convalescence of Her Majesty being, we are glad to say, so rapid as to require no official notice.
Half-past Twelve.
The Prince has sneezed, and it is believed has smiled, though the nurses are unable to pronounce whether the expression of pleasure arose from satisfaction or cholic.
Quarter past One.
The Prince has passed a comfortable minute, and is much easier.
Two O’Clock.
The Prince is fast asleep, and is more quiet.
Half-past Two.
The Prince has been shown to Sir Robert Peel, and was very fretful.
Three O’Clock.
Sir Robert Peel has left the Palace, and the Prince is again perfectly composed.
Our own Sir Peter Laurie, upon witnessing the extraordinary performance of little Wieland inDie Hexen am Rhein, at the Adelphi Theatre, was so transported with his diabolic agility, that he determined upon endeavouring to arrive at the same perfection of pliability. As a guide for his undertaking, he instantly despatched old Hobler for a folio edition of
A devilish-looking chimera stands on its hands.IMPEY’S PRACTICE.
IMPEY’S PRACTICE.
The Marquis of Waterford, upon his recent visit to Devonshire, was much struck with the peculiar notice upon the County Stretchers. Being overtaken by some of their extra-bottled apple-juice, he tested the truth of the statement, and found them literally “licensed to carryone in cyder” (one insider).
SIR WYNDHAM ANSTRUTHER, whose “Young Rapid” connexion with theStageis pretty generally known, boasts that his stud was unrivalled for speed, as he managed with his four to “run through” his whole estates in six months, which he thinks a pretty decent proof that his might well be considered
A carriage marked 'Bath' crosses through a river since the bridge is broken.A FAST COACH.
A FAST COACH.
COMMISSIONER HARVEY and his old crony, Joe Hume, were talking lately of the wonders which the latter had seen in his travels—“You have been on Mont Blanc,” said Whittle. “Certainly,” replied the other. “And what did you see there?” “Why really,” said Joe, “it is always so wrapped up in a double-milled fog, that there is nothing to be seen from it.” “Nothing!” echoed he of the Blues; “I never knew till now why it was called MountBlank.” As this was the Commissioner’s first attempt at a witticism, we forgive him.
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(FROM OUR OWN ONE.)
A marriage is on thetapisbetween Mr. John Smith, the distinguished toll-collector at the Marsh Gate, and Miss Julia Belinda Snooks, the lovely and accomplished daughter of the gallant out-pensioner of Greenwich Hospital. Should the wedding take place, the bridegroom will be given away by Mr. Levy, the great toll-contractor; while the blushing bride will be attended to the altar by her mother-in-law, the well-known laundress of Tash-street. Thetrousseau, consisting of a selection from a bankrupt’s stock of damagedde laines, has been purchased at Lambeth House; and a parasol carefully chosen from a lot of 500, all at one-and-ninepence, will be presented by the happy bridegroom on the morning of the marriage. A cabman has already been spoken to, and a shilling fare has been sketched out for the eventful morning, which is so arranged as to terminate at the toll-house, from which Mr. Smith can only be absent for about an hour, during which time the toll will be taken by an amateur of celebrity.
Among the fashionables at the Bower Saloon, we observed Messrs. Jones and Brown, Mr. J. Jones, Mr. H. Jones, Mr. M. Brown, Mr. K. Brown, and several other distinguished leaders of thetonin Stangate.
There is no truth in the report that Tom Timkins intends resigning his seat at the apple-stall in the New Cut; and the rumours of a successor are therefore premature and indelicate.
The vacant crossing opposite the Victoria has not been offered to Bill Swivel, nor is it intended that any one shall be appointed to the post in the Circus.
Why is the making amem.of the number of a person’s residence like a general election?—Because it’s done to re-memberthe house.
Why is Count D’Orsay a capital piece of furniture for a kitchen?—Because he’s agood dresser.
Our contemporary, theTimes, for the last few days has been very justly deprecating the existing morbid sympathy for criminals. The moment that a man sins against the conventionalities of society he ought certainly to be excluded from all claims upon the sympathy of his fellows. It is very true that even the felon has kindred, parents, wife, children—for whom, and in whom, God has implanted an instinctive love. It is true that the criminal may have been led by the example of aristocratic sinners to disregard the injunctions of revealed religion against the adulterer, the gamester, and the drunkard; and having imitated the “pleasant follies” of the great without possessing the requisite means for such enjoyments, the man of pleasure has degenerated into the man of crime. It is true that the poor and ignorant may have claims upon the wealth and the intelligence of the rich and learned; but are we to pause to inquire whether want may have driven the destitute to theft, or the absence of early instruction have left the physical desires of the offender’s nature superior to its moral restrictions.—Certainly not, whilst we have a gallows. There is, however, one difficulty which seems to interfere with a liberal exercise of the rope and the beam. Where are we to find executioners? for if “whoso sheddeth man’s blood” be amenable to man, surely Jack Ketch is not to be exempted.
TheTimescondemns the late Lord Chamberlain for allowing the representation of “Jack Sheppard” and “Madame Laffarge” at the Adelphi; so do we. TheTimesintimates, that “the newspapers teem with details about everything which such criminals ‘as Dick Turpin and Jack Sheppard’ say or do; that complete biographies of them are presented to the public; that report after report expatiates upon every refinement and peculiarity in their wickedness,” for “the good purpose” of warning the embryo highwayman. We are something more thanduberousof this. We can see no difference between the exhibition of the stage and the gloating of the broadsheet; they are both “the agents by which the exploits of the gay highwayman are realised before his eyes, amid a brilliant and evidently sympathising” public. We deprecate both, as tending to excite the weak-minded to gratify “the ambition of this kind of notoriety;”—and yet we say, with theTimes, there should be “no sympathy for criminals.”
Sir Peter Laurie’s aversion to long locks is accounted for by his change of political opinions, he having some time sincecut the W(h)igs.
We are virtuously happy to announce that a meeting has been held at theHum-mums Hotel, Colonel Sibthorp in the chair, for the purpose of presenting to PUNCH some testimonial of public esteem for his exertions in the detection and exposure of fraudulent wits and would-be distinguished characters.
COLONEL SIBTHORP thanked the meeting for the honour they had conferred upon him in electing him their chairman upon this occasion. None knew better than himself the service that PUNCH had rendered to the public. But for that fun fed individual his (Col. Sibthorp’s) own brilliant effusions would have been left to have smouldered in his brain, or have hung like cobwebs about the House of Commons. (Hear, hear!) But PUNCH had stepped in to the rescue; he had not only preserved some of the brilliant things that he (Col. Sibthorp) had said, but had also reported many of the extremely original witticisms that he had intended to have uttered. (Hear!) There were many honourable gentlemen—(he begged pardon—gentlemen, he meant, without the honourable; but he had been so long a member of parliament that he had acquired a habit of calling men and things out of their proper names). Apologising for so lengthy a parenthesis, he would say that there were many gentlemen who were equally indebted (hear! from Sir Peter Laurie, Peter Borthwick, and Pre-Adam Roebuck) to this jocular benefactor. “It was PUNCH,” said the gallant gentleman, with much feeling, “who first convinced me that the popular opinion of my asinine capabilities was erroneous. It was PUNCH who discovered that there was as much in my head as on it(loud cheers, produced doubtlessly by the aptness of the simile, the gallant Colonel being perfectly bald). I should, therefore, be the most ungrateful of Members for Lincoln, did I not entreat of this meeting to mark their high sense of Mr. PUNCH’S exertions by a liberal subscription” (cheers).
SIR PETER LAURIE acknowledged himself equally in debt with their gallant Chairman to the object of the present meeting. He (Sir Peter) had tried all schemes to obtain popularity—he had made speeches without number or meaning—he had done double duty at the Mansion-house, and had made Mr. Hobler laugh more heartily than any Lord Mayor or Alderman since the days of Whittington (during whose mayoralty the venerable Chief Clerk first took office)—he (Sir P. Laurie) had, after much difficulty and four years’ practice, received the Queen on horseback (much cheering); but (continued cheering)—but it was left for PUNCH to achieve his immortality (immense cheering—several squares of glass in the conservatory opposite broken by the explosion). He (Sir P. Laurie) had done all in his power to deserve the notice of that illustrious wooden individual. He had endeavoured to be much more ass—(loud cheers)—iduous than ever. PUNCH had rewarded him; and he therefore felt it his bounden duty to reward PUNCH. (Hear! hear!)
MR. ROEBUCK fully concurred in the preceding eulogies. What had not PUNCH done for him? Had not PUNCH extinguished theTimesby the honest way in which he had advocated his (Roebuck’s) injured genealogy? Had PUNCH not proved that he (Mr. Roebuck) had a father, which the “mendacious journal” had asserted was impossible? Had not PUNCH traced the Roebuck family as far back as 1801?—that was something! But he (Mr. Roebuck) believed that he had been injured by an error of the press, and that PUNCH had written the numerals 1081. Be that as it might, he (Mr. Roebuck) was anxious to discharge the overwhelming debt of gratitude which he owed to MR. PUNCH, and intended to subscribe very largely (cheers).
MR. PETER BORTHWICK had been in former years a Shaksperian actor. He had for many seasons, at the “Royal Rugby Barn,” had the honour of bearing the principal banners in all the imposing processions, “got up at an immense expense” in that unique establishment. (Hear!) He was, therefore, better qualified than any gentleman present to form an opinion of the services which Punch had rendered to the British Drama (loud and continued cheers, during which Mr. Yates rushed on to the platform, and bowed several times to the assembled multitude). Therefore, as a devoted admirer of that art which he (Peter) trusted HE and Shakspere had adorned (cheers), he fondly hoped that the meeting would at once take tickets, when he announced that the performance was for the benefit of Mr. PUNCH.
LORD MORPETH next presented himself; but our reporter, having promised to take tea with his grandmother, left before the Noble Lord opened his mouth.
We hope next week to furnish the remainder of the speeches, and a very long list of subscriptions.
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We believe no longing was ever more firmly planted in the human heart, than that of discovering some short cut to the high road of mental acquirement. The toilsome learner’s “Progress” through the barren outset of the alphabet; the slough of despond of seven syllables, endangered as they both are by the frequent appearance of the compulsive birch of the Mr. Worldly-wisemen who teach the young idea how to shoot, must ever be looked upon as a probation, the power of avoiding which is “a consummation devoutly to be wished.” Imbued with this feeling, the more speculative of past ages have frequently attempted to arrive, by external means, at the immediate possession of results otherwise requiring a long course of intense study and anxious inquiry. From these defunct illuminati originated the suppositionary virtues of the magically-endowed divining wand. The simple bending of a forked hazel twig, being the received sign of the deep-buried well, suited admirably with their notions of immediate information, and precluded the unpleasant and toilsome necessity for delving on speculation for the discovery of their desired object. But, alas, divining rods, like dogs, have had their day. The want of faith in the operators, or the growth of a new and obstinate assortment of hazel twigs, threw discredit on the mummery and the mummers. Still the passion existed; and in no case was it more observable than in that of the celebrated witch-finder. An actual presence at the demoniacal rites of the broom-riding sisterhood would have been attended with much danger and considerable difficulty; indeed, it has been asserted that the visitors, like those at Almack’s, were expected to be balloted for, ticketed, and dressed in a manner suiting the occasion. Any infringement of these rules must have been at the proper peril of the contumacious infringer; and as it is more than probable some of the brooms carried double, there was a very decent chance of the intruder’s discovering himself across one of the heavy-tailed and strong-backed breed, taking a trip to some distant bourne, from whence that compulsory aerial traveller would doubtless never have returned. Still witches were evils; and proof of evil is what the law seeks to enable evil’s suppression. Now and again one of these short-cut gentry, by some railroad system of mental calculation, discovered certain external marks or moles that at a glance betrayed “the secret, dark, and midnight hags;” and the witch-finding process was instantaneously established. The outward and visible sign of their misdeeds authorised the further proceeding necessary for the clear proof of their delinquencies: thus the pinchings, beatings, starvings, trials, hangings, and burnings were made the goal of the shortest of all imaginable short cuts; and old women who had established pin manufactories in the stomachs of thousands, instead of receiving patents for their inventions, divided the honour of illuminating the land with the blazing tar-barrels provided for their peculiar use and benefit. Whether it was that aerial gambols on unsaddled and rough-backed broomsticks grew tiresome, or the small profit attending the vocation became smaller, or that all the elderly ladies with moles, and without anything else, were burnt up, we can’t pretend to say; but certain it is, the art of witchcraft fell into disrepute. Corking, minikin, and all description of pins, were obliged to be made in the regular way; and cows even departed this world without the honour of the human immolations formerly considered the necessary sacrifice for the loss of their inestimable lives. Since the abovetimes Animal Magnetism and Mesmerism have followed in the wake of what has been; and now, just as despair, already poised upon its outstretched sable wings, was hovering for a brief moment previous to making its final swoop upon the External Doctrine, Peter—our Peter—Peter Laurie—the great, the glorious, the aldermanic Laurie—makes despair, like the Indian Juggler who swallowed himself, become the victim of its own insatiate maw.
Our quill trembles as we proceed; it is unequal to the task. Oh, that we could write with the whole goose upon the wondrous merits of the wondrous Peter!
We are better. That bumper has restored our nerve.
Reader, fancy the gifted Peter seated in the dull dignity of civic magistracy: the court is thronged—a young delinquent blinks like an owl in sunshine ’neath the mighty flashing of his bench-lit eye. His crime, ay, what’s his crime? it can’t be much—so pale, so thin, so woe-begone! look, too, so tremulous of knee, and redolent of hair! what has he done?
Here Roe interprets—“Please your worship, this young man, or tailor, has been assaulting several females with a blue bag and a pair of breeches.”
Sir Peter.—“I don’t wonder at it; that man would do anything, I see it in his face, or rather in the back of his head, that’s where the expression lies—look at his hair!”
The whole court becomes a Cyclops—it has but one eye, and that is fixed upon the tailor’s locks.
“I say,” resumes our Peter, “a man with that head of hair would do anything—pray, sir, do you wish to be taken for a German sausage, or a German student?—they’re all the same, sir—speak at once.”
The faltering fraction denies the student, and repudiates the sausage.
Sir Peter, still looking at the hair, from which external sign he evidently derived all his information—“You were drunk, sir.”
“I was,” faltered the Samsonian schneider.
“I know it, sir—you are fined five shillings, sir—but if you choose to submit to the deprivation of that iniquitous hair, which has brought you here, and which, I repeat, will make you do anything, I will remit the fine.”
A sigh, fine-drawn as the accidental rent in an unfinished skirt, escaped the hirsute stitcher: a melancholy reflection upon the infinite deal of nothing in his various pockets, and the slow revolving of the Brixton wheel in stern perspective, wrung from the quodded wretch a slow assent: Sir Peter sent a City officer with his warrant to secure the nearest barber: a few sharp clickings of the envious shears—and all was over! Crime fell from the shoulders of the quondam culprit, and the tonsorial innocent stood forth confessed!
Sir Peter was entranced. That was his doing! He gazed with pride upon the new absolved from sin. He asked, “Are you not more comfortable?”
All vice had gone, save one—the young man answered “Yes,” andlied.
“Then, sir, go home.”
“The barber,” muttered “soft Roe” in as soft a voice.
“What of him?”
“Wants a shillin’.”
“There it is,” exclaimed the Augustine Peter, “there, from my own pocket, paid with pleasure to preserve that youth from the evil influence of too much hair—I’ll pay for all the City if they like—and banished suicide, and I’ll pretty soon see if I can’t settle all the City crops. Prisoner, you are discharged.”
The young man lost his hair, the Queen five shillings, and Sir Peter one; but then he gained his end,—and docking must henceforth be looked upon as the treadmill’s antidote, and young man’s fines’ best friend. We therefore say, should the iniquity of your long locks, gentle reader, take you to the station (for, remember, Sir Peter says,Long hair will do anything), if you can’t find bail, secure a barber, and command your liberation. We have been speculating of these externally-illustrated grades of crime; we think the following nearly correct:—
The long and lank indicates larceny (petty and otherwise).
The bushy and bountiful—burglary.
The full and flowing—felony.
The magnificent and mysterious—murder.
And, for aught we know, pigtails—polygamy.
For the future, a thinking man’s motto will be, not to mind “his own eye,” but everybody else’s hair.
P.S. We have just received the following horrifying communication which establishes Sir Peter’s opinion, “that a man with such hair would do anything,” but unfortunately disproves the remedy, as those atrocities have been committed when he was without.
Indignant at the loss of his head’s glory, the evil-minded tailor, immediately upon leaving the court, sent for counsel’s opinion as to whether he couldn’t proceed against Sir Peter, under the act for “cutting and maiming, with intent to do him some grievous bodily harm.” This, it appears he cannot do, inasmuch as these very learned gentlemen at the bar have decided, “the head” from which the hair was cut, and which, if any, is consequently the injured part, is not included in the meaning of the wordbodily, as &c. &c. Foiled in this attempt, the monster, for the brutal gratification of his burning revenge, hit upon a scheme the most diabolical that human hair could conceive. He actually applied to the Society for the Suppression ofCruelty to Animals; and they, upon inspecting a portion of the dissevered locks, immediately took up the case, and are about to indict Sir Peter, Roe, and the barber, under one of the clauses of that tremendous act. If they proceed for penalties in individual cases, they must be immense, as the killed and wounded are beyond calculation,—not to mention all that the process has left homeless, foodless, and destitute.
We beg to inform our readers that Mr. Tanner, of Temple-bar and Shire-lane, whose salon extends from the city of London to the liberties of Westminster, has this day been appointed Hair-cutter Extraordinary to Sir Peter Laurie.
KIRCHOFF, a Prussian chemist, is reported to have discovered a process by which milk may be preserved for an indefinite period. Fresh milk is evaporated by a very gentle heat till it is reduced to a dry powder, which is to be kept perfectly dry in a bottle. When required for use it need only be diluted with a sufficient quantity of water. Mr. James Jones, who keeps a red cow—over his door—claims the original idea of making milk from a white powder, which, he states, may be done without the tedious process of evaporation, by using an article entirely known to London milk-vendors—namelychalk.
At the close of the Civic Festival last week, Sir William Follett inquired of the Recorder if he had seen hisCastor. “No,” replied Law (holding up the Attorney-General’s fifty-seven penn’orth), “but here is your brother Pollock’s” (Pollux.)
“Well,” said Sir Peter Hobler the other morning, “I should think you will be denied theentréeto the Palace after your decision of Saturday.” “Why so?” inquired the knight of leather. “For fear you should cut off the heir to the Throne!” screamed Hobler, and vanished.
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Three men stand facing away from each other form a letter W with their overcoats.
Whilst Mr. Muff follows the beadle from the funking-room to the Council Chamber, he scarcely knows whether he is walking upon his head or his heels; if anything, he believes that he is adopting the former mode of locomotion; nor does he recover a sense of his true position until he finds himself seated at one end of a square table, the other three sides whereof are occupied by the same number of gentlemen of grave and austere bearing, with all the candles in the room apparently endeavouring to imitate that species of eccentric dance which he has only seen the gas-lamps attempt occasionally as he has returned home from his harmonic society. The table before him is invitingly spread with pharmacopoeias, books of prescriptions, trays of drugs, and half-dead plants; and upon these subjects, for an hour and a half, he is compelled to answer questions.
We will not follow his examination: nobody was ever able to see the least joke in it; and therefore it is unfitted for our columns. We can but state that after having been puzzled, bullied, “caught,” quibbled with, and abused, for the above space of time, his good genius prevails, and he is told he may retire. Oh! the pleasure with which he re-enters the funking-room—that nice, long, pleasant room, with its cheerful fireplace and good substantial book-cases, and valuable books, and excellent old-fashioned furniture; and the capital tea which the worshipful company allows him—never was meal so exquisitely relished. He has passed the Hall! won’t he have a flare-up to-night!—that’s all.
As soon as all the candidates have passed, their certificates are given them, upon payment of various sovereigns, and they are let out. The first great rush takes place to the “retail establishment” over the way, where all their friends are assembled—Messrs. Jones, Rapp, Manhug, &c. A pot of “Hospital Medoc” is consumed by each of the thirsty candidates, and off they go, jumping Jim Crow down Union-street, and swaggering along the pavement six abreast, as they sing several extempore variations of their own upon a glee which details divers peculiarities in the economy of certain small pigs, pleasantly enlivened by grunts and whistles, and the occasional asseveration of the singers that their paternal parent was a man of less than ordinary stature. This insensibly changes into “Willy brewed a Peck of Malt,” and finally settles down into “Nix my Dolly,” appropriately danced and chorussed, until a policeman, who has no music in his soul, stops their harmony, but threatens to take them into charge if they do not bring their promenade concert to a close.
Arrived at their lodgings, the party throw off all restraint. The table is soon covered with beer, spirits, screws, hot water, and pipes; and the company take off their coats, unbutton their stocks, and proceed to conviviality. Mr. Muff, who is in the chair, sings the first song, which informs his friends that the glasses sparkle on the board and the wine is ruby bright, in allusion to the pewter-pots and half-and half. Having finished, Mr. Muff calls upon Mr. Jones, who sings a ballad, not altogether perhaps of the same class you would hear at an evening party in Belgrave-square, but still of infinite humour, which is applauded upon the table to a degree that flirps all the beer out of the pots, with which Mr. Rapp draws portraits and humorous conceits upon the table with his finger. Mr. Manhug is then called upon, and sings
Oh; A was an Artery, fill’d with injection;And B was a Brick, never caught at dissection.C were some Chemicals—lithium and borax;And D was a Diaphragm, flooring the thorax.Chorus (taken in short-hand with minute accuracy).Fol de rol lol,Tol de rol lay,Fol de rol, tol de rol, tol de rol, lay.E was an Embryo in a glass case;And F a Foramen, that pierced the skull’s base.G was a Grinder, who sharpen’d the fools;And H means the Half-and-half drunk at the schools.Fol de rol lol, &c.I was some Iodine, made of sea-weed;J was a Jolly Cock, not used to read.K was some Kreosote, much over-rated;And L were the Lies which about it were stated.Fol de rol lol, &c.M was a muscle—cold, flabby, and red;And N was a Nerve, like a bit of white thread.O was some Opium, a fool chose to take;And P were the Pins used to keep him awake.Fol de rol lol, &c.Q were the Quacks, who cure stammer and squint,R was a Raw from a burn, wrapp’d in lint.S was a Scalpel, to eat bread and cheese;And T was a Tourniquet, vessels to squeeze.Fol de rol lol, &c.U was the Unciform bone of the wrist.V was the Vein which a blunt lancet miss’d.W was Wax, from a syringe that flow’d.X, the Xaminers, who may be blow’d!Fol de rol lol, &c.Y stands for You all, with best wishes sincere;And Z for the Zanies who never touch beer.So we’ve got to the end, not forgetting a letter;And those who don’t like it may grind up a better.Fol de rol lol, &c.
Oh; A was an Artery, fill’d with injection;And B was a Brick, never caught at dissection.C were some Chemicals—lithium and borax;And D was a Diaphragm, flooring the thorax.
Oh; A was an Artery, fill’d with injection;
And B was a Brick, never caught at dissection.
C were some Chemicals—lithium and borax;
And D was a Diaphragm, flooring the thorax.
Chorus (taken in short-hand with minute accuracy).Fol de rol lol,Tol de rol lay,Fol de rol, tol de rol, tol de rol, lay.
Chorus (taken in short-hand with minute accuracy).
Fol de rol lol,
Tol de rol lay,
Fol de rol, tol de rol, tol de rol, lay.
E was an Embryo in a glass case;And F a Foramen, that pierced the skull’s base.G was a Grinder, who sharpen’d the fools;And H means the Half-and-half drunk at the schools.Fol de rol lol, &c.
E was an Embryo in a glass case;
And F a Foramen, that pierced the skull’s base.
G was a Grinder, who sharpen’d the fools;
And H means the Half-and-half drunk at the schools.
Fol de rol lol, &c.
I was some Iodine, made of sea-weed;J was a Jolly Cock, not used to read.K was some Kreosote, much over-rated;And L were the Lies which about it were stated.Fol de rol lol, &c.
I was some Iodine, made of sea-weed;
J was a Jolly Cock, not used to read.
K was some Kreosote, much over-rated;
And L were the Lies which about it were stated.
Fol de rol lol, &c.
M was a muscle—cold, flabby, and red;And N was a Nerve, like a bit of white thread.O was some Opium, a fool chose to take;And P were the Pins used to keep him awake.Fol de rol lol, &c.
M was a muscle—cold, flabby, and red;
And N was a Nerve, like a bit of white thread.
O was some Opium, a fool chose to take;
And P were the Pins used to keep him awake.
Fol de rol lol, &c.
Q were the Quacks, who cure stammer and squint,R was a Raw from a burn, wrapp’d in lint.S was a Scalpel, to eat bread and cheese;And T was a Tourniquet, vessels to squeeze.Fol de rol lol, &c.
Q were the Quacks, who cure stammer and squint,
R was a Raw from a burn, wrapp’d in lint.
S was a Scalpel, to eat bread and cheese;
And T was a Tourniquet, vessels to squeeze.
Fol de rol lol, &c.
U was the Unciform bone of the wrist.V was the Vein which a blunt lancet miss’d.W was Wax, from a syringe that flow’d.X, the Xaminers, who may be blow’d!Fol de rol lol, &c.
U was the Unciform bone of the wrist.
V was the Vein which a blunt lancet miss’d.
W was Wax, from a syringe that flow’d.
X, the Xaminers, who may be blow’d!
Fol de rol lol, &c.
Y stands for You all, with best wishes sincere;And Z for the Zanies who never touch beer.So we’ve got to the end, not forgetting a letter;And those who don’t like it may grind up a better.Fol de rol lol, &c.
Y stands for You all, with best wishes sincere;
And Z for the Zanies who never touch beer.
So we’ve got to the end, not forgetting a letter;
And those who don’t like it may grind up a better.
Fol de rol lol, &c.
This song is vociferously cheered, except by Mr. Rapp, who during its execution has been engaged in making an elaborate piece of basket-work out of wooden pipe-lights, which having arranged to his satisfaction, he sends scudding at the chairman’s head. The harmony proceeds, and with it the desire to assist in it, until they all sing different airs at once; and the lodger above, who has vainly endeavoured to get to sleep for the last three hours, gives up the attempt as hopeless, when he hears Mr. Manhug called upon for the sixth time to do the cat and dog, saw the bit of wood, imitate Macready, sing his own version of “Lur-li-e-ty,” and accompany it with his elbows on the table.
The first symptom of approaching cerebral excitement from the action of liquid stimulants is perceived in Mr. Muff himself, who tries to cut some cold meat with the snuffers. Mr. Simpson also, a new man, who is looking very pale, rather overcome with the effects of his elementary screw in a first essay to perpetrate a pipe, petitions for the window to be let down, that the smoke, which you might divide with a knife, may escape more readily. This proposition is unanimously negatived, until Mr. Jones, who is tilting his chair back, produces the desired effect by overbalancing himself in the middle of a comic medley, and causing a compound, comminuted, and irreducible fracture of three panes of glass by tumbling through them. Hereat, the harmony experiencing a temporary check, and all the half-and half having disappeared, Mr. Muff finds there is no great probability of getting any more, as the servant who attends upon the seven different lodgers has long since retired to rest in the turn-down bedstead of the back kitchen. An adjournment is therefore determined upon; and, collecting their hats and coats as they best may, the whole party tumble out into the streets at two o’clock in the morning.
“Whiz-z-z-z-z-t!” shouts Mr. Manhug, as they emerge into the cool air, in accents which only Wieland could excel; “there goes a cat!” Upon the information a volley of hats follow the scared animal, none of which go within ten yards of it, except Mr. Rapp’s, who, taking a bold aim, flings his own gossamer down the area, over the railings, as the cat jumps between them on to the water-butt, which is always her first leap in a hurried retreat. Whereupon Mr. Rapp goes and rings the house-bell, that the domestics may return his property; but not receiving an answer, and being assured of the absence of a policeman, he pulls the handle out as far as it will come, breaks it off, and puts it in his pocket. After this they run about the streets, indulging in the usual buoyant recreations that innocent and happy minds so situated delight to follow, and are eventually separated by their flight from the police, from the safe plan they have adopted of all running different ways when pursued, to bother the crushers. What this leads to we shall probably hear next week, when they are once moreréunisin the dissecting-room to recount their adventures.
It is said that the Duke of Wellington declined the invitation to the Lord Mayor’s civic dinner in the following laconic speech:—“Pray remember the 9th November, 1830.”—“Ah!” said Sir Peter Laurie, on hearing the Duke’s reply, “I remember it. They said that the people intended on that day to set fire to Guildhall, and meant to roast the Mayor and Board of Aldermen.”—“On the old system, I suppose, of every man cooking his own goose,” observed Hobler drily.
[pg 230]
A man lies back and sees smokers in his puffs of smoke.
I cannot recollect the precise day, but it was some time in the month of November 1839, that I took one of my usual rambles without design or destination. I detest a premeditated route—I always grow tired at the first mile; but with a free course, either in town or country, I can saunter about for hours, and feel no other fatigue but what a tumbler of toddy and a pipe can remove. It was this disposition that made me acquainted with the fraternity of the “Puffs.” I would premise, gentle reader, that as in my peregrinations I turn down any green lane or dark alley that may excite my admiration or my curiosity—hurry through glittering saloons or crowded streets—pause at the cottage door or shop window, as it best suits my humour, so, in my intercourse with you, I shall digress, speculate, compress, and dilate, as my fancy or my convenience wills it. This is a blunt acknowledgment of my intentions; but as travellers are never sociable till they have cast aside the formalities of compliment, I wished to start with you at the first stage as an old acquaintance. The course is not usual, and, therefore, I adopt it; and it was by thus stepping out of a common street into a common hostel that I became possessed of thematérielof those papers, which I trust will hereafter tend to cheat many into a momentary forgetfulness of some care. I have no other ambition; there are philosophers enough to mystify or enlighten the world without my “nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips” being thrust into the cauldron, whose
—“Charms of powerful trouble,Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble.”
—“Charms of powerful trouble,Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble.”
—“Charms of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble.”
I had buttoned myself snugly in my Petersham (may the tailor who inventedthatgarment “sleep well” whenever he “wears the churchyard livery, grass-green turned up with brown!”) The snow—the beautiful snow—fell pure and noiselessly on the dirty pavement. Ragged, blue-faced urchins were scrambling the pearly particles together, and, with all the joyous recklessness of healthier childhood, carrying on a war less fatal but more glorious than many that have made countless widows and orphans, and,perhaps, onehero. Little round doll-like things, in lace and ribbons, were thumping second-door windows with their tiny hands, and crowing with ecstasy at the sight of the flaky shower. “Baked-tater” cans and “roasted-apple” saucepan lids were sputtering and frizzing in impotent rage as they waged puny war with the congealed element. Hackney charioteers sat on their boxes warped and whitened; whilst those strange amalgams of past andnever-to-comefashions—the clerks of London—hurried about with the horrid consciousness of exposing their costliest garments to the “pelting of the pitiless storm.” Evening stole on. A London twilight has nothing of the pale grey comfort that is diffused by that gradual change from day to night which I have experienced when seated by the hearth or the open window of a rural home. There it seems like the very happiness of nature—a pause between the burning passions of meridian day and the dark, sorrowing loneliness of night; but in London on it comes, or rather down it comes, like the mystic medium in a pantomime—it is a thing that you will not gaze on for long; and you rush instinctively from daylight to candle-light. I stopped in front of an old-fashioned public-house, and soon (being a connoisseur in these matters) satisfied myself that if comfort were the desideratum, “The heart that was humble might hope for it here.” I shook the snow from my “Petersham,” and seeing the word “parlour” painted in white letters on a black door, bent my steps towards it. I was on the point of opening the door, when a slim young man, with a remarkable small quantity of hair, stopped my onward coarse by gurgling rather than ejaculating—for the sentence seemed a continuous word—
“Can’t-go-in-there-Sir.”
“Why not?” said I.”
“Puffs-Sir.”
“Puffs!”
“Yes-Sir,—Tues’y night—Puffs-meets-on-Tues’y,” and then addressing a young girl in the bar, delivered an order for “One-rum-one-bran’y-one gin-no-whisky-all-’ot,” which I afterwards found to signify one glass of each of the liqueurs.
I was about to remonstrate against the exclusiveness of the “Puffs,” when recollecting the proverbial obduracy of waiters, I contented myself with buttoning my coat. My annoyance was not diminished by hearing the hearty burst of merriment called forth by some jocular member of thisterra incognita, but rendered still more distressing by the appearance of the landlord, who emerged from the room, his eyes streaming with those tears that nature sheds over an expiring laugh.
“You have a merry partyconcealedthere, Master Host,” said I.
“Ye-ye-s-Sir, very,” replied he, and tittered again, as though he were galvanizing his defunct merriment.
“Quite exclusive?”
“Quite, Sir, un-unless you are introduced—Oh dear!” and having mixed a small tumbler of toddy, he disappeared into that inner region of smoke from which I was separated by the black door endorsed “Parlour.”
I had determined to seek elsewhere for a more social party, when the thumping of tables and gingle of glasses induced me to abide the issue. After a momentary pause, a firm and not unmusical voice was heard, pealing forth the words of a song which I had written when a boy, and had procured insertion for in a country newspaper. At the conclusion the thumping was repeated, and the waiter having given another of hisstenographicalorders, I could not resist desiring him to inform the vocal gentleman that I craved a few words with him.
“Yes-Sir—don’t-think-’ll come—’cos he-’s-in-a-corner.”
“Perhaps you will try the experiment,” said I.
“Certainly-Sir-two-gins-please-ma’am.” And having been supplied with the required beverage, he also made hisexit in fumo.
In a few minutes a man of about fifty made his appearance; his face indicated the absence of vulgarity, though a few purply tints delicately hinted that he had assisted at many an orgie of the rosy offspring of Jupiter and Semele. His dark vestments and white cravat induced me to set him down as a “professional gentleman”—nor was I far wrong in my conjecture. As I shall have, I trust, frequent occasion to speak of him, I will for the sake of convenience, designate him Mr. Bonus.
I briefly stated my reason for disturbing him—that as he had honoured my muse by forming so intimate an acquaintance with her, I was anxious to trespass on his politeness to introduce me into that room which had now become a sort of “Blue-beard blue-chamber” to my thirsty curiosity. Having handed him my card, he readily complied, and in another minute I was an inhabitant of an elysium of sociality and tobacco-smoke.
“Faugh!” cries Aunt Charlotte Amelia, whilst pretty little Cousin Emmeline turns up her round hazel eyes and ejaculates, “Tobacco-smoke! horrid!”
Ladies! you treat with scorn that which God hath given as a blessing! It has never been your lot to thread the streets of mighty London, when the first springs of her untiring commerce are set in motion. Long, dear aunt, before thy venerable nose peeps from beneath the quilted coverlid[pg 231]to scent an atmosphere made odorous by cosmetics—long, dear Emmeline, ere those bright orbs that one day will fire the hearts of thousands are unclosed, the artizan has blessed his sleeping children, and closed the door upon his household gods. The murky fog, the drizzling shower, welcome him back to toil. Labour runs before him, and with ready hand unlocks the doors of dreary cellars or towering and chilly edifices; mind hath not yet promulgated or received the noble doctrine that toil is dignity; and you, yes, even you, dear, gentle hearts! would feel the artizan a slave, if some clever limner showed you the toiling wretch sooted or japanned. Would you then rob him of one means of happiness? No—not even of his pipe! Ladies, you tread on carpets or on marble floors—I will tell you where my foot has been. I have walked where the air was circumscribed—where man was manacled by space, for no other crimes but those of poverty and misfortune. I’ve seen the broken merchant seated round a hearth that had not one endearment—they looked about for faces that were wont to smile upon them, and they saw but mirrors of their own sad lineaments—some laughed in mockery of their sorrows, as though they thought that mirth would come for asking; others, grown brutal by being caged, made up in noise what they lacked in peace. How comfortless they seemed! The only solace that the eye could trace was the odious herb, tobacco!
I have climbed the dark and narrow stairway that led to a modern Helicon; there I have seen the gentle creature that loved nature for her beauty—beauty that was to him apparent, although he sat hemmed in by bare and tattered walls; yet there he had seen bright fountains sparkle and the earth robe herself with life, and where the cunning spider spread her filmy toils above his head, he has seen a world of light, a galaxy of wonders. The din of wheels and the harsh discordant cries of busy life have died within his ear, and the tiny voices of choral birds have hymned him into peace; or the lettered eloquence of dread sages has become sound again, and he has communed in the grove and temple, as they of older time did in the eternal cities, with those whose names are immortal—and there I have seen the humble pipe! the sole evidence of luxury or enjoyment; when his daily task was suspended, it can never end, for he must weave and weave the fibres of his brain into the clue that leads him to the means of sustaining life.
I have wandered through lanes and fields when the autumn was on and the world golden, and my journey has ended at a yeoman’s door. My welcome has been a hand-grasp, that needed bones and muscles to bear it unflinchingly—my fare the homeliest, but the sweetest; and when the meal was ended, how has the night wore on and then away over a cup of brown October—the last autumn’s legacy—and, forgive me, Emmeline, a pipe of tobacco! Glorious herb! that hath oft-times stayed the progress of sorrow and contagion; a king once consigned thee to the devil, but many a humble, honest heart hath hailed thee as a blessing from the Creator.
I was introduced by my new acquaintance without much ceremony, and was pleased to see that little was expected. “We meet here thrice a week,” said Bonus, “just to wile away an hour or two after the worry and fatigue of business. Most of us have been acquainted with each other since boyhood—and we have some curious characters amongst us; and should you wish to enrol your name, you have only to prove your qualification for this (holding up his pipe), and we shall be happy to recognise you as a ‘Puff.’”
SIR PETER LAURIE having observed a notice in one of the journals that the superior planets, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, are now to be seen every evening in the west, despatched a messenger to them with an invitation to the late Polish Ball, sagely remarking that “three such stars must prove an attraction.” Upon Sir Peter mentioning the circumstance to Hobler, the latter cunningly advised Alderman Figaro (in order to prevent accidents) to solicit them to come by water, and accordingly Sir Peter’s carriage was in waiting for the fiery stranger at the