Two cats fight.COMING TO THE SCRATCH.”
COMING TO THE SCRATCH.”
We have received the following choice bit of poetic pathology from our old friend and jolly dog Toby, who, it seems, has taken to medicine. The dog, however, always had a great propensity tobark, owing doubtlessly to the strongtinctureofcaninethere was in his constitution:—
MY DEAR PUNCH,
Nothing convinces me more of my treacherous memory than my not recollecting you at the memorable “New-boot Supper;” for I certainly must have been as long in that society as yourself. Be that as it may, you have induced me to scrape together a few reminiscences in an imperfect way, leaving to you, from your better recollection, to correct and flavour the specimen to the palate of your readers, who have, most deservedly, every reliance upon your good taste and moral tendency. I have in vain tried to meet with the music of “the good old days of Adam and Eve,” consequently have lost the enjoyment of the chorus—“Sing hey, sing ho!” It would be too much to ask you to sing it, but perhaps you may too-te-too it in your next. May your good intentions to the would-be Æsculapius be attended with success.—I remain, dear Punch, your old friend,
TOBY.
Abdomen swell’d, which fluctuates when struck upon the side, sirs;Face pale and puff’d, and worse than that, with thirst and cough beside, sirs;Skin dry, and breathing difficult, and pains in epigastrium,And watchfulness or partial sleep, with dreams would strike the bravest dumb.To cure—restore the balance of exhalants and absorbents,With squill, blue-pill, and other means to soothe the patient’s torments.GRINDER.Sure this is not your climax, sir, to save from Davy’s locker!STUDENT.Way, no,—I’d then with caution tap—when first I’d tied the knocker.Sing hey! sing ho! if you cannot find a new plan,In Puseyistic days like these, you’d better try a New-man.
Abdomen swell’d, which fluctuates when struck upon the side, sirs;Face pale and puff’d, and worse than that, with thirst and cough beside, sirs;Skin dry, and breathing difficult, and pains in epigastrium,And watchfulness or partial sleep, with dreams would strike the bravest dumb.To cure—restore the balance of exhalants and absorbents,With squill, blue-pill, and other means to soothe the patient’s torments.
Abdomen swell’d, which fluctuates when struck upon the side, sirs;
Face pale and puff’d, and worse than that, with thirst and cough beside, sirs;
Skin dry, and breathing difficult, and pains in epigastrium,
And watchfulness or partial sleep, with dreams would strike the bravest dumb.
To cure—restore the balance of exhalants and absorbents,
With squill, blue-pill, and other means to soothe the patient’s torments.
Sure this is not your climax, sir, to save from Davy’s locker!
Sure this is not your climax, sir, to save from Davy’s locker!
Way, no,—I’d then with caution tap—when first I’d tied the knocker.Sing hey! sing ho! if you cannot find a new plan,In Puseyistic days like these, you’d better try a New-man.
Way, no,—I’d then with caution tap—when first I’d tied the knocker.
Sing hey! sing ho! if you cannot find a new plan,
In Puseyistic days like these, you’d better try a New-man.
The swelling here is different—sonorous, tense, elastic;On it you might a tattoo beat, with fingers or with a stick.There’s costiveness and atrophy, with features Hippocratic;When these appear, there’s much to fear, all safety is erratic.Although a cordial laxative, mix’d up with some carminative,Might be prescribed, with morphia, or hops, to keep the man alive;Take care his diet’s nutritive, avoiding food that’s flatulent,And each week let him have a dose of Punch from Mr. Bryant sent.Sing hey! sing ho! &c.
The swelling here is different—sonorous, tense, elastic;On it you might a tattoo beat, with fingers or with a stick.There’s costiveness and atrophy, with features Hippocratic;When these appear, there’s much to fear, all safety is erratic.Although a cordial laxative, mix’d up with some carminative,Might be prescribed, with morphia, or hops, to keep the man alive;Take care his diet’s nutritive, avoiding food that’s flatulent,And each week let him have a dose of Punch from Mr. Bryant sent.Sing hey! sing ho! &c.
The swelling here is different—sonorous, tense, elastic;
On it you might a tattoo beat, with fingers or with a stick.
There’s costiveness and atrophy, with features Hippocratic;
When these appear, there’s much to fear, all safety is erratic.
Although a cordial laxative, mix’d up with some carminative,
Might be prescribed, with morphia, or hops, to keep the man alive;
Take care his diet’s nutritive, avoiding food that’s flatulent,
And each week let him have a dose of Punch from Mr. Bryant sent.
Sing hey! sing ho! &c.
It appears that no less thanone hundred and sixty-fourAttorneys have given notice of their intention to practise in the Court of Queen’s Bench; andelevenof the fraternity have applied to be re-admitted Attorneys of the Court. We had no idea that such an alarming extension was about taking place in
Three men force another to turn out his pockets.THE RIFLE CORPS.
THE RIFLE CORPS.
A poor man went to hang himself,But treasure chanced to find;He pocketed the miser’s pelfAnd left the rope behind.His money gone, the miser hungHimself in sheer despair:Thus each the other’s wants supplied,And that was surely fair.
A poor man went to hang himself,But treasure chanced to find;He pocketed the miser’s pelfAnd left the rope behind.
A poor man went to hang himself,
But treasure chanced to find;
He pocketed the miser’s pelf
And left the rope behind.
His money gone, the miser hungHimself in sheer despair:Thus each the other’s wants supplied,And that was surely fair.
His money gone, the miser hung
Himself in sheer despair:
Thus each the other’s wants supplied,
And that was surely fair.
We understand that Mr. Webster has solicited Sir Peter Laurie to make an early début at the Haymarket Theatre in theHeir(hair)at Law.
Madame Vestris has also endeavoured to prevail upon the civic mercy. Andrew to appear in the afterpiece of theRape of the Lock.
[pg 219]
A letter C with flowers trailing from it and an heron in its bowl.
Conducive as Uncle Peter’s suggestion might have been to the restoration of peace in the family of our hero, it was decided to be impracticable by several medical gentlemen, who were consulted upon the matter. After sundry scenes of maternal and grandmaternal distress, Agamemnon succeeded in obtaining the victory, and the heir was vaccinated accordingly with the most favourable result. The pustule rose, budded, blossomed, and disappeared, exactly as it ought to have done, and a few days saw the health of the infant Applebite insured in the office of Dr. Jenner.
Scarcely had the anxious parents been relieved by this auspicious termination, when that painful disorder which renders pork unwholesome and children fractious, made its appearance. Had we the plague-pen of the romancist of Rookwood, we would revel in the detail of this domesticated pestilence—we would picture the little sufferer in the hour of its agony—and be as minute as Mr. Hume in our calculations of its feverish pulsations; but our quill was moulted by the dove, not plucked from the wing of the carrion raven.
And now, gentle reader, we come to a point of this history which we are assured has been anxiously looked forward to by you—a point at which the reader, already breathless with expectation, has fondly anticipated being suffocated with excitement. We may, without vanity, lay claim to originality, for we have introduced a new hero into the world of fiction—a baby three months old—we have traced his happy parents from the ball-room to St. George’s church; from St. George’s church to the ball-room; thence to the doctor’s; and from thence to
Reproach us not, mamas?—Discard us not, ye blushing divinities who have, with your sex’s softness, dandled the heir of Applebite in your imaginations!—Wait!—Wait till we have explained! We have a motive; but as we are novices in this style of literature, we will avail ourselves, at our leave-taking, of the valedictory address of one who is more “up to the swindle.”
To the Readers of the Heir of Applebite.
DEAR FRIENDS,—Having finished the infanto-biography upon which we have been engaged, it is our design to cut off our heir, and bring our tale to a close. You may want to know why—or if you don’t, we will tell you.
We should not regard the anxiety, the close confinement, or the constant attention inseparable from a nursery, did we feel that the result was agreeable to you. But we have not done so. We have been strongly tempted to think, that after waiting from week to week, you have never arrived at anything interesting. We could not bear this jerking of our conscience, which was no sooner ended than begun again.
Most “passages in a tale ofany lengthdepend materially for the interest on the intimate relation they bear to what has gone before, or what is to follow.” We sometimes found it difficult to accomplish this.
Considerations of immediate profit ought, in such cases, to be of secondary importance; but, for the reasons we have just mentioned, we have (after some pains to resist the temptation) determined to abandon thisschemeof publication.
Taking advantage of the respite which the close of this work will afford us, we have decided in January next to rent a second floor at Kentish Town.
The pleasure we anticipate from the realisation of a wish we have long entertained and long hoped to gratify, is subdued by the reflection that we shall find it somewhat difficult to emancipate our moveables from the thraldom of Mrs. Gibbons, our respected but over-particular landlady.
To console the numerous readers of PUNCH, we have it in command to announce, that on Saturday, Nov. 27th, the first chapter of a series under the title of the “Puff Papers,” appropriately illustrated, will be commenced, with a desire to supply the hiatus in periodical fiction, occasioned by the temporary seclusion of one of the most popular novelists of the day.
Dear friends, farewell! Should we again desire to resume the pen, we trust at your hands we shall not have to encounter a
A child tries to force his way through a fence.DISPUTED RETURN.
DISPUTED RETURN.
We are happy to find that Dr. Tully Cicero Burke Sheridan Grattan Charles Phillips Hobler Bedford has not been deterred by the late unsatisfactory termination to the “public meeting” called by him to address the Queen, from prosecuting his patriotic views for his own personal advantage. Dr. &c. Bedford has kindly furnished us with the report of a meeting called by himself, which consisted of himself, for the purpose of considering the propriety of petitioning the Throne to appoint himself to be medical-adviser-in-general to her Majesty, and vaccinator-in-particular to his little Highness the Prince of Wales.
At 10 o’clock precisely Dr. &c. Bedford entered the little back parlour of his surgery, and advancing to the looking-glass over the mantel-piece, made a polite bow to the reflection of himself. After a few complimentary gestures had passed between them, Dr &c. Bedford hemmed twice, and in a very elegant speech proposed that “Doctor &c. Bedfordshooldtake thecheer.”
Dr. &c. Bedford rose to second the proposition. Dr. &c. Bedford said, “Dr. &c. Bedford is a gentleman what I have had the honour of knowing on for many long ears. His medikel requirement are sich as ris a Narvey and a Nunter to the summut of the temples of Fame. His political requisitions are summarily extinguished. It is, therefore, with no common pride that I second this abomination.”
Dr. &c. Bedford then bowed to his reflection in the glass, and proceeded to take his seat in his easy chair, thumping the table with one hand, and placing the other gracefully upon his breast, as though in token of gratitude for the honour conferred upon him.
Order being restored, Dr. &c. Bedford rose and said,—
“I never kotched myself in sich a sitchuation in my life—I mean not that I hasn’t taken a cheer afore, perhaps carried one—but it never has been my proud extinction to preside over such a meeting—so numerous in its numbers and suspectable in its appearance. My friend, Dr. &c. Bedford, (Hear, hear! from. Dr. &c. Bedford,) his the hornament of natur in this 19th cemetary. His prodigious outlays”—
Voice without.—“Here they are, only a penny!”
Dr. &c. Bedford.—“Order, order! His—his—you know what I mean that shoold distinguish the fisishun and the orator. I may say the Solus of orators,—renders him the most fittest and the most properest person to take care of the Royal health, and the Royal Infant Babby of these regions,” (Hear, hear! from Dr. &c. Bedford.)
The Doctor then proceeded to embody the foregoing observations into a resolution, which was proposed by Dr. &c. Bedford, and seconded by Dr. &c. Bedford, who having held up both his hands, declared it to be carriednem. con.
Dr. &c. Bedford then proposed a vote of thanks to Dr, &c. Bedford for his conduct in the chair. The meeting then dispersed, after Dr. &c. Bedford had returned thanks, and bowed to his own reflection in the looking-glass.
[pg 220]
In the immediate vicinity of the pretty little town of Kells stands one of those peculiar high round towers, the origin of which has so long puzzled the brains of antiquaries. It is invariably pointed out to the curious, as a fit subject for their contemplation, and may, in fact, be looked upon as the great local lion of the place. It appears almost inaccessible. But there is a story extant, and told in very choice Irish, how two small dare-devil urchins did succeed in reaching its lofty summit; and this is the way the legend was done into English by one Barney Riley, the narrator, to whom I am indebted for its knowledge:—
“You see Masther Robert, sir,—though its murduring high, and almost entirely quite aqual in stapeness to the ould ancient Tower of Babel, yet, sir, there is them living now as have been at the top of that same; be the same token I knew both o’ the spalpeens myself. It’s grown up they are now; but whin they wint daws’-nesting to the top there, the little blackguards weren’t above knee-high, if so much.”
“But how did they arrive at the summit?”
“That’s the wonder of it! but sure nobody knows but themselves; but the scamps managed somehow or other to insart themselves in through one of them small loopholes—whin little Danny Carroll gave Tom Sheeney a leg up and a back, and Tom Sheeney hauled little Danny up after him by the scruff o’ the neck; and so they wint squeedging and scrummaging on till, by dad, they was up at the tip-top in something less than no time; and the trouble was all they had a chance o’ gettin for their pains; for, by the hokey, the daws’ nest they had been bruising their shins, breaking their necks, and tearing their frieze breeches to tatters to reach, was on the outside o’ the building, and about as hard to get at as truth, or marcy from a thafe of a tythe proctor.
“‘Hubbabboo,’ says little Danny; ‘we are on the wrong side now, as Pat Murphy’s carroty wig was whin it came through his hat; what will we do, at all, at all?’
“‘Divil a know I know. It would make a parson swear after takin’ tythe. Do you hear the vagabones? Oh, then musha, bad luck to your cawings; its impedence, and nothing but it, to be shouting out in defiance of us, you dirty bastes. Danny, lad, you’re but a little thrifle of a gossoon; couldn’t you squeedge yourself through one o’ them holes?’
“‘What will I stand—or, for the matter o’ that, as I’m by no manes particular,—sit upon, whin I git out—that is, if I can?’
“‘Look here, lad, hear a dacent word—it will be just the dandy thing for yes entirely; go to it with a will, and make yourself as small as a little cock elven, and thin we’ll have our revenge upon them aggravation thaves.’ How the puck he done it nobody knows; but by dad there was his little, ragged, red poll, followed by the whole of his small body, seen coming out o’ that trap-loop there, that doesn’t look much bigger than a button-hole—and thin sitting astride the ould bit of rotten timbers, and laffing like mad, was the tiny Masther Danny, robbing the nests, and shouting with joy as he pulled bird after bird from their nate little feather-beds. ‘This is elegant,’ says he; ‘here’s lashins of ’em.’
“‘How many have you,’ says Tom Sheeney.
“‘Seven big uns—full fledged, wid feathers as black as the priest’s breeches on a Good Friday’s fast.’
“‘Seven is it?’
“‘It is.’
“‘Well, then, hand them in.’
“‘By no manes.’
“‘Why not?’
“‘Seein they’re as well wid me as you.
“‘Give me my half then—that’s your’—
“‘Aisy wid you; who’s had the trouble and the chance of breaking his good-looking neck but me, Mr. Tim Sheeney.’
“‘Devil a care I care; I’ll have four, or I’ll know why.’
“‘That you’ll soon do: I won’t give ’em you.’
“‘Aint I holding the wood?’
“‘By coorse you are; but aint I sitting outside upon it, and by the same token unseating my best breeches.’
“‘I bid you take care; give me four.’
“‘Ha, ha! what a buck your granny was, Mistet Tim Sheeney; it’s three you’ll have, or none.’
“‘Then by the puck I’ll let you go.’
“‘I defy you to do it, you murdering robber.’
“‘Do you! by dad; once more, give me four.’
“‘To blazes wid you; three or none.’
“‘Then there you go!’
“And, worse luck, sure enough he did, and that at the devil’s own pace.
“At this moment I turned my eyes in horror to the Tower, and the height was awful.”
“Poor child,—of course he was killed upon the spot?”
“There’s the wonder; not a ha’porth o’ harm did the vagabone take at all at all. He held on by the birds’ legs like a little nagur; he was but a shimpeen of a chap, and what with the flapping of their wings and the soft place he fell upon, barring a little thrifle of stunning, and it may be a small matter of fright, he was as comfortable as any one could expect under the circumstances; but it would have done your heart good to see the little gossoon jump up, shake his feathers, and shout out at the top of his small voice, ‘Tim Sheeney, you thief, you’d better have taken the three,—for d—n the daw do you get now!’” And so ends the Legend of the Round Tower.
(From our own Correspondent.)
We are at length enabled to inform the Public that we have, at a vast expense, completed our arrangements for the transmission of the earliest news from Ireland. We have just received theOver-bog Mail, which contains facts of a most interesting nature. We hasten to lay our sagacious correspondent’s remarks before our readers:—
Bally-ha-ghadera, Tuesday Night.
PUNCH will appreciate my unwillingness to furnish him with intelligence which might in any way disturb the commercial relations between this and the sister island, more particularly at thepresent crisis, when the interests of that prosperous class, the London Baked Potatoe vendors, are so intimately connected, with the preservation of good feeling among the Tipperary growers. However, my duty to PUNCH and the public compel me to speak.—I do feel that we are on the eve of a great popular commotion. Every day’s occurrences strengthen my conviction. Bally-ha-ghadera was this morning at sunrise disturbed by noises of the most appalling kind, forming a wild chorus, in which screams and bellowings seemed to vie for supremacy; indeed words cannot adequately describe this terrific disturbance. As I expected, the depraved Whig Journalist, with characteristic mental tortuosity, has asserted that the sounds proceeded from a rookery in the adjoining wood, aided by the braying of the turf-man’s donkey. But an enlightened public will see through this paltry subterfuge. Rooks and donkeys! Pooh! There cannot be a doubt but that the noises were the preparatory war-whoops of this ferocious and sanguinary people. We believe the Whig editor to be the onlydonkeyin the case; that he may have been a ravin(g) at the time is also very probable.
No later than yesterday theCloonakilty Expresswas stopped by aband of young men, who savagely ill-treated our courier, a youth of tender age, having attempted to stone him to death. Our courier is ready to swear that at the time of the attack the young men were busily engaged counting avast store of ammunition, consisting ofround white clay ballsbaked to the hardness of bullets, andevidentlyintended forshooting with.
I have to call particular attention to the fact that a countryman was this day observed to buy a threepenny loaf, and on leaving the baker’s totear it asunder and distribute the fragments with three confederates!!! an act which I need not say was evidently symbolical of their desire to rend asunder theCorn Laws, and to divide the landed property amongst themselves. The action also appears analogous to the custom of breaking bread and swearing alliance on it, a practice still observed by the inhabitants of some remote regions of the Caucasus. I must again solemnly express my conviction that we are standing on aslumberingVOLCANO; the thoughtless and unobservant may suppose not; probably because in the present tee-total state of society they see nothing of the CRATER.
A man bearing the very inapplicable name ofVirtuewas brought up at Lambeth-street last week, on the charge of having stolen a telescope from the Ordnance-office in the Tower on the morning of the fire. The prisoner pleaded that, being short-sighted, he took the glass to have a sight of the fire. The magistrate, however,saw throughthis excuse very clearly; and as it was apparent thatVirtuehad taken aglasstoo much on the occasion, he was fully committed.
[pg 221]
We have received the following note from an old and esteemed correspondent, who, we are rejoiced to find, has returned from a tour in Switzerland, where he has been engaged in a prodigious work connected with the statistics of that country.
Reform Club-house.
DEAR PUNCH,
Knowing the interest you take in anything relating to the advancement of science, I beg to apprise you that I am about publishing a statistical work, in which I have made it perfectly clear that an immense saving in the article of ice alone might be made in England by importing that which lies waste upon Mont Blanc. I have also calculated to a fraction the number of pints of milk produced in the canton of Berne, distinguishing the quantity used in the making of cheese from that which has been consumed in the manufacture of butter—and specifying in every instance whether the milk has been yielded by cows or goats. There will be also a valuable appendix to the work, containing a correct list of all the inns on the road between Frankfort and Geneva, with a copy of the bill of fare at each, and the prices charged; together with the colour of the postilion’s jacket, the age of the landlord and the weight of his wife, and the height in inches of the cook and chambermaid. To which will be added, “Ten Minutes’ Advice” upon making one shilling go as far as two. If you can give me a three-halfpenny puff in your admired publication, you will confer a favour on
Your sincere friend,JOE HUME.
In England one man’s mated to one woman,To spend their days in holy matrimony—In fact, Ihaveheard from one or two men,That one wife in a house is one too many—But, be this as it may, in China no manWho can afford it shuts himself to anyFix’d number, but is variously encumber’dWith better halves, from twenty to a hundred.These to provide for in a pleasant way,And, maybe, to avoid their chat and worry,He shuts up in a harem night and day—With them contriving all his cares to bury—A point of policy which, I should say,Sweetens the dose to men about to marry;For, though a wife’s a charming thing enough,Yet, like all other blessings,quantum suff.So to my tale: Te-pott the MultifariousWas, once upon a time, a mandarin—In personal appearance but precarious,Being incorrigibly bald and thin—But then so rich, through jobs and pensions various,Obtain’d by voting with the party “in,”That he maintain’d, in grace and honour too,Sixty-five years, and spouses fifty-two.Fifty-two wives! and still he went aboutPeering below the maiden ladies’ veils—Indeed, itwassaid (but there hangs a doubtOf scandal on such gossip-whisper’d tales),He had a good one still to single out—For all his wives had tongues, andsomehad nails—And still he hoped, though fifty-twice deferr’d,To find an angel in his fifty-third.In China, mind, and such outlandish places,A gentleman who wishes to be wedLooks round about among the pretty faces,Nor for a moment doubts they may be hadFor asking; and if any of them “nay” says,He has his remedy as soon as said—For, when the bridegrooms disapprove what they do,They teach them manners with the bastinado.Near Te-pott’s palace lived an old Chinese—About as poor a man as could be knownIn lands where guardians leave them to their ease,Nor pen the poor up in bastilles of stone:He got a livelihood by picking teas;And of possessions worldly had but one—But one—the which, the reader must be told,Was a fair daughter seventeen years old.She was a lovely little girl, and oneTo charm the wits of both the high andthelow;And Te-pott’s ancient heart was lost and wonIn less time than ’twould take my pen to tell how:So, as he was quite an experienced son-In-law, and, too, a very wily fellow,To make Hy-son his friend was no hard matter, IWeen, with that specific for parents—flattery.But, when they two had settled all betweenThemselves, and Te-pott thought that he had caught her,He found how premature his hopes had beenWithout the approbation of the daughter—Who talk’d with voice so loud and wit so keen,That he thought all his Mrs. T’s had taught her;And, finding he was in the way there rather,He left her to be lectured by her father.“Pray, what were women made for” (so she said,Though Heaven forbid I join such tender saying),“If they to be accounted are as dead,And strangled if they ever are caught straying?Tis well to give us diamonds for the head,And silken gauds for festival arraying;But where of dress or diamonds is the useIf we mayn’t go and show them? that’s the deuce!”The father answer’d, much as fathers doIn cases of like nature here in Britain,Where fathers seldom let fortunes slip throughTheir fingers, when they think that they can get one;He said a many things extremely true—Proving that girls are fine things to be quit on,And that, could she accommodate her views to it,She would find marriage very nice when used to it.Now, ’tis no task to talk a woman intoLove, or a dance, or into dressing fine—No task, I’ve heard, to talk her into sin too;But, somehow, reason don’t seem in her line.And so Miss Hy-son, spite of kith and kin too,Persisting such a husband to decline—The eager mandarin issued a warrant,And got her apprehended by her parent.Thus the poor girl was caught, for there was noAppeal against so wealthy lover’s fiat:She must e’en be a wife of his, and soShe yielded him her hand demure and quiet;For ladies seldom cry unless they knowThere’s somebody convenient to cryat—And; though it is consoling, on reflectionSuch fierce emotions ruin the complexion.
In England one man’s mated to one woman,To spend their days in holy matrimony—In fact, Ihaveheard from one or two men,That one wife in a house is one too many—But, be this as it may, in China no manWho can afford it shuts himself to anyFix’d number, but is variously encumber’dWith better halves, from twenty to a hundred.
In England one man’s mated to one woman,
To spend their days in holy matrimony—
In fact, Ihaveheard from one or two men,
That one wife in a house is one too many—
But, be this as it may, in China no man
Who can afford it shuts himself to any
Fix’d number, but is variously encumber’d
With better halves, from twenty to a hundred.
These to provide for in a pleasant way,And, maybe, to avoid their chat and worry,He shuts up in a harem night and day—With them contriving all his cares to bury—A point of policy which, I should say,Sweetens the dose to men about to marry;For, though a wife’s a charming thing enough,Yet, like all other blessings,quantum suff.
These to provide for in a pleasant way,
And, maybe, to avoid their chat and worry,
He shuts up in a harem night and day—
With them contriving all his cares to bury—
A point of policy which, I should say,
Sweetens the dose to men about to marry;
For, though a wife’s a charming thing enough,
Yet, like all other blessings,quantum suff.
So to my tale: Te-pott the MultifariousWas, once upon a time, a mandarin—In personal appearance but precarious,Being incorrigibly bald and thin—But then so rich, through jobs and pensions various,Obtain’d by voting with the party “in,”That he maintain’d, in grace and honour too,Sixty-five years, and spouses fifty-two.
So to my tale: Te-pott the Multifarious
Was, once upon a time, a mandarin—
In personal appearance but precarious,
Being incorrigibly bald and thin—
But then so rich, through jobs and pensions various,
Obtain’d by voting with the party “in,”
That he maintain’d, in grace and honour too,
Sixty-five years, and spouses fifty-two.
Fifty-two wives! and still he went aboutPeering below the maiden ladies’ veils—Indeed, itwassaid (but there hangs a doubtOf scandal on such gossip-whisper’d tales),He had a good one still to single out—For all his wives had tongues, andsomehad nails—And still he hoped, though fifty-twice deferr’d,To find an angel in his fifty-third.
Fifty-two wives! and still he went about
Peering below the maiden ladies’ veils—
Indeed, itwassaid (but there hangs a doubt
Of scandal on such gossip-whisper’d tales),
He had a good one still to single out—
For all his wives had tongues, andsomehad nails—
And still he hoped, though fifty-twice deferr’d,
To find an angel in his fifty-third.
In China, mind, and such outlandish places,A gentleman who wishes to be wedLooks round about among the pretty faces,Nor for a moment doubts they may be hadFor asking; and if any of them “nay” says,He has his remedy as soon as said—For, when the bridegrooms disapprove what they do,They teach them manners with the bastinado.
In China, mind, and such outlandish places,
A gentleman who wishes to be wed
Looks round about among the pretty faces,
Nor for a moment doubts they may be had
For asking; and if any of them “nay” says,
He has his remedy as soon as said—
For, when the bridegrooms disapprove what they do,
They teach them manners with the bastinado.
Near Te-pott’s palace lived an old Chinese—About as poor a man as could be knownIn lands where guardians leave them to their ease,Nor pen the poor up in bastilles of stone:He got a livelihood by picking teas;And of possessions worldly had but one—But one—the which, the reader must be told,Was a fair daughter seventeen years old.
Near Te-pott’s palace lived an old Chinese—
About as poor a man as could be known
In lands where guardians leave them to their ease,
Nor pen the poor up in bastilles of stone:
He got a livelihood by picking teas;
And of possessions worldly had but one—
But one—the which, the reader must be told,
Was a fair daughter seventeen years old.
She was a lovely little girl, and oneTo charm the wits of both the high andthelow;And Te-pott’s ancient heart was lost and wonIn less time than ’twould take my pen to tell how:So, as he was quite an experienced son-In-law, and, too, a very wily fellow,To make Hy-son his friend was no hard matter, IWeen, with that specific for parents—flattery.
She was a lovely little girl, and one
To charm the wits of both the high andthelow;
And Te-pott’s ancient heart was lost and won
In less time than ’twould take my pen to tell how:
So, as he was quite an experienced son-
In-law, and, too, a very wily fellow,
To make Hy-son his friend was no hard matter, I
Ween, with that specific for parents—flattery.
But, when they two had settled all betweenThemselves, and Te-pott thought that he had caught her,He found how premature his hopes had beenWithout the approbation of the daughter—Who talk’d with voice so loud and wit so keen,That he thought all his Mrs. T’s had taught her;And, finding he was in the way there rather,He left her to be lectured by her father.
But, when they two had settled all between
Themselves, and Te-pott thought that he had caught her,
He found how premature his hopes had been
Without the approbation of the daughter—
Who talk’d with voice so loud and wit so keen,
That he thought all his Mrs. T’s had taught her;
And, finding he was in the way there rather,
He left her to be lectured by her father.
“Pray, what were women made for” (so she said,Though Heaven forbid I join such tender saying),“If they to be accounted are as dead,And strangled if they ever are caught straying?Tis well to give us diamonds for the head,And silken gauds for festival arraying;But where of dress or diamonds is the useIf we mayn’t go and show them? that’s the deuce!”
“Pray, what were women made for” (so she said,
Though Heaven forbid I join such tender saying),
“If they to be accounted are as dead,
And strangled if they ever are caught straying?
Tis well to give us diamonds for the head,
And silken gauds for festival arraying;
But where of dress or diamonds is the use
If we mayn’t go and show them? that’s the deuce!”
The father answer’d, much as fathers doIn cases of like nature here in Britain,Where fathers seldom let fortunes slip throughTheir fingers, when they think that they can get one;He said a many things extremely true—Proving that girls are fine things to be quit on,And that, could she accommodate her views to it,She would find marriage very nice when used to it.
The father answer’d, much as fathers do
In cases of like nature here in Britain,
Where fathers seldom let fortunes slip through
Their fingers, when they think that they can get one;
He said a many things extremely true—
Proving that girls are fine things to be quit on,
And that, could she accommodate her views to it,
She would find marriage very nice when used to it.
Now, ’tis no task to talk a woman intoLove, or a dance, or into dressing fine—No task, I’ve heard, to talk her into sin too;But, somehow, reason don’t seem in her line.And so Miss Hy-son, spite of kith and kin too,Persisting such a husband to decline—The eager mandarin issued a warrant,And got her apprehended by her parent.
Now, ’tis no task to talk a woman into
Love, or a dance, or into dressing fine—
No task, I’ve heard, to talk her into sin too;
But, somehow, reason don’t seem in her line.
And so Miss Hy-son, spite of kith and kin too,
Persisting such a husband to decline—
The eager mandarin issued a warrant,
And got her apprehended by her parent.
Thus the poor girl was caught, for there was noAppeal against so wealthy lover’s fiat:She must e’en be a wife of his, and soShe yielded him her hand demure and quiet;For ladies seldom cry unless they knowThere’s somebody convenient to cryat—And; though it is consoling, on reflectionSuch fierce emotions ruin the complexion.
Thus the poor girl was caught, for there was no
Appeal against so wealthy lover’s fiat:
She must e’en be a wife of his, and so
She yielded him her hand demure and quiet;
For ladies seldom cry unless they know
There’s somebody convenient to cryat—
And; though it is consoling, on reflection
Such fierce emotions ruin the complexion.
Yesterday Paddy Green honoured that great artist William Hogarth Teniers Raphael Bunks, Esq., with a sitting for a likeness. The portrait, which will doubtless be an admirable one, is stated to be destined to adorn one of Mr. Catnach’s ballads, namely, “The Monks of Old!” which Mr. P. Green, in most obliging manner, has allowed to appear.
William Paul took a walk yesterday as far as Houndsditch, in company with Jeremiah Donovan. A pair of left-off unmentionables is confidently reported to be the cause of their visit in the “far East.”
The lady of Paddy Green, Esquire, on Wednesday last, with that kindness which has always distinguished her, caused to be distributed a platterful of trotter bones amongst the starving dogs of the neighbourhood.
From information exclusively our own, and for whose correctness we would stake our hump, we learn that James Burke, the honoured member of the P.R., was seen to walk home on the night of Tuesday last with three fresh herrings on a twig. After supper, he consoled himself with a pint of fourpenny ale.
Charles Mears yesterday took a ride in a Whitechapel omnibus. He alighted at Aldgate Pump, at which he took a draught of water from the ladle. He afterwards regaled on a couple of polonies and a penny loaf.
Jones, the journeyman tailor who was charged before Sir Peter Laurie with being drunk and disorderly in Fleet-street, escaped the penalty of his frolic by an extraordinary whim of justice. The young schneider, it appears, sported a luxuriant crop of hair, the fashion of which not pleasing the fancy of the city Rhadamanthus, he remitted the fine on condition that the delinquent should instantly cut off the offending hairs. A barber being sent for, the operation was instantly performed; and Sir Peter, with a spirit of generosity only to be equalled by hiscuttinghumour, actually put his hand in his breeches-pocket and handed over to the official Figaro his fee of one shilling. The shorn tailor left the office protesting that Sir Peter had not treated him handsomely, as he had only consented to sacrifice his flowing locks, but that the Alderman had cabbaged his whiskers as well.
Why is wit like a Chinese lady’s foot?—Because brevity is thesoleof it!
[pg 222]
A private letter from Hanover states that, precisely at twelve minutes to eleven in the morning on the ninth of the present November, his Majesty King ERNEST was suddenly attacked by a violent fit of blue devils. All the court doctors were immediately summoned, and as immediately dismissed, by his Majesty, who sent for the Wizard of the North (recently appointed royal astrologer), to divine the mysterious cause of this so sudden melancholy. In a trice the mystery was solved—Queen Victoria “was happily delivered of a Prince!” His Majesty was immediately assisted to his chamber—put to bed—the curtains drawn—all the royal household ordered to wear list slippers—the one knocker to the palace was carefully tied up—and (on the departure of our courier) half a load of straw was already deposited beneath the window of the royal chamber. The sentinels on duty were prohibited from even sneezing, under pain of death, and all things in and about the palace, to use a bran new simile, were silent as the grave!
“Whilst there was only the Princess Royal there were many hopes. There was hope from severe teething—hope from measles—hope from hooping-cough—but with the addition of a Prince of Wales, the hopes of Hanover are below par.” But we pause. We will no further invade the sanctity of the sorrows of a king; merely observing, that what makes his Majesty very savage, makes hundreds of thousands of Englishmen mighty glad. There are now two cradles between the Crown of England and the White Horse of Hanover.
We have a Prince of Wales! Whilst, however, England is throwing up its million caps in rapture at the advent, let it not be forgotten to whom we owe the royal baby. In the clamourousness of our joy the fact would have escaped us, had we not received a letter from Colonel SIBTHORP, who assures us that we owe a Prince of Wales entirely to the present cabinet; had the Whigs remained in office, the infant would inevitably have been a girl.
For our own part—but we confess we are sometimes apt to look too soberly at things—we think her Majesty (may all good angels make her caudle!) is, inadvertently no doubt, treated in a questionable spirit of compliment by these uproarious rejoicings at the sex of the illustrious little boy, who has cast, if possible, a new dignity upon Lord Mayor’s day, and made the very giants of Guildhall shoot up an inch taller at the compliment he has paid them of visiting the world on the ninth of November. In our playful enthusiasm, we have—that is, the publicWe—declared we must have a Prince of Wales—we should be dreadfully in the dumps if the child were not a Prince—the Queen must have a Prince—a bouncing Prince—and nothing but a Prince. Now might not an ill-natured Philosopher (but all philosophers are ill-natured) interpret these yearnings for masculine royalty as something like pensive regrets that the throne should ever be filled by the feminine sex? For own part we are perfectly satisfied that the Queen (may she live to see the Prince of Wales wrinkled and white-headed!) is a Queen, and think VICTORIA THE FIRST sounds quite as musically—has in it as full a note of promise—as if the regal name had run—GEORGE THE FIFTH! We think there is a positive want of gallantry at this unequivocally shouted preference of a Prince of Wales. Nevertheless, we are happy to say, the pretty, good-tempered Princess Royal (she isnotblind, as the Tories once averred; but then the Whigs werein) still laughs and chirrups as if nothing had happened. Nay, as a proof of the happy nature of the infant (we beg to say that the fact is copyright, as we purchased it of the reporter ofThe Observer), whilst, on the ninth instant, the chimes of St. Martin’s were sounding merrily for the birth of the Prince, the Princess magnanimously shook her coral-bells in welcome of her dispossessing brother!
Independently of the sensation made in the City by the new glory that has fallen upon the ninth of November (it is said that Sir PETER LAURIE has been so rapt by the auspicious coincidence, that he has done nothing since but talk and think of “the Prince of Wales”—that on Wednesday last he rebuked an infant beggar with, “I’ve nothing for you,Prince of Wales”)—independently of the lustre flung upon the new Lord Mayor and the Lord Mayor just out—who will, it is said, both be caudle-cup baronets, the occasion has given birth to much deep philosophy on the part of our contemporaries—so deep, that there is no getting to the end of it, and has also revived much black-letter learning connected with the birth of every Prince of Wales, from the first to the last—and, therefore, certainly not least—new-comer.
An hour or so after George the Fourth was born, we are told that the waggons containing the treasure of theHermione, a Spanish galleon, captured off St. Vincent by three English frigates, entered St. James’s street, escorted by cavalry and infantry, with trumpets sounding, the enemy’s flags waving over the waggons, and the whole surrounded by an immense multitude of spectators. Now here, to the vulgar mind, was a happy augury of the future golden reign of the Royal baby. He comes upon the earth amid a shower of gold! The melodious chink of doubloons and pieces of eight echo his first infant wailings! What a theme for the gipsies of the press—the fortune-tellers of the time! At the present hour that baby sleeps the last sleep in St. George’s chapel; and we have his public and his social history before us. What does experience—the experience bought and paid for by hard, hard cash—nowread in the “waggons of treasure,” groaning musically to the rocking-cradle of the callow infant? Simply, the babe of Queen Charlotte would be a very expensive babe indeed; and that the wealth of a Spanish galleon was all insufficient for the youngling’s future wants.
We have been favoured, among a series of pictures, with the following of George the Fourth, exhibited in his babyhood. We are told that “all personsof fashionwere admitted to see the Prince, under the following restrictions, viz.—that in passing through the apartmentthey stepped with the greatest caution, and did not offer to touch his Royal Highness. For the greater security in this respect, a part of the apartment was latticed offin the Chinese manner, to prevent curious persons from approaching too nearly.”
That lattice “in the Chinese manner” was a small yet fatal fore-shadowing of the Chinese Pavilion at Brighton—of that temple, worthy of Pekin, wherein the Royal infant of threescore was wont to enshrine himself, not from the desecrating touch of the world, but even from the eyes of a curious people, who, having paid some millions toward manufacturing the most finished gentleman in Europe, had now and then a wish—an unregarded wish—to look at their expensive handiwork.
What different prognostics have we in the natal day of our present Prince of Wales! What rational hopes from many circumstances that beset him. The Royal infant, we are told, is suckled by a person “named Brough, formerly ahousemaidat Esher.” From this very fact, will not the Royal child grow up with the consciousness that he owes his nourishment even to the very humblest of the people? Will he not suck in the humanising truth with his very milk?
And then for the Spanish treasure—“hard food for Midas”—that threw its jaundiced glory about the cradle of George the Fourth; what is that to the promise of plenty, augured by the natal day of our present Prince? Comes he not on the ninth of November? Is not his advent glorified by the aromatic clouds of the Lord Mayor’s kitchen?—Let every man, woman, and child possess themselves of aTimesnewspaper of the 10th ult.; for there, in genial companionship with the chronicle of the birth of the Prince, is the luscious history of the Lord Mayor’s dinner. We quit Buckingham Palace, our mind full of our dear little Queen, the Royal baby, Prince Albert—(who, asThe Standardinforms us subsequently, bows “bare-headed” to the populace,)—the Archbishop of Canterbury, Doctor Locock, the Duke of Wellington, and the monthly nurse, and immediately fall upon the civic “general bill of fare,”—the real turtle at the City board.
Oh, men of Paisley—good folks of Bolton—what promise for ye is here! Turkeys, capons, sirloins, asparagus, pheasants, pine-apples, Savoy cakes, Chantilly baskets, mince pies, preserved ginger, brandy cherries, a thousand luscious cakes that “the sense aches at!” What are all these gifts of plenty, but a glad promise that in the time of the “sweetest young Prince,” that on the birth-day of that Prince just vouchsafed to us, all England will be a large Lord Mayor’s table! Will it be possible for Englishmen to dissassociate in their minds the Prince of Wales and the Prince of good Fellows? And whereas the reigns of other potentates are signalised by bloodshed and war, the time of the Prince will be glorified by cooking and good cheer. His drum-sticks will be the drum-sticks of turkeys—his cannon, the popping of corks. In his day, even weavers shall know the taste of geese, and factory-children smack their lips at the gravy of the great sirloin. Join your glasses! brandish your carving-knives! cry welcome to the Prince of Wales! for he comes garnished with all the world’s good things. He shall live in the hearts, and (what is more) in the stomachs of his people!
Q.
Everybody is talking of the great impropriety that has been practised in keeping gunpowder within the Tower; and the papers areblowing upthe authorities with astounding violence for their alleged laxity. “Gunpowder,” say the angry journalists, “ought only to be kept where there is no possibility of a spark getting to it.”—We suggest the bottom of the Thames, as the only place where, in future, this precious preparation can be securely deposited.
[pg 223]
Polictians reenact a scene from 'The Vicar of Wakefield'.OLIVIA’S RETURN TO HER FRIENDS.“I ENTREAT, WOMAN, THAT MY WORDS MAY BE NOW MARKED, ONCE FOR ALL; I HAVE HERE BROUGHT YOU BACK A POOR DELUDED WANDERER; HER RETURN TO DUTY DEMANDS THE REVIVAL OF OUR TENDERNESS. THE KINDNESS OF HEAVEN IS PROMISED TO THE PENITENT, AND LET OURS BE DIRECTED BY THE EXAMPLE.”Vicar of Wakefield, Chap. XXII.
OLIVIA’S RETURN TO HER FRIENDS.
“I ENTREAT, WOMAN, THAT MY WORDS MAY BE NOW MARKED, ONCE FOR ALL; I HAVE HERE BROUGHT YOU BACK A POOR DELUDED WANDERER; HER RETURN TO DUTY DEMANDS THE REVIVAL OF OUR TENDERNESS. THE KINDNESS OF HEAVEN IS PROMISED TO THE PENITENT, AND LET OURS BE DIRECTED BY THE EXAMPLE.”
Vicar of Wakefield, Chap. XXII.
[pg 225]
Two Chinese men face each other with their queues standing out to form a letter T.
The last task that devolves upon our student before he goes up to the Hall is to hunt up his testimonials of attendance to lectures and good moral conduct in his apprenticeship, together with his parochial certificate of age and baptism. The first of these is the chief point to obtain; the two last he generally writes himself, in the style best consonant with his own feelings and the date of his indenture. His “morality ticket” is as follows:—
(Copy.)
“I hereby certify, that during the period Mr. Joseph Muff served his time with me he especially recommended himself to my notice by his studious and attentive habits, highly moral and gentlemanly conduct, and excellent disposition. He always availed himself of every opportunity to improve his professional knowledge.”
(Signed)
According to the name on the indenture.
The certificate of attendance upon lectures is only obtained in its most approved state by much clever manoeuvring. It is important to bear in mind that a lecturer should never be asked whilst he is loitering about the school for his signature of the student’s diligence. He may then have time to recollect his ignorance of his pupil’s face at his discourses. He should always be caught flying—either immediately before or after his lecture—in order that the whole business may be too hurried to admit of investigation. In the space left for the degree of attention which the student has shown, it is better that he subscribes nothing at all than an indifferent report; because, in the former case, the student can fill it up to his own satisfaction. He usually prefers the phrase—“with unremitting diligence.”
And having arrived at this important section of our Physiology, it behoves us to publish, for the benefit of medical students in general, and those about to go up in particular, the following
Previously to going up, take some pills and get your hair cut. This not only clears your faculties, but improves your appearance. The Court of Examiners dislike long hair.
Do not drink too much stout before you go in, with the idea that it will give you pluck. It renders you very valiant for half an hour and then muddles your notions with indescribable confusion.
Having arrived at the Hall, put your rings and chains in your pocket, and, if practicable, publish a pair of spectacles. This will endow you with a grave look.
On taking your place at the table, if you wish to gain time, feign to be intensely frightened. One of the examiners will then rise to give you a tumbler of water, which you may, with good effect, rattle tremulously against your teeth when drinking. This may possibly lead them to excuse bad answers on the score of extreme nervous trepidation.
Should things appear to be going against you, get up a hectic cough, which is easily imitated, and look acutely miserable, which you will probably do without trying.
Endeavour to assume an off-hand manner of answering; and when you have stated any pathological fact—right or wrong—stick to it; if they want a case for example, invent one, “that happened when you were an apprentice in the country.” This assumed confidence will sometimes bother them. We knew a student who once swore at the Hall, that he gave opium in a case of concussion of the brain, and that the patient never required anything else. It was true—he never did.
Should you be fortunate enough to pass, go to your hospital next day and report your examination, describing it as the most extraordinary ordeal of deep-searching questions ever undergone. This will make the professors think well of you, and the new men deem yon little less than a mental Colossus. Say, also, “you were complimented by the Court.” This advice is, however, scarcely necessary, as we never know a student pass who was not thus honoured—according to his own account.
All things being arranged to his satisfaction, he deposits his papers under the care of Mr. Sayer, and passes the interval before the fatal day much in the same state of mind as a condemned criminal. At last Thursday arrives, and at a quarter to four, any person who takes the trouble to station himself at the corner of Union-street will see various groups of three and four young men wending their way towards the portals of Apothecaries’ Hall, consisting of students about to be examined, accompanied by friends who come down with them to keep up their spirits. They approach the door, and shake hands as they give and receive wishes of success. The wicket closes on the candidates, and their friends adjourn to the “Retail Establishment” opposite, togo the odd manand pledge their anxious companions in dissector’s diet-drink—vulgo, half-and-half.
Leaving them to their libations, we follow our old friend Mr. Joseph Muff. He crosses the paved court-yard with the air of a man who had lost half-a-crown and found a halfpenny; and through the windows sees the assistants dispensing plums, pepper, and prescriptions, with provoking indifference. Turning to the left, he ascends a solemn-looking staircase, adorned with severe black figures in niches, who support lamps. On the top of the staircase he enters a room, wherein the partners of his misery are collected. It is a long narrow apartment, commonly known as “the funking-room,” ornamented with a savage-looking fireplace at one end, and a huge surly chest at the other; with gloomy presses against the walls, containing dry mouldy books in harsh, repulsive bindings. The windows look into the court; and the glass is scored by diamond rings, and the shutters pencilled with names and sentences, which Mr. Muff regards with feelings similar to those he would experience in contemplating the inscriptions on the walls of a condemned cell. The very chairs in the room look overbearing and unpleasant; and the whole locality is invested with an overallishness of unanswerable questions and intricate botheration. Some of the students are marching up and down the room in feverish restlessness; others, arm in arm, are worrying each other to death with questions; and the rest are grinding away to the last minute at a manual, or trying to write minute atomic numbers on their thumb-nail.
The clock strikes five, and Mr. Sayer enters the room, exclaiming—“Mr. Manhug, Mr. Jones, Mr. Saxby, and Mr. Collins.” The four depart to the chamber of examination, where the medical inquisition awaits them, with every species of mental torture to screw their brains instead of their thumbs, and rack their intellects instead of their limbs,—the chair on which the unfortunate student is placed being far more uneasy than the tightest fitting “Scavenger’s daughter” in the Tower of London. After an anxious hour, Mr. Jones returns, with a light bounding step to a joyous extempore air of his own composing: he has passed. In another twenty minutes Mr. Saxby walks fiercely in, calls for his hat, condemns the examinersad inferos, swears he shall cut the profession, and marches away. He has been plucked; and Mr. Muff, who stands sixth on the list, is called on to make his appearance before the awful tribunal.
Dr. Demosthenes &c. &c. &c. &c. Bedford, who has lately broken out in a new place, has been accused by the lieges of the Borough of having acted in a most unprofessional manner; in short, with having lost hispatience. He, Dr. Demosthenes &c. begs to state, the only surgical operation he ever attempted was most successful, notwithstanding it was the difficult one of amputating his “mahogany;” and he further adds, the only case he ever had is still in his hand, it being a most obstinate