By winter’s chill the fragrant flower is nipp’d,To be new-clothed with brighter tints in spring;The blasted tree of verdant leaves is stripp’d,A fresher foliage on each branch to bring;The aërial songster moults his plumerie,To vie in sleekness with each feather’d brother:A twelvemonth’s wear hath ta’en thy nap from thee,My seedy coat!—When shall I get another?
By winter’s chill the fragrant flower is nipp’d,To be new-clothed with brighter tints in spring;The blasted tree of verdant leaves is stripp’d,A fresher foliage on each branch to bring;
By winter’s chill the fragrant flower is nipp’d,
To be new-clothed with brighter tints in spring;
The blasted tree of verdant leaves is stripp’d,
A fresher foliage on each branch to bring;
The aërial songster moults his plumerie,To vie in sleekness with each feather’d brother:A twelvemonth’s wear hath ta’en thy nap from thee,My seedy coat!—When shall I get another?
The aërial songster moults his plumerie,
To vie in sleekness with each feather’d brother:
A twelvemonth’s wear hath ta’en thy nap from thee,
My seedy coat!—When shall I get another?
NOTE.—Confiding tailors are entreated to send their addresses, pre-paid, to PUNCH’S office.
P.S.—None need apply whorefusethree years’ acceptances. If the bills be maderenewable, by agreement, “continuations” will be taken in any quantity.—FITZROY FIPS.
(EnterPUNCH.)
PUNCH.—R-r-r-roo-to-tooit-tooit?
(Sings.)
“Wheel about and turn about,And do jes so;Ebery time I turn about,I jump Jim Crow.”
“Wheel about and turn about,And do jes so;Ebery time I turn about,I jump Jim Crow.”
“Wheel about and turn about,
And do jes so;
Ebery time I turn about,
I jump Jim Crow.”
MANAGER.—Hollo, Mr. Punch! your voice is rather husky to-day.
PUNCH.—Yes, yes; I’ve been making myself as hoarse as a hog, bawling to the free and independent electors of Grogswill all the morning. They have done me the honour to elect me as their representative in Parliament. I’m an M.P. now.
MANAGER.—An M.P.! Gammon, Mr. Punch.
THE DOG TOBY.—Bow, wow, wow, wough, wough!
PUNCH.—Fact, upon my honour. I’m at this moment an unit in the collective stupidity of the nation.
DOG TOBY.—R-r-r-r-r-r—wough—wough!
PUNCH.—Kick that dog, somebody. Hang the cur, did he never see a legislator before, that he barks at me so?
MANAGER.—A legislator, Mr. Punch? with that wooden head of yours! Ho! ho! ho! ho!
PUNCH.—My dear sir, I can assure you that wood is the material generally used in the manufacture of political puppets. There will be more blockheads than mine in St. Stephen’s, I can tell you. And as for oratory, why I flatter my whiskers I’ll astonish them in that line.
MANAGER.—But on what principles did you get into Parliament, Mr. Punch?
PUNCH.—I’d have you know, sir, I’m above having any principles but those that put money in my pocket.
MANAGER.—I mean on what interest did you start?
PUNCH.—On self-interest, sir. The only great, patriotic, and noble feeling that a public man can entertain.
MANAGER.—Pardon me, Mr. Punch; I wish to know whether you have come in as a Whig or a Tory?
PUNCH.—As a Tory, decidedly, sir. I despise the base, rascally, paltry, beggarly, contemptible Whigs. I detest their policy, and—
THE DOG TOBY.—Bow, wow, wough, wough!
MANAGER.—Hollo! Mr. Punch, what are you saying? I understood you were always a staunch Whig, and a supporter of the present Government.
PUNCH.—So I was, sir. I supported the Whigs as long as they supported themselves; but now that the old house is coming down about their ears, I turn my back on them in virtuous indignation, and take my seat in the opposition ‘bus.
MANAGER.—-But where is your patriotism, Mr. Punch?
PUNCH.—Where every politician’s is, sir—in my breeches’ pocket.
MANAGER.—And your consistency, Mr. Punch?
PUNCH.—What a green chap you are, after all. A public man’s consistency! It’s only a popular delusion, sir. I’ll tell you what’s consistency, sir. When one gentleman’sinand won’t comeout, and when another gentleman’soutand can’t getin, and when both gentlemen persevere in their determination—that’s consistency.
MANAGER.—I understand; but still I think it is the duty of every public man to——
PUNCH.—(sings)—
“Wheel about and turn about, And do jes so; Ebery time he turn about, He jumps Jim Crow.”
MANAGER.—Then it is your opinion that the prospects of the Whigs are not very flattering?
PUNCH.—’Tis all up with them, as the young lady remarked when Mr. Green and his friends left Wauxhall in the balloon; they haven’t a chance. The election returns are against them everywhere. England deserts them—Ireland fails them—Scotland alone sticks with national attachment to their backs, like a—
THE DOG TOBY.—Bow, wow, wow, wough!
MANAGER.—Of course, then, the Tories will take office—?
PUNCH.—I rayther suspect they will. Have they not been licking their chops for ten years outside the Treasury door, while the sneaking Whigs were helping themselves to all the fat tit-bits within? Have they not growled and snarled all the while, and proved by their barking that they were the fittest guardians of the country? Have they not wept over the decay of our ancient and venerable constitution—? And have they not promised and vowed, the moment they got into office, that they would—Send round the hat.
MANAGER.—Very good, Mr. Punch; but I should like to know what the Tories mean to do about the corn-laws? Will they give the people cheap food?
PUNCH.—No, but they’ll give them cheap drink. They’ll throw open the Thames for the use of the temperance societies.
MANAGER.—But if we don’t have cheap corn, our trade must be destroyed, our factories will be closed, and our mills left idle.
PUNCH.—There you’re wrong. Our tread-mills will be in constant work; and, though our factories should be empty, our prisons will be quite full.
MANAGER.—That’s all very well, Mr. Punch; but the people will grumble aleetleif you starve them.
PUNCH.—Ay, hang them, so they will; the populace have no idea of being grateful for benefits. Talk of starvation! Pooh!—I’ve studied political economy in a workhouse, and I know what it means. They’ve got a fine plan in those workhouses for feeding the poor devils. They do it on the homoeopathic system, by administering to them oatmeal porridge in infinitessimal doses; but some of the paupers have such proud stomachs that they object to the diet, and actually die through spite and villany. Oh! ’tis a dreadful world for ingratitude! But never mind—Send round the hat.
MANAGER.—What is the meaning of the sliding scale, Mr. Punch?
PUNCH.—It means—when a man has got nothing for breakfast, he may slide his breakfast into his lunch; then, if he has got nothing for lunch, he may slide that into his dinner; and if he labours under the same difficulties with respect to the dinner, he may slide all three meals into his supper.
MANAGER.—But if the man has got no supper?
PUNCH.—Then let him wish he may get it.
MANAGER.—Oh! that’s your sliding scale?
PUNCH.—Yes; and a very ingenious invention it is for the suppression of victuals. R-r-r-roo-to-tooit-tooit! Send round the hat.
MANAGER.—At this rate, Mr. Punch, I suppose you would not be favourable to free trade?
PUNCH.—Certainly not, sir. Free trade is one of your new-fangled notions that mean nothing but free plunder. I’ll illustrate my position. I’m a boy in a school, with a bag of apples, which, being the only apples on my form, I naturally sell at a penny a-piece, and so look forward to pulling in a considerable quantity of browns, when a boy from another form, with a bigger bag of apples, comes and sells his at three for a penny, which, of course, knocks up my trade.
MANAGER.—But it benefits the community, Mr. Punch.
PUNCH.—D—n the community! I know of no community but PUNCH and Co. I’m for centralization—and individualization—every man for himself, and PUNCH for us all! Only let me catch any rascal bringing his apples to my form, and see how I’ll cobb him. So now—send round the hat—and three cheers for
O Reveal, thou fay-like stranger,Why this lonely path you seek;Every step is fraught with dangerUnto one so fair and meek.Where are they thatshouldprotect theeIn this darkling hour of doubt?Lovecouldnever thus neglect thee!—Does your mother know you’re out?Why so pensive, Peri-maiden?Pearly tears bedim thine eyes!Sure thine heart is overladen,When each breath is fraught with sighs.Say, hath care life’s heaven clouded,Which hope’s stars were wont to spangle?What hath all thy gladness shrouded?—Has your mother sold her mangle?
O Reveal, thou fay-like stranger,Why this lonely path you seek;Every step is fraught with dangerUnto one so fair and meek.Where are they thatshouldprotect theeIn this darkling hour of doubt?Lovecouldnever thus neglect thee!—Does your mother know you’re out?
O Reveal, thou fay-like stranger,
Why this lonely path you seek;
Every step is fraught with danger
Unto one so fair and meek.
Where are they thatshouldprotect thee
In this darkling hour of doubt?
Lovecouldnever thus neglect thee!—
Does your mother know you’re out?
Why so pensive, Peri-maiden?Pearly tears bedim thine eyes!Sure thine heart is overladen,When each breath is fraught with sighs.Say, hath care life’s heaven clouded,Which hope’s stars were wont to spangle?What hath all thy gladness shrouded?—Has your mother sold her mangle?
Why so pensive, Peri-maiden?
Pearly tears bedim thine eyes!
Sure thine heart is overladen,
When each breath is fraught with sighs.
Say, hath care life’s heaven clouded,
Which hope’s stars were wont to spangle?
What hath all thy gladness shrouded?—
Has your mother sold her mangle?
We are requested to state, by the Marquis of W——, that, for the convenience of the public, he has put down one of his carriages, and given orders to Pearce, of Long-acre, for the construction of an easy and elegantstretcher.
A series of vignettes with candidates: CANVASSING. What a love of a child THE DEPUTATION. If you think me worthy THE SUCCESSFUL CANDIDATE. Constituents--rascals THE HUSTINGS. Don't mention it I beg THE PUBLIC DINNER. The proudest moment of my lifeCANVASSING. What a love of a childTHE DEPUTATION. If you think me worthyTHE SUCCESSFUL CANDIDATE. Constituents--rascalsTHE HUSTINGS. Don't mention it I begTHE PUBLIC DINNER. The proudest moment of my life
CANVASSING. What a love of a childTHE DEPUTATION. If you think me worthyTHE SUCCESSFUL CANDIDATE. Constituents--rascalsTHE HUSTINGS. Don't mention it I begTHE PUBLIC DINNER. The proudest moment of my life
PUNCH begs most solemnly to assure his friends and the artists in general, that should the violent cold with which he has been from time immemorial afflicted, and which, although it has caused his voice to appear like an infant Lablache screaming through horse-hair and thistles, yet has not very materially affected him otherwise—should it not deprive him of existence—please Gog and Magog, he will, next season, visit every exhibition of modern art as soon as the pictures are hung; and further, that he will most unequivocally be down with hiscoup de batonupon every unfortunate nob requiring his peculiar attention.
That he independently rejects the principles upon which these matters are generally conducted, he trusts this will be taken as an assurance: should the handsomest likeness-taker gratuitously offer to paint PUNCH’S portrait in any of the most favourite and fashionable styles, from the purest production of the general mourning school—and all performed by scissars—to the exquisitely gay works of the President of the Royal Academy, even though his Presidentship offer to do the nose with real carmine, and throw Judy and the little one into the back-ground, PUNCH would not give him a single eulogistic syllable unmerited. A word to the landscape and other perpetrators: none of your little bits for PUNCH—none of your insinuating cabinet gems—no Art-fulUnion system of doing things—Hopkins to praise for one reason, Popkins to censure for another—and as PUNCH has been poking his nose into numberless unseen corners, and, notwithstanding its indisputable dimensions, has managed to screen it from observation, he has thereby smelt out several pretty little affairs, which shall in due time be exhibited and explained in front of his proscenium, for special amusement. In the mean time, to prove that PUNCH is tolerably well up in this line of pseudo-criticism, he has prepared the following description of the private view of either the Royal Academy or the Suffolk-street Gallery, or the British Institution, for 1842, for the lovers of this very light style of reading; and to make it as truly applicable to the various specimens of art forming the collection or collections alluded to, he has done it after the peculiar manner practised by the talented conductor of a journal purporting to be exclusively set apart to that effort. To illustrate with what strict attention to the nature of the subject chosen, and what an intimate knowledge of technicalities the writer above alluded to displays, and with what consummate skill he blends those peculiarities, the reader will have the kindness to attach the criticism to either of the works (hereunder catalogued) most agreeably to his fancy. It will be, moreover, shown that this is a thoroughly impartial way of performing the operation of soft anointment.
Should the friends of any of the artists deem the praise a little too oily, they can easily add such a tag as the following:—“In our humble judgment, a little more delicacy of handling would not be altogether out of place;” or, “Beautiful as the work under notice decidedly is, we recollect to have received perhaps as much gratification in viewing previous productions by the same.”
This artist is, we much fear, on the decline; we no longer see the vigour of handling and smartness of conception formerly apparent in his works: or, “A little stricter attention to drawing, as well as composition, would render this artist’s works more recommendatory.”
Either of the following, taken conjointly or separately: “A perfect daub, possessing not one single quality necessary to create even the slightest interest—a disgrace to the Exhibition—who allowed such a wretched production to disgrace these walls?—woefully out of drawing, and as badly coloured,” and such like.
Well, lawks-a-day! things seem going on uncommon queer,For they say that the Tories are bowling out the Whigs almost everywhere;And the blazing red of my beadle’s coat is turning to pink through fear,Lest I should find myself and staff out of Office some time about the end of the year.I’ve done nothing so long but stand under the magnificent porticoOf Somerset House, that I don’t know what I should do if I was for to go!What the electors are at, I can’t make out, upon my soul,For it’s a law of natur’ that thewhigshould be atop of thepoll.I’ve had a snug berth of it here for some time, and don’t want to cut the connexion;But theydosay the Whigs must go out, because they’ve NO OTHER ELECTION;What they mean by that, Idon’tknow, for ain’t they been electioneering—That is, they’ve been canvassing, and spouting, and pledging, and ginning, and beering.Hasn’t Crawford and Pattison, Lyall, Masterman, Wood, and Lord John Russell,For ever so long been keeping the Great Metropolis in one alarmingbussel?Ain’t the twofirstretired into private life—(that’s the genteel for being rejected)?And what’s more, thelastfour, strange to say, have all been elected.Then Finsbury Tom and Mr. Wakley, as wears his hair all over his coat collar,Hav’n’t they frightened Mr. Tooke, who once said he could beat themHollar?Then at Lambeth, ain’t Mr. Baldwin and Mr. Cabbell been both on ‘em bottledBy Mr. D’Eyncourt and Mr. Hawes, who makes soap yellow and mottled!And hasn’t Sir Benjamin Hall, and the gallant Commodore Napier,Made such a cabal with Cabbell and Hamilton as would make any chap queer?Whilst Sankey, who was backed by aCleave-r for Marrowbone looks cranky,Acos the electors, like lisping babbies, cried out “No Sankee?”Then South’ark has sent Alderman Humphrey and Mr. B. Wood,Who has promised, that if ever a member of parliament did his duty—he would!Then for the Tower Hamlets, Robinson, Hutchinson, and Thompson, find that they’re in the wrong box,For the electors, though turned to Clay, still gallantly followed the Fox;Whilst Westminster’s chosen Rous—not Rouse of the Eagle—tho’ I once seed aPicture where there was a great big bird, very like agoose, along with a Leda.And hasn’t Sir Robert Peel and Mr. A’Court been down to Tamworth to be reseated?They ought to get an act of parliament to save them such fatigue, for its always—ditto repeated.Whilst at Leeds, Beckett and Aldam have put Lord Jocelyn into a considerable fume,Who finds it no go, though he’s added up the poll-books several times with the calculating boy, Joe Hume.So if there’s beenno other election, I should like to find outWhat all the late squibbing and fibbing, placarding, and blackguarding, losing and winning, beering and ginning, and every otheret cetera, has been about!
Well, lawks-a-day! things seem going on uncommon queer,For they say that the Tories are bowling out the Whigs almost everywhere;And the blazing red of my beadle’s coat is turning to pink through fear,Lest I should find myself and staff out of Office some time about the end of the year.I’ve done nothing so long but stand under the magnificent porticoOf Somerset House, that I don’t know what I should do if I was for to go!What the electors are at, I can’t make out, upon my soul,For it’s a law of natur’ that thewhigshould be atop of thepoll.I’ve had a snug berth of it here for some time, and don’t want to cut the connexion;But theydosay the Whigs must go out, because they’ve NO OTHER ELECTION;What they mean by that, Idon’tknow, for ain’t they been electioneering—That is, they’ve been canvassing, and spouting, and pledging, and ginning, and beering.Hasn’t Crawford and Pattison, Lyall, Masterman, Wood, and Lord John Russell,For ever so long been keeping the Great Metropolis in one alarmingbussel?Ain’t the twofirstretired into private life—(that’s the genteel for being rejected)?And what’s more, thelastfour, strange to say, have all been elected.Then Finsbury Tom and Mr. Wakley, as wears his hair all over his coat collar,Hav’n’t they frightened Mr. Tooke, who once said he could beat themHollar?Then at Lambeth, ain’t Mr. Baldwin and Mr. Cabbell been both on ‘em bottledBy Mr. D’Eyncourt and Mr. Hawes, who makes soap yellow and mottled!And hasn’t Sir Benjamin Hall, and the gallant Commodore Napier,Made such a cabal with Cabbell and Hamilton as would make any chap queer?Whilst Sankey, who was backed by aCleave-r for Marrowbone looks cranky,Acos the electors, like lisping babbies, cried out “No Sankee?”Then South’ark has sent Alderman Humphrey and Mr. B. Wood,Who has promised, that if ever a member of parliament did his duty—he would!Then for the Tower Hamlets, Robinson, Hutchinson, and Thompson, find that they’re in the wrong box,For the electors, though turned to Clay, still gallantly followed the Fox;Whilst Westminster’s chosen Rous—not Rouse of the Eagle—tho’ I once seed aPicture where there was a great big bird, very like agoose, along with a Leda.And hasn’t Sir Robert Peel and Mr. A’Court been down to Tamworth to be reseated?They ought to get an act of parliament to save them such fatigue, for its always—ditto repeated.Whilst at Leeds, Beckett and Aldam have put Lord Jocelyn into a considerable fume,Who finds it no go, though he’s added up the poll-books several times with the calculating boy, Joe Hume.So if there’s beenno other election, I should like to find outWhat all the late squibbing and fibbing, placarding, and blackguarding, losing and winning, beering and ginning, and every otheret cetera, has been about!
Well, lawks-a-day! things seem going on uncommon queer,
For they say that the Tories are bowling out the Whigs almost everywhere;
And the blazing red of my beadle’s coat is turning to pink through fear,
Lest I should find myself and staff out of Office some time about the end of the year.
I’ve done nothing so long but stand under the magnificent portico
Of Somerset House, that I don’t know what I should do if I was for to go!
What the electors are at, I can’t make out, upon my soul,
For it’s a law of natur’ that thewhigshould be atop of thepoll.
I’ve had a snug berth of it here for some time, and don’t want to cut the connexion;
But theydosay the Whigs must go out, because they’ve NO OTHER ELECTION;
What they mean by that, Idon’tknow, for ain’t they been electioneering—
That is, they’ve been canvassing, and spouting, and pledging, and ginning, and beering.
Hasn’t Crawford and Pattison, Lyall, Masterman, Wood, and Lord John Russell,
For ever so long been keeping the Great Metropolis in one alarmingbussel?
Ain’t the twofirstretired into private life—(that’s the genteel for being rejected)?
And what’s more, thelastfour, strange to say, have all been elected.
Then Finsbury Tom and Mr. Wakley, as wears his hair all over his coat collar,
Hav’n’t they frightened Mr. Tooke, who once said he could beat themHollar?
Then at Lambeth, ain’t Mr. Baldwin and Mr. Cabbell been both on ‘em bottled
By Mr. D’Eyncourt and Mr. Hawes, who makes soap yellow and mottled!
And hasn’t Sir Benjamin Hall, and the gallant Commodore Napier,
Made such a cabal with Cabbell and Hamilton as would make any chap queer?
Whilst Sankey, who was backed by aCleave-r for Marrowbone looks cranky,
Acos the electors, like lisping babbies, cried out “No Sankee?”
Then South’ark has sent Alderman Humphrey and Mr. B. Wood,
Who has promised, that if ever a member of parliament did his duty—he would!
Then for the Tower Hamlets, Robinson, Hutchinson, and Thompson, find that they’re in the wrong box,
For the electors, though turned to Clay, still gallantly followed the Fox;
Whilst Westminster’s chosen Rous—not Rouse of the Eagle—tho’ I once seed a
Picture where there was a great big bird, very like agoose, along with a Leda.
And hasn’t Sir Robert Peel and Mr. A’Court been down to Tamworth to be reseated?
They ought to get an act of parliament to save them such fatigue, for its always—ditto repeated.
Whilst at Leeds, Beckett and Aldam have put Lord Jocelyn into a considerable fume,
Who finds it no go, though he’s added up the poll-books several times with the calculating boy, Joe Hume.
So if there’s beenno other election, I should like to find out
What all the late squibbing and fibbing, placarding, and blackguarding, losing and winning, beering and ginning, and every otheret cetera, has been about!
Black bottles at Brighton,To darken your fame;Black Sundays at Hounslow,To add to your shame.Black balls at the club,Show Lord Hill’s growing duller:He should change your commandTo theguardsof that colour.
Black bottles at Brighton,To darken your fame;Black Sundays at Hounslow,To add to your shame.Black balls at the club,Show Lord Hill’s growing duller:He should change your commandTo theguardsof that colour.
Black bottles at Brighton,
To darken your fame;
Black Sundays at Hounslow,
To add to your shame.
Black balls at the club,
Show Lord Hill’s growing duller:
He should change your command
To theguardsof that colour.
A man thumbing his nose
English—it has been remarked a thousand and odd times—is one of the few languages which is unaccompanied with gesticulation. Your veritable Englishman, in his discourse, is as chary as your genuine Frenchman is prodigal, of action. The one speaks like an oracle, the other like a telegraph.
Mr. Brown narrates the death of a poor widower from starvation, with his hands fast locked in his breeches’ pocket, and his features as calm as a horse-pond. M. le Brun tells of thedebutof the newdanseuse, with several kisses on the tips of his fingers, a variety of taps on the left side of his satin waistcoat, and his head engulfed between his two shoulders, like a cock-boat in a trough of the sea.
The cause of this natural diversity is not very apparent. The deficiency of gesture on our parts may be a necessary result of that prudence which is so marked a feature of the English character. Mr. Brown, perhaps, objects to using two means to attain his end when one is sufficient, and consequently looks upon all gesticulation during conversation as a wicked waste of physical labour, which that most sublime and congenial science of Pol. Econ. has shown him to be the source of all wealth. To indulge in pantomime is, therefore, in his eyes, the same as throwing so much money in the dirt—a crime which he regards as second in depravity only to that of having none to throw. Napoleon said, many years back, we were a nation of shopkeepers; and time seems to have increased, rather than diminished, our devotion to the ledger. Gold has become our sole standard of excellence. We measure a man’s respectability by his banker’s account, and mete out to the pauper the same punishment as the felon. Our very nobility is a nobility of the breeches’ pocket; and the highest personage in the realm—her most gracious Majesty—the most gracious Majesty of 500,000l. per annum! Nor is this to be wondered at. To a martial people like the Romans, it was perfectly natural that animal courage should be thought to constitute heroic virtue: to a commercial people like ourselves, it is equally natural that a man’s worthiness should be computed by what he is worth. We fear it is this commercial spirit, which, for the reason before assigned, is opposed to the introduction of pantomime among us; and it is therefore to this spirit that we would appeal, in our endeavours to supply a deficiency which we cannot but look upon as a national misfortune and disgrace. It makes us appear as a cold-blooded race of people, which we assuredly are not; for, after all our wants are satisfied, what nation can make such heroic sacrifices for the benefit of their fellow creatures as our own? A change, however, is coming over us: a few pantomimic signs have already made their appearance amongst us. It is true that they are at present chiefly confined to that class upon whose manners politeness places little or no restraint—barbarians, who act as nature, rather than as the book of etiquette dictates, (and among whom, for that very reason, such a change would naturally first begin to show itself:) yet do we trust, by pointing out to the more refined portion of the “British public,” the advantage that must necessarily accrue from the general cultivation of the art of pantomime, by proving to them its vast superiority over the comparatively tedious operations of speech, and exhibiting its capacity of conveying a far greater quantity of thought in a considerably less space of time, and that with a saving of one-half the muscular exertion—a point so perfectly consonant with the present prevailing desire for cheap and rapid communication—that we say we hope to be able not only to bring the higher classes to look upon it no longer as a vulgar and extravagant mode of expression, but actually to introduce and cherish it among them as the most polite and useful of all accomplishments.
A man winking
But in order to exhibit the capacities of this noble art in all their comprehensive excellence, it is requisite that we should, in the first place, say a few words on language in general.
It is commonly supposed that there are but two kinds of language among men—the written and the spoken: whereas it follows, from the very nature of language itself, that there must necessarily be as many modes of conveying our impressions to our fellow-creatures, as there are senses or modes of receiving impressions in them. Accordingly, there are five senses and five languages; to wit, the audible, the visible, the olfactory, the gustatory, and the sensitive. To the two first belong speech and literature. As illustrations of the third, or olfactory language, may be cited the presentation of a pinch of Prince’s Mixture to a stranger, or a bottle of “Bouquet du Roi” to a fair acquaintance; both of which are but forms of expressing to them nasally our respect. The nose, however, is an organ but little cultivated in man, and the language which appeals to it is, therefore, in a very imperfect state; not so the gustatory, or that which addresses itself to the palate. This, indeed, may be said to be imbibed with our mother’s milk. What words can speak affection to the child like elecampane—what language assures us of the remembrance of an absent friend like a brace of wood-cocks? Then who does not comprehend the eloquence of dinners? A rump steak, and bottle of old port, are not these to all guests the very emblems of esteem—and turtle, venison, and champagne, the unmistakeable types of respect? If the citizens of a particular town be desirous of expressing their profound admiration of the genius of a popular author, how can the sentiment be conveyed so fitly as in a public dinner? or if a candidate be anxious to convince the “free and independent electors” of a certain borough of his disinterested regard for the commonweal, what more persuasive language could he adopt than the general distribution of unlimited beer? Of the sensitive, or fifth and last species of language, innumerable instances might be quoted. All understand the difference in meaning between cuffs and caresses—between being shaken heartily by the hand and kicked rapidly down stairs. Who, however ignorant, could look upon the latter as a compliment? or what fair maiden, however simple, would require a master to teach her how to construe a gentle compression of her fingers at parting, or a tender pressure of her toe under the dinner table?
Such is an imperfect sketch of the five languages appertaining to man. There is, however, one other—that which forms the subject of the present article—Pantomime, and which may be considered as the natural form of the visible language—literature being taken as the artificial. This is the most primitive as well as most comprehensive, of all. It is the earliest, as it is the most intuitive—the smiles and frowns of the mother being the first signs understood by the infant. Indeed, if we consider for a moment that all existence is but a Pantomime, of which Time is the harlequin, changing to-day into yesterday, summer into winter, youth into old age, and life into death, and we but the clowns who bear the kicks and buffets of the scene, we cannot fail to desire the general cultivation of an art which constitutes the very essence of existence itself. “Speech,” says Talleyrand, that profound political pantomimist, “was given toconcealour thoughts;” and truly this is the chief use to which it is applied. We are continually clamouring for acts in lieu of words. Let but the art of Pantomime become universal, and this grand desideratum must be obtained. Then we shall find that candidates, instead of being able, as now, to become legislators by simply professing to be patriots, will be placed in the awkward predicament of having first toactas such; and that the clergy, in lieu of taking a tenth part of the produce for the mere preaching of Christianity, will be obliged to sacrifice at least a portion to charitable purposes, andpractiseit.
Indeed, we are thoroughly convinced, that when the manifold advantages of this beautiful art shall be generally known, it cannot fail of becoming the principle of universal communication. Nor do we despair of ultimately finding the elegant Lord A. avowing his love for the beautiful Miss B., by gently closing one of his eyes, and the fair lady tenderly expressing that doubt and incredulity which are the invariable concomitants of “Love’s young dream,” by a gentle indication with the dexter hand over the sinister shoulder.
A man laying a finger aside of his nose, and another with a thumbs-up
An action was recently brought in the Court of Queen’s Bench against Mr. Walter, to recover a sum of money expended by a person named Clark, in wine, spirits, malt liquors, and other refreshments, during a contest for the representation of the borough of Southwark. One of the witnesses, who it appears was chairman of Mr. Walter’s committee, swore thatevery thing the committee had to eat or drink went through him.By a remarkable coincidence, the counsel for the plaintiff in this tippling case wasMr. Lush.
“Excise Court.—An information was laid against Mr. Killpack, for selling spirituous liquor. Mr. James (the counsel for the defendant) stated that there was a club held there, of which Mr. Keeley, the actor, was treasurer, and many others of the theatrical profession were members, and that they had a store of brandy, whiskey, and other spirits. Fined £5 in each case.”—Observer
INVOCATION.Assist, ye jocal nine1,1. “Ye jocal nine,” a happy modification of “Ye vocal nine.” The nine here so classically invocated are manifestly nine of the members of the late club, consisting of, 1. Mr. D—s J—d. 2. The subject of the engraving, treasurer and store-keeper. 3. Mr. G—e S—h, sub-ed. J—— B——. 4. Mr. B—d, Mem. Dram. Author’s Society. 5. C—s S—y, ditto. 6. Mr. C—e. 7. Mr. C—s, T—s, late of the firm of T—s and P—t. 8. Mr. J—e A—n, Mem. Soc. British Artists. 9, and lastly, “though not least,” the author of “You loved me not in happier days.”inspire my soul!(Waiter! a go of Brett’s best alcohol,A light, and one of Killpack’s mild Havannahs).Fire me! again I say, while loud hosannasI sing of what we were—of what wenoware.Wildly let me rave,To imprecate the knaveWhose curiousinformationturned our porter sour,Bottled our stout, doing it (ruthless cub!)Brown,DownKnocking our snug, unlicensed club;Changing, despite ourbelle esprit, at one fellswop,Into a legal coffee-crib, our contraband cook-shop!ODE.Then little Bob arose,And doff’d his clothes,Exclaiming, “Momus! Stuff!I’ve played him long enough,”And, as the public seems inclined to sack us,Behold me readydressedto play young Bacchus.Bacchus straddling a barrel marked 'Best British Brandy Not Permitted'He said22. “He said.”—Deeply imbued with the style of the most polished of the classics, our author will be found to exhibit in some passages an imitation of it which might be considered pedantic, for ourselves, we admire the severe style. The literal rendering of the ‘dixit’ of the ancient epicists, strikes us as being eitremely forcible here.—PUNCH.his legs the barrel span,And thus the Covent Garden god began;—“GENTLEMEN,—I am—ahem—!—I beg your pardon,But, ahem! as first low com. of Common Garden—No, I don’t mean that, I mean to say,That if we were—ahem!—to paySo much per quarter for our quarterns, [Cries of ‘Hear!’]Import our own champagne and ginger-beer;In short,smallduty pay on all we sup—Ahem!—you understand—I give it up.”The speech was ended,And Bob descended.The club was formed. A spicy club it was—Especially on Saturdays; becauseThey dined extr’ordinary cheap at five o’clock:When there were met members of the Dram. A. Soc.Those of the sock and buskin, artists, court gazetteers—Odd fellows all—odderthan all their club compeers.Some were sub-editors, others reporters,And moreilluminati, joke-importers.The club was heterogen’ousBy strangers seen asA refuge for destitutebons mots—Dépôtfor leaden jokes and pewter pots;Repertory for gin andjeux d’esprit,Literary pound for vagrant rapartee;Second-hand shop for left-off witticisms;Gall’ry for Tomkins and Pitt-icisms;33. A play-bill reminiscence, viz. “The scenery by Messrs. Tomkins and Pitt.”—THE AUTHORS OF “BUT, HOWEVER.”Foundling hospital for every bastard pun;In short, a manufactory for all sorts of fun!Arouse my muse! such pleasing themes to quit,Hear me while I say“Donnez-moi du frenzy, s’il vous plait!”44. “Donnez-moi,” &c.—The classics of all countries are aptly drawn upon by the universal erudition of our bard. A fine parody this upon the exclamation of Belmontel’s starving author: “La Gloire—donnez-moi do pain!”—FENWICK DE PORQUET.Give me a most tremendous fitOf indignation, a wild volcanic ebullition,Or deep anathema,Fatal as J—d’s bah!To hurl excisemen downward to perdition.May genial gin no more delighttheirthrottles—Theircasks grow leaky, bottomlesstheirbottles;May smugglersrun, and they ne’er make a seizure;Maythey—I’ll curse them further at my leisure.But for our club,“Ay, there’s the rub.”“We mourn it dead in its father’s halls:”55. “They mourn it dead,” &c.—A pretty, but perhaps too literal allusion to a popular song—J. RODWELL.—The sporting prints are cut down from the walls;No stuffing there,Not even in a chair;The spirits are allex(or)cised,The coffee-cups capsized,The coffeefine-d, the snuff all taken,The mild Havannahs are by lights forsaken:The utter ruin of the club’s achieven—Our very chess-boards are ex-chequeredeven.“Where is our club?” X—sighs,66. “X—sighs.”—Who “X” may happen to be we have not the remotest idea. But who would not forgive a little mystification for so brilliant a pun?—THE GHOST OF PUNCH’S THEATRE.and with a stareLike to another echo, answers “Where?”
INVOCATION.Assist, ye jocal nine1,1. “Ye jocal nine,” a happy modification of “Ye vocal nine.” The nine here so classically invocated are manifestly nine of the members of the late club, consisting of, 1. Mr. D—s J—d. 2. The subject of the engraving, treasurer and store-keeper. 3. Mr. G—e S—h, sub-ed. J—— B——. 4. Mr. B—d, Mem. Dram. Author’s Society. 5. C—s S—y, ditto. 6. Mr. C—e. 7. Mr. C—s, T—s, late of the firm of T—s and P—t. 8. Mr. J—e A—n, Mem. Soc. British Artists. 9, and lastly, “though not least,” the author of “You loved me not in happier days.”inspire my soul!(Waiter! a go of Brett’s best alcohol,A light, and one of Killpack’s mild Havannahs).Fire me! again I say, while loud hosannasI sing of what we were—of what wenoware.Wildly let me rave,To imprecate the knaveWhose curiousinformationturned our porter sour,Bottled our stout, doing it (ruthless cub!)Brown,DownKnocking our snug, unlicensed club;Changing, despite ourbelle esprit, at one fellswop,Into a legal coffee-crib, our contraband cook-shop!
Assist, ye jocal nine1,1. “Ye jocal nine,” a happy modification of “Ye vocal nine.” The nine here so classically invocated are manifestly nine of the members of the late club, consisting of, 1. Mr. D—s J—d. 2. The subject of the engraving, treasurer and store-keeper. 3. Mr. G—e S—h, sub-ed. J—— B——. 4. Mr. B—d, Mem. Dram. Author’s Society. 5. C—s S—y, ditto. 6. Mr. C—e. 7. Mr. C—s, T—s, late of the firm of T—s and P—t. 8. Mr. J—e A—n, Mem. Soc. British Artists. 9, and lastly, “though not least,” the author of “You loved me not in happier days.”inspire my soul!
(Waiter! a go of Brett’s best alcohol,
A light, and one of Killpack’s mild Havannahs).
Fire me! again I say, while loud hosannas
I sing of what we were—of what wenoware.
Wildly let me rave,
To imprecate the knave
Whose curiousinformationturned our porter sour,
Bottled our stout, doing it (ruthless cub!)
Brown,
Down
Knocking our snug, unlicensed club;
Changing, despite ourbelle esprit, at one fellswop,
Into a legal coffee-crib, our contraband cook-shop!
ODE.Then little Bob arose,And doff’d his clothes,Exclaiming, “Momus! Stuff!I’ve played him long enough,”And, as the public seems inclined to sack us,Behold me readydressedto play young Bacchus.Bacchus straddling a barrel marked 'Best British Brandy Not Permitted'He said22. “He said.”—Deeply imbued with the style of the most polished of the classics, our author will be found to exhibit in some passages an imitation of it which might be considered pedantic, for ourselves, we admire the severe style. The literal rendering of the ‘dixit’ of the ancient epicists, strikes us as being eitremely forcible here.—PUNCH.his legs the barrel span,And thus the Covent Garden god began;—“GENTLEMEN,—I am—ahem—!—I beg your pardon,But, ahem! as first low com. of Common Garden—No, I don’t mean that, I mean to say,That if we were—ahem!—to paySo much per quarter for our quarterns, [Cries of ‘Hear!’]Import our own champagne and ginger-beer;In short,smallduty pay on all we sup—Ahem!—you understand—I give it up.”The speech was ended,And Bob descended.The club was formed. A spicy club it was—Especially on Saturdays; becauseThey dined extr’ordinary cheap at five o’clock:When there were met members of the Dram. A. Soc.Those of the sock and buskin, artists, court gazetteers—Odd fellows all—odderthan all their club compeers.Some were sub-editors, others reporters,And moreilluminati, joke-importers.The club was heterogen’ousBy strangers seen asA refuge for destitutebons mots—Dépôtfor leaden jokes and pewter pots;Repertory for gin andjeux d’esprit,Literary pound for vagrant rapartee;Second-hand shop for left-off witticisms;Gall’ry for Tomkins and Pitt-icisms;33. A play-bill reminiscence, viz. “The scenery by Messrs. Tomkins and Pitt.”—THE AUTHORS OF “BUT, HOWEVER.”Foundling hospital for every bastard pun;In short, a manufactory for all sorts of fun!Arouse my muse! such pleasing themes to quit,Hear me while I say“Donnez-moi du frenzy, s’il vous plait!”44. “Donnez-moi,” &c.—The classics of all countries are aptly drawn upon by the universal erudition of our bard. A fine parody this upon the exclamation of Belmontel’s starving author: “La Gloire—donnez-moi do pain!”—FENWICK DE PORQUET.Give me a most tremendous fitOf indignation, a wild volcanic ebullition,Or deep anathema,Fatal as J—d’s bah!To hurl excisemen downward to perdition.May genial gin no more delighttheirthrottles—Theircasks grow leaky, bottomlesstheirbottles;May smugglersrun, and they ne’er make a seizure;Maythey—I’ll curse them further at my leisure.But for our club,“Ay, there’s the rub.”“We mourn it dead in its father’s halls:”55. “They mourn it dead,” &c.—A pretty, but perhaps too literal allusion to a popular song—J. RODWELL.—The sporting prints are cut down from the walls;No stuffing there,Not even in a chair;The spirits are allex(or)cised,The coffee-cups capsized,The coffeefine-d, the snuff all taken,The mild Havannahs are by lights forsaken:The utter ruin of the club’s achieven—Our very chess-boards are ex-chequeredeven.“Where is our club?” X—sighs,66. “X—sighs.”—Who “X” may happen to be we have not the remotest idea. But who would not forgive a little mystification for so brilliant a pun?—THE GHOST OF PUNCH’S THEATRE.and with a stareLike to another echo, answers “Where?”
Then little Bob arose,
And doff’d his clothes,
Exclaiming, “Momus! Stuff!
I’ve played him long enough,”
And, as the public seems inclined to sack us,
Behold me readydressedto play young Bacchus.
Bacchus straddling a barrel marked 'Best British Brandy Not Permitted'
He said22. “He said.”—Deeply imbued with the style of the most polished of the classics, our author will be found to exhibit in some passages an imitation of it which might be considered pedantic, for ourselves, we admire the severe style. The literal rendering of the ‘dixit’ of the ancient epicists, strikes us as being eitremely forcible here.—PUNCH.his legs the barrel span,
And thus the Covent Garden god began;—
“GENTLEMEN,—I am—ahem—!—I beg your pardon,
But, ahem! as first low com. of Common Garden—
No, I don’t mean that, I mean to say,
That if we were—ahem!—to pay
So much per quarter for our quarterns, [Cries of ‘Hear!’]
Import our own champagne and ginger-beer;
In short,smallduty pay on all we sup—
Ahem!—you understand—I give it up.”
The speech was ended,
And Bob descended.
The club was formed. A spicy club it was—
Especially on Saturdays; because
They dined extr’ordinary cheap at five o’clock:
When there were met members of the Dram. A. Soc.
Those of the sock and buskin, artists, court gazetteers—
Odd fellows all—odderthan all their club compeers.
Some were sub-editors, others reporters,
And moreilluminati, joke-importers.
The club was heterogen’ous
By strangers seen as
A refuge for destitutebons mots—
Dépôtfor leaden jokes and pewter pots;
Repertory for gin andjeux d’esprit,
Literary pound for vagrant rapartee;
Second-hand shop for left-off witticisms;
Gall’ry for Tomkins and Pitt-icisms;33. A play-bill reminiscence, viz. “The scenery by Messrs. Tomkins and Pitt.”—THE AUTHORS OF “BUT, HOWEVER.”
Foundling hospital for every bastard pun;
In short, a manufactory for all sorts of fun!
Arouse my muse! such pleasing themes to quit,
Hear me while I say
“Donnez-moi du frenzy, s’il vous plait!”44. “Donnez-moi,” &c.—The classics of all countries are aptly drawn upon by the universal erudition of our bard. A fine parody this upon the exclamation of Belmontel’s starving author: “La Gloire—donnez-moi do pain!”—FENWICK DE PORQUET.
Give me a most tremendous fit
Of indignation, a wild volcanic ebullition,
Or deep anathema,
Fatal as J—d’s bah!
To hurl excisemen downward to perdition.
May genial gin no more delighttheirthrottles—
Theircasks grow leaky, bottomlesstheirbottles;
May smugglersrun, and they ne’er make a seizure;
Maythey—I’ll curse them further at my leisure.
But for our club,
“Ay, there’s the rub.”
“We mourn it dead in its father’s halls:”55. “They mourn it dead,” &c.—A pretty, but perhaps too literal allusion to a popular song—J. RODWELL.—
The sporting prints are cut down from the walls;
No stuffing there,
Not even in a chair;
The spirits are allex(or)cised,
The coffee-cups capsized,
The coffeefine-d, the snuff all taken,
The mild Havannahs are by lights forsaken:
The utter ruin of the club’s achieven—
Our very chess-boards are ex-chequeredeven.
“Where is our club?” X—sighs,66. “X—sighs.”—Who “X” may happen to be we have not the remotest idea. But who would not forgive a little mystification for so brilliant a pun?—THE GHOST OF PUNCH’S THEATRE.and with a stare
Like to another echo, answers “Where?”
We are requested by Mr. Hume to state, that being relieved from his parliamentary duties, he intends opening a day-school in the neighbourhood of the House of Commons, for the instruction of members only, in the principles of the illustrious Cocker; and to remedy in some measure his own absence from the Finance Committees, he is now engaged in preparing a Parliamentary Ready-reckoner. We heartily wish him success.
“In the event of the Tories coming into power, it is intended to confer the place of Postmaster-General upon Lord Clanwilliam. It would be difficult to select an individual morepeculiarlyfitted for the situation than his lordship, whoselove of lettersis notorious in the Carlton Club.”—Extract from an Intercepted Letter.
It is currently reported at the Conservative Clubs, that if their party should come into power, Sir Robert Peel will endeavour to conciliate the Whigs, and to form a coalition with their former opponents. We have no doubt the cautious baronet sees the necessity of the step, and would feel grateful for support from any quarter; but we much doubt the practicability of the measure. It would indeed he a strange sight to see Lord Johnny and Sir Bobby, the two great leaders of the opposition engines, with their followers, meeting amicably on the floor of the House of Commons. In our opinion, an infernal crash and smash would be the result of these
Four trains meeting at an intersection with bodies strewn about.GRAND JUNCTION TRAINS.
GRAND JUNCTION TRAINS.
The “star system” has added another victim to the many already sacrificed to its rapacity and injustice. Mr. Phelps, an actor whose personation ofMacduff, theHunchback, Jaques, &c., would have procured for him in former times no mean position, has been compelled to secede from the Haymarket Theatre from a justifiable feeling of disgust at the continual sacrifices he was required to make for the aggrandisement of one to whom he may not possibly ascribe any superiority of genius. The part assigned to Mr. Phelps (Friar Lawrence) requires an actor of considerable powers, and under the oldrégimewould have deteriorated nothing from Mr. Phelps’ position; but we can understand the motives which influenced its rejection, and whilst we deprecate the practice of actors refusing parts on every caprice, we consider Mr. Phelps’ opposition to this ruinous system of “starring” as commendable and manly. The real cause of the decline of the drama is the upholding of this system. The “stars” are paid so enormously, and cost so much to maintain them in their false position, that the manager cannot afford (supposing the disposition to exist) to pay the working portion of his company salaries commensurate with their usefulness, or compatible with the appearance they are expected to maintain out of the theatre; whilst opportunities of testing their powers as actors, or of improving any favourable impression they may have made upon the public, is denied to them, from the fear that the influence of the greater, because more fortunate actor, may be diminished thereby. These facts are now so well known, that men of education are deterred from making the stage a profession, and consequently the scarcity of rising actors is referable to this cause.
The poverty of our present dramatic literature may also be attributable to this absurd and destructive system. The “star” must be considered alone in the construction of the drama; or if the piece be not actually made to measure, the actor,par excellence, must be the arbiter of the author’s creation. Writers are thus deterred from making experiments in the higher order of dramatic writing, for should their subject admit of this individual display, its rejection by the “star” would render the labour of months valueless, and the dramatist, driven from the path of fame, degenerates into a literary drudge, receiving for his wearying labour a lesser remuneration than would be otherwise awarded him, from the pecuniary monopoly of the “star.”
It is this system which has begotten the present indifference to the stage. The public had formerlymanyfavourites, because all had an opportunity of contending for their favour—now they have only Mr. A. or Mrs. B., who must ultimately weary the public, be their talent what it may, as the sweetest note would pall upon the ear, were it continually sounded, although, when harmonised with others, it should constitute the charm of the melody.
We have made these remarks divested of any personal consideration. We quarrel only with the system that we believe to be unjust and injurious to an art which we reverence.
VAUXHALL.—Vauxhall! region of Punch, both liquid and corporeal!—Elysium of illumination lamps!—Paradise of Simpson!—we have been permitted once again to breathe your oily atmosphere, to partake of an imaginary repast of impalpable ham and invisible chicken—to join in the eruption of exclamations at thy pyrotechnic glories—to swallow thy mysterious arrack and
A jester wearing a togaPUNCH A LA ROMAINE.
PUNCH A LA ROMAINE.
We have seen Jullien, the elegant, pantomimic Jullien, exhibit his six-inch wristbands and exquisitely dressed head—we have roved again amid those bowers where, with Araminta Smith, years ago,
“We met the daylight after seven hours’ sitting.”
But we were not happy. There was a something that told us it was not Vauxhall: the G R’s were V R’s—the cocked hats were round hats—the fiddlers were foreigners—the Rotunda was Astley’s—the night was moon-shiny—and there was not—our pen weeps whilst we trace the mournful fact—there was not “Simpson” to exclaim, “Welcome to the royal property!” Urbane M.A.C., wouldst that thou hadst been a Mussulman, then wouldst thou doubtlessly be gliding about amid an Eden of Houris, uttering to the verge of time the hospitable sentence which has rendered thy name immortal—Peace to thy manes!
STRAND.—The enterprising managers of this elegant little theatre have produced another mythological drama, called “The Frolics of the Fairies; or, the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle,” from the pen of Leman Rede, who is, without doubt, the first of this class of writers. The indisposition of Mr. Hall was stated to be the cause of the delay in the production of this piece; out, from the appearance of the bills, we are led to infer that it arose from theindispositionof Mrs. Waylett to shine in the same hemisphere with that little brilliant, Mrs. Keeley, and “a gem of the first water” she proved herself to be on Wednesday night. It would be useless to enter into the detail of the plot of an ephemeron, that depends more upon its quips and cranks than dramatic construction for its success. It abounds in merry conceits, which that merriest of—dare we call her mere woman?—little Mrs. Bob rendered as pointed as a Whitechapel needle of the finest temper. The appointments and arrangements of the stage reflect the highest credit on the management, and the industry which can labour to surmount the difficulties which we know to exist in the production of anything like scenic effect in the Strand Theatre, deserve the encouragement which we were gratified to see bestowed upon this little Temple of Momus.
The Olympic Theatre has obtained an extension of its licence from the Lord Chamberlain, and will shortly open with a company selected from Ducrow’s late establishment; but whether thepedsarebiorquadru, rumour sayeth not.
MESSRS. FUDGE and VAMP beg to inform novelists and writers of tales in general, that they supplydénouementsto unfinished stories, on the most reasonable terms. They have just completed a large stock of catastrophes, to which they respectfully solicit attention.
Discovery of the real murderers, and respite of the accused.
Ditto very superior, with return of the supposed victim.
Ditto, ditto, extra superfine, with punishment of vice and reward of virtue.
Mollification of flinty-hearted fathers and union of lovers, &c. &c. &c.
Fictitious bankruptcy of the hero, and sudden reinstatement of fortune.
Ditto, ditto, with exposure of false friends.
Non-recognition of son by father, ultimate discovery of former by latter.
Ditto, ditto, very fine, “with convenient cordial,” and true gentlemen, illustrated by an olddebauchee.
N.B.—On hand, a very choice assortment of interesting parricides, strongly recommended for Surrey use.