IRON BARS OF MUSIC.

We have often wished that we could suggest anything that would afford some scope for the unemployed ability of the artists of our almost extinct English Opera. Here, in an advertisement out of theTimes, appears to be something like an opening for one of them—if the foreign predilections of our superior classes have not starved them all:—

ORGAN.—WANTED, a respectable man to act as TURNKEY in a County Prison. One who understands music, can play the Organ, and sing bass would be preferred. For further particulars apply, post paid, to T. T. S., Post-office, Bath.

The popular air of "Still so gently o'er me stealing," will immediately suggest itself as one of the first airs that would be called for from the musical turnkey, having been transposed so as to be sung in the bass, which "would be preferred." Any one who had personated the gaoler in the vernacular version ofFideliowould, however, be the man for the situation; and it is pleasing to imagine such a respectable vocalist leading the Prison Chorus at the head of real convicts. A pretty idea, too, is that of a Nightingale within four stone walls, beguiling the tedium of confinement with his "jug-jug." Of course the harmonious turnkey would enchant his incarcerated audience by his performance of the Witch music ofMatthew Locke. That he should also be an organist is a good notion; phrenologists will admit it to be judicious to play the organ of tune against that of acquisitiveness or theft, and all other human organs out of tune and discordant with man's better nature. Talking of the organ,Sebastian Bachwould have been just the very turnkey in request, for he was a master of that noble instrument; and the kind of piece which he most delighted in performing thereon was aQuod-libet.

It is to be hoped that the cultivation of music will be introduced at Newgate; and then, perhaps, we shall at last witness a genuine representation of theBeggar's Opera.

WWHEN, Sir, you selected me from the crowd of eminent persons who solicited the honour of furnishing you with their impressions of the French metropolis, you were good enough to attribute to me an uncommon impartiality and serenity of mind. "That impartiality," you observed with your usual force and felicity of language, "will preserve your communications from the onesidedness that usually deforms a traveller's views of foreign country." My modesty, Sir, (almost amounting to bashfulness) is well known to you, but I will venture to say that you were correct in your estimate. I feel myself equally free from the sturdy prepossessions nourished byMr. Dowlasof Mecklenburgh Square and the rose-coloured delusions which captivate youngThreadpaperof the Foreign Office. The former gentleman marches through this city in company withMrs. D.and the girls, armed with a guide-book and a pocket map, and finds all barren. The latter wishes to introduce absolute government into England, supported by an army of five hundred thousand men and a censorship of the press.Threadpaperis of tender years; his moustache is downy, indeed hardly visible without a glass; he will grown wiser with time, butMr. Dowlas, I very much fear, is beyond all cure.

WHEN, Sir, you selected me from the crowd of eminent persons who solicited the honour of furnishing you with their impressions of the French metropolis, you were good enough to attribute to me an uncommon impartiality and serenity of mind. "That impartiality," you observed with your usual force and felicity of language, "will preserve your communications from the onesidedness that usually deforms a traveller's views of foreign country." My modesty, Sir, (almost amounting to bashfulness) is well known to you, but I will venture to say that you were correct in your estimate. I feel myself equally free from the sturdy prepossessions nourished byMr. Dowlasof Mecklenburgh Square and the rose-coloured delusions which captivate youngThreadpaperof the Foreign Office. The former gentleman marches through this city in company withMrs. D.and the girls, armed with a guide-book and a pocket map, and finds all barren. The latter wishes to introduce absolute government into England, supported by an army of five hundred thousand men and a censorship of the press.Threadpaperis of tender years; his moustache is downy, indeed hardly visible without a glass; he will grown wiser with time, butMr. Dowlas, I very much fear, is beyond all cure.

D., you old humbug! what do you mean by uttering your shallow vulgar criticism on the greatest nation of Continental Europe? You know nothing of their history, except that they were beaten at the battle of Waterloo; you can't speak a word of their language; you can't read one of their newspapers; you are supremely ignorant of their character and institutions, and yet you treat them as a mob of hairdressers, dancing masters, and cooks (and not good cooks either), and exult in the time-honoured conviction that one Englishman can thrash two Frenchmen.Dowlas, attend to me, I am going to talk about taste—a word that ought to excite shame and anguish in your mind. For a quarter of a century you have been smothering the world with printed fabrics of fantastic and horrible ugliness. Millions upon millions of yards of these abominations have found their way into every nook and corner of the world. Remote tribes of wandering Tartars and the squaws of painted Choktaws have clad their bodies and depraved their souls with your outrageous patterns. Bales marked with the well-knownD.(oh, how could you,Mr. Dowlas, Sir?) have carried their baleful influence into the innocent populations of the Peaceful Ocean. The least hideous of these productions are those you have stolen (and spoiled) from the French, and if there is any improvement in your patterns of late years, it is entirely to be attributed to your piracy of French designs.

The fact is, that France has become the Mistress of Arts to the world. If England lives in a fever of industry,shelives in a fever of invention. Every novelty we have is due to her restless creative spirit. In arts, in letters, in philosophy, she scatters abroad new ideas with unsparing profusion; other nations, following with unequal steps, treasure up what falls, and claim it as their own. This exuberance of fancy is only the result of the universal artistic feeling which seems to animate her citizens. You cannot go anywhere in Paris without being conscious of this. Every shop window is a picture. Look at that pastrycook's. A few pieces of china and half-a-dozen bon-bon boxes form a composition that is really charming. Is there any one from Marlborough House could do it as well? Only think of the tons of three-cornered tarts and Bath buns that form the decoration of a London confectioner's. And yet this pretty arrangement is due to the intuitive taste of the little scrubby ignorant daughter of the people who serves in the shop. I will not draw your attention to the quiet becoming style of her dress, because you have often confessed to me in private your admiration of Parisian toilettes, though in the presence ofMrs. D.you loudly affect to prefer the dowdy manner adopted by that lady in common with the most part of her countrywomen. I will, therefore, make no further mention of ladies' costume, only protesting that, in my opinion, all Frenchwomen in their degree dress to perfection, and that an ugly bonnet is no certain proof of wisdom or goodness as is generally supposed.

Turn to the houses, and compare their gay ornate appearance with the dismal monotonous streets of London. Every one has its separate character. The portal is of sculptured stone, always decent and often of beautiful design. A little bit of carved cornice, a simple moulding round the windows gives individuality and interest to the upper part without any of the astounding architectural eccentricities of Regent Street. Enter, and you will find the furniture of even the humbler occupants varied, characteristic, and pretty. Where ornament is attempted, it is well chosen and sparingly introduced. A beautiful cabinet, a few small pictures, a group or two in bronze, some exquisite china—quite a contrast to the overwhelming magnificence of English upholstery. I know,Dowlas, you gave acarte blanchetoJobkinsandSonfor your house in Mecklenburgh Square. Well, well—if the subject is a painful one we will not pursue it; though I must say that I think six copies of the peacocky young woman in fetters, called for some inscrutable reason the Greek Slave, rather too much for two drawing-rooms (couldn't you send up a pair to the best bed-room, and one to the butler's pantry?) and I may also take this opportunity of informingJobkins, Junior, who does the "tasty" business of his firm, that merely multiplying expensive tables and chairs, and daubing everything over with gold, though it may satisfactorily swell the bill, shows a miserable want of fancy and cleverness in a decorator.

I quite admit the solidity and conscientiousness of English workmanship. We buy a frightful table in Bond Street, and, behold, it will last for ever. The drawers inDowlas'shouse are as delightful to open and shut as they are horrible to look at. English boots will outlast French boots, and English gloves French gloves. Whatever may have been the case years ago, it is a great mistake to suppose that these articles are better now in Paris than in London. The great difference is shortly this[5]—our artists are tradesmen and their tradesmen are artists. In all articles of simple usefulness we have an unquestionable superiority, but where something more than convenience or durability is required our designers seem quite helpless. A certain funeral car will occur to many as an example of this truth, and, perhaps, by malicious persons, will be taken to shew how much or how little is to be expected from Government Schools of Art.

The Tourist is aware that no one can walk about Paris without seeing abundant evidences of the coarsest moral and social feeling, and claims an infinitely higher position for his own countrymen and countrywomen in this respect. He also recollects that he has already ridiculed the dress of Frenchmen, and sees that this may be supposed inconsistent with a sweeping panegyric on French taste. But this isan exception that proves the rule. A Frenchman'stheoryof dress is wrong. He always wants to be conspicuous and picturesque. Hence, nothing is too singular and showy for him. He gets himself up, as if for the stage, with velvet and fur and beard and moustache, and exhausts the resources of his inventive mind for new and still morepiquantcombinations. When he turns his attentions to the chase, the result is something worth seeing, and no mistake, as will be more plainly seen by a picture of a party of sporting gentlemen going out shooting. But these comicalities are eschewed by the genuine "swells," who adopt our sober English notions of masculine costume, and, indeed, dress exactly like Englishmen. The advice ofPoloniustoLaerteswill literally apply to the matter at the present day:—

"Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy.Butnot expressed in fancy—rich, not gaudy—For the apparel oft proclaims the man.And they in Franceof the best rank and stationAre most select and generous, chief in that—"

"Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy.

Butnot expressed in fancy—rich, not gaudy—

For the apparel oft proclaims the man.

And they in Franceof the best rank and station

Are most select and generous, chief in that—"

The most august confirmation has been given to this view. I state with becoming reverence and awe that hisI——l M——y, with that regard for detail which characterises his great mind, has sent a special envoy to London, and had all his liveries made in Saville Row, with which unspeakably solemn allusion I close this communication.

[5]This is not intended to apply to our painters, who may well be compared with those of any country, but to the designers for manufactures.

sporting gentleman on shoot.

The Greenwich Steamboats have recently been employed in the important, but somewhat dangerous, service of destroying the various piers, at which they call for passengers. These absurd and useless structures—which are usually composed of three or four superannuated barges, loosely connected by a twopenny cord; several flights of stairs, leading up into the air and down again, on to the next pier and back again, or, indeed, anywhere but into the boats; a hut which combines the accommodation of a watch-box with the cleanliness of a pigstye, and a series of gangways which are intended to accommodate themselves to the rising and falling of the tide, but which invariably stick fast at the wrong end, and either carry the unfortunate traveller some 20 feet above the wharf, or threaten to precipitate him down a sort of Montagne Russe into the water;—these agglomerations of tar, dirt, touchwood, and rope-yarn, have so long encumbered and disfigured the bank of the river that the Directors of the Greenwich steamboats have come to the resolution which their boats have been carrying out.

The plan, on which the work of demolition is carried on, is as follows: The captain drives the boat stem on to the pier, without giving any order to reverse the engines, and the immediate consequence is a most satisfactory collision. It is not true, however, that the French, in despair at ever being able to effect a landing in London over these piers, have bribed the Directors to destroy these bulwarks of the river. Nor are the Directors following the example of the Scotch Baronet, who has just pulled down a pier on his estate, because the boats stopped at it on Sunday. The cases are quite different, for the Scotch piers are only private, or representative, and can be removed at pleasure, whereas the London piers have persevered in their career of uselessness for many ages, and can only be got rid of by violent measures.

I'm sick of the sickle,Mollydear, and stooping so long and so low;And it's little grief it gives me, to give the ould bother the go!And when another harvest comes, by the Saints! I'd like to seeThe money or anything else that 'ud make a Raping-Machine of me!I've raped in Scotland and England, and I've raped in the Lothians three,And I dar' say it's twenty year since first I crossed the Irish Sea;I've raped yer wheat, and yer barley, and oats and beans, sez Pat:But as for Profit—it's sorrow the raping that ever I raped of that!So, good luck to you,Misther Mac Cormack, and Yer Reverence,Misther Bell,And good luck to you,Misther Hussey—I wish yer Honours well;The shearer's footing on the fields ye've fairly cut away;But it's not been worth the standing on, bedad, this many a day.And now the Horse takes the raping in hand, and pulls the huge machinesThat go clicking and snicking across the fields of wheat, oats, barley, and beans;Ye've got machines for sowing, and thrashing, and raping, between and betwixt,And, troth, it's my private opinion ye'll have a machine for eating it next!But we'll throw the sickle aside,Molly, and go and try our luckOn the banks of the far Australian strames, where the otter is billed like a duck:For there's mate, and drink, and clothes,Molly, and riches and rank to be won.At the Anti—what d'ye call the place, on t'other side of the sun?And there'll be no land-agents, nor middlemen, nor Jews,But ye'll see me stoning lumps of gould at the beggarly Kangaroos;And there's nayther shooting of bailiffs, nor any such wicked fun,In land that lies beneath our feet, on t'other side of the sun.And no more masses to pay for!—good day to ye,Father O'Bladd,The last Confession from me, faiks, and the very last penny ye've had;It's little Yer Reverence leaves behind when ye clear away our sin,As the prophet sez, ye purge our dross, and take precious care of the tin.Ye've a bandage on yer wrist,Molly; that wrist with gems I'll deck,And a string of nuggets, like millstones, I'll hang about yer neck,And we'll live in a snug retirement where our nearest neighbour'll beTheEmperor of China, who will sometimes look in to tea!Och! the world we're leaving,Molly, is a world of grief and care,For even the pigs and potatoes are not the angels that once they were;But the world we're going to,Molly, is where the giants of ouldBuried—for want of a better bank—their stocking-legs crammed with gould!It's a world of wonders,Molly, a world without a peer;For what it has, and what it wants, we've nothing like it here:But of all its wondrous things, it seems the strangest thing to meThat there the labouring man's the man gets first to the top o' the tree.

I'm sick of the sickle,Mollydear, and stooping so long and so low;

And it's little grief it gives me, to give the ould bother the go!

And when another harvest comes, by the Saints! I'd like to see

The money or anything else that 'ud make a Raping-Machine of me!

I've raped in Scotland and England, and I've raped in the Lothians three,And I dar' say it's twenty year since first I crossed the Irish Sea;I've raped yer wheat, and yer barley, and oats and beans, sez Pat:But as for Profit—it's sorrow the raping that ever I raped of that!

I've raped in Scotland and England, and I've raped in the Lothians three,

And I dar' say it's twenty year since first I crossed the Irish Sea;

I've raped yer wheat, and yer barley, and oats and beans, sez Pat:

But as for Profit—it's sorrow the raping that ever I raped of that!

So, good luck to you,Misther Mac Cormack, and Yer Reverence,Misther Bell,And good luck to you,Misther Hussey—I wish yer Honours well;The shearer's footing on the fields ye've fairly cut away;But it's not been worth the standing on, bedad, this many a day.

So, good luck to you,Misther Mac Cormack, and Yer Reverence,Misther Bell,

And good luck to you,Misther Hussey—I wish yer Honours well;

The shearer's footing on the fields ye've fairly cut away;

But it's not been worth the standing on, bedad, this many a day.

And now the Horse takes the raping in hand, and pulls the huge machinesThat go clicking and snicking across the fields of wheat, oats, barley, and beans;Ye've got machines for sowing, and thrashing, and raping, between and betwixt,And, troth, it's my private opinion ye'll have a machine for eating it next!

And now the Horse takes the raping in hand, and pulls the huge machines

That go clicking and snicking across the fields of wheat, oats, barley, and beans;

Ye've got machines for sowing, and thrashing, and raping, between and betwixt,

And, troth, it's my private opinion ye'll have a machine for eating it next!

But we'll throw the sickle aside,Molly, and go and try our luckOn the banks of the far Australian strames, where the otter is billed like a duck:For there's mate, and drink, and clothes,Molly, and riches and rank to be won.At the Anti—what d'ye call the place, on t'other side of the sun?

But we'll throw the sickle aside,Molly, and go and try our luck

On the banks of the far Australian strames, where the otter is billed like a duck:

For there's mate, and drink, and clothes,Molly, and riches and rank to be won.

At the Anti—what d'ye call the place, on t'other side of the sun?

And there'll be no land-agents, nor middlemen, nor Jews,But ye'll see me stoning lumps of gould at the beggarly Kangaroos;And there's nayther shooting of bailiffs, nor any such wicked fun,In land that lies beneath our feet, on t'other side of the sun.

And there'll be no land-agents, nor middlemen, nor Jews,

But ye'll see me stoning lumps of gould at the beggarly Kangaroos;

And there's nayther shooting of bailiffs, nor any such wicked fun,

In land that lies beneath our feet, on t'other side of the sun.

And no more masses to pay for!—good day to ye,Father O'Bladd,The last Confession from me, faiks, and the very last penny ye've had;It's little Yer Reverence leaves behind when ye clear away our sin,As the prophet sez, ye purge our dross, and take precious care of the tin.

And no more masses to pay for!—good day to ye,Father O'Bladd,

The last Confession from me, faiks, and the very last penny ye've had;

It's little Yer Reverence leaves behind when ye clear away our sin,

As the prophet sez, ye purge our dross, and take precious care of the tin.

Ye've a bandage on yer wrist,Molly; that wrist with gems I'll deck,And a string of nuggets, like millstones, I'll hang about yer neck,And we'll live in a snug retirement where our nearest neighbour'll beTheEmperor of China, who will sometimes look in to tea!

Ye've a bandage on yer wrist,Molly; that wrist with gems I'll deck,

And a string of nuggets, like millstones, I'll hang about yer neck,

And we'll live in a snug retirement where our nearest neighbour'll be

TheEmperor of China, who will sometimes look in to tea!

Och! the world we're leaving,Molly, is a world of grief and care,For even the pigs and potatoes are not the angels that once they were;But the world we're going to,Molly, is where the giants of ouldBuried—for want of a better bank—their stocking-legs crammed with gould!

Och! the world we're leaving,Molly, is a world of grief and care,

For even the pigs and potatoes are not the angels that once they were;

But the world we're going to,Molly, is where the giants of ould

Buried—for want of a better bank—their stocking-legs crammed with gould!

It's a world of wonders,Molly, a world without a peer;For what it has, and what it wants, we've nothing like it here:But of all its wondrous things, it seems the strangest thing to meThat there the labouring man's the man gets first to the top o' the tree.

It's a world of wonders,Molly, a world without a peer;

For what it has, and what it wants, we've nothing like it here:

But of all its wondrous things, it seems the strangest thing to me

That there the labouring man's the man gets first to the top o' the tree.

Aspirituelleyoung lady writes up from Ramsgate to say:—"In the morning, my dear, we have a delivery of letters by the Post. In the afternoon we have another delivery—the delivery of husbands, brothers,cousins, or beloved acquaintances, as the case may be, by the steam-packet. In this manner, darling, we have amail-delivery twice a-day. It would ill-becomemeto saywhichone I like best."

Table-rapping with Genuine Spirits every evening at theShadesHarmonic Free and Easy, in Scamp's Alley. A Medium in the Bar—but "goes" of whiskey, brandy, rum, or gin unlimited.

It is complained that there are no examinations at the Inns of Court in town, whilst it is forgotten that thousands of applicants for admission are daily plucked at the hotels all over the country.

Puritans in Request.—The metropolis would be much more pleasant if the Commissioners of Sewers had a proper number of disscenters among them.

DIVISION OF LABOUR.DIVISION OF LABOUR.Sportsman (in Standing Beans)."Where to, now, Jack?"Jack."Well! Let's see! I should just go up the Beans again, and across the top-end, beat down the other side and round by the bottom; while you're there, get over and try Old Haycock's Standing Oats—he won't mind—I'll stop here and Mark!"

Sportsman (in Standing Beans)."Where to, now, Jack?"

Jack."Well! Let's see! I should just go up the Beans again, and across the top-end, beat down the other side and round by the bottom; while you're there, get over and try Old Haycock's Standing Oats—he won't mind—I'll stop here and Mark!"

"For Heaven's sake, gentlemen,don'tnail the poor man's ears to the pump!"

Such was the benevolent exclamation ofTyger Roche(an Irish fire-eater of the last century) when he beheld a certain attorney within the walls of Dublin Jail. And the prayer was sufficient; for no sooner was it uttered, than the hapless lawyer was in the clutches of invoked persecutors, and hammer and nails hotly sought for.

Our friend theSpectator, oddly enough, is, for once, very likeTyger Roche.He says—

"It is evident that a serious disturbance in Europe might be very inconvenient to the minor German Powers; and that fact hasperhapssuggestedthe rough guess, that a Prince bound up with German interests by family relations, has used his position near the British Sovereign for the purpose of inducing England to assist in hushing up the quarrel, with scanty regard to the justice of the case;in short, thatPrince Alberthas induced England to abandon her pledge and her ally!"

TheSpectatorhaving made "the rough guess," reasons on it in his own logical way, and concludes with these convincing words—

"We do not believethatPrince Alberthas so far forgotten his happy and exalted duty, of which he has shown so just an appreciation, by officious meddling with affairs which are not his."

That theSpectator, the Esquimaux of the Press—for somehow he always appears toPunchin a suit of sealskin, with a very blue nose, prepared, if necessary, to harpoon the whale that shall supply his midnight oil—that the coldSpectatorshould suggest such a charge againstPrince Albertmerely to express a disbelief is, at least, a very unnecessary trouble.

"Don't nail the poor man's ears to the pump!" criesTyger Roche.

"Don't believePrince Albertan ally ofNicholas!" cries theSpectator.

A Serious Question To Colonel Sibthorp.—Is the ghost of Pond Street, Chelsea, the ghost of Protection?

I went to the sign of the Cat and Fiddle,Whereat they did me grossly diddle:I went to the Commercial Inn,Where they well nigh stripped me to the skin:I went to the Manchester Business House,And equally there I found them chouse.I went to the Coffee-House and Tavern,Which turned out a regular robbers' cavern:I went to the Family Hotel,And they pillaged and plundered me there as well:I went to the Recreative ditto,My Stars and Garters!—wasn't I bit—oh!

I went to the sign of the Cat and Fiddle,

Whereat they did me grossly diddle:

I went to the Commercial Inn,

Where they well nigh stripped me to the skin:

I went to the Manchester Business House,

And equally there I found them chouse.

I went to the Coffee-House and Tavern,

Which turned out a regular robbers' cavern:

I went to the Family Hotel,

And they pillaged and plundered me there as well:

I went to the Recreative ditto,

My Stars and Garters!—wasn't I bit—oh!

The humbug of the Holy Eye-water at Salette has been recently exposed very efficiently; but we are told theBishop of Grenoblehas adopted it, because, to use a legal expression, it "runs with the surplice." We can but express our astonishment that such eye-water should be necessary to make a Bishop ('s) see.

"Mr. Punch,—The periodical review of the uses and abuses of English Hotels having commenced, I beg leave to state that there is a small, unpretending hostelry at Matlock Baths, where the luncheon (price 2s.) supplied is invariably made up of bits of loins of mutton, and leavings of ribs of beef, all—in honour of the locality—duly petrified. Last week I managed to chip off and swallow a bit of a joint, and I verily believe have been troubled with the stone ever since. (Price 2s.!)

Yours,

Viator."

IMPUDENT ROBBERY OF A TRAVELLERIMPUDENT ROBBERY OF A TRAVELLER AT AN ENGLISH HOTEL.THE POOR GENTLEMAN WAS FIRST KNOCKED DOWN BY A HEAVY BILL, AND THEN PLUNDERED.

THE POOR GENTLEMAN WAS FIRST KNOCKED DOWN BY A HEAVY BILL, AND THEN PLUNDERED.

TTHETimes, in a letter from Grenoble, states that the Trappists in the neighbourhood of La Salette are busy in the manufacture of a beverage which, from the writer's description, seems to be about identical with that which is produced byMessrs. Seager & Evans. We congratulate the worthy monks upon taking to honest gin-spinning, which is a much more laudable occupation than weaving toils to entangle simpletons. We should think this order must be rather numerous in the district in question, as surely all those must have been regular Trappists, who were concerned in getting up the enormous hoax which has given it celebrity.

THETimes, in a letter from Grenoble, states that the Trappists in the neighbourhood of La Salette are busy in the manufacture of a beverage which, from the writer's description, seems to be about identical with that which is produced byMessrs. Seager & Evans. We congratulate the worthy monks upon taking to honest gin-spinning, which is a much more laudable occupation than weaving toils to entangle simpletons. We should think this order must be rather numerous in the district in question, as surely all those must have been regular Trappists, who were concerned in getting up the enormous hoax which has given it celebrity.

It seems that they have entrapped some gulls of theLucastribe, who were not up to Trap: but we should have considered even that common marine fowl, the Booby, too old a bird to be capable of being caught by chaff so extremely palpable.

BY A SENTIMENTAL OLD YOUNG LADY.

One's existence down here is divided between donkey-riding and novel-reading—pretty exercises for the mind and body! It would be difficult to say which were the slowest—the donkeys or the novels. It's very strange, but how extremely rare it is you come across a donkey or a novel that's in the least moving!

Youth writes its hopes upon the sand, and Age advances, like the sea, and washes them all out.

We raffle, and raffle our best affections away, like shillings at the Library, and Man looks coldly on, and smilingly says, "Better luck, Miss, next time."

I am sure that the sand, with which Time has filled his hour-glass, must have been picked up at a watering-place, for nowhere else does the time run on so slowly, or the hours succeed one another with such provoking similarity.

It is very curious that the sea, which brings the colour back to our cheeks, generally takes it from our ribbons!

It is the same with dispositions as with bonnets; it is not every one that can stand the sea-side.

Scandal is a rank weed which is generally found in great profusion near the sea-coast.

A watering-place is a harbour of refuge, that we, poor weak vessels, after having been tossed about for nine months in the year, are obliged, during the other three, to put into for repairs.

I am frequently reminded, when I see a party about to start in a pleasure boat, of the effect of a London season. Every one is so gay and blooming, so full of health and spirits at the starting, but how pale, dejected, dragged, drenched, and fairly sickened they look, if you chance to see them returning at the end of it!

"One of the Royal servants brought with him to the train a sod of shamrock which had been dug up in the grounds attached to the Viceregal Lodge. A porcelain pot received the plant, which, as it had been obtained at the special request ofHer Majesty, is probably destined to be transplanted to some of the Royal grounds, and cultivated as a memento of a visit which will be long memorable in Ireland."—Dublin Daily Express.

Erin mavourneen, torn up from thy green,Lonely, withered, and drooped for a while,Though planted in porcelain, and nursed by a Queen,I was sick at the roots for my own pleasant isle;Where the winds came so gently to kiss me and love me,There was tenderness e'en in the breath of the north;Where the kind clouds would fling their soft shadows above me,When the hot sun of summer came scorchingly forth.I pined for those tender grey eyes, whose black lashesVeil a tear and a smile alike ready to start;I longed for the mirth, whose unquenchable flashesHold a struggle with gloom in the Irishman's heart.White hands were about me, but not my own people's,Kind hearts, too, but not the kind hearts I had known;The bells that I heard rang in Sassenach steeples,And wanted the music I loved in my own.An' I fancied they scorned me, the poor plant of Erin,Them roses so gaudy, them thistles so tall;An' I thought as they tossed their proud heads, it was sneerin'At my poor lowly leaflets, wid no flower at all.But by little and little I felt that about meThe soil gathered cheery, and kindly, and warm;And the illigant flowers that I thought meant to flout meWhen I larnt what they said, sure they meant me no harm.The hands I thought cold I found true in their tending,The hearts I thought hard, sure, were soft at the core;So I opened my leaves with less fear of offending,And the longer I knew I loved England the more.For my Queen is a mistress that's gentle and tender,And oft my poor leaflet her bosom adorns;She says I've my sweetness, if roses their splendour,An' if I've no blossoms, why, sure I've no thorns.

Erin mavourneen, torn up from thy green,Lonely, withered, and drooped for a while,Though planted in porcelain, and nursed by a Queen,I was sick at the roots for my own pleasant isle;

Erin mavourneen, torn up from thy green,

Lonely, withered, and drooped for a while,

Though planted in porcelain, and nursed by a Queen,

I was sick at the roots for my own pleasant isle;

Where the winds came so gently to kiss me and love me,There was tenderness e'en in the breath of the north;Where the kind clouds would fling their soft shadows above me,When the hot sun of summer came scorchingly forth.

Where the winds came so gently to kiss me and love me,

There was tenderness e'en in the breath of the north;

Where the kind clouds would fling their soft shadows above me,

When the hot sun of summer came scorchingly forth.

I pined for those tender grey eyes, whose black lashesVeil a tear and a smile alike ready to start;I longed for the mirth, whose unquenchable flashesHold a struggle with gloom in the Irishman's heart.

I pined for those tender grey eyes, whose black lashes

Veil a tear and a smile alike ready to start;

I longed for the mirth, whose unquenchable flashes

Hold a struggle with gloom in the Irishman's heart.

White hands were about me, but not my own people's,Kind hearts, too, but not the kind hearts I had known;The bells that I heard rang in Sassenach steeples,And wanted the music I loved in my own.

White hands were about me, but not my own people's,

Kind hearts, too, but not the kind hearts I had known;

The bells that I heard rang in Sassenach steeples,

And wanted the music I loved in my own.

An' I fancied they scorned me, the poor plant of Erin,Them roses so gaudy, them thistles so tall;An' I thought as they tossed their proud heads, it was sneerin'At my poor lowly leaflets, wid no flower at all.

An' I fancied they scorned me, the poor plant of Erin,

Them roses so gaudy, them thistles so tall;

An' I thought as they tossed their proud heads, it was sneerin'

At my poor lowly leaflets, wid no flower at all.

But by little and little I felt that about meThe soil gathered cheery, and kindly, and warm;And the illigant flowers that I thought meant to flout meWhen I larnt what they said, sure they meant me no harm.

But by little and little I felt that about me

The soil gathered cheery, and kindly, and warm;

And the illigant flowers that I thought meant to flout me

When I larnt what they said, sure they meant me no harm.

The hands I thought cold I found true in their tending,The hearts I thought hard, sure, were soft at the core;So I opened my leaves with less fear of offending,And the longer I knew I loved England the more.

The hands I thought cold I found true in their tending,

The hearts I thought hard, sure, were soft at the core;

So I opened my leaves with less fear of offending,

And the longer I knew I loved England the more.

For my Queen is a mistress that's gentle and tender,And oft my poor leaflet her bosom adorns;She says I've my sweetness, if roses their splendour,An' if I've no blossoms, why, sure I've no thorns.

For my Queen is a mistress that's gentle and tender,

And oft my poor leaflet her bosom adorns;

She says I've my sweetness, if roses their splendour,

An' if I've no blossoms, why, sure I've no thorns.

Motto for the Leader of the Chinese Revolution.—Heads I win, Tails you lose.

The following "Pastoral" has been published by an obscure individual, who pretends to adopt a certain episcopal style.

To the Inhabitants of Chelsea, Brompton, Fulham, Kensington, and the Neighbourhood, Health and Good Digestion.

Respectable and Intelligent,—From the Apparition ofGiles Scrogginsof tuneful memory, to that of the Head of the Woolly Quadruped which manifested itself toWilliam White, there was no want of spectral appearances sufficient to convince the enlightened British Public of the existence of Ghosts. Not to mention the unfortunateMiss Bailey, who, after suspension by the cincture of her own stocking, revisited an unprincipledCaptain Smith, nor to say more than is necessary of the Ghost of Cock Lane, it may suffice to cite the instance of the Hammersmith Ghost which, as is well known, appeared to, and terrified a great many people. And now lately, in this very place, which is not far from that, there has appeared a Ghost, which has frightened multitudes; as countless thousands among you are able to testify.

But the incredulous—insensible to the force of table rappings, disbelieving the prodigies of clairvoyance, and deriding the wonderful visions of the Crystal—who, in short, ascribe all the supernatural events of the day, which are very numerous, to imagination or fraud, will doubtless, after a short time, by the lapse whereof the recollection of the fact shall have been weakened, dispute or deny the truth of the Chelsea Ghost, and attribute the authentic narrative thereof to the incredibleWalker.

Lest, therefore, the memory of this so wonderful Apparition should perish, and in order that, on the contrary, its fame may endure for ages, we have decreed to erect a Spirituous Establishment, in the immediate vicinity of the house wherein it took place, namely, in Pond Street, Chelsea, to be called and known by the name and sign of the Ghost and Goblet, which all are invited to frequent, and partake of the refreshment of spirits.

Beneath the edifice to be reared under these auspices, there will be provided a subterranean retreat, bearing the name of The Shades, in further allusion to the miracle which it is intended to commemorate.

A confraternity of the Ghost and Goblet has already been formed for the purpose of celebrating with an appropriate banquet the approaching Festival of Michaelmas. Additional Members may be enrolled at 6d.per week each.

The following indulgences are promised to those who repair to the Hostelry of the Ghost and Goblet with the usual dispositions:—

Unlimited indulgence in Roast Goose, on the aforesaid Festival of Michaelmas, which will also be the Anniversary of the Foundation,on condition of eating with the goose an optional quantity of mashed turnip, in order to signify the demolition of that Lantern to which profane scepticism would refer supernatural appearances.

Indulgence in brandy, gin, rum, Hollands, and whiskey; in superior ale, porter, and stout; and in genuine foreign wines and liqueurs—to any extent, on condition of ringing the bell, or calling the waiter, and repeating the proper order for the liquor as often as may be requisite.

Indulgence in tea and shrimps.

Indulgence in tobacco for any term of hours; the hostelry remaining open.

Indulgence of the same duration in the amusement afforded by a good dry skittle ground.

Indulgence above stairs in the exercise of dancing; on condition of executing the proper movements to the tune of "Pop goes the Weasel," or whatsoever other measure may be prescribed by popularity.

Indulgence in the delights of harmony in the Shades below: on condition of expressing a desire for refreshment.

To secure the full benefit of these Indulgences it will be only necessary, further, to pay for them; and that this may the more conveniently be done they will be supplied on the most liberal scale of charges.

In addition to the Skittle Ground, there will be provided a Bowling Green, surrounded with a Ghost's Walk, adorned with Winking Statues, Bleeding Pictures, and other objects of like nature calculated to edify the faithful in such matters. In conclusion, Respectable and Intelligent, as touching liquor, we profess ourselves ever ready to supply you

In Your Own Jugs, Brummagem Brompton.

The Appearances at Salette and Chelsea.Two of the most Extraordinary Occurrences of the Day—The Appearances at Salette and Chelsea.

Two of the most Extraordinary Occurrences of the Day—The Appearances at Salette and Chelsea.

The wonders of steam at Manchester and other great manufacturing towns are quite eclipsed by the triumph at which mechanical science has arrived in an obscure locality. Witness this advertisement, extracted from theCambridge Chronicleof the 10th instant:

WANTED in a Clergyman's family in the country, a FOOTMAN,whichmust also have a knowledge of Gardening. For particulars address X.Y., Post Office, Caxton.

The Footmanwhichis wanted in a Clergyman's family, is, of course, a Machine; as the neuter pronoun, by the tenet ofMurray, held of course by every clergyman, is to be applied to animals and inanimate things; and no known animal is capable of a Footman's place. The Footman thus wanted might have been supposed to be a trivet, but for the requisition that it shall have a knowledge of gardening. This proves that it must be an Engine—and in part a Garden Engine—endowed with intellectual faculties. That it is advertised for is sufficient evidence that it exists.

Necessity is the mother of invention; and the dearth of labour, combined with the insolence, unthrift, and dishonesty of servants, has compelled some clever mechanist to devise the sort of Footman which is wanted by the clergyman; and has been long in general request.

How such a domestic could have been constructed; how it was possible to make a lackey that should not only clean boots and wait at table, but dig, and prune, and plant, and exercise intelligence, moreover, in these horticultural operations, it is difficult to conceive. Imagination staggers at the idea of a Steam Flunkey. TheMr. Smee, who resolves thought into electrical action, may suppose that galvanism might have served to vivify the apparatus, and cause the fibres of its artificial brain to quiver with those vibrations which constitute perception, memory, and understanding. But if mind consists in vibrations, the abilities of aShakspereare no great shakes; therefore we cannot accept such a theory of the constitution of the Footman which is wanted in a Clergyman's family.

The mysterious agency concerned in Table Turning, belief in which has in some minds survived its refutation byFaraday, we should rather consider to be the animating principle of thisFrankenstein'sAndroides orAndrewoides, artificial Andrew or automatic John Thomas.

The female domestics in the family of the clergyman are, of course, of a nature similar to that of the manservant which is wanted there, since no housemaid or cook could stay in a house where a Footman was kept referred to by the neuter pronoun, which, and consequently where the Footman was an Inanimate Thing.

Once upon a time, a lot of murphies—id estpotatoes—were put in a pot together. "Now, boys"—said one of the praties—"as we'll all be in hot water—all of a bilin'—wobble as we may, for the credit of ould Ireland—don't let usspliton one another."

Thesavansat Hull have lately been giving some very interesting results of the trial of the strength of "stays." Surely this department should have been left to a female committee, for the true strength of "stays" can only be ascertained by experiments in very tight lacing.

Gold has been discovered in Scotland. This discovery may work perhaps a miracle. It may have the effect of sending all the Scotchmen, who for years have left their native country, "bock again."

Another "Height of Impudence."—Naming a Railway Engine "Safety."

AAN opulent Bill-sticker has, we understand, made offers to the leader of the Chinese insurgent forces to rent of him, in the event of his being made Emperor, the renowned wall of China. The sum offered has not transpired, but it is said to be something extremely munificent. It is the billsticker's intention, as soon as he obtains an imperial grant, to form a company of persons who spend large sums of money every year in advertisements, and to cover the entire length of the wall with their bills and posters, a larger price being, of course, charged for those which will be posted inside than for those outside the wall, where comparatively but few people will be able to see them. The bills will be in English, or specially translated into Chinese, at the option of the advertisers. In the event of China being thrown open to English commerce—and there is, at present, every opening of such a fact—it will be at once seen what "a desirable medium for advertisements" this national posting-station will be. So favourably is the scheme entertained by some of our leading advertisers, that already have 12,000 miles of that part of the wall, which runs through the most densely populated districts of the Empire, been bespoken at an enormous rental. The company will be announced in a few days, and it is expected that the shares will be quoted on the 'Change at a heavy premium the very first day.Mr. Bernal Osbornhas been heard to say, "that next to a celebrated Marquis's property, it will be the largest hoarding in the world," and there is no doubt it will be. All our puffing tailors, pill-merchants, quack medicine-sellers, and Cambridge Sherry dealers, are actively on the look-out. Professor Liebig's testimonial in favour of Bitter Beer is already printed in all the Chinese dialects, only waiting to be pasted up. We shall keep our eye upon the wall.

AN opulent Bill-sticker has, we understand, made offers to the leader of the Chinese insurgent forces to rent of him, in the event of his being made Emperor, the renowned wall of China. The sum offered has not transpired, but it is said to be something extremely munificent. It is the billsticker's intention, as soon as he obtains an imperial grant, to form a company of persons who spend large sums of money every year in advertisements, and to cover the entire length of the wall with their bills and posters, a larger price being, of course, charged for those which will be posted inside than for those outside the wall, where comparatively but few people will be able to see them. The bills will be in English, or specially translated into Chinese, at the option of the advertisers. In the event of China being thrown open to English commerce—and there is, at present, every opening of such a fact—it will be at once seen what "a desirable medium for advertisements" this national posting-station will be. So favourably is the scheme entertained by some of our leading advertisers, that already have 12,000 miles of that part of the wall, which runs through the most densely populated districts of the Empire, been bespoken at an enormous rental. The company will be announced in a few days, and it is expected that the shares will be quoted on the 'Change at a heavy premium the very first day.Mr. Bernal Osbornhas been heard to say, "that next to a celebrated Marquis's property, it will be the largest hoarding in the world," and there is no doubt it will be. All our puffing tailors, pill-merchants, quack medicine-sellers, and Cambridge Sherry dealers, are actively on the look-out. Professor Liebig's testimonial in favour of Bitter Beer is already printed in all the Chinese dialects, only waiting to be pasted up. We shall keep our eye upon the wall.

"My dear Punch,

"There is no doubt that the prodigious expenses of hotels are—as I overheard certaingentlemensay—in a great measure owing to usconfounded women.We cause so many rooms to have to be kept up on our account. Why can't we—as they further asked, with astrongerexpression—be content with a decent coffee-room, instead of requiring a separate sitting apartment? Why? I asked myself the same question, and being unable to answer it, I thought the next time I was out with Charles I would go into the coffee-room and not beconfounded.So the other day when he took me to one of those inns which a letter I read in theTimescalls a "Hotel of recreation", I insisted on our dining in the public room. There were some gentlemen sitting there that we have since met in society, when they behaved in such a way that I couldn't think what they meant, until at last I found that we were looked upon as improper people because I had been seen at dinner in the coffee-room of a tavern! When I discovered this I feltconfoundedindeed. It seems that I have committed an offence against society, everybody is so cool to me, and really, if it were not for the contempt I feel for such slaves of custom and prejudice, and the support I derive from the knowledge that I have pleased my husband, and saved us both money, I should be dreadfully grieved. But his approbation, and that of my own conscience, are quite enough for me; however, as that is not quite the case, I am afraid, with all women, the consequence is that they won't brave the world, and go in the coffee-room. I must confess,Mr. Punch, that before we take all the credit for what is called in novels the 'Self Sacrifice of Woman' which is given us, we might as well immolate a little of our conventionality on the altar of domestic happiness. I am sure that Judy is of the same mind as your equally constant admirer,

"Belgravia, Sept., 1853."

"Fides."

We are glad to see that the needlewomen have at last struck, and we wish another class of the overworked and underpaid would follow their example, the working clergy. Such a course would not be uncanonical. A bishop, to be sure, is required to be "no striker," nor has he occasion to be one with his thousands a year; but the case is very different with the curate who has only twenty pounds.

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