OUR TOURIST IN PARIS.—No. 9.

WHO HAS THE DONKEY'S EARS, NOWCobden."WHO HAS THE DONKEY'S EARS, NOW?"[Mr. Punch answers the question.]

Cobden."WHO HAS THE DONKEY'S EARS, NOW?"

[Mr. Punch answers the question.]

My dear fellow-countrymen who throng the theatres, thecafés, and the promenades of this gay city, may form very different opinions of its inhabitants and institutions; but on one point, I believe, they are all agreed; that, in common with the rest of the Continent, it is over-ridden with bureaus and bureaucracy. Every third man is anemployé, a soldier, or a policeman. You cannot have a warm bath, without taking a ticket from a lady at a desk, nor indulge in a mild polka, without being watched by a man in a cocked hat. If you change your hotel, instant information must be sent to the Préfecture; if you want to send a telegraphic message to England, it must first receive the sanction of the Minister of Police; if you enter Paris from a country walk, with a great-coat on your arm, you will be pounced upon and searched at the Barrière. All this is disgusting to honestJohn Bull, and he curses it with great force of language. "Thank goodness!" says he, "at all events, we are free from this miserable drilling, and marshalling, and boarding-school discipline." In England we certainly are.

Occasionally the London newspapers take the opportunity of an "illustrious foreigner's" visit, to contrast our liberty and their thraldom. The leading journal will point out with its usual epigrammatic terseness, varied illustration, good sense and eloquence, the advantage of letting people alone, and the extent to which our Government does let us alone. "His Highness, or Majesty, as the case may be, will ride for hours in our metropolis with out seeing a soldier or (especially if there's a row) a policeman." Blessed independence! but the contrast is much more striking, because more disagreeable to a wretched Englishmen, born to freedom, who finds himself in a mess on the Continent—a contingency which happens to one out of every dozen tourists. Those confounded passports form the monster grievance. Accordingly from July to November, not a week passes but some victim writes to complain that he is in confinement at Marseilles or Como, or somewhere or another, because his passport is lost or noten règle. OldJollyboy, I recollect, wrote a tremendous letter to theTimescontaining a column and a half of his adventures. It ought to have produced a reconsideration of the whole passport system, but it didn't. Those foreign governments are so dense!

And now littleBombazine(who is "reading for the bar," like every young fellow about town that is not in the army) comes to your Correspondent, and complains of a grievance which throws all the foreign misdemeanours into the shade. He went to the English Embassy to get his passport signed, andthe man there could not speak English! Now, byJove, Harryis right, and it is too bad! Here are we every day ridiculing or cursing the villainous antiquated machinery of passports. We all know, and are never tired of repeating, that it works for the persecution of helpless timid travellers and the protection of brazen and ingenious criminals. (Joseph Mazzinientered Italy a few months ago in the petticoats and "front" of an old woman, the policemen taking off their hats and paying compliments, while a poor English consumptive parson in search of health was marched off between two chasseurs as if he had been a pickpocket.) We complain reasonably enough that we travel everywhere scattering our livres sterling, making the fortunes of innkeepers, creating watering places, supporting entire branches of commerce, fostering capital cities, everywhere cheated, pitied, and laughed at, and yet foreign governments have not the sense to encourage such lucrative and harmless visitors, but do everything they can to prohibit our free locomotion. They are great asses, are they not? Call them all the names you like, and now believe, if you can, that an English establishment abroad is worse than them all. Our ambassador, as I understand from a diplomatic friend, receives a very tolerable income from his country by way of wages and compensation for exile, and yet cannot afford to keep a man in his office capable of communicating with the multitude of Britons who do not speak French.

We recollect a certain circular issued from the foreign office at Washington, which invited the United States' consuls and ambassadors to employ native Americans and none others in their offices. And quite right. It is bad enough to have to deal with foreigners about our passports where it is absolutely necessary, but when we go to our own Embassy we hope to meet with, if not thepersonnelat least the language and plain good sense of the Anglo-Saxon. Wemightexpect to meet also there a disposition to smooth instead of aggravating the nuisances of the passport system, and, behold, we find an official with all the French bureaucratic humbug, and without a knowledge of our tongue. How such a monstrous absurdity could have arisen passes one's understanding. Good heavens! why every hotel, everycafé, every shop, nay every superior police office, contains one or more persons who speak English, and the English Embassy is the only establishment without one. Why don't some of those young swells come down from their room and do the passport business? Do they think it "low?" But hearHenry Bombazine.

"You knowMrs. Toodleham, my Aunt, is given to reading the papers in connexion with the prophecies, and has just got hold of a very entertaining book on those subjects called 'The Battle of Armageddon,' which has determined her to come to England at once with me. It's by one of those immensely knowing parties, you see, who tell you about the end of the world, give 'tips' in fact 'on future events,' like the Derby prophets inBell's Life. Well, he says, that Russia is going to invade Jerusalem, and the English fleet is to sail into the Dead Sea—no—the United States' fleet is to sail into the Caspian—no—hang it! I never can recollect the names of places—at all events, there's to be an awful shindy somewhere, and England is the only safe place to go to. So I went to the Embassy to get the old lady's name put on my passport, and, as I said, the fellow couldn't speak a work of English. I tried him with French" (youshouldhear dearHenry'sFrench), "and could hardly make him understand then. He wanted first to see her passport, but, bless you, she hasn't got any. I don't suppose she ever had one, and at all events, if she had, must have lost it years ago. You know she came over to seeLouis Philippecrowned, and liked the place so much she has stayed ever since. And when I told him that, and offered references to bankers, and so forth—mind you, he's not over civil in his manner, I suppose because he can't make anything by the job—he opened his eyes till the eyebrows went right away into the hair of his head, and flatly refused. 'Savvy vous, Mossoo,' said he, 'savvy vous que c'est une affaire très serioose. Une affaire serioose'—those were his very words. What do you think of that, because a poor old woman wants to get back to her native country out of the way of the battle of Armageddon? ByJove, I know what I'll do. I'll write to theTimes."

No, no,Harrymy boy, we'll do better for you than that. I'll send your history toMr. Punch. He is great and good, my friend, and will see you righted if anybody can.

The old proverb informs us, that "a reformed rake makes the best husband;" but, according toMechi, it is "your reformed plough that makes the best husbandman"

The Oatmeal Philosophy.—"There is ameanin all things."

To my SonPunch.

TThere now,Punch! Drat this nasty stupid good-for-nothing Eastern Question. I am sick and sorry of hearing it talked of, din, din, din, bother, bother, bother, every day, and all day long. Drat the Russians and Turks both, one's barbarians and the other's savages. I wouldn't give a fig for either of 'em; the Russians are just as bad as the Turks, and the Turks every bit as bad as the Russians, there isn't a pin to choose between 'em, six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. The Turks commit double and treble bigamy, and the Russians drink train oil; the Russians are beaten with the knout, and the Turks with the bastinado, and deserve to be, both alike. Oh, I know all about it, although I am only an old woman! and what's the whole to-do about but a parcel of nonsense, ambassadors niggling with their diplomatic notes, and quibbling backwards and forwards because an i wasn't dotted on one side and a t crossed on the other. Hity tity! I've no patience with 'em. Of course, if our bounden duty is to interfere, we must; but it's a great plague, and sickness in the land, and raining cats and dogs, and bread up and meat up, and how much higher they'll go goodness knows, but it will be beyond everything if there should be a war. Drat it! we can't help pestilence and famine, but it's our own doings if we add war. Not that I'm forMr. Cobdenand your 'No Soldiers' people that want to do away with the army and navy, and leave their sisters and mothers to invasion. Drat them, too—I despise such dirty drabs. But I do think it's such annoyance to be drawn in and forced to fight when you've no heart in the quarrel. What a pity it is we can't leave 'em alone and let 'em fight it out. Neither of 'em is our fellow Christians, Turks being Mahometans, and Russians Greek, which is as bad as Latin; and what I should like would be to see them left to themselves and eat each other up, like the Irish cats—poor things! Drat the ultimatums, drat the Phosphorus—which is always causing a combustion—drat the Dardanelles which I am sure they must be some forward husseys—drat the whole business, it's altogether a bad job from beginning to end, if there is to be any end, which if the scrimmage goes on I'm afraid will be the end of everything. Drat it all I say! I wish I had a good large broom, and power to sweep both yourSultanand yourEmperor, and all their forces into the Red Sea, or Black Sea, or any sea deep enough to drown 'em out of the way, interfering, by their nasty trumpery tiffs and tantrums, with progress and civilisation, and arts and sciences, and the Crystal Palace at Sydenham, and the comfort and happiness of everybody, to say nothing of a poor old lady like me.

There now,Punch! Drat this nasty stupid good-for-nothing Eastern Question. I am sick and sorry of hearing it talked of, din, din, din, bother, bother, bother, every day, and all day long. Drat the Russians and Turks both, one's barbarians and the other's savages. I wouldn't give a fig for either of 'em; the Russians are just as bad as the Turks, and the Turks every bit as bad as the Russians, there isn't a pin to choose between 'em, six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. The Turks commit double and treble bigamy, and the Russians drink train oil; the Russians are beaten with the knout, and the Turks with the bastinado, and deserve to be, both alike. Oh, I know all about it, although I am only an old woman! and what's the whole to-do about but a parcel of nonsense, ambassadors niggling with their diplomatic notes, and quibbling backwards and forwards because an i wasn't dotted on one side and a t crossed on the other. Hity tity! I've no patience with 'em. Of course, if our bounden duty is to interfere, we must; but it's a great plague, and sickness in the land, and raining cats and dogs, and bread up and meat up, and how much higher they'll go goodness knows, but it will be beyond everything if there should be a war. Drat it! we can't help pestilence and famine, but it's our own doings if we add war. Not that I'm forMr. Cobdenand your 'No Soldiers' people that want to do away with the army and navy, and leave their sisters and mothers to invasion. Drat them, too—I despise such dirty drabs. But I do think it's such annoyance to be drawn in and forced to fight when you've no heart in the quarrel. What a pity it is we can't leave 'em alone and let 'em fight it out. Neither of 'em is our fellow Christians, Turks being Mahometans, and Russians Greek, which is as bad as Latin; and what I should like would be to see them left to themselves and eat each other up, like the Irish cats—poor things! Drat the ultimatums, drat the Phosphorus—which is always causing a combustion—drat the Dardanelles which I am sure they must be some forward husseys—drat the whole business, it's altogether a bad job from beginning to end, if there is to be any end, which if the scrimmage goes on I'm afraid will be the end of everything. Drat it all I say! I wish I had a good large broom, and power to sweep both yourSultanand yourEmperor, and all their forces into the Red Sea, or Black Sea, or any sea deep enough to drown 'em out of the way, interfering, by their nasty trumpery tiffs and tantrums, with progress and civilisation, and arts and sciences, and the Crystal Palace at Sydenham, and the comfort and happiness of everybody, to say nothing of a poor old lady like me.

"Your affectionate,

"Mother Goose."

"The Common, October, 1853."

It is reported thatMr. Charles Keanthe actor has struck for an advance of salary fromMr. Charles Keanthe manager.Mr. Charles Keanrefuses to advance another shilling toMr. Charles Kean, actor, desiring him to act his worst. It is believed that the actor has taken the manager at his word. We deplore all strikes; especially one like the above, in which the public are the greater sufferers. When bad's the best, what must the worst be?

ABruteof a Husband is one who fancies, when he marries, that he is at perfect liberty to treat his wife as if she were no better than a street-door, on which there was nailed the polite request: "Please to Ring and Knock."

Beware the Bear.—LetAbd-ul-MedjidandNicholasmake it up, if possible—but not embrace. TheSultanmust not trust himself to the hug.

Air—Sufficiently Obvious.

I'll sing you a new song on a theme much stirred of late,Of a fine old English Innkeeper, grown rather out of date,Who keeps up his establishment in almost princely state,And don't forget to charge you there at quite a princely rate,Like a fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.His house, you're told, is fitted up "regardless of expense,"Although one half is obsolete, and t'other make-pretence;Exploded old four-posters, built inGeorge the Second'sreign,Mock plate to serve mock-turtle in, sham ice-pails for champagne:At this fine old English Innkeeper's, one of the olden time.The swipes he draws is sour enough to turn a navvy pale,Tho' by a bitter raillery he calls it bitter ale;And tho' perhaps you don't see half a waiter all the day,For "attendance" quite as much as for a lawyer's you must payTo this fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.Then if to wine your tastes incline some home-made Cape you'll get,Served up in a decanter like a vinegar-cruet,As a "bottle of Madeira" this will in the bill be set,And however nasty it may be a nice sum you're in debtTo the fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.And if your wife be with you, you must have a private room,And use a pair of "wax-lights" (with a muttony perfume),For which you'll pay a crown a day, and 'tis a burning shameThat whether they be lit or not they're charged for just the sameBy this rare old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.But soon these fine old Innkeepers will find their race is run,For men are up and doing, and no longer will be done:And shortly we may hope to see a really good hotel,Where we may be admitted, and not taken in as well,As we were by our old Innkeeper, one of the fleecing time.

I'll sing you a new song on a theme much stirred of late,

Of a fine old English Innkeeper, grown rather out of date,

Who keeps up his establishment in almost princely state,

And don't forget to charge you there at quite a princely rate,

Like a fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

His house, you're told, is fitted up "regardless of expense,"Although one half is obsolete, and t'other make-pretence;Exploded old four-posters, built inGeorge the Second'sreign,Mock plate to serve mock-turtle in, sham ice-pails for champagne:At this fine old English Innkeeper's, one of the olden time.

His house, you're told, is fitted up "regardless of expense,"

Although one half is obsolete, and t'other make-pretence;

Exploded old four-posters, built inGeorge the Second'sreign,

Mock plate to serve mock-turtle in, sham ice-pails for champagne:

At this fine old English Innkeeper's, one of the olden time.

The swipes he draws is sour enough to turn a navvy pale,Tho' by a bitter raillery he calls it bitter ale;And tho' perhaps you don't see half a waiter all the day,For "attendance" quite as much as for a lawyer's you must payTo this fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

The swipes he draws is sour enough to turn a navvy pale,

Tho' by a bitter raillery he calls it bitter ale;

And tho' perhaps you don't see half a waiter all the day,

For "attendance" quite as much as for a lawyer's you must pay

To this fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

Then if to wine your tastes incline some home-made Cape you'll get,Served up in a decanter like a vinegar-cruet,As a "bottle of Madeira" this will in the bill be set,And however nasty it may be a nice sum you're in debtTo the fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

Then if to wine your tastes incline some home-made Cape you'll get,

Served up in a decanter like a vinegar-cruet,

As a "bottle of Madeira" this will in the bill be set,

And however nasty it may be a nice sum you're in debt

To the fine old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

And if your wife be with you, you must have a private room,And use a pair of "wax-lights" (with a muttony perfume),For which you'll pay a crown a day, and 'tis a burning shameThat whether they be lit or not they're charged for just the sameBy this rare old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

And if your wife be with you, you must have a private room,

And use a pair of "wax-lights" (with a muttony perfume),

For which you'll pay a crown a day, and 'tis a burning shame

That whether they be lit or not they're charged for just the same

By this rare old English Innkeeper, one of the olden time.

But soon these fine old Innkeepers will find their race is run,For men are up and doing, and no longer will be done:And shortly we may hope to see a really good hotel,Where we may be admitted, and not taken in as well,As we were by our old Innkeeper, one of the fleecing time.

But soon these fine old Innkeepers will find their race is run,

For men are up and doing, and no longer will be done:

And shortly we may hope to see a really good hotel,

Where we may be admitted, and not taken in as well,

As we were by our old Innkeeper, one of the fleecing time.

Everybody is attacking the unfortunate Commissioners of Sewers, who are said to be standing still with their hands in their pockets, and who reply that they are obliged to stand still because they have nothing in their pockets but their hands. It is true their hands seem to get very deeply into the public pocket occasionally, but however large the sum that may be extracted, the cry of the Commissioners is "We have no funds." If a neighbourhood, thirsty for a good, wholesome fall of water, applies to the Commissioners, their answer is "We can't stand a dram." Their song is always to one tune, and that is the tune of "I've no Money."

I've no money! so you seeNothing can be done by me;I own it to my sorrow;But if I were rich, you'd seeWonders would be done by me;So call again to-morrow.

I've no money! so you see

Nothing can be done by me;

I own it to my sorrow;

But if I were rich, you'd see

Wonders would be done by me;

So call again to-morrow.

The fact is that the Commissioners of Sewers have such grand ideas that execution is impossible. The imagination of the Commissioners riots in such a sea of sullage, that nothing short of an arched avalanche of refuse water presents itself to the minds of the functionaries who will not stoop to anything short of an aqueduct, and consequently have souls above the making of a common useful drain. Everything must be on such a scale of grandeur, that unless London can be altogether excavated a few serviceable pipes cannot be laid down. We are quite willing to admit the difficulties of the position of the Commissioners with all the sewage of London on their hands, and some people feel naturally tempted to throw mud upon those who are in a degree responsible for getting rid of it. The Chairman, however, seems to take the affair with a sort of philosophic good nature, as if he felt himself somewhat in the position of a glass bottle or a plaster bust perched on an eminence for everybody to take a shy at him.

Why not—if Temple Bar must be removed—why not to mark and preserve the sacred boundary of the City, bring bodilyGogandMagogfrom Guildhall to either side of Fleet Street? They would only make two ugly statues the more: and in so large and such a city, what are two?

A Hint for the Consumers of Coal.—The most cheerful kind of fuel:—Keeping up a constant fire—of jokes.

MIGHT IS RIGHTMIGHT IS RIGHT.Van Driver."I don't know nothun about no right sides, nor wrong sides. You get out of the way, if yer don't want to be made a wafer of!"[Where are the Police?]

Van Driver."I don't know nothun about no right sides, nor wrong sides. You get out of the way, if yer don't want to be made a wafer of!"

[Where are the Police?]

In theTimes'report of the final meeting of the Peace Conference at Edinburgh, it is remarked that

"Messrs. CobdenandBrightwere the great lions of the evening."

Apparently it is probable that they were; although some may consider them to have been figuring as lambs rather than lions: but then the lamb is not the only creature typical of passive endurance. Appearances, however, are not realities, and the reporter, in inferring the animal from the integument, made a mistake which has occurred before.Mr. BrightandMr. Cobdenwere going about in lions' skins; but, as those who had just heard them might have perceived, they were not exactly lions.

The Cry of the British Husband.—"Do you bruise your wife yet?"

As Improved by the Peace Society.

Of the poor old British LionThe sentence has gone forth,SinceBrighthas lifted up his heelsAgainst him in the North.Then let him vail the tufted tailHe once so proudly bore,When coarsely vain of might and mane,He guarded England's shore.Be the soldier brute in council mute,Nor more sound war's alarms;Let him yield his place to a milder raceIn Britain's coat of arms.For the lion is a dangerous beast,And so's the unicorn;The one has teeth and talons,And the other hoofs and horn.So in a crack from Britain's backLet's tear the coat she has on,And in its place our 'scutcheon graceWith Peace's proper blazon:Guleswe'll eschew—that bloody hue!—With drab the field arrange;Butorandargentwe'll retain,As sovereigns and small change.Nor lion for supporter,Nor unicorn shall stand,But a spanielmendiant, and a hareFunkant, on either hand;In the first and fourth, where erst were chargedLionspassant guardantthree,There three haresboltantto the world,Shall Britain's symbol be.In the second, that wasorIn double tressure counterflowered—Wheregules, in times gone by,The Scotch lionrampanttowered—In honour of greatCowan,And his Embro' fellows true,In a tressure of Scotch thistles,An assprançantyou shall view.In the third, that once showedazure,The harp of Ireland,or—Since we'll not stand such vanitiesAs music any more,We mean to blazon,argent,A ledger,proper, blank—As typical of squared accounts,And a balance at the bank."Dieu et mon Droit," we will withdraw,The phrase is simple gammon;—For "Dieu" read£ s. d.,—since whoShould be our God butMammon?And as forDroit, you know 'tis Might,Not Right that wins the game—So "£ s. d. etNonDroit" shall beThe motto we'll proclaim!

Of the poor old British Lion

The sentence has gone forth,

SinceBrighthas lifted up his heels

Against him in the North.

Then let him vail the tufted tail

He once so proudly bore,

When coarsely vain of might and mane,

He guarded England's shore.

Be the soldier brute in council mute,Nor more sound war's alarms;Let him yield his place to a milder raceIn Britain's coat of arms.For the lion is a dangerous beast,And so's the unicorn;The one has teeth and talons,And the other hoofs and horn.

Be the soldier brute in council mute,

Nor more sound war's alarms;

Let him yield his place to a milder race

In Britain's coat of arms.

For the lion is a dangerous beast,

And so's the unicorn;

The one has teeth and talons,

And the other hoofs and horn.

So in a crack from Britain's backLet's tear the coat she has on,And in its place our 'scutcheon graceWith Peace's proper blazon:Guleswe'll eschew—that bloody hue!—With drab the field arrange;Butorandargentwe'll retain,As sovereigns and small change.

So in a crack from Britain's back

Let's tear the coat she has on,

And in its place our 'scutcheon grace

With Peace's proper blazon:

Guleswe'll eschew—that bloody hue!—

With drab the field arrange;

Butorandargentwe'll retain,

As sovereigns and small change.

Nor lion for supporter,Nor unicorn shall stand,But a spanielmendiant, and a hareFunkant, on either hand;In the first and fourth, where erst were chargedLionspassant guardantthree,There three haresboltantto the world,Shall Britain's symbol be.

Nor lion for supporter,

Nor unicorn shall stand,

But a spanielmendiant, and a hare

Funkant, on either hand;

In the first and fourth, where erst were charged

Lionspassant guardantthree,

There three haresboltantto the world,

Shall Britain's symbol be.

In the second, that wasorIn double tressure counterflowered—Wheregules, in times gone by,The Scotch lionrampanttowered—In honour of greatCowan,And his Embro' fellows true,In a tressure of Scotch thistles,An assprançantyou shall view.

In the second, that wasor

In double tressure counterflowered—

Wheregules, in times gone by,

The Scotch lionrampanttowered—

In honour of greatCowan,

And his Embro' fellows true,

In a tressure of Scotch thistles,

An assprançantyou shall view.

In the third, that once showedazure,The harp of Ireland,or—Since we'll not stand such vanitiesAs music any more,We mean to blazon,argent,A ledger,proper, blank—As typical of squared accounts,And a balance at the bank.

In the third, that once showedazure,

The harp of Ireland,or—

Since we'll not stand such vanities

As music any more,

We mean to blazon,argent,

A ledger,proper, blank—

As typical of squared accounts,

And a balance at the bank.

"Dieu et mon Droit," we will withdraw,The phrase is simple gammon;—For "Dieu" read£ s. d.,—since whoShould be our God butMammon?And as forDroit, you know 'tis Might,Not Right that wins the game—So "£ s. d. etNonDroit" shall beThe motto we'll proclaim!

"Dieu et mon Droit," we will withdraw,

The phrase is simple gammon;—

For "Dieu" read£ s. d.,—since who

Should be our God butMammon?

And as forDroit, you know 'tis Might,

Not Right that wins the game—

So "£ s. d. etNonDroit" shall be

The motto we'll proclaim!

It is said thatLord Onslowhas revoked the bequest that he had made of his collection of pictures by the Old Masters to the National Gallery. His reason for taking this step, we understand, is, that the report of the Select Committee on that Institution has convinced him that he had better bequeath his pictures, together with his body, to the earth, to be buried at once.

Table Turning, as practised by political parties, consists in turning statistical tables to account.

THE ROYAL ARMS AS IMPROVED BY THE PEACE SOCIETYTHE ROYAL ARMS AS IMPROVED BY THE PEACE SOCIETY."I WISH THE BRITISH LION WERE DEAD OUTRIGHT."—John Brightat Edinburgh.

"I WISH THE BRITISH LION WERE DEAD OUTRIGHT."—John Brightat Edinburgh.

man on donkey colliding with post

One of our fashionable contemporaries, of which there are now three (including theMorning Advertiser, which "goes in" upon the aristocratic dodge), contained the other day the account of a marriage of a Reverend Baronet with a young lady, whose name is not given, but who is said to be "related to theEarl of Rosse." This scientific nobleman may have numerous distant relations, who, on the strength of his title and his telescope, would like to be looked upon as near relations, and therefore the bride may or may not be a very close connection of the Earl. At all events, the persons inserting the advertisement in the fashionable paper, do not seem to have felt themselves justified in heading the paragraph with the usual words, "Marriage in High Life." It was most probably a sort of middle-class matrimonial connection; though in these days it is hard to say where high life ends and mediocrity begins. The couple seem to have been "carriage people," at all events; for as the vehicle—probably a "neat fly" with post horses—approached the bridge, the assembled multitude raised such "vociferations," says the penny-a-liner, "as to make the welkin ring." We should like to see the bell attached to the Welkin, and the Welkin itself in which the phenomenon of "ringing" was produced by the shouts of the multitude.

On reaching the village the vehicle "proceeded through a triumphal arch, ornamented with a lamp." We beg leave to say that we have the honour of passing under a triumphal arch—that which bears the Wellington Statue—twice a day, and we do so without any feeling of undue vanity, notwithstanding the fact that it is also "ornamented with a lamp,"—and indeed two—for there is one on each side of it. The penny-a-liner adds that "on reaching their residence the bride and bridegroom briefly, but feelingly, returned thanks to the inhabitants." What a pity that we have not had a full report of the speeches. Where wasGurney, the short-hand writer; where wasSherer, and what had become ofMorton?

The next time that a marriage in "mediocre" life is celebrated we trust that a staff of stenographists will be in attendance to take down the "speeches" of the bride and bridegroom, as they pass from the neat fly, gig, or clarence to the inn or hotel they may have chosen for their mellilunar abode.

If that old Bear in Boots, theCzar,Will drag old England into war,Our fleet shall sail to Turkey's aid,And we'll try the operation of a tight blockade.We'll close each port along the shoreOf this confounded Bear—and Bore—And if we can't his realm invade,We'll shut up all his harbours with a tight blockade.His hides and tallow we'll confineWith sundry vessels of the line;In corn, too, we shall stop his trade.'Twill be under the restriction of a tight blockade.For all his troops, for all his hordes,For all their lances and their swords,To change his tune he may be made,By a steady perseverance in a tight blockade.If out of that he tried to dash—And oh that he may be so rash!—We'd pound him into marmalade.What a happy termination of the tight blockade!No matter if oldNickwe drub,Though we debar ourselves of grub,Which might to Britain be conveyed,But that Russian corn will lie beneath a tight blockade.Each blow we deal at him will fallUpon ourselves, both great and small;But Honour's call must be obeyed,And alas! it only can be by a tight blockade.Would we could with the demon close;LikeDunstan, seize him by the nose;OldNicholaswould soon be laid,And there wouldn't be occasion for the tight blockade.

If that old Bear in Boots, theCzar,Will drag old England into war,Our fleet shall sail to Turkey's aid,And we'll try the operation of a tight blockade.

If that old Bear in Boots, theCzar,

Will drag old England into war,

Our fleet shall sail to Turkey's aid,

And we'll try the operation of a tight blockade.

We'll close each port along the shoreOf this confounded Bear—and Bore—And if we can't his realm invade,We'll shut up all his harbours with a tight blockade.

We'll close each port along the shore

Of this confounded Bear—and Bore—

And if we can't his realm invade,

We'll shut up all his harbours with a tight blockade.

His hides and tallow we'll confineWith sundry vessels of the line;In corn, too, we shall stop his trade.'Twill be under the restriction of a tight blockade.

His hides and tallow we'll confine

With sundry vessels of the line;

In corn, too, we shall stop his trade.

'Twill be under the restriction of a tight blockade.

For all his troops, for all his hordes,For all their lances and their swords,To change his tune he may be made,By a steady perseverance in a tight blockade.

For all his troops, for all his hordes,

For all their lances and their swords,

To change his tune he may be made,

By a steady perseverance in a tight blockade.

If out of that he tried to dash—And oh that he may be so rash!—We'd pound him into marmalade.What a happy termination of the tight blockade!

If out of that he tried to dash—

And oh that he may be so rash!—

We'd pound him into marmalade.

What a happy termination of the tight blockade!

No matter if oldNickwe drub,Though we debar ourselves of grub,Which might to Britain be conveyed,But that Russian corn will lie beneath a tight blockade.

No matter if oldNickwe drub,

Though we debar ourselves of grub,

Which might to Britain be conveyed,

But that Russian corn will lie beneath a tight blockade.

Each blow we deal at him will fallUpon ourselves, both great and small;But Honour's call must be obeyed,And alas! it only can be by a tight blockade.

Each blow we deal at him will fall

Upon ourselves, both great and small;

But Honour's call must be obeyed,

And alas! it only can be by a tight blockade.

Would we could with the demon close;LikeDunstan, seize him by the nose;OldNicholaswould soon be laid,And there wouldn't be occasion for the tight blockade.

Would we could with the demon close;

LikeDunstan, seize him by the nose;

OldNicholaswould soon be laid,

And there wouldn't be occasion for the tight blockade.

Some Yeomanry heroes, whose head-quarters are at the "Spotted Cow," in York, have been called together by a circular, of which the following is a copy, to have a day's hunting, on Monday the 31st.

"Spotted Cow Inn, Walmgate Bar, York, 18th October, 1853."Sir,—Through the kindness of our Captain (Lord Viscount Downe),a day's hunt, or coursing, at Sessay (to the members of his Troop only), is given, which is proposed to take place on Monday, the last day of this month. It is also proposedto have a little drill—each should attend with his sword and belt. Be so kind assay if you can procure a dog. An early answer is earnestly requested. Further particulars will be gladly given, on application to me, orCorp. Smith."I am, Sir, yours, truly,"Geo. Smith."

"Spotted Cow Inn, Walmgate Bar, York, 18th October, 1853.

"Sir,—Through the kindness of our Captain (Lord Viscount Downe),a day's hunt, or coursing, at Sessay (to the members of his Troop only), is given, which is proposed to take place on Monday, the last day of this month. It is also proposedto have a little drill—each should attend with his sword and belt. Be so kind assay if you can procure a dog. An early answer is earnestly requested. Further particulars will be gladly given, on application to me, orCorp. Smith.

"I am, Sir, yours, truly,

"Geo. Smith."

It is desirable, we admit, that the yeomanry should be indulged in a day's hunting, which may practise them in the art of pursuing an enemy, who in war-time would be fair game. We are somewhat puzzled by the proposition to mix up "a little drill" with the day's sporting, unless the "dogs of war" are to hunt in couples—two abreast. We fear there will be some difficulty in blending the huntsman and the warrior; nor can we comprehend the idea of a sporting military gent running after a fox with "his sword and belt," "taking close order" at the heels of Reynard, or practising the goose-step by way of "a little drill" previous to the starting of the game. The passage in the circular which asks every trooper to "be so kind as to say" if he "can procure a dog," is suggestive of an awful assemblage of mongrels, and destructive to all our ideas of "sport."

We can fancy the canine Babel that would be the consequence if the brutes should happen to "give tongue." If everybody is "so kind as to procure a dog," there would inevitably be a regiment of dogs as well as a regiment of soldiers; there can be no objection to a vast assemblage of dogs at any given point for a given period, but when the dogs have had their day, we would ask in a spirit of much misgiving, what is to become of these dogs when the drill is at an end? We can only say that we should be sorry to eat a sausage within five miles of the place where that troop had been assembled, until at least a month after they should be disbanded, and their dogs should have disappeared.

That thePopeshould have been ordered to play billiards to counteract obesity, is a circumstance suggestive of certain natural remarks. A person who fasts as often as the Roman Pontiff must fast, and yet gets fat, is a wonder; and perhaps the plumpness ofPius, attained principally on red herrings, will be cited one of these days as a miraculous circumstance.Falstafflost his voice "by holloaing and singing of anthems;" but in the meanwhile he gained flesh, as his Holiness appears to have also done in a similar course of exercise. Many prelates are oily enough; but the unction of the present Bishop of Rome is peculiar. The Pontifical chair has often been said to be filled, but now it is full, and no mistake. Perfidy, the Papists say, never approached the see ofPeter; however that may be, it certainly will be difficult to circumvent its existing occupant, as his bulk will baffle any attempt to get round him. Many of the Holy Father's predecessors have been deep, but he is broad also.

We should have preferred rackets to billiards as a cure for the Papal corpulence, if we thought thePopecould stand the rackets, as he will have to do, whether he can or not, as soon as the state of Europe obligesLouis Napoleonto withdraw the French troops from Rome; and that will prove the most effectual proceeding for the reduction of his greatness.

The Submarine and European Telegraph pulsates with these glad tidings:—

"Six new steam-vessels, after the model of theNapoleon, are on the stocks, and will be launched about the end of 1854."

Our own correspondent informs us that two of these vessels—in gratitude to the peace-makers—will be calledThe BrightandThe Cobden.

Jesuit's Bark.—This Bark is a small, black, pirate-looking craft, that has fastened itself on, by some hook or other, toPeter'sBoat.

SPURIOUS IMITATIONSPURIOUS IMITATION.Unmitigated Effrontery ofMessrs. Brown and Smith.

Unmitigated Effrontery ofMessrs. Brown and Smith.

The newspapers are continually making remarks of a painful nature on the conduct of Deans and Chapters. It is pleasing to encounter an opportunity of commenting in a more affectionate spirit on the behaviour of one of those reverend fraternities. That pleasure is afforded us by theMorning Post—wherein, under the heading of "Divine Service for the Militia," we read that

"The necessity of providing some means by which the Militia, in a body, could attend Divine Service on Sunday, and the difficulty of this being secured by the ordinary church accommodation available in Exeter, induced, we understand, the Lord Lieutenant of the county to make an application last week to the Cathedral authorities, suggesting that an extra service on Sunday in that spacious building would meet the wishes of his lordship."

Now, when we consider the average scale on which Deans and Chapters are remunerated in relation to their average services, and when, our reflections guided by the Rule of Three, we inquire how much, at that rate, an extra service of such a description is worth, we find the sum considerable. A prebend's sermon is perhaps, as to its abstract merit, inestimable: a pearl beyond any price: but even its actual cost may be computed at a high figure. Such a discourse, gratuitously addressed to a regiment of soldiers, may be regarded as a donation to them of something handsome per head.

To ask a Cathedral establishment, then, for an extra service, is asking it for not a little: to perform such a service is to do a munificent action. Therefore it is highly gratifying to peruse the statement following:—

"Notwithstanding, however, the difficulties which intervened, we believe it was the earnest desire of the authorities at the Cathedral to meet as far as possible the urgency of the case, a desire which was manifested by the promptitude with which they acted on the suggestions made by the Lord Lieutenant. An extra service was fixed, exclusively for the Militia, at half-past eight on Sunday morning, when the whole body of officers and men assembled within the sacred building, the choir being densely filled from the organ screen to the altar rails, and such as could not obtain admission being within hearing in the side aisles. Prayers were read by theReverend Chancellor Harington, who also preached an impressive and appropriate sermon."

Besides, it is announced that on Sunday next, and for the two Sundays following, indeed until the Militia are dismissed, the same service will be performed at the same hour. It should be added, that the only Canons in residence were theRev. Chancellor Haringtonand theVen. Archdeacon Moore Stevens, and that the Chancellor being also Chaplain to the troops, "had, in addition to his duties at the Cathedral, to provide extra services for both barracks." The reverend gentleman who has been performing so many extra services, might almost be supposed to be called Canon of Exeter by a mistake in pronunciation; his proper title being Canon of Extra. At all events he ought not to be styled a Canon in Ordinary, for he is an Extraordinary Canon; and in making this observation, if anybody thinks that we intend a mere play upon words, he is mistaken; for what we chiefly wish is to call attention to a fact. That a prebend should occasionally preach and read prayers of a Sunday a few more times than he is obliged to do, may hereafter come to be regarded as not so very extraordinary a sacrifice of thatotiumwhich is enjoyedcum dignitateby the dignified Clergy. The circumstance, at least, will perhaps not be thought so extraordinary as to constitute a special case for penny-a-lining.

One of "our own Correspondents," speaking of theEmperor'slate reception at Lille, remarks, as it appears to us, a rather curious phenomenon. "At about nine o'clock," he says,

"TheEmperorandEmpressdrove to the theatre, where there was a most loyal reception; and, but that the wet clothes and the soaking umbrellas gave out the odours peculiar to wet coats, the scene would have been splendid."

How the odours of wet clothes could possibly have prevented the splendour of the scene, we confess we are rather at a loss to imagine. For ourselves, we certainly should as soon dream of hearing a sight as of smelling one. That there exists a certain connection between the visual and olfactory organs we don't pretend to dispute. In the absence of profounder proof we do remember an "eye-snuff," which they who were up to it of course took nasally. At the same time we cannot well see how the sense of seeing can be interfered with by the nose, unless indeed it be a preternaturally long one.

Dine? who'd dineAt eight shillings a head, or even nine,With the heaviest price for the lightest wine?Ah! that house I know too well,'Tis your "first-class" Hotel:Sad "Tales of my Landlord" there they tell.Far better for meTo order tea,And go dinnerless at that hostelry.Sleep? who'd sleepWhere a standing army their quarters keep,And in countless legions upon you creep?Ah! whose form is that I see,—A flea! Sirs, a flea!He cometh to sup off me.Far better, say I,On the sofa to lie;I prefer his room to his company.

Dine? who'd dine

At eight shillings a head, or even nine,

With the heaviest price for the lightest wine?

Ah! that house I know too well,

'Tis your "first-class" Hotel:

Sad "Tales of my Landlord" there they tell.

Far better for me

To order tea,

And go dinnerless at that hostelry.

Sleep? who'd sleepWhere a standing army their quarters keep,And in countless legions upon you creep?Ah! whose form is that I see,—A flea! Sirs, a flea!He cometh to sup off me.Far better, say I,On the sofa to lie;I prefer his room to his company.

Sleep? who'd sleep

Where a standing army their quarters keep,

And in countless legions upon you creep?

Ah! whose form is that I see,—

A flea! Sirs, a flea!

He cometh to sup off me.

Far better, say I,

On the sofa to lie;

I prefer his room to his company.

Mr Punch with a gigantic flea

Stay? who'd stayTo be bitten and fleeced in this wholesale way,And live at the rate of a fortune a day?Ah! who'll expose their crimes?TheTimes, Sirs, theTimes,The waiter his fee declines:Tell the landlord from meHim further I'll see,Ere again I'll be fleeced at his hostelry.

Stay? who'd stay

To be bitten and fleeced in this wholesale way,

And live at the rate of a fortune a day?

Ah! who'll expose their crimes?

TheTimes, Sirs, theTimes,

The waiter his fee declines:

Tell the landlord from me

Him further I'll see,

Ere again I'll be fleeced at his hostelry.

He came—smiled—and said nothing!—Such isMr. Punch'sshort-hand report of the interview granted by theEarl of Clarendonto the Finsbury deputation on the Eastern question.

SSOME of the Virginian slaveholders, true to the kind of logic which one expects fromLegrees, have made five attempts to burn down the house of the English consul,Mr. G. P. R. James, as a reply to some objections urged by that gentleman to negro slavery. It appears that years ago, beforeMr. Jamesattained that world-wide celebrity which has irrevocably placed him at the summit of English literature (we are sure he will be the last person to contradict us), he concocted a "squib" against the slave-owning system. The missile flew so silently and harmlessly through English air that nobody seems to have listened to it, but the case appears to have alighted on American ground, and to have been treasured up by the fortunate finder as evidence against the pyrotechnician and historiographer.Mr. Jamesreceives his appointment and goes to Virginia, the squib is produced, and excites the fierce rage of the man-stealers, who, as has been said, make five attempts to burn down the great novelist's house. Whether, being as cowardly asMrs. Stowehas taught us to regard them, the conspirators made their efforts in the night, and being scared by the noise made by the distinguished author in snuffing his candle, the click being mistaken for the cocking of a rifle, or whether, in the frantic tipsiness which, the authoress ofUncle Tomtells us, accompanies their social orgies, they endeavoured to set fire to a stone wall, or to theLife and Times ofLouis XIV., or any other impracticable mass, we are not informed—perhaps cowardice and clumsiness were united, as in every other effort in defence of slavery. Anyhow,Mr. James'sproperty had, at the last advices, escaped the vengeance of those who, brutalised by slave-owning, can hardly think much of arson. Meantime, we have been anxious to see this celebrated squib, and having applied in vain toMr. James'sLondon publishers, we have been compelled to send over to America for it. The document arrived by the United States' Mail steamship Washington, which reached Cowes on Friday night, bringing mails to the 8th, and it was instantly forwarded to us by a special train on the South Western line. We hasten to give it.

SOME of the Virginian slaveholders, true to the kind of logic which one expects fromLegrees, have made five attempts to burn down the house of the English consul,Mr. G. P. R. James, as a reply to some objections urged by that gentleman to negro slavery. It appears that years ago, beforeMr. Jamesattained that world-wide celebrity which has irrevocably placed him at the summit of English literature (we are sure he will be the last person to contradict us), he concocted a "squib" against the slave-owning system. The missile flew so silently and harmlessly through English air that nobody seems to have listened to it, but the case appears to have alighted on American ground, and to have been treasured up by the fortunate finder as evidence against the pyrotechnician and historiographer.Mr. Jamesreceives his appointment and goes to Virginia, the squib is produced, and excites the fierce rage of the man-stealers, who, as has been said, make five attempts to burn down the great novelist's house. Whether, being as cowardly asMrs. Stowehas taught us to regard them, the conspirators made their efforts in the night, and being scared by the noise made by the distinguished author in snuffing his candle, the click being mistaken for the cocking of a rifle, or whether, in the frantic tipsiness which, the authoress ofUncle Tomtells us, accompanies their social orgies, they endeavoured to set fire to a stone wall, or to theLife and Times ofLouis XIV., or any other impracticable mass, we are not informed—perhaps cowardice and clumsiness were united, as in every other effort in defence of slavery. Anyhow,Mr. James'sproperty had, at the last advices, escaped the vengeance of those who, brutalised by slave-owning, can hardly think much of arson. Meantime, we have been anxious to see this celebrated squib, and having applied in vain toMr. James'sLondon publishers, we have been compelled to send over to America for it. The document arrived by the United States' Mail steamship Washington, which reached Cowes on Friday night, bringing mails to the 8th, and it was instantly forwarded to us by a special train on the South Western line. We hasten to give it.

Epigram byG. P. R. James,Historiographer to the Queen, author of "Darnley," "De L'Orme," "The Gipsy," "The Life and Times of Louis the Fourteenth," "Tales of the Passions," &c. &c.

Surely these men must have veryblackheartsTo treat the poorblacksin this way;Rather than suffer suchterriblesmarts,I wonderthey don't run away.G. P. R. J.

Surely these men must have veryblackheartsTo treat the poorblacksin this way;Rather than suffer suchterriblesmarts,I wonderthey don't run away.

Surely these men must have veryblackhearts

To treat the poorblacksin this way;

Rather than suffer suchterriblesmarts,

I wonderthey don't run away.

G. P. R. J.

Mr. Jonestold the Liverymen the other day, that ifPlatowere to revisit the earth to project a new Republic, he would take the theory of the Corporation of the City of London as his model. Perhaps so. He would have seen that the theory in question leads to a practical harmony exhibited in an affection of united minds, amounting to the very love of the turtle.

The unpaid magistracy, so called, have been accused of licensing public-houses on an arbitrary principle, but it is tolerably certain that they do not grant any preference without a sufficient consideration. Unpaid, perhaps these gentlemen ought not to be denominated; for everybody knows that they pay themselves by the job.

Not a Doubt of It.—Of all the "tricks upon travellers" which are practised at our Hotels, by all accounts decidedly the most deceitful are the Bottle-tricks.

Mr. Punchhas merely to acknowledge a very useful little book, prettily bound, with the Union Jack (white margin) on its cover, and entitled "Supplementary Code of Yacht Signals." It is not of much use to him in Fleet Street, but he intends to keep it until the yachting season begins again, when he will astonish Cowes, Ryde, and "the Island" generally, with the proficiency he displays in nautical, as in all other exercises. That the Yacht Club may appreciate the value of the book,Mr. Punchsubjoins a page taken at random. Loungers on shore little know what is meant by the innocent-looking flags which are perpetually being run up from theSalmagundi, theOlla Podrida, theAmontadillo, and the other pretty vessels about which they talk so learnedly. Perhaps this extract may enlighten them:—

A letter from France says thatMiss Cunninghameon receiving the order for her release from prison, positively refused to go, until she was literally turned out. The invitations of the officials to her to "come out of that," were altogether idle; and indeed it is quite evident that the lady felt how completely her pretensions to martyrdom had been cut short by her premature release.Miss Cunninghamein fact proved herself a perfect "Buffalo gal" in her indisposition to "come out," until a due amount of solicitation had been addressed to her.

For our own parts, had we been the British officials employed to negotiate for her release, and she had shown a stubborn disposition to cling to her prison bars, we should have allowed her to remain, and ride as rusty as the bars themselves. We never could see what right she had to scatter ItalianBunyansall over the boot of Italy, and put her own foot in it. We admit the severity of the punishment and the propriety of getting her out of her prison, though as a general rule it must be laid down, that those who enter a foreign country for the purpose of disturbing its harmony, must expect now and then to have to take a few bars rest.

TheQueen of Spainhas become decidedly nautical. In honour of her own birthday she has ordered three screw frigates to be built in Spanish dockyards; regretting that the screws must be constructed abroad. Surely this is unnecessary; remembering the effect of Spanish bonds, Spain has been especially eminent for her enormous screw power.

Considering the way in which your brute of a husband is in the habit of treating his wife, it would be as well, for the classicalities of low life, to alter the name ofHymenintoFlora(Floor-her).

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