The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 1,
September 5, 1841, by Various

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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 1, September 5, 1841

Author: Various

Release Date: February 7, 2005 [EBook #14926]

Language: English

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.



FOR THE WEEK ENDING SEPTEMBER 5, 1841.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE GENTLEMAN'S OWN BOOK.

[Illustration: O]Our consideration must now be given to those essentials
in the construction of a true gentleman--the cut, ornaments, and pathology
of his dress.

THE CUT

is to the garment what the royal head and arms are to the coin--the
insignia that give it currency. No matter what the material, gold or
copper, Saxony or sackcloth, the die imparts a value to the one, and the
shears to the other.

Ancient Greece still lives in its marble demi-gods; the vivifying chisel
of Phidias was thought worthy to typify the sublimity of Jupiter; the
master-hand of Canova wrought the Parian block into the semblance of the
sea-born goddess, giving to insensate stone the warmth and etheriality of
the Paphian paragon; and Stultz, with his grace-bestowing shears, has
fashioned West of England broad-cloths, and fancy goods, into all the
nobility and gentility of the "Blue Book," the "Court Guide," the "Army,
Navy, and Law Lists, for 1841."

Wondrous and kindred arts! The sculptor wrests the rugged block from the
rocky ribs of his mother earth;--the tailor clips the implicated "_long
hogs_"[1] from the prolific backs of the living mutton;--the toothless
saw, plied by an unweayring hand, prepares the stubborn mass for the
chisel's tracery;--the loom, animated by steam (that gigantic child of
Wallsend and water), twists and twines the unctuous and pliant fleece into
the silky Saxony.

    [1] The first growth of wool.

The sculptor, seated in his _studio_, throws loose the reins of his
imagination, and, conjuring up some perfect ideality, seeks to impress the
beautiful illusion on the rude and undigested mass before him. The tailor
spreads out, upon his ample board, the happy broadcloth; his eyes scan the
"measured proportions of his client," and, with mystic power, guides the
obedient pipe-clay into the graceful diagram of a perfect gentleman. The
sculptor, with all the patient perseverance of genius, conscious of the
greatness of its object, chips, and chips, and chips, from day to day; and
as the stone quickens at each touch, he glows with all the pride of the
creative Prometheus, mingled with the gentler ecstacies of paternal love.
The tailor, with fresh-ground shears, and perfect faith in the gentility
and solvency of his "client," snips, and snips, and snips, until the
"superfine" grows, with each abscission, into the first style of elegance
and fashion, and the excited schneider feels himself "every inch a king,"
his shop a herald's college, and every brown paper pattern garnishing its
walls, an escutcheon of gentility.

But to dismount from our Pegasus, or, in other words, to cut the poetry,
and come to the practice of our subject, it is necessary that a perfect
gentleman should be cut _up_ very high, or cut _down_ very low--_i.e._, up
to the marquis or down to the jarvey. Any intermediate style is perfectly
inadmissible; for who above the grade of an attorney would wear a coat
with pockets inserted in the tails, like salt-boxes; or any but an
incipient Esculapius indulge in trousers that evinced a morbid ambition to
become knee-breeches, and were only restrained in their aspirations by a
pair of most strenuous straps. We will now proceed to details.

_The dressing-gown_ should be cut only--for the arm holes; but be careful
that the quantity of material be very ample--say four times as much as is
positively necessary, for nothing is so characteristic of a perfect
gentleman as his improvidence. This garment must be constructed without
buttons or button-holes, and confined at the waist with cable-like
bell-ropes and tassels. This elegant _déshabille_ had its origin (like the
Corinthian capital from the Acanthus) in accident. A set of massive
window-curtains having been carelessly thrown over a lay figure, or
tailor's _torso_, in Nugee's _studio_, in St. James's-street, suggested to
the luxuriant mind of the Adonisian D'Orsay, this beautiful combination of
costume and upholstery. The eighteen-shilling chintz great-coats, so
ostentatiously put forward by nefarious tradesmen as dressing-gowns, and
which resemble pattern-cards of the vegetable kingdom, are unworthy the
notice of all gentlemen--of course excepting those who are so by act of
Parliament. Although it is generally imagined that the coat is the
principal article of dress, _we_ attach far greater importance to the
trousers, the cut of which should, in the first place, be regulated by
nature's cut of the leg. A gentleman who labours under either a convex or
a concave leg, cannot be too particular in the arrangement of the
strap-draught. By this we mean that a concave leg must have the pull on
the convex side, and _vice versa_, the garment being made full, the
effects of bad nursing are, by these means, effectually "repealed."[2]
This will be better understood if the reader will describe a
parallelogram, and draw therein the arc of a circle equal to that
described by his leg, whether knock-kneed or bandy.

    [2] Baylis.

If the leg be perfectly straight, then the principal peculiarity of cut to
be attended to, is the external assurance that the trousers cannot be
removed from the body without the assistance of a valet.

The other considerations should be their applicability to the promenade or
the equestriade. We are indebted to our friend Beau Reynolds for this
original idea and it is upon the plan formerly adopted by him that we now
proceed to advise as to the maintenance of the distinctions.

Let your schneider baste the trousers together, and when you have put them
on, let them be braced to their natural tension; the schneider should
then, with a small pair of scissors, _cut out_ all the wrinkles which
offend the eye. The garment, being removed from your person, is again
taken to the tailor's laboratory, and the embrasures carefully and
artistically fine-drawn. The process for walking or riding trousers only
varies in these particulars--for the one you should stand upright, for the
other you should straddle the back of a chair. Trousers cut on these
principles entail only two inconveniences, to which every one with the
true feelings of a gentleman would willingly submit. You must never
attempt to sit down in your walking trousers, or venture to assume an
upright position in your equestrians, for compound fractures in the region
of the _os sacrum_, or dislocations about the _genu patellæ_ are certain
to be the results of such rashness, and then

[Illustration: "THE PEACE OF THE VALET IS FLED."]

       *       *       *       *       *


SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL. -- NO. 6.

  Thou hast humbled the proud,
  For my spirit hath bow'd
  More humbly to thee than it e'er bow'd before;
      But thy pow'r is past,
      Thou hast triumph'd thy last,
  And the heart you enslaved beats in freedom once more!
      I have treasured the flow'r
      You wore but an hour,
  And knelt by the mound where together we've sat;
      But thy-folly and pride
      I now only deride--
  So, fair Isabel, take your change out of that!

  That I loved, and how well,
  It were madness to tell
  To one who hath mock'd at my madd'ning despair.
      Like the white wreath of snow
      On the Alps' rugged brow,
  Isabel, I have proved thee as cold as thou'rt fair!
      'Twas thy boast that I sued,
      That you scorn'd as I woo'd--
  Though thou of my hopes were the Mount Ararat;
      But to-morrow I wed
      Araminta instead--
  So, fair Isabel, take your change out of that!

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LAST HAUL.

The ponds in St. James's Park were on last Monday drawn with nets, and a
large quantity of the fish preserved there carried away by direction of
the Chief Commissioner of Woods and Forests. Our talented correspondent,
Ben D'Israeli, sends us the following squib on the circumstance:--

  "Oh! never more," Duncannon cried,
    "The spoils of place shall fill our dishes!
  But though we've lost the _loaves_ we'll take
    Our last sad haul amongst the _fishes_."

       *       *       *       *       *


GENERAL SATISFACTION.

Lord Coventry declared emphatically that the sons, the fathers, and the
grandfathers were all satisfied with the present corn laws. Had his
lordship thought of the _Herald_, he might have added, "and the
grandmothers also."

       *       *       *       *       *


ADVERTISEMENT.

If the enthusiastic individual who distinguished himself on the O.P. side
of third row in the pit of "the late Theatre Royal English Opera House,"
but now the refuge for the self-baptised "Council of Dramatic Literature,"
can be warranted sober, and guaranteed an umbrella, in the use of which he
is decidedly unrivalled, he is requested to apply to the Committee of
management, where he will hear of something to his "advantage."

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration]

"PUNCH'S" LITERATURE.

  I. "The Hungarian Daughter," a Dramatic Poem, by George Stephens,
     8vo., pp. 294. London: 1841.

 II. "Introductory(!) Preface to the above," pp. 25.

III. "Supplement to the above;" consisting of "Opinions of the Press,"
     on various Works by George Stephens, 8vo., pp. 8.

 IV. "Opinions of the Press upon the 'Dramatic Merits' and 'Actable
     Qualities' of the Hungarian Daughter," 8vo., _closely printed_,
     pp. 16.

The blind and vulgar prejudice in favour of Shakspeare, Massinger, and the
elder dramatic poets--the sickening adulation bestowed upon Sheridan
Knowles and Talfourd, among the moderns--and the base, malignant, and
selfish partiality of theatrical managers, who insist upon performing
those plays only which are adapted to the stage--whose grovelling souls
have no sympathy with genius--whose ideas are fixed upon gain, have
hitherto smothered those blazing illuminati, George Stephens and his
syn--Syncretcis; have hindered their literary effulgence from breaking
through the mists hung before the eyes of the public, by a weak,
infatuated adherence to paltry Nature, and a silly infatuation in favour
of those who copy her.

At length, however, the public blushes (through its representative, the
provincial press, and the above-named critical puffs,) with shame--the
managers are fast going mad with bitter vexation, for having, to use the
words of that elegant pleonasm, the _introductory_ preface, "by a sort of
_ex officio_ hallucination," rejected this and some twenty other
exquisite, though unactable dramas! It is a fact, that since the opening
of the English Opera House, Mr. Webster has been confined to his room;
Macready has suspended every engagement for Drury-lane; and the managers
of Covent Garden have gone the atrocious length of engaging sibilants and
ammunition from the neighbouring market, to pelt the Syncretics off the
stage! Them we leave to their dirty work and their repentance, while we
proceed to _our_ "delightful task."

To prove that the "mantle of the Elizabethan poets seems to have fallen
upon Mr. Stephens" (_Opinions_, p. 11), that the "Hungarian Daughter" is
quite as good as Knowles's best plays (_Id._ p. 4, _in two places_), that
"it is equal to Goethe" (_Id._ p. 11), that "in after years the name of
Mr. S. will be amongst those which have given light and glory to their
country" (_Id._ p. 10); to prove, in short, the truth of a hundred other
laudations collected and printed by this modest author, we shall quote a
few passages from his play, and illustrate his genius by pointing out
their beauties--an office much needed, particularly by certain dullards,
the magazine of whose souls are not combustible enough to take fire at the
electric sparks shot forth _up_ out of the depths of George Stephens's
unfathomable genius!

The first gem that sparkles in the play, is where _Isabella_, the Queen
Dowager of Hungary, with a degree of delicacy highly becoming a matron,
makes desperate love to _Castaldo_, an Austrian ambassador. In the midst
of her ravings she breaks off, to give such a description of a
steeple-chase as Nimrod has never equalled.

    ISABELLA (_hotly_). "Love _rides_ upon a thought,
  And stays not dully to _inquire the way_,
  But right _o'erleaps the fence_ unto the _goal_."

To appreciate the splendour of this image, the reader must conceive Love
booted and spurred, mounted upon a _thought_, saddled and bridled. He
starts. _Yo-hoiks_! what a pace! He stops not to "inquire the
way"--whether he is to take the first turning to the right, or the second
to the left--but on, on he rushes, clears the fence cleverly, and wins by
a dozen lengths!

What soul, what mastery, what poetical skill is here! We triumphantly put
forth this passage as an instance of the sublime art of sinking in poetry
not to be matched by Dibdin Pitt or Jacob Jones. Love is sublimed to a
jockey, Thought promoted to a race-horse!--"Magnificent!"

But splendid as this is, Mr. Stephens can make the force of bathos go a
little further. The passage continues ("_a pause_" intervening, to allow
breathing ime, after the splitting pace with which Love has been riding
upon Thought) thus:--

  "Are your lips free? A smile will make no noise.
  What ignorance! So! Well! _I'll to breakfast straight_!"

Again:--

    ISABELLA. "Ha! ha! These forms are air--mere counterfeits
  Of my _imaginous_ heart, _as are the whirling
  Wainscot and trembling floor_!"

The idea of transferring the seat of imagination from the head to the
heart, and causing it to exhibit the wainscot in a pirouette, and the
floor in an ague, is highly _Shakesperesque_, and, as the _Courier_ is
made to say at page 3 of the _Opinions_, "is worthy of the best days of
that noble school of dramatic literature in which Mr. Stephens has so
successfully studied."

This well-deserved praise--the success with which the author has studied,
in a school, the models of which were human feelings and nature,--we have
yet to illustrate from other passages. Mr. Stephens evinces his full
acquaintance with Nature by a familiarity with her convulsions:
whirlwinds, thunder, lightning, earthquakes, and volcanoes--are this
gentleman's playthings. When, for instance, _Rupert_ is going to be
gallant to Queen Isabella, she exclaims:--

  "Dire lightnings! Scoundrel! Help!"

_Martinuzzi_ conveys a wish for his nobles to laugh--an order for a sort
of court cachinnation--in these pretty terms:--

  "_Blow it about_, ye opposite winds of heaven,
  Till the loud chorus of derision shake
  The world with laughter!"

When he feels uncomfortable at something he is told in the first act, the
Cardinal complains thus:--

  "Ha! earthquakes quiver in my flesh!"

which the _Britannia_ is so good as to tell us is superior to Byron; while
the _Morning Herald_ kindly remarks, that "a more vigorous and expressive
line was _never_ penned. In five words it illustrates the fiercest
passions of humanity by the direst convulsion of nature:" (_Opinions_, p.
7) a criticism which illustrates the fiercest throes of nonsense, by the
direst convulsions of ignorance.

_Castaldo_, being anxious to murder the Cardinal with, we suppose, all
"means and appliances to boot," asks of heaven a trifling favour:--

  "Heaven, that look'st on,
  Rain thy broad deluge first! All-teeming earth
  Disgorge thy poisons, till the attainted air
  Offend the sense! Thou, miscreative hell,
  Let loose calamity!"

But it is not only in the "sublime and beautiful that Mr. Stephens's
genius delights" (_vide Opinions_, p. 4); his play exhibits sentiments of
high morality, quite worthy of the "Editor of the Church of England
Quarterly Review," the author of "Lay Sermons," and other religious works.
For example: the lady-killer, _Castaldo_, is "hotly" loved by the
queen-mother, while he prefers the queen-daughter. The last and _Castaldo_
are together. The dowager overhears their billing and cooing, and thus,
with great moderation, sends her supposed daughter to ----. But the author
shall speak for himself:--

  "Ye viprous twain!
  Swift whirlwinds snatch ye both to fire as endless
  And infinite as hell! May it embrace ye!
  And burn--burn limbs and sinews, souls, until
  It wither ye both up--both--in its arms!"

Elegant denunciation!--"viprous," "hell," "sinews and souls." Has Goethe
ever written anything like this? Certainly not. Therefore the "Monthly"
_is_ right at p. 11 of the _Opinions_. Stephens must be equal, if not
superior, to the author of "Faust."

One more specimen of delicate sentiment from the lips of a virgin
concerning the lips of her lover, will fully establish the Syncretic code
of moral taste:--

    CZERINA (_faintly_). "Do breathe heat into me:
  Lay thy warm breath unto my bloodless lips:
  I stagger; I--I must--"

    CASTALDO. "In mercy, what?"

    CZERINA. "Wed!!!"

The lady ends, most maidenly, by fainting in her lover's arms.

A higher flight is elsewhere taken. _Isabella_ urges _Castaldo_ to murder
_Martinuzzi_, in a sentence that has a powerful effect upon the feelings,
for it makes us shudder as we copy it--it will cause even _our_ readers to
tremble when they see it. The idea of using _blasphemy_ as an instrument
for shocking the minds of an audience, is as original as it is worthy of
the _sort_ of genius Mr. Stephens possesses. Alluding to a poniard,
_Isabella_ says:--

  "Sheath it where _God_ and nature prompt your hand!"

That is to say, in the breast of a cardinal!!

The vulgar, who set up the common-place standards of nature, probability,
moral propriety, and respect for such sacred names as they are careful
never to utter, except with reverence, will perhaps condemn Mr. Stephens
(the aforesaid "Editor of the Church of England Quarterly Review," and
author of other religious works) with unmitigated severity. They must not
be too hasty. Mr. Stephens is a genius, and cannot, therefore, be held
accountable for the _meaning_ of his ravings, be they even blasphemous;
more than that he is a Syncretic genius, and his associates, by the
designation they have chosen, by the terms of their agreement, are bound
to cry each other up--to defend one another from the virulent attacks of
common sense and plain reason. They are sworn to _stick_ together, like
the bundle of rods in Æsop's fable.

[Illustration: SYNCRETISM.]

Mr. Stephens, their chief, the god of their idolatry, is, consequently,
more mad, or, according to their creed, a greater genius, than the rest;
and evidently writes passages he would shudder to pen, if he knew the
meaning of them. Upon paper, therefore, the Syncretics are not accountable
beings; and when condemned to the severest penalties of critical law, must
be reprieved on the plea of literary insanity.

It may be said that we have descended to mere detail to illustrate Mr.
Stephens' peculiar genius--that we ought to treat of the grand design, or
plot of the _Hungarian Daughter_; but we must confess, with the deepest
humility, that our abilities are unequal to the task. The fable soars far
beyond the utmost flights of our poor conjectures, of our limited
comprehension. We know that at the end there are--one case of poisoning,
one ditto of stabbing with intent, &c., and one ditto of sudden death.
Hence we conclude that the play is a tragedy; but one which "cannot be
intended for an acting play" (_preliminary preface_, p.1,)--of course _as_
a tragedy; yet so universal is the author's genius, that an adaptation of
the _Hungarian Daughter_, as a broad comedy, has been produced at the
"Dramatic Authors' Theatre," having been received with roars of laughter!

The books before us have been expensively got up. In the _Hungarian
Daughter_, "rivers of type flow through meadows of margin," to the length
of nearly three hundred pages. Mr. Stephens is truly a most spirited
printer and publisher of his own works.

But the lavish outlay he must have incurred to obtain such a number of
favourable notices--so many columns of superlative praise--shows him to
be, in every sense--like the prince of puffers, George Robins--"utterly
regardless of expense." The works third and fourth upon our list,
doubtless cost, for the _copyright_ alone, in ready money, a fortune. It
is astonishing what pecuniary sacrifices genius will make, when it
purloins the trumpet of Fame to _puff_ itself into temporary notoriety.

       *       *       *       *       *


INQUEST EXTRAORDINARY.

     The Whigs, who long
     Were bold and strong,
  On Monday night went dead.
     The jury found
     This verdict sound--
  "_Destroy'd by low-priced bread_."

       *       *       *       *       *


AN EXCLUSIVE APPOINTMENT.

It is with the most rampant delight that we rush to announce, that a
special warrant has been issued, appointing our friend and _protégé_,
the gallant and jocular Sibthorp, to the important office of beadle and
crier to the House of Commons--a situation which has been created from the
difficulty which has hitherto been found in inducing strangers to withdraw
during a division of the House. This responsible office could not have
been conferred upon any one so capable of discharging its onerous duties
as the Colonel. We will stake our hump, that half-a-dozen words of the
gallant Demosthenes would, at any time have the effect of

[Illustration: CLEARING THE STRANGER'S GALLERY.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE GREAT CRICKET MATCH AT ST. STEPHEN'S.

FIRST INNINGS.

The return match between the Reform and Carlton Clubs has been the theme
of general conversation during the past week. Some splendid play was
exhibited on the occasion, and, although the result has realised the
anticipations of the best judges, it was not achieved without considerable
exertion.

It will be remembered that, the last time these celebrated clubs met, the
Carlton men succeeded in scoring one notch more than their rivals; who,
however, immediately challenged them to a return match, and have been
diligently practising for success since that time.

The players assembled in _Lord's_ Cricket Ground on Tuesday last, when the
betting was decidedly in favour of the Cons, whose appearance and manner
was more confident than usual; while, on the contrary, the Rads seemed
desponding and shy. On tossing up, the Whigs succeeded in getting first
innings, and the Tories dispersed themselves about the field in high glee,
flattering themselves that they would not be _out_ long.

Wellington, on producing the ball--a genuine _Duke_--excited general
admiration by his position. Ripon officiated as bowler at the other
wicket. Sibthorp acted as long-stop, and the rest found appropriate
situations. Lefevre was chosen umpire by mutual consent.

Spencer and Clanricarde went in first. Spencer, incautiously trying to
score too many notches for one of his hits, was stumped out by Ripon, and
Melbourne succeeded him. Great expectations had been formed of this player
by his own party, but he was utterly unable to withstand Wellington's
rapid bowling, which soon sent him to the right-about. Clanricarde was
likewise run out without scoring a notch.

Lansdowne and Brougham were now partners at the wickets; but Lansdowne did
not appear to like his mate, on whose play it is impossible to calculate.
Coventry, _the short slip_, excited much merriment, by a futile attempt to
catch this player out, which terminated in his finding himself horizontal
and mortified. Wellington, having bowled out Lansdowne, resigned his ball
to Peel, who took his place at the wicket with a smile of confidence,
which frightened the bat out of the hands of Phillips, the next Rad.

Dundas and Labouchere were now the batmen. Labouchere is a very
intemperate player. One of Sandon's slow balls struck his thumb, and put
him out of temper, whereupon he hit about at random, and knocked down his
wicket. Wakley took his bat, but apparently not liking his position, he
hit up and caught himself out.

O'Connell took his place with a lounging swagger, but his first ball was
caught by the immortal Sibthorp, who uttered more puns on the occasion
than the oldest man present recollected to have heard perpetrated in any
given time. Russell--who, by the bye, excavated several quarts of 'heavy'
during his innings--was the last man the Rads had to put in. He played
with care, and appeared disposed to keep hold of the bat as long as
possible. He was, however, quietly disposed of by one of Peel's inexorable
balls.

Thus far the game has proceeded. The Cons have yet to _go in_. The general
opinion is, that they will not remain in so long as the Rads, but that
they will score their notches much quicker. Indeed, it was commonly
remarked, that no players had ever remained in so long, and had done so
little good withal, as the Reformites.

Betting is at 100 to 5 in favour of the Carlton men, and anxiety is on
tip-toe to know the result of the next innings.

       *       *       *       *       *


The Tories are exulting in their recent victory over the poor Whigs, whom
they affirm have been _tried_, and found wanting. A _trial_, indeed, where
all the jurors were witnesses for the prosecution. One thing is certain,
that the country, as usual, will have to pay the costs, for a Tory verdict
will be certain to carry them. The Whigs should prepare a motion for a new
trial, on the plea that the late decision was that of

[Illustration: A PACKED JURY.]

       *       *       *       *       *


DECIDEDLY UNPLEASANT.

"Kiss the broad moon."--MARTINUZZI.

  Go kiss the moon!--that's more, sirs, than I can dare;
  'Tis worse than madness--hasn't she her man there?

       *       *       *       *       *


CURIOUS COINCIDENCE.

The _Morning Advertiser_ has a paragraph containing a report of an
extraordinary indisposition under which a private of the Royal Guards is
now suffering. It appears he lately received a violent kick from a horse,
on the back of his head: since which time his hair has become so
sensitive, that he cannot bear any one to approach him or touch it. On
some portion being cut off by stratagem, he evinced the utmost disgust,
accompanied with a volley of oaths. This may be wonderful in French hair,
but it is nothing to the present sufferings of the Whigs in England.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE BARTHOLOMEW FAIR SHOW-FOLKS.

Punch having been chosen by the unanimous voice of the public--the
_arbiter elegantiarum_ in all matters relating to science, literature, and
the fine arts--and from his long professional experience, being the only
person in England competent to regulate the public amusements of the
people, the Lord Mayor of London has confided to him the delicate and
important duty of deciding upon the claims of the several individuals
applying for licenses to open show-booths during the approaching
Bartholomew Fair. Punch, having called to his assistance Sir Peter Laurie
and Peter Borthwick, proceeded, on last Saturday, to hold his inquisition
in a highly-respectable court in the neighbourhood of West Smithfield.

The first application was made on behalf of _Richardson's Booth_, by two
individuals named Melbourne and Russell.

PUNCH.--On what grounds do you claim?

MEL.--On those of long occupancy and respectability, my lord.

RUSS.--We employs none but the werry best of actors, my lud--all "bould
speakers," as my late wenerated manager, Muster Richardson, used to call
'em.

MEL.--We have the best scenery and decorations, the most popular
performances--

RUSS.--Hem! (_aside to_ MEL.)--Best say nothing about our performances,
Mel.

PUNCH.--Pray what situations do you respectively hold in the booth?

MEL.--_I_ am principal manager, and do the heavy tragedy business. My
friend, here, is the stage-manager and low comedy buffer, who takes the
kicks, and blows the trumpet of the establishment.

PUNCH.--What is the nature of the entertainments you have been in the
habit of producing?

RUSS.--Oh! the real legitimate drammar--"A New Way to Pay Old Debts,"
"Raising the Wind," "A Gentleman in Difficulties," "Where shall I dine?"
and "Honest Thieves." We mean to commence the present season with "All in
the wrong," and "His Last Legs."

PUNCH.--Humph! I am sorry to say I have received several complaints of the
manner in which you have conducted the business of your establishment for
several years. It appears you put forth bills promising wonders, while
your performances have been of the lowest possible description.

RUSS.--S'elp me, Bob! there ain't a word of truth in it. If there's
anything we takes pride on, 'tis our gentility.

PUNCH.--You have degraded the drama by the introduction of card-shufflers
and thimble-rig impostors.

RUSS.--We denies the thimble-rigging in totum, my lud; that was brought
out at Stanley's opposition booth.

PUNCH.--At least you were a promoter of state conjuring and legerdemain
tricks on the stage.

RUSS.--Only a little hanky-panky, my lud. The people likes it; they loves
to be cheated before their faces. One, two, three--presto--begone. I'll
show your ludship as pretty a trick of putting a piece of money in your
eye and taking it out of your elbow, as you ever beheld. _Has_ your
ludship got such a thing as a good shilling about you? 'Pon my honour,
I'll return it.

PUNCH.--Be more respectful, sir, and reply to my questions. It appears
further, that several respectable persons have lost their honesty in your
booth.

RUSS.--Very little of that 'ere commodity is ever brought into it, my lud.

PUNCH.--And, in short, that you and your colleagues' hands have been
frequently found in the pockets of your audience.

RUSS.--Only in a professional way, my lud--strictly professional.

PUNCH.--But the most serious charge of all is that, on a recent occasion,
when the audience hissed your performances, you put out the lights, let in
the swell-mob, and raised a cry of "No Corn Laws."

RUSS.--Why, my lud, on that p'int I admit there was a slight row.

PUNCH.--Enough, sir. The court considers you have grossly misconducted
yourself, and refuses to grant you license to perform.

MEL.--But, my lord, I protest _I did_ nothing.

PUNCH.--So everybody says, sir. You are therefore unfit to have the
management of (next to my own) the greatest theatre in the world. You may
retire.

MEL. (_to_ RUSS.)--Oh! Johnny, this is your work--with your confounded
hanky-panky.

RUSS.--No--'twas you that did it; we have been ruined by your laziness.
What _is_ to become of us now?

MEL.--Alas! where shall we dine?

       *       *       *       *       *

The next individual who presented himself, to obtain a license for the
Carlton Club Equestrian Troop, was a strange-loooking character, who gave
his name as Sibthorp.

PUNCH.--What are you, sir?

SIB.--Clown to the ring, my lord, and principal performer on the Salt-box.
I provide my own paint and pipe-clay, make my own jokes, and laugh at them
too. I do the ground and lofty tumbling, and ride the wonderful
donkey--all for the small sum of fifteen bob a-week.

PUNCH.--You have been represented as a very noisy and turbulent fellow.

SIB.--Meek as a lamb, my lord, except when I'm on the saw-dust; there I
acknowledge, I do crow pretty loudly--but that's in the way of
business,--and your lordship knows that we public jokers must pitch it
strong sometimes to make our audience laugh, and bring the _browns_ into
the treasury. After all, my lord, I am not the rogue many people take me
for,--more the other way, I can assure you, and

  "Though to my share some human errors fall,
  Look in my face, and you'll forget them all."

PUNCH.--A strong appeal, I must confess. You shall have your license.

The successful claimant having made his best bow to Commissioner Punch,
withdrew, whistling the national air of

[Illustration: "BRITONS, STRIKE HOME."]

       *       *       *       *       *

A fellow named Peel, who has been for many years in the habit of
exhibiting as a quack-doctor, next applied for liberty to vend his
nostrums at the fair. On being questioned as to his qualifications, he
shook his head gravely, and, without uttering a word, placed the following
card in the hands of Punch.


TO THE GULLIBLE PUBLIC.

SIR RHUBARB PILL, M.D. and L.S.D.

Professor of Political Chemistry and Conservative Medicine to the

CARLTON CLUB;

PHYSICIAN IN ORDINARY TO THE KING OF HANOVER!!!

Inventor of the People's Patent Sliding Stomach-pump;--of the Poor Man's
anti-Breakfast and Dinner Waist-belt;--and of the new Royal extract of
Toryism, as prescribed for, and lately swallowed by,

THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS PERSONAGE IN THESE DOMINIONS.

Sir Rhubarb begs further to state, that he practises national
tooth-drawing and bleeding to an unlimited extent; and undertakes to cure
the consumption of bread without the use of

A FIXED PLASTER.

N.B.--No connexion with the corn doctor who recently vacated the concern
now occupied by Sir R.P.

Hours of attendance, from ten till four each day, at his establishment,
Downing-street.--A private entrance for M.P.'s round the corner.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ben D'Israeli, the proprietor of the Learned Pig, applied for permission
to exhibit his animal at the fair. A license was unhesitatingly granted by
his lordship, who rightly considered that the exhibition of the
extraordinary talents of the pig and its master, would do much to promote
a taste for polite literature amongst the Smithneld "pennyboys."

       *       *       *       *       *

A poor old man, who called himself Sir Francis Burdett, applied for a
license to exhibit his wonderful Dissolving Views. The most remarkable of
which were--"The Hustings in Covent-garden--changing to Rous's dinner in
Drury-lane"--and "The Patriot in the Tower--changing to the Renegade in
the Carlton." It appeared that the applicant was, at one time, in a
respectable business, and kept "The Old Glory," a favourite public-house
in Westminster, but, falling into bad company, he lost his custom and his
character, and was reduced to his present miserable occupation. Punch, in
pity for the wretched petitioner, and fully convinced that his childish
tricks were perfectly harmless, granted him a license to exhibit.

       *       *       *       *       *

Licenses were also granted to the following persons in the course of the
day:--

Sir E.L. Bulwer, to exhibit his own portrait, in the character of
Alcibiades, painted by himself.

Doctor Bowring, to exhibit six Tartarian chiefs, caught in the vicinity of
the Seven Dials, with songs, translated from the original Irish Calmuc, by
the Doctor.

Emerson Tennent, to exhibit his wonderful Cosmorama, or views of anywhere
and everywhere; in which the striking features of Ireland, Greece,
Belgium, and Whitechapel will be so happily confounded, that the spectator
may imagine he beholds any or all of these places at a single glance.

Messrs. Stephens, Heraud, and Co., to exhibit, gratis, a Syncretic
Tragedy, with fireworks and tumbling, according to law, between the acts;
to be followed by a lecture on the Unactable Drama.

       *       *       *       *       *


CAPITAL ILLUSTRATION.

At the recent _fracas_ in Pall Mall, between Captain Fitzroy and Mr.
Shepherd, the latter, like his predecessor of old, the "Gentle Shepherd,"
performed sundry vague evolutions with a silver-mounted cane, and
requested Captain Fitzroy to consider himself horsewhipped. Not
entertaining quite so high an opinion of his adversary's imaginative
powers, the Captain floored the said descendant of gentleness, thereby
ably illustrating the precise difference of the "_real and ideal_."

       *       *       *       *       *


THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE.

CHAPTER II.

SHOWS HOW AGAMEMNON BECAME DISGUSTED WITH NUMBER ONE, AND THE AWFUL
CONSEQUENCES WHICH SUCCEEDED.

[Illustration: P]Poor old John's alarm was succeeded by astonishment, for
without speaking a word, Agamemnon bounced into his bed-chamber. He
thought the room the most miserable-looking room he had ever entered,
though the floor was covered with a thick Turkey carpet, a bright fire was
blazing in the grate, and everything about seemed fashioned for comfort.
He threw himself into an easy chair, and kicking off one of his pumps,
crossed his legs, and rested his elbow on the table. He looked at his
bed--it was a French one--a mountain of feathers, covered with a thick,
white Marseilles quilt, and festooned over with a drapery of rich crimson
damask.

"I'll have a four-post to-morrow," growled Collumpsion; "French beds are
mean-looking things, after all. Stuffwell has the fellow-chair to
this--one chair does look strange! I wonder it has never struck me before;
but it is surprising--what--strange ide--as a man--has"--and Collumpsion
fell asleep.

It was broad day when Collumpsion awoke; the fire had gone out, and his
feet were as cold as ice. He (as he is married there's no necessity for
concealment)--he swore two or three naughty oaths, and taking off his
clothes, hurried into bed in the hope of getting warm.

"How confoundedly cold I am--sitting in that chair all night,
too--ridiculous. If I had had a--I mean, if I hadn't been alone, that
wouldn't have happened; she would have waked me." _She_--what the deuce
made him use the feminine pronoun!

At two o'clock he rose and entered his breakfast-room. The table was laid
as usual--_one_ large cup and saucer, _one_ plate, _one_ egg-cup, _one_
knife, and _one_ fork! He did not know wherefore, but he felt to want the
number increased. John brought up a slice of broiled salmon and _one_ egg.
Collumpsion got into a passion, and ordered a second edition. The morning
was rainy, so Collumpsion remained at home, and employed himself by
kicking about the ottoman, and mentally multiplying all the single
articles in his establishment by two.

The dinner hour arrived, and there was the same singular provision for
one. He rang the bell, and ordered John to furnish the table for
_another_. John obeyed, though not without some strong misgiving of his
master's sanity, as the edibles consisted of a sole, a mutton chop, and a
partridge. When John left the room at his master's request, Collumpsion
rose and locked the door. Having placed a chair opposite, he resumed his
seat, and commenced a series of pantomimic gestures, which were strongly
confirmatory of John's suspicions. He seemed to be holding an inaudible
conversation with some invisible being, placing the choicest portion of
the sole in a plate, and seemingly desiring John to deliver it to the
unknown. As John was not there, he placed it before himself, and commenced
daintily and smilingly picking up very minute particles, as though he were
too much delighted to eat. He then bowed and smiled, and extending his
arm, appeared to fill the opposite glass, and having _actually_ performed
the same operation with his own, he bowed and smiled again, and sipped the
brilliant Xeres. He then rang the bell violently, and unlocking the door,
rushed rapidly back to his chair, as though he were fearful of committing
a rudeness by leaving it. The table being replenished, and John again
dismissed the room, the same pantomime commenced. The one mutton chop
seemed at first to present an obstacle to the proper conduct of the scene;
but gracefully uncovering the partridge, and as gracefully smiling towards
the invisible, he appeared strongly to recommend the bird in preference to
the beast. Dinner at length concluded, he rose, and apparently led his
phantom guest from the table, and then returning to his arm-chair, threw
himself into it, and, crossing his hands upon his breast, commenced a
careful examination of the cinders and himself. His rumination ended in a
doze, and his doze in a dream, in which he fancied himself a Brobdignag
Java sparrow during the moulting season. His cage was surrounded by
beautiful and blooming girls, who seemed to pity his condition, and vie
with each other in proposing the means of rendering him more comfortable.
Some spoke of elastic cotton shirts, linsey-wolsey jackets, and silk
nightcaps; others of merino hose, silk feet and cotton tops, shirt-buttons
and warming-pans; whilst Mrs. Greatgirdle and Mrs. Waddledot sang an echo
duet of "What a pity the bird is alone."

  "A change came o'er the spirit of his dream."

He thought that the moulting season was over, and that he was rejoicing in
the fulness of a sleeky plumage, and by his side was a Java sparrowess,
chirping and hopping about, rendering the cage as populous to him as
though he were the tenant of a bird-fancier's shop. Then--he awoke just as
Old John was finishing a glass of Madeira, preparatory to arousing
Collumpsion, for the purpose of delivering to him a scented note, which
had just been left by the footman of Mrs. Waddledot.

It was lucky for John that A.C.A. had been blessed with pleasant dreams,
or his attachment to Madeira might have occasioned his discharge from No.
24, Pleasant-terrace.

The note was an invitation to Mrs. Waddledot's opera-box for that evening.
The performance was to be Rossini's "La Cenerentola," and as Collumpsion
recollected the subject of the opera, his heart fluttered in his bosom. A
prince marrying a cinder-sifter for love! What must the happy state be--or
rather what must it not be--to provoke such a condescension!

Collumpsion never appeared to such advantage as he did that evening; he
was dressed to a miracle of perfection--his spirits were so elastic that
they must have carried him out of the box into "Fop's-alley," had not Mrs.
Waddledot cleverly surrounded him by the detachment from the corps of
eighteen daughters, which had (on that night) been placed under her
command.

Collumpsion's state of mind did not escape the notice of the fair
campaigners, and the most favourable deductions were drawn from it in
relation to the charitable combination which they had formed for his
ultimate good, and all seemed determined to afford him every encouragement
in their power. Every witticism that he uttered elicited countless
smiles--every criticism that he delivered was universally applauded--in
short, Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite was voted the most delightful beau
in the universe, and Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite gave himself a
plumper to the same opinion.

On the 31st of the following month, a string of carriages surrounded St.
George's Church, Hanover-square, and precisely at a quarter to twelve,
A.M., Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite placed a plain gold ring on the
finger of Miss Juliana Theresa Waddledot, being a necessary preliminary to
the introduction of our hero, the "Heir of Applebite."

       *       *       *       *       *


EPIGRAM.

  "I wonder if Brougham thinks as much as he talks,"
  Said a punster perusing a trial:
  "I vow, since his lordship was made Baron Vaux,
  He's been _Vaux et præterea nihil!_"

       *       *       *       *       *


THE TWO FATAL CHIROPEDISTS.

Our great ancestor, Joe Miller, has recorded, in his "Booke of Jestes," an
epitaph written upon an amateur corn-cutter, named Roger Horton, who,

  "Trying one day his corn to mow off,
  The razor slipp'd, and cut his toe off."

The painful similarity of his fate with that of another corn
experimentalist, has given rise to the following:--

EPITAPH ON LORD JOHN RUSSELL, WHO EXPIRED POLITICALLY, AFTER A LINGERING
ILLNESS, ON MONDAY EVENING, AUGUST 30, 1841.

          In Minto quies.

  Beneath this stone lies Johnny Russell,
  Who for his place had many a tussel.
  Trying one day _the corn_ to cut down,
  The motion fail'd, and he was _put_ down.
  The benches which he nearly grew to,
  The Opposition quickly flew to;
  The fact it was so mortifying,
  That little Johnny took to dying.

       *       *       *       *       *


SHALL GREAT OLYMPUS TO A MOLEHILL STOOP?

Some difficulty has arisen as to the production of Knowles's new play at
the Haymarket Theatre. Mr. Charles Kean and Miss Helen Faucit having
objected to hear the play read, "_because their respective parts had not
been previously submitted to them._"--_Sunday Times_.--[We are of opinion
that they were decidedly right. One might as well expect a child to spell
without learning the alphabet, as either of the above persons to
understand Knowles, unless enlightened by a long course of previous
instruction.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LETTER OF INTRODUCTION.

    [From a MS. drama called the "COURT OF VICTORIA."

_Scene in Windsor Castle._

[_Her Majesty discovered sitting thoughtfully at an escrutoire._--

_Enter the_ LORD CHAMBERLAIN.]

LORD CHAMBERLAIN.--May it please your Majesty, a letter from the Duke of
Wellington.

THE QUEEN (_opens the letter_.)--Oh! a person for the vacant place of
Premier--show the bearer in, my lord. [_Exit_ LORD CHAMBERLAIN.

THE QUEEN (_muses_).--Sir Robert Peel--I have heard that name before, as
connected with my family. If I remember rightly, he held the situation of
adviser to the crown in the reign of Uncle William, and was discharged for
exacting a large discount on all the state receipts; yet Wellington is
very much interested in his favour.

_Enter the_ LORD CHAMBERLAIN, _who ushers in_ SIR ROBERT, _and then
retires. As he is going_--]

LORD CHAMBERLAIN (_aside_).--If you do get the berth, Sir Robert, I hope
you'll not give me warning.          [_Exit_.

SIR ROBERT (_looking demurely_).--Hem!

[_The Queen regards him very attentively._]

THE QUEEN (_aside_).--I don't much like the looks of the fellow--that
affectation of simplicity is evidently intended to conceal the real
cunning of his character. (_Aloud_). You are of course aware of the nature
and the duties of the situation which you solicit?

SIR ROBERT.--Oh, yes, your Majesty; I have filled it before, and liked it
very much.

THE QUEEN.--It's a most responsible post, for upon your conduct much of
the happiness of my other servants depends.

SIR ROBERT.--I am aware of that, your Majesty; but as no one can hope to
please everybody, I will only answer that _one half_ shall be perfectly
satisfied.

THE QUEEN.--You have recently returned from Tamworth?

SIR ROBERT.--Yes, your Majesty.

THE QUEEN.--We will dispense with forms. At Tamworth, you have been
practising as a quack doctor?

SIR ROBERT.--Yes, madam; I was brought up to doctoring, and am a professor
of sleight-of-hand.

THE QUEEN.--What have you done in the latter art to entitle you to such a
distinction?

SIR ROBERT.--I have performed some very wonderful changes. When I was out
of place, I had opinions strongly opposed to Catholic emancipation; but
when I got into service I changed them in the course of a few days.

THE QUEEN.--I have heard that you boast of possessing a nostrum for the
restoration of the public good. What is it?

SIR ROBERT.--Am I to consider myself "as regularly called in?"

THE QUEEN.--That is a question I decline answering at present.

SIR ROBERT.--Then I regret that I must also remain silent.

THE QUEEN (_aside_).--The wily fox! (_aloud_)--Are you aware that great
distress exists in the country?

SIR ROBERT.--Oh, yes! I have heard that there are several families who
keep no man-servant, and that numerous clerks, weavers, and other
artisans, occupy second-floors.

THE QUEEN.--I have heard that the people are wanting bread.

SIR ROBERT.--Ha, ha! that was from the late premier, I suppose. He merely
forgot an adjective--it is _cheap_ bread that the people are clamouring
for.

THE QUEEN.--And why can they not have it?

SIR ROBERT.--I have consulted with the Duke of Richmond upon the subject,
and he says it is impossible.

THE QUEEN.--But why?

SIR ROBERT.--Wheat must be lower before bread can be cheaper.

THE QUEEN.--Well!

SIR ROBERT.--And rents must be less if that is the case, and--

THE QUEEN.--Well!

SIR ROBERT.--And that the landowners won't agree to.

THE QUEEN.--Well!

SIR ROBERT.--And, then, I can't keep my place a day.

THE QUEEN.--Then the majority of my subjects are to be rendered miserable
for the advantage of the few?

SIR ROBERT.--That's the principle of all good governments. Besides, cheap
bread would be no benefit to the masses, for wages would be lower.

THE QUEEN.--Do you really believe such _would_ be the case?

SIR ROBERT.--Am I regularly called in?

THE QUEEN.--You evade a direct answer, I see. Granting such to be _your
belief_, your friends and landowners would suffer no injury, for their
incomes would procure them as many luxuries.

SIR ROBERT.--Not if they were to live abroad, or patronise foreign
manufactures: and _should_ wages be higher, what would they say to me
after all the money they have expended in bri--I mean at the Carlton Club,
if I allow the value of their "dirty acres" to be reduced.

THE QUEEN.--Pray, what do you call such views?

SIR ROBERT.--Patriotism.

THE QUEEN.--Charity would be a better term, as that is said to begin at
home. How long were you in your last place?

SIR ROBERT.--Not half so long as I wished--for the sake of the country.

THE QUEEN.--Why did you leave?

SIR ROBERT.--Somebody said I was saucy--and somebody else said I was not
honest--and somebody else said I had better go.

THE QUEEN.--Who was the latter somebody?

SIR ROBERT.--My master.

THE QUEEN.--Your exposure of my late premier's faults, and your present
application for his situation, result from disinterestedness, of course?

SIR ROBERT.--Of course, madam.

THE QUEEN.--Then salary is not so much an object as a comfortable
situation.

SIR ROBERT.--I beg pardon; but I've been out of place ten years, and have
a small family to support. _Wages_ is, therefore, some sort of a
consideration.

THE QUEEN.--I don't quite like you.

SIR ROBERT (_glancing knowingly at the Queen_).--I don't think there is
any one that _you can_ have better.

THE QUEEN.--I'm afraid not.

SIR ROBERT.--Then, am I regularly called in?

THE QUEEN.--Yes, you can take your boxes to Downing-street.

[_Exeunt ambo_.

       *       *       *       *       *


PARLIAMENTARY INTENTIONS.

Mr. Muntz, we understand, intends calling the attention of Parliament, at
the earliest possible period, to the state of the crops.

Lord Palmerston intends proposing, that a looking-glass for the use of
members should be placed in the ante-room of the House, and that it shall
be called the New Mirror of Parliament.

Mr. T. Duncombe intends moving that the plans of Sir Robert Peel be
immediately submitted to the photographic process, in order that some
light may be thrown upon them as soon as possible.

The Earl of Coventry intends suggesting, that every member of both Houses
be immediately supplied with a copy of the work called "Ten Minutes'
Advice on Corns," in order to prepare Parliament for a full description of
the Corn Laws.

       *       *       *       *       *


EXTRA FASHIONABLE NEWS.

Colonel Sibthorp has expressed his intention of becoming the blue-faced
monkey at the Zoological Gardens with his _countenance_, on next
Wednesday.

Lord Melbourne has received visits of condolence on his retirement from
office, from Aldgate pump--Canning's statue in Palace-yard--the Three
Kings of Brentford--and the Belle Sauvage, Ludgate-hill.

Her Royal Highness the Princess, her two nurses, and a pap-spoon, took an
airing twice round the great hall of the palace, at one o'clock yesterday.

The Burlington Arcade will be thrown open to visitors to-morrow morning.
Gentlemen intending to appear there, are requested to come with
tooth-picks and full-dress walking-canes.

Sir Francis Burdett's top-boots were seen, on last Saturday, walking into
Sir Robert Peel's house, accompanied by the legs of that venerable turner.

His Grace the Duke of Wellington inspected all the passengers in Pall
Mall, from the steps of the United Service Club-house, and expressed
himself highly pleased with the celerity of the 'busses and cabs, and the
effective state of the pedestrians generally.

His Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex has, in the most unequivocal manner,
expressed his opinion on the state of the weather--which he pronounces to
be hot! hot! all hot!

       *       *       *       *       *


A SINGULAR INADVERTENCE.

A good deal of merriment was caused in the House of Commons, by Mr. Bernal
and Commodore Napier addressing the members as "gentlemen." This may be
excusable in young members, but the oldest parliamentary reporter has no
recollection of the term being used by any one who had sat a session in
the House. "Too much familiarity," &c.

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S PENCILLINGS--No. VIII.

[Illustration: THE LETTER OF INTRODUCTION.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE MINISTRY'S ODE TO THE PASSIONS.

NOT BY COLLINS.

  When the Whig Ministry had run,
  Nor left behind a mother's son,
  The Tories, at their leader's call,
  Came thronging round him, one and all,
  Exulting, braying, cringing, coaxing,
  Expert at humbugging and hoaxing;
  By turns they felt an _honest_ zeal
  For private good and public weal;
  Till all at once they raised such yells,
  As rung in Apsley House the bells:
  And as they sought snug berths to get
  In Bobby Peel's new cabinet,
  Each, for interest ruled the hour,
  Would prove his taste for place and power.

  First Follett's hand, his skill to try,
    Upon the _seals_ bewilder'd laid;
  But back recoil'd--he scarce knew why--
    Of Lyndhurst's angry scowl afraid.

  Next Stanley rush'd with frenzied air;
    His eager haste brook'd no delay:
  He rudely seized the _Foreign_ chair,
    And bade poor Cupid trudge away.

  With woeful visage Melbourne sate--
    A pint of double X his grief beguiled;
  And inly pondering o'er his fate,
    He bade th' attendant pot-boy "draw it mild."

  But thou, Sir Jamie Graham--prig;
    What was thy delighted musing?
  Now accepting, now refusing,
  Till on the Admiralty pitch'd,
    Still would that thought his speech prolong;
  To gain the place for which he long had itch'd,
    He call'd on Bobby still through all the song;
  But ever as his sweetest theme he chose,
  A sovereign's golden chink was heard at every close,
  And Pollock grimly smiled, and shook his powder'd wig.

  And longer had he droned--but, with a frown
          Brougham impatient rose;
  He threw the bench of snoring bishops down,
          And, with a withering look,
          The Whig-denouncing trumpet took,
  And made a speech so fierce and true,
  Thrashing, with might and main, both friend and foe;
          And ever and anon he beat,
          With doubled fist his cushion'd seat;
  And though sometimes, each breathless pause between,
          Astonished Melbourne at his side,
          His moderating voice applied,
  Yet still he kept his stern, unalter'd mien,
  While battering the Whigs and Tories black and blue.

  Thy ravings, Goulburn, to no theme were fix'd.
    Not ev'n thy virtue is without its spots;
  With piety thy politics were mix'd,
    And now they courted Peel, now call'd on Doctor Watts.

  With drooping jaw, like one half-screw'd,
  Lord Johnny sate in doleful mood,
  And for his Secretarial seat,
  Sent forth his howlings sad, but sweet
  Lost Normanby pour'd forth his sad adieu;
          While Palmerston, with graceful air,
          Wildly toss'd his scented hair;
  And pensive Morpeth join'd the sniv'lling crew.
    Yet still they lingered round with fond delay,
          Humming, hawing, stopping, musing,
          Tory rascals all abusing,
    Till forced to move away.

  But, oh! how alter'd was the whining tone
    When, loud-tongued Lyndhurst, that unblushing wight,
  His gown across his shoulders flung,
    His wig with virgin-powder white,
  Made an ear-splitting speech that down to Windsor rung,
  The Tories' call, that Billy Holmes well knew,
  The turn-coat Downshire and his Orange crew;
  Wicklow and Howard both were seen
  Brushing away the wee bit green;
  Mad Londonderry laugh'd to hear,
  And Inglis scream'd and shook his ass's ear

  Last Bobby Peel, with hypocritic air,
    He with modest look came sneaking:
  First to "_the Home_" his easy vows addrest,--
    But soon he saw the _Treasury's_ red chair,
  Whose soft inviting seat he loved the best.
  They would have thought, who heard his words,
  They saw in Britain's cause a patriot stand,
  The proud defender of his land,
  To aw'd and list'ning senates speaking;--

  But as his fingers touch'd the purse's strings,
    The chinking metal made a magic sound,
    While hungry placemen gather'd fast around:
    And he, as if by chance or play,
    Or that he would their venal votes repay,
  The golden treasures round upon them flings.

       *       *       *       *       *


SIR ROBERT PEEL AND THE QUEEN.


Upon the first interview of the Queen with Sir Robert Peel, her Majesty
was determined to answer only in monosyllables to all he said; and, in
fact, to make her replies _an echo_, and nothing more, to whatever he said
to her. The following dialogue, which we have thrown into verse for the
purpose of smoothing it--the tone of it, as spoken, having been on one
side, at least, rather rough--ensued between the illustrious persons
alluded to.

    HE.--Before we into minor details go,
         Do I possess your confidence or no?

                                        SHE.--_No._

    HE.--You shall not vex me, though your treatment's rough;
         No, madam, I am made of sterner stuff.

                                        SHE.--_Stuff._

    HE.--Really, if thus your minister you flout,
         A single syllable he can't get out.

                                        SHE.--_Get out!_

    HE.--But try me, madam; time indeed will show
         Unto what lengths to serve you I would go.

                                        SHE.--_Go._

    HE.--We both have power,--'tis doubtful which is greater;
         These crooked words had better be made straighter.

                                        SHE.--_Traighter (Traitor.)_

    HE.--Farewell! and never in this friendly strain
         (My proffer'd aid foregone) I breathe again!

                                        SHE.--_Gone. I breathe again!_

       *       *       *       *       *


SONGS OF THE SEEDY.--NO. 2.

  I cannot rove with thee, where zephyrs float--
    Sweet sylvan scenes devoted to the loves!--
  For, oh! I have not got one decent coat,
    Nor can I sport a single pair of gloves.

  Gladly I'd wander o'er the verdant lawn,
    Where graze contentedly the fleecy flock;
  But can I show myself in gills so torn,
    Or brave the public gaze in such a stock?

  I know _thou_'lt answer me that love is blind,
    And faults in one it worships can't perceive;
  It must be sightless, truly, not to find
    The hole that's gaping in my threadbare sleeve.

  Farewell, my love--for, oh! by heaven, we part,
    And though it cost me all the pangs of hell.
  The herd shall not on thee inflict a smart,
    By calling after us--"There goes a swell!"

       *       *       *       *       *


A PRIVATE BOX.

During the clear-out on Wednesday last in Downing-street, a small chest,
strongly secured, was found among some models of balloting-boxes. It had
evidently been forgotten for some years, and upon opening it, was found to
contain the Whig promises of 1832. They were immediately conveyed to Lord
Melbourne, who appeared much astonished at these resuscitation of the

[Illustration: HOME OFFICE.]

       *       *       *       *       *


THE LOST MEDICAL PAPERS OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION.

"It is somewhat remarkable," observe the journals of the past week, "that
the medical division of this scientific meeting has not contributed one
single paper this year in furtherance of its object, although the
communications from that section have usually been of a highly important
character."

The journals may think it somewhat remarkable--we do not at all; for here,
as in every other event of the day, a great deal depends upon being
"behind the curtain;" and as the greater portion of our life is passed in
that locality, we are always to be relied upon for authenticity in our
statements. The plain truth is, that the papers were inadvertently lost,
and rather than lead to some unpleasant disclosures, in which the eminent
professor to whom they were entrusted would have been deeply implicated,
it was thought best to say nothing about them. By chance they fell into
the hands of the manager of one of our perambulating theatres, who was
toiling his way from the west of England to Egham races, and having
deposited them in his portable green-room, under the especial custody of
the clown, the doctor, and the overbearing parochial authority, he duly
remitted them to our office. We have been too happy in giving them a place
in our columns, feeling an honest pride in thus taking the lead of the
chief scientific publications of the day. It will be seen that they are
drawn up as a report, all ready for publication, according to the usual
custom of such proceedings, where every one knows beforehand what they are
to dispute or agree with.

Dr. Splitnerve communicated a remarkable case of Animal Magnetism:--Eugene
Doldrum, aged 21, a young man of bilious and interesting temperament,
having been mesmerized, was rendered so keenly magnetic, as to give rise
to a most remarkable train of phenomena. On being seated upon a
music-stool, he immediately becomes an animated compass, and turns round
to the north. Knives and forks at dinner invariably fly towards him, and
he is not able to go through any of the squares, in consequence of being
attracted firmly to the iron railings. As most of the experiments took
place at the North London Hospital, Euston-square was his chief point of
attraction, and when he was removed, it was always found necessary to
break off the railings and take them away with him. This accounted for the
decrepit condition of the _fleur de lys_ that surround the inclosure,
which was not, as generally supposed, the work of the university pupils
residing in Gower-place. Perfect insensibility to pain supervened at the
same time, and his friends took advantage of this circumstance to send
him, by way of delicate compliment, to a lying-in lady, in the style of a
pedestrian pin-cushion, his cheeks being stuck full of minikin pins, on
the right side, forming the words "Health to the Babe," and on the left,
"Happiness to the Mother."

Dr. Mortar read a talented paper on the cure of strabismus, or squinting,
by dividing the muscles of the eye. The patient, a working man, squinted
so terribly, that his eyes almost got into one another's sockets; and at
times he was only able to see by looking down the inside of his nose and
out at the nostrils. The operation was performed six weeks ago, when, on
cutting through the muscles, its effects were instantly visible: both the
eyes immediately diverging to the extreme outer angles of their respective
orbits.

Dr. Sharpeye inquired if the man did not find the present state of his
vision still very perplexing.

Dr. Mortar replied, that so far from injuring his sight, it had proved
highly beneficial, as the patient had procured a very excellent situation
in the new police, and received a double salary, from the power he
possessed of keeping an eye upon both sides of the road at the same time.

[Illustration: WILL YOU LOOK THIS WAY, IF YOU PLEASE?]

An elaborate and highly scientific treatise was then read by Dr. Sexton,
upon a disease which had been very prevalent in town during the spring,
and had been usually termed the influenza. He defined it as a disease of
convenience, depending upon various exciting causes acting upon the mind.
For instance:--

Mrs. A----, a lady residing in Belgrave-square, was on the eve of giving a
large party, when, upon hearing that Mr. A---- had made an unlucky
speculation in the funds, the whole family were seized with influenza so
violently, that they were compelled to postpone the reunion, and live upon
the provided supper for a fortnight afterwards.

Miss B---- was a singer at one of our large theatres, and had a part
assigned to her in a new opera. Not liking it, she worried herself into an
access of influenza, which unluckily seized her the first night the opera
was to have been played.

But the most marked case was that of Mr. C----, a clerk in a city house of
business, who was attacked and cured within three days. It appeared that
he had been dining that afternoon with some friends, who were going to
Greenwich fair the next day, and on arriving at home, was taken ill with
influenza, so suddenly that he was obliged to despatch a note to that
effect to his employer, stating also his fear that he should be unable to
attend at his office on the morrow. Dr. Sexton said he was indebted for an
account of the progress of his disease to a young medical gentleman,
clinical clerk at a leading hospital, who lodged with the patient in
Bartholomew-close. The report had been drawn up for the _Lancet_, but Dr.
S. had procured it by great interest.

    MAY 30, 1841, 11 P.M.--Present symptoms:--Complains of his
    employer, and the bore of being obliged to be at the office next
    morning. Has just eaten a piece of cold beef and pickles, with a
    pint of stout. Pulse about 75, and considerable defluxion from the
    nose, which he thinks produced by getting a piece of Cayenne pepper
    in his eye. Swallowed a crumb, which brought on a violent fit of
    coughing. Wishes to go to bed.

    MAY 31, 9 A.M.--Has passed a tolerable night, but appears restless,
    and unable to settle to anything. Thinks he could eat some broiled
    ham if he had it; but not possessing any, has taken the following:

      Rx--Infus. coffee   lbj
          Sacchari        [symbol: dram]iij
          Lactis Vaccæ    [symbol: ounce]j
        Ft. mistura, poculum mane sumendum.

    A plaster ordered to be applied to the inside of the stomach,
    consisting of potted bloater spread upon bread and butter.

    Eleven, A.M.--Appears rather hotter since breakfast. Change of air
    recommended, and Greenwich decided upon.

    Half-past 11.--Complains of the draught and noise of the
    second-class railway carriages, but is otherwise not worse. Thinks
    he should like "a drain of half-and-half." Has blown his nose once
    in the last quarter of an hour.

    Two, P.M.--Since a light dinner of rump steaks and stout, a
    considerable change has taken place. He appears labouring under
    cerebral excitement and short pipes, and says he shall have a
    regular beanish day, and go it similar to bricks. Calls the waiter
    up to him in one of the booths, and has ordered "a glass of
    cocktail with the chill off and a cinder in it."

    Three, P.M.--Has sallied out into the fair, still much excited,
    calling every female he meets "Susan," and pronouncing the s's with
    a whistling accent. Expresses a desire to ride in the ships that go
    round and round.

    Half-past 3.--The motion of the ships has tended considerably to
    relieve his stomach. Pulse slow and countenance pale, with a desire
    for a glass of ale. Has entered a peepshow, and is now arguing with
    the exhibitor upon the correctness of his view of the siege of "St.
    Jane Daker!" which he maintains was a sea-port, and not a field
    with a burning windmill, as represented in the view.

    Eight, P.M.--After rambling vaguely about the fair all the
    afternoon, he has decided upon taking a hot-air bath in Algar's
    Crown and Anchor booth. Evidently delirious. Has put on a false
    nose, and purchased a tear-coat rattle. Appears labouring under
    violent spasmodic action of the muscles of his legs, as he dances
    "Jim along Josey," when he sets to his partner in a country dance
    of eighty couple.

    Half-past 10, P.M.--Has just intimated that he does not see the use
    of going home, as you can always go there when you can go nowhere
    else. Is seated straddling across one of the tables, on which he is
    beating time to the band with a hooky stick. Will not allow the
    state of his pulse to be ascertained, but says we may feel his fist
    if we like.

    Eleven.--Considerable difficulty experienced in getting the patient
    to the railroad, but we at last succeeded. After telling every one
    in the carriage "that he wasn't afraid of any of them," he fell
    into a deep stertorous sleep. On arriving at home, he got into bed
    with his boots on, and passed a restless night, turning out twice
    to drink water between one and four.

    JUNE.--10, A.M.--Has just returned from his office, his employer
    thinking him very unfit for work, and desiring him to lay up for a
    day or two. Complains of being "jolly seedy," and thinks he shall
    go to Greenwich again to get all right.

A thrilling paper upon the "Philosophy of death," was then read by
Professor Wynne Slow. After tracing the origin of that fatal attack, which
it appears the earliest nations were subject to, the learned author showed
profound research in bringing forward the various terms applied to the act
of dying by popular authors. Amongst the principal, he enumerated "turning
your toes up," "kicking the bucket," "putting up your spoon," "slipping
your wind," "booking your place," "breaking your bellows," "shutting up
your shop," and other phrases full of expression.

The last moments of remarkable characters were especially dwelt upon, in
connexion, more especially, with the drama, which gives us the best
examples, from its holding a mirror up to nature. It appeared that at
Astley's late amphitheatre, the dying men generally shuffled about a great
deal in the sawdust, fighting on their knees, and showing great
determination to the last, until life gave way; that at the Adelphi the
expiring character more frequently saw imaginary demons waiting for him,
and fell down, uttering "Off, fiends! I come to join you in your world of
flames!" and that clowns and pantaloons always gave up the ghost with
heart-rending screams and contortions of visage, as their deaths were
generally violent, from being sawn in half, having holes drilled in them
with enormous gimlets, or being shot out of cannon; but that, at the same
time, these deaths were not permanent.

       *       *       *       *       *


FOREIGN INTELLIGENCE.

Our foreign expresses have reached us _via_ Billingsgate, and are full of
interesting matter. Captain Fitz-Flammer is in prison at Boulogne, for
some trifling misunderstanding with a native butcher, about the settlement
of an account; but we trust no time will be lost by our government in
demanding his release at the hands of the authorities. The attempt to make
it a private question is absurd; and every Englishman's blood will simmer,
if it does not actually boil, at the intelligence. Fitz-Flammer was only
engaged in doing that which many of our countrymen visit Boulogne
expressly to do, and it is hard that he should have been intercepted in
his retreat, after accomplishing his object. To live at the expense of a
natural enemy is certainly a bold and patriotic act, which ought to excite
sympathy at home, and protection abroad. The English packet, the _City of
Boulogne_, has turned one of its imitation guns directly towards the town,
which, we trust, will have the effect of bringing the French authorities
to reason.

It is expected that the treaty will shortly be signed, by which Belgium
cedes to France a milestone on the north frontier; while the latter
country returns to the former the whole of the territory lying behind a
pig-stye, taken possession of in the celebrated 6th _vendemiaire_, by the
allied armies. This will put an end to the heart-burnings that have long
existed on either side of the Rhine, and will serve to apply the sponge at
once to a long score of national animosities.

Our letters from the East are far from encouraging. The Pasha has had a
severe sore-throat, and the disaffected have taken advantage of the
circumstance. Ibrahim had spent the two last nights in the mountains, and
was unfurling his standard, when our express left, in the very bosom of
the desert. Mehemet Ali was still obstinate, and had dismissed his visier
for impertinence. The whole of Servia is in a state of revolt, and the
authorities have planted troops along the entire line, the whole of whom
have gone over to the enemy. It is said there must be further concessions,
and a new constitution is being drawn up; but it is not expected that any
one will abide by it. Mehemet attempted to throw himself upon the rock of
Nungab, with a tremendous force, but those about him wisely prevented him
from doing so.

We have received China (tea) papers to the 16th. There is nothing in them.

       *       *       *       *       *


FANCIED FAIR.

"The Duke of Wellington," says a correspondent of the _Times_, "left his
umbrella behind him at a fancy fair, held for charitable purposes, between
Twickenham and Teddington. On discovering it, Lady P. immediately said,
'Who will give twenty guineas for the Duke's umbrella?' A purchaser was
soon found; and when the fact was communicated to his Grace, he
good-naturedly remarked, 'I'll soon supply you with umbrellas, if you can
sell them with so much advantage to the charity.'" We trust his Grace's
benevolent disposition will not induce him to carry this offer into
execution. We should extremely regret to see the Hero of Waterloo in
Leicester-square, of a rainy night, vending second-hand _parapluies_. The
same charitable impulse will doubtlessly induce other fashionable hawkers
at fancy fairs to pick his Grace's pockets. We are somewhat curious to
know what a Wellington bandana would realise, especially were it the
produce of some pretty lady P.'s petty larceny. "Charity," it is said,
"covereth a multitude of sins." What must it do with an umbrella? We fear
that Lady P. will some day figure in the "fashionable departures."

[Illustration: FOR SYDNEY DIRECT.]

       *       *       *       *       *


PUNCH'S THEATRE.

MARTINUZZI AS THE ACT DIRECTS.

The production upon the stage of a tragedy "not intended for an acting
play," as a broad travestie, is a novel and dangerous experiment--one,
however, which the combined genius of the Dramatic Authors' Council has
made, with the utmost success. The "Hungarian Daughter" was, under the
title of "Martinuzzi," received, on its first appearance, with bursts of
applause and convulsions of laughter!

The plot of this piece our literary reviewer has expressed himself unable
to unravel. We are in the same condition; all we can promise is some
account of the scenes as they followed each other; of the characters, the
sentiments, the poetry, and the rest of the fun.

The play opens with an elderly gentleman, in a spangled dressing-gown, who
commences business by telling us the time of day, poetically clapping a
wig upon the sun, by saying, he

  "Shakes day about, like perfume from his _hair_,"

which statement bears out the after sentence, that "the wisdom he endures
is terrible!" An Austrian gentleman--whose dress made us at first mistake
him for Richard III. on his travels--arrives to inform the gentleman _en
déshabille_--no other than _Cardinal Martinuzzi_ himself--that he has come
from King Ferdinand, to ask if he will be so good as to give up some
regency; which the Cardinal, however, respectfully declines doing. A
gentleman from Warsaw is next announced, and _Castaldo_ retires, having
incidentally declared a passion for the reigning queen of Hungary.

Mr. Selby, as _Rupert_ from Warsaw, then appears, in a dress most
correctly copied from the costume of the knave of clubs. Being a Pole, he
stirs up the Cardinal vigorously enough to provoke some exceedingly
intemperate language, chiefly by bringing to his memory a case of
child-stealing, to which _Martinuzzi_ was, before he had quite sown his
wild oats, _particeps criminis_. This case having got into the papers
(which _Rupert_ had preserved), the Cardinal wants to obtain them, but
offers a price not long enough for the Pole, who, declaring that
_Martinuzzi_ carries it "too high" to be trusted with them, vanishes. Mr.
Morley afterwards comes forward to sing a song according to Act of
Parliament, and the scene changes for Miss Collect to comply, a second
time, with the 25th of George II.

In the following scene, the Queen Dowager of Hungary, _Isabella_,
introduces herself to the audience, to inform them that the Austrian
gentleman, _Castaldo_, is

                            "the mild,
  Pity-fraught object of her fondness."

He appears. She makes several inflammatory speeches, which he seems
determined not to understand, for he is in love with the virgin queen; and
maidens before dowagers is evidently his sensible motto.

The second act opens with the queen junior stating her assurance, that if
she lives much longer she will die, and that when she is quite dead, she
will hate _Martinuzzi_[3]. As, however, she means to hate when she is
deceased, she will make the most of her time while alive, by devoting
herself to courtship and _Castaldo_: for a very tender love-scene ensues,
at the end of which the lady elopes, to leave the lover a clear stage for
some half-dozen minutes' ecstatics, appropriately ended by his arrest,
ordered by _Martinuzzi_. Why, it is not stated, the officer not even
producing the copy of a writ.

    [3] "_Czerina._ When I am dead--which will be soon--I feel,
        If I much longer on my throne remain,
        I shall abhor the name of Martinuzzi."

In the next scene, _Isabella_ is visited by _Rupert_, who disinterestedly
presents the dowager with the papers for nothing, which he was before
offered an odd castle and snug estate for, by _Martinuzzi_. This is
accounted for on no other supposition, than the proverbial gallantry of
gentlemen from Warsaw.

_Martinuzzi_, possessing a ward whom he is anxious should wed the queen,
opens the third act by declaring he will "precipitate the match," and so
the author considerately sends _Czerina_ to him, to talk the matter over.
But the young lady gets into a passion, and the Cardinal declares he can
make nothing of her, in the following passage:--

  "Fool! I can make thee nothing but a laugh."

A sentiment to which the audience gave a most vociferous echo. The damsel
is angry that she may not have the man she has chosen, and threatens to
faint, but defers that operation till her lover's arms are near enough to
receive her; which they happen to be just in time, for _Martinuzzi_
retires and _Castaldo_ comes on. _Czerina_, to be quite sure, exclaims,
"_Are_ these thy arms?" (_sic_) and finally faints in the lover's embrace,
so as to exhibit a picturesque cuddle.

_Queen Isabella_ is discovered, in the second scene of this act, perusing
the much vaunted "papers" with intense interest. Unluckily _Castaldo_
chooses that moment to complain, that _Martinuzzi_ will not let him marry
her rival. The queen, being by no means a temperate person, and wondering
at his impudence in telling _her_ such a tale, raves thus:--

  "My soul's on fire I'm choked, and seem to perish;
  _But will suppress my scream_"

Probably for fear of compromising _Castaldo_, who is alone with her; and
she ends the act by requesting the Austrian to murder _Martinuzzi_; to
which he is so obliging as to consent, the more so, as an order comes from
the Secretary of State for foreign affairs, of his own government, to "cut
off" (_sic_) the Regent.

The fourth act is enlivened by a masquerade and a murder. The gentleman
from Warsaw having abused the hospitality of his host by getting drunk, is
punished by one of _Martinuzzi's_ attendants with a mortal stab; and
having, in the agonies of death, made a careful survey of all the sofas in
the apartment, suits himself with the softest, and dies in great comfort.

After this, the masquerade proceeds with spirit. _Isabella_ mixes in the
festive scene, disguised in a domino, made of black sticking-plaster.
_Czerina_ overhears that she is a usurper and a changeling, and expresses
her surprise in a line most unblushingly stolen from Fitz-Ball and the
other poetico-melo-dramatists:--

  "Merciful Heavens! do my ears deceive me?"

The festivities conclude with an altercation between _Martinuzzi_ and
_Isabella_, carried on with much vigour on both sides. The lady accuses
the gentleman of inebriation, and he owns the soft impeachment, fully
bearing it out by several incoherent speeches.

This was one of the most successful scenes in the comedy. The death of
_Rupert_, Mr. Morley's song about "The sea," the quarrel (which was about
the great pivot of the plot, "the papers," inscribed, says _Martinuzzi_,

  "With ink that's _brew'd_ in the infernal Styx,")

were all received with uproarious bursts of laughter.

In the fifth act, we behold _Martinuzzi_ and the usurping young Queen
making matters up at a railway pace. She has it all her own way. If she
choose, she may marry _Castaldo_, retire into private life, be a
"farm-house thrall," and keep a "dairy;" for which estate she has
previously expressed a decided predilection[4].

    [4] Acting play, published in the theatre, p. 32.

But it is the next scene that the author seems to have reserved for
putting forth his strongest powers of burlesque and broad humour.
_Isabella_ and _Castaldo_ are together; the latter feels a little afraid
to murder _Martinuzzi_, but is impelled to the deed by a thousand
imaginary torches, which he fears will hurry his "_moth_-like soul" into
their "blinding sun-beams," till it (the soul) is scorched "_into_
cinders."

_Castaldo_ appears, in truth, a very bad barber of murders; for, as he is
rushing out to

  "Strike the tyrant down--in crimson streams
  Rend every nerve,"

_Isabella_ has the shrewdness to discover that he is without a weapon.
Important omission! The incipient assassin exclaims--

  "Oh! that I had my sword!"

but at that moment (clever, dramatic contrivance!)

  [_Enter_ CZERINA, _with a drawn sword_.]
  "CZERINA. There's one! Thine own!"

Far from being grateful for this opportune supply of ways and means for
murder. _Castaldo_ calls the bilbo a "fated aspic," upon the edge of which
his "eye-balls crack to look," and makes a raving exit from the stage, to
a roaring laugh from the audience.

It is quite clear to _Isabella_, from his extreme carelessness about his
tools, that _Castaldo_ is not safely to be trusted with a job which
requires so much tact and business-like exactitude as the capital offence.
She therefore "_shows a phial_," which she intends, "occasion suiting,"
for "_Martinuzzi's_ bane;" thereby hinting that, if _Castaldo_ fail with
his steel medicine, she is ready with a surer potion.

The next scene, being the last, was ushered in with acclamations. The
stage, as is always in that case made and provided, was full. There is a
young gentleman on a throne, and _Czerina_ beside it, having been somehow
ungallantly deposed. _Martinuzzi_ expresses a wish to drink somebody's
health, and this being the "fitting opportunity" mentioned by the author
in the scene preceeding, _Isabella_ empties the phial of her wrath into
the beverage, and the _Cardinal_ quenches his thirst with a most
intemperate draught. It is now duly announced, that _Castaldo_ is, "with
naked sword, approaching." That gentleman appears, and makes a speech long
enough for any man who has had such plain warning of what is to
happen--even a cardinal encumbered with a spangled dressing-gown--to get a
mile out of his way. The speech quite ended, he goes to work, and with
"this from King Ferdinand," thrusts at _Martinuzzi_. _Czerina_, however,
throws herself, with great skill, on the point of the sword, and dies.
Another long harangue from _Castaldo_--which, as he is evidently
broken-winded from exertion, is pronounced in tiny snatches--and he dies
with a "ha!" for want--like many greater men--of breath.

Meanwhile, the poison makes _Martinuzzi_ exceedingly uncomfortable in the
stomachic regions. He is quite sure

  "That hath been done to me which sends me _star_-ward!"

but in his progress thither he evidently loses his way; for he ends the
play by inquiring--

  "WHERE IS THE WORLD?"

The sublimity of which query is manifestly insisted on by the author, by
his having it printed in capitals.

When the curtain fell, there arose an uproarious shout for the author; but
instead of "the mantle of the Elizabethan poets," which, it has been said,
he commonly wears, the most attractive garment that met the view was an
expansive white waistcoat. This latter exhibition concluded the
entertainments, strictly so called; for though a farce followed, it turned
out a terrible bore.

       *       *       *       *       *


CONCERTS D'ETE.

If the advance of musical science is to be effected by indecent _tableaux
vivans_--by rattling peas against sieves, and putting out the lights
(appropriately enough) when Beethoven is being murdered--by the most
contemptible class of compositions that ever was put upon score-paper, and
noised forth from an ill-disciplined band--if these be the means towards
improving musical taste, Monsieur Jullien is undoubtedly the harmonic
regenerator of this country. He is a great man--great in his own
estimation--great to the ends of his moustachios and the tips of his
gloves--a great composer, and a great charlatan--_ex. gr._:--

The overture to the promenade concerts usually consists of a pantomime
entirely new to an English audience. Monsieur Jullien having made his
appearance in the orchestra, seats himself in a conspicuous situation, to
indulge the ladies with the most favourable view of his elegant person,
and the splendid gold-chainery which is spread all over his magnificent
waistcoat. A servant in livery then appears, and presents him with a pair
of white kid gloves. The illustrious conductor, having taken some time to
thrust them upon a very large and red hand, leisurely takes up his baton,
rises, grins upon the expectant musicians, lifts his arm, and--the first
chord is struck!

Quadrilles are the staple of the evening--those composed by Monsieur
Jullien always, of course, claiming precedence and preference. These are
usually interspersed with solos on the flageolet, to contrast with
_obligati_ for the ophecleido; the drummers--side, long, and double--are
seldom inactive; the trombones and trumpets have no sinecure, and there is
always a great mortality amongst the fiddle-strings. Eight bars of
impossible variation is sure to be succeeded by sixteen of the deafening
fanfare of trumpets, combined with smashing cymbalism, and dreadful
drumming.

The public have a taste for headaches, and Jullien has imported a capital
recipe for creating them; they applaud--he bows; and musical taste
goes--in compliment to the ex-waiter's genuine profession of man-cook--to
_pot_.

But the _ci-devant cuisinier_ is not content with comparatively harmless,
plain-sailing humbug; he must add some _sauce piquante_ to his musical
hashes. He cannot rest with merely stunning English ears, but must shock
our morals, At the _bals masqués_, the French dancers, and the hardly
mentionable _cancan_, were hooted back to their native stews under the
Palais Royal; but he provides substitutes for them in the _tableaux
vivans_ now exhibiting. This, because a more insidious, is a safer
introduction. The living figures are dressed to imitate plaster-of-Paris,
and are so arranged as to form groups, called in the bills "classical;"
but for which it would be difficult to find originals. In short, the whole
thing is a feeler thrown out to see how far French impudence and French
epicureanism in vice may carry themselves. It shall not be our fault if
they do not experience an ignominious downfall, and beat a speedy retreat,
to the tune of the "Rogue's March," arranged as a quadrille!

       *       *       *       *       *


MADAME TUSSAUD'S,

THE REAL TEMPLE OF FAME.

    "Some men are born to greatness, some men achieve greatness, and
    some have greatness thrust upon them."--SHAKSPEARE.

Reader, should you doubt the above assertion, in the true showman
phraseology, just "Walk up! walk up!" to Madame Tussaud's, the real Temple
of Fame, and let such doubts vanish for ever; convince yourselves that the
mighty attribute not more survives from good than evil deeds, though, like
poverty, it makes its votaries acquainted with the strangest of strange
bedfellows! The regal ermine and the murderer's fustian alike obtain their
enviable niche.

The likeness of departed majesty, robed in the matchless splendour of a
ruler's state, redolent with all the mimic glories of a king's insignia,
the modelled puppet from the senseless clay, that wore in life the
imperial purple, and moved a breathing thing, chief actor in its childish
mummeries, may here be seen shining in tinselled pomp, in glittering
contrast to the blood-stained shirt through which the dagger of Ravaillac
reached the bosom of the murdered Henry.

The "Real Robes" of the dead George give value to his waxen image! The
heart's-blood of the slaughtered Henry immortalises the linen bearing its
hideous stain. The daring leader of France's countless hosts--the
wholesale slaughterer of unnumbered thousands--ambition's mightiest
son--now ruling kingdoms and now ruled by one--once more than king--in
death the captive of his hated foes--"the great Napoleon!" shares the
small space with the enshrined Fieschi!

The glorious triumphs of the mighty Wellington are here no better
passports than the foul murders of the atrocious Burke; the subtle
Talleyrand, the deep deviser of political schemes, ruler of rulers, and
master mover of the earth's great puppets, is not one jot superior to the
Italian mountebank, whose well-skilled hand drew tones from catgut
rivalling even the ideal trumpet of great Fame herself!

By some strange anomaly, _success_ and _failure_ alike render the
candidates admissible--no matter the littleness of the source from whence
they sprung. Lord Melbourne's "premiership" gave shape to the all but
Promethean wax. The failure of John Frost, his humble follower, secured
his right to Fame's posthumous honours. All partiality is _here_
forgotten. The titled premier, in the haunts of men, may boast his
monarch's palace as his home. The suffering felon, though _iron_ binds his
limbs, and eats into his heart--though slow approaching, but sure-coming
death, makes the broad world for him a living grave, _here_ he stands, as
one among the great ones of the _show_! The amiability of Albert, that
"excellent Prince," and therefore "_most_ excellent young man," is
ingeniously contrasted with the vices of a Greenacre, and the villany of a
_Hare_. The stern endurance and unflinching perseverance of the zealous
and single-hearted Calvin is deprived of its exclusiveness by the more
exciting and equally famous Sir William Courtenay (_alias_ Thom).

The thrilling recollection of the "poet peer," and "peerless poet," the
highly-imaginative and unrivalled Byron, whose flood of song, poured out
in one continuous stream of varied passion-breathing fancy, is calmed by
gazing on "dull life's antipodes," the bandaged remnant of a dried-up
mummy!

Poor Mary Stuart! the beautiful, the murdered Queen of Scots, is only
parted from the "Maiden Queen," who sealed her doom, by the interposition
of the blood-stained ruthless wretch (England's Eighth Harry), to whom
"Bess" owed her birth!

Pitt, Fox, and Canning are matched with Courvoisier, Gould, and Collins.

Liston is _vis à vis_ to Joe Hume, while Louis Philippe but shares
attention with the rivalling models of the Bastille and Guillotine!

Verily, there is a moral in all this, "an we could but find it out."

       *       *       *       *       *





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