Chapter II: Part 2

In order to secure that general style and bearing for which Foreign Affairs are so remarkable, the mind must be carefully divested of divers incompatible qualities--such as self-respect, the sense of shame, the reverential instinct, and that of conscience, as certain feelings are termed. It must also be relieved of any inconvenient weight of knowledge under which it may labour; though these directions are perhaps needless, as those who have any inclination to form themselves after the pattern of Foreign Affairs, are not very likely to have any such moral or intellectual disqualifications to get rid of. However, it would only be necessary to become conversant with the Affairs themselves, in order, if requisite, to remove all difficulties of the sort. "There is a thing," reader, "which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of pitch;" we need not finish the quotation.

To defend the preceding observations from misconstruction, we will make, in conclusion, one additional remark; Foreign _Affairs_ are one thing--Foreign _Gentlemen_ another.

* * * * *

PUNCH'S PENCILLINGS--No. IV.

* * * * *

THE MINTO-HOUSE MANIFESTO

Some of our big mothers of the broad-sheet have expressed their surprise that Lord John Russell should have penned so long an address to the citizens of London, only the day before his wedding. For ourselves, we think, it would have augured a far worse compliment to Lady John had he written it the day after. These gentlemen very properly look upon marriage as a most awful ceremony, and would, therefore, indirectly compliment the nerve of a statesman who pens a political manifesto with the torch of Hymen in his eyes, and the whole house odorous of wedding-cake. In the like manner have we known the last signature of an unfortunate gentleman, about to undergo a great public and private change, eulogized for the firmness and clearness of its letters, with the perfect mastery of the supplementary flourish. However, what is written is written; whether penned to the rustling of bridesmaids' satins, or the surplice of the consolatory ordinary--whether to the anticipated music of a marriage peal, or to the more solemn accompaniment of the bell of St. Sepulchre's.

Ha! Lord John, had you only spoken out a little year ago--had you only told her Majesty's Commons what you told the Livery of London--then, at this moment, you had been no moribund minister--then had Sir Robert Peel been as far from St. James's as he has ever been from Chatham. But so it is: the Whig Ministry, like martyr Trappists, have died rather than open their mouths. They would not hear the counsel of their friends, and they refused to _speak out_ to their enemies. They retire from office with, at least, this distinction--they are henceforth honorary members of the Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb!

Again, the Whigs are victims to their inherent sense of politeness--to their instinctive observance of courtesy towards the Tories. There has been no bold defiance--no challenge to mortal combat for the cause of public good; but when Whig has called out Tory, it has been in picked and holiday phrase--

"As if a brother should a brother dare,
To gentle exercise and proof of arms."

For a long time the people have expected to see "cracked crowns and bloody noses," and at length, with true John Bull disgust, turned from the ring, convinced that the Whigs, whatever play they might make, would never go in and fight.

But have the Tories been correspondingly courteous? By no means; the generosity of politeness has been wholly with the Whigs. They, like frolicsome youths at a carnival, have pelted their antagonists with nothing harder than sugar-plums--with egg-shells filled with rose-water; while the Tories have acknowledged such holiday missiles with showers of brickbats, and eggs _not_ filled with aromatic dew. What was the result? The Tories increased in confidence and strength with every new assault; whilst the battered Whigs, from their sheer pusillanimity, became noisome in the nostrils of the country.

At length, the loaves and fishes being about to be carried off, the Whigs speak out: like sulky Master Johnny, who, pouting all dinner-time, with his finger in his mouth, suddenly finds his tongue when the apple-dumplings are to be taken from the table. Then does he advance his plate, seize his ivory knife and fork, put on a look of determined animation, and cry aloud for plenty of paste, plenty of fruit, and plenty of sugar! And then _Mrs. Tory_ (it must be confessed a wicked old _Mother Cole_ in her time), with a face not unlike the countenance of a certain venerable paramour at a baptismal rite, declares upon her hopes of immortality that the child shall have nothing of the sort, there being nothing so dangerous to the constitution as plenty of flour, plenty of fruit, and plenty of sugar. Therefore, there is a great uproar with Master Johnny: the House, to use a familiar phrase, is turned out of the windows; the neighbourhood is roused; Master Johnny rallies his friends about him, that is, all the other boys of _the court_, and the fight begins. Johnny and his mates make a very good fight, but certain heavy Buckinghamshire countrymen--fellows of fifty stone--are brought to the assistance of that screaming beldame _Mother Tory_, and poor Master Johnny has no other election than to listen to the shouts of triumph that declare there never shall be plenty of flour, plenty of sugar, or, in a word, plenty of pudding.

However, Lord Russell is not discouraged. No; he says "there _shall_ be cakes and ale, and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth, too!" We only trust that his Lordship's manifesto is not tinged by those feelings of hope (and in the case of his lordship we may add, resignation) that animate most men about to enter wedlock. We trust he does not confound his own anticipations of happiness with the prospects of the country; for in allusion to the probable policy of the Tories, he says--"Returned to office--they may adopt our measures, and submit to the influence of reason." Reason from the Stanleys--reason from the Goulburns--reason from the Aberdeens! When the Marquis of Londonderry shall have discovered the longitude, and Colonel Sibthorp have found out the philosopher's stone, we may then begin to expect the greater miracle.

The Whigs, according to Lord Russell's letter, have really done so much when out of power, and--as he insinuates, are again ready to do so much the instant they are expelled the Treasury--that for the sake of the country, it must be a matter of lamentation if ever they get in again.

* * * * *

PUNCH AND SIR JOHN POLLEN.

Punch, we regret to state, was taken into custody on Monday night at a late hour, on a warrant, for the purpose of being bound over to keep the peace towards Sir John Pollen, Bart. The circumstances giving rise to this affair will be better explained by a perusal of the following correspondence, which took place between ourselves and Sir John, on the occasion, a copy of which we subjoin:--

_Wellington Street, July_ 30, 1841.

SIR,--I have this moment read in the _Morning Chronicle_, the correspondence between you and Lord William Paget, wherein you are reported to say, that your recent defeat at the Andover election was effected by "tampering with some of the smaller voters, who would have voted for _Punch or any other puppet_;" and that such expressions were not intended to be _personally offensive_ to Lord William Paget! The members of her Majesty's puppetry not permitting derogatory conclusions to be drawn at their expense, I call upon you to state whether the above assertions are correct; and if so, whether, in the former case, you intended to allude personally to myself, or my friend Colonel Sibthorp; or, in the latter, to infer that you considered Lord W. Paget in any way our superior.

I have the honour to be, Sir, your obedient servant, PUNCH.

Sir John Pollen, Bart.

_Redenham, July 30, 1841._

SIGNOR,--I have just received a note in which you complain of a speech made by me at Andover. I have sent express for my Lord Wilkshire, and will then endeavour to recollect what I did say.

I have the honour to be, your admirer, JOHN POLLEN.

To Signor Punch.

_White Hart._

SIGNOR,--My friend Lord Wilkshire has just arrived. It is his opinion that: I did use the terms "Punch, or any other puppet;" but I intended them to have been highly complimentary, as applied to Lord William Paget.

I have the honour to be, your increased admirer, JOHN POLLEN.

To Signor Punch.

_Wellington Street._

SIR,--I and the Colonel are perfectly satisfied. Yours ever,

PUNCH

_Wellington Street._

MY LORD,--It would have afforded me satisfaction to have consulted the wishes of Sir John Pollen in regard to the publication of this correspondence. The over-zeal of Sir John's friends have left me no choice in the matter, I shall print.

Your obedient servant, PUNCH.

Earl of Wilkshire.

Thus ended this--

* * * * *

HUMFERY CHEAT-'EM.--(_Vide_ Ainsworth's "Guy Fawkes.")

A city friend met us the other morning: "Hark 'ee," said he, "Alderman Humfery has been selling shares of the Blackwall Railway, which were not in his possession; and when the directors complained, and gave him notice that they would bring his conduct before a full meeting, inviting him at the same time to attend, and vindicate or explain his conduct as he best might, he not only declined to do so, but hurried off to Dublin. Now, I want to know this," and he took me by the button, "why was Alderman Humfery, when he ran away to Dublin, like the boy who ripped up his goose which laid golden eggs?"--We were fain to give it up.--"Because," said he, with a cruel dig in the ribs, "because he _cut his lucky!_"

* * * * *

THE BOY JONES'S LOG.

PICKED UP AT SEA.

The following interesting narrative of the sufferings of the youth Jones, whose indefatigable pursuit of knowledge, under the most discouraging circumstances, has been the cause of his banishment to a distant shore, was lately picked up at sea, in a sealed bottle, by a homeward-bound East Indiaman, and since placed in our hands by the captain of the vessel; who complimented us by saying, he felt such confidence in PUNCH'S honour and honesty! (these were his very words), that he unhesitatingly confided to him the precious document, in order that it might be given to the world without alteration or curtailment.

We hasten to realise the captain's flattering estimate of our character.

_At see, on board the ship Apollo._

_June 30._--So soon as the fust aggytation of my mind is woar off, I take up my pen to put my scentiments on peaper, in hops that my friends as nose the misfortin wich as oc-_curd_ to me, may think off me wen I'm far a _whey_. Halass! sir, the wicktim of that crewel blewbeard, Lord Melbun, who got affeard of my rising poplarity in the Palass, and as sent me to _see_ for my _peeping_, though, heaven nose, I was acktyated by the pewrest motiffs in what I did. The reel fax of the case is, I'm a young man of an ighly cultiwated mind and a very _ink_-wisitive disposition, wich naturally led me to the use of the _pen_. I ad also bean in the abit of reading "Jak Sheppard," and I may add, that I O all my eleygant tastes to the perowsal of that faxinating book. O! wot a noble mind the author of these wollums must have!--what a frootful inwention and fine feelings he displays!--what a delicat weal he throws over the piccadillys of his ero, making petty larceny lovely, and burglarly butiful.

However, I don't mean now to enter into a reglar crickitism of this egxtrornary work, but merely to observe, when I read it fust I felt a thust for literrerry fame spring up in my buzzem; and I thort I should to be an orthor. Unfortinnet delusion!--that thort has proved my rooin. It was the _bean_ of my life, and the destroyer of my _pease_. From that moment I could think of nothink else; I neglekted my wittles and my master, and wanderd about like a knight-errand-boy who had forgotten his message. Sleap deserted my lowly pillar, and, like a wachful shepherd, I lay all night awake amongst my _flocks_. I had got hold of a single idear--it was the axle of my mind, and, like a wheelbarrow, my head was always turning upon it. At last I resolved to rite, and I cast my i's about for a subject--they fell on the Palass! Ear, as my friend Litton Bulwer ses, ear was a field for genus to sore into;--ear was an area for fillophosy to dive into;--ear was a truly magnificient and comprehensive desine for a great _nash_-ional picture! I had got a splendid title, too--not for myself--I've a sole above such trumperry--but for my book. Boox is like humane beings--a good title goes a grate way with the crowd:--the one I ad chose for my _shed-oove_, was "Pencillings in the Palass; or, a Small Voice from the Royal Larder," with commick illustriations by Fiz or Krokvill. Mr. Bentley wantid to be engaged as monthly nuss for my expected projeny; and a nother gen'leman, whose "name" shall be "never heard," offered to go _shears_ with me, if I'd consent to _cut-uup_ the Cort ladies. "No," ses I, indignantly, "I leave Cort scandle to my betters--I go on independent principals into the Palass, and that's more than Lord Melbun, or Sir Robert Peal, or any one of the insiders or outsiders ever could or ever can say of theirselves.

That's what I said _then_,--but now I think, what a cussed fool I was. All my eye-flown bubbles were fated to be busted and melted, like the _wigs_, "into thin _hair_."

_Nong port!_ We gets wiser as we gets * * *

Genteel Reader,--I beg your parding. I'm better now. Bless me, how the ship waggles! It's reelly hawful; the sailors only laff at it, but I suppose as they're all _tars_ they don't mind being _pitched_ a little.

The capting tells me we are now reglarly at see, having just passt the North 4 land; so, ackording to custom, I begin my journal, or, as naughtical men call it--to keep my log.

_12 o'clock._--Wind.--All in my eye. Mate said we had our larburd tax aboard--never herd of that tax on shore. Told me I should learn to box the compass--tried, but couldn't do it--so boxt the cabbing boy insted. Capting several times calld to a man who was steering--"_Port, port_;" but though he always anserd, "Eye, eye, sir," he didn't bring him a drop. The black cook fell into the hold on the topp of his hed. Everybody sed he was gone to Davy Jones's locker; but he warn't, for he soon came to again, drank 1/2 a pint of rumm, and declared it was--

Saw a yung salor sitting on the top of one of the masts--thort of Dibdings faymos see-song, and asked if he warn't

"The sweet little cherub that sits up aloft?"

Man laff'd, and said it wor only Bill Junk clearing the pennant halliards.

_1 o'clock._--Thort formerly that every sailer wore his pigtale at the back of his head, like Mr. Tippy Cook--find I labored under a groce mistake--they all carry their pigtale in their backy-boxes. When I beheld the sailors working and heaving, and found that I was also beginning to heave-too, I cuddn't help repeting the varse of the old song--which fitted my case egsactly:--

"There's the capt'n he is our kimmander,
There's the bos'n and all the ship's crew,
There's the married men as well as the single,
Ken-ows what we poor sailors goes through."

However, I made up my mind not to look inward on my own wose any longer, so I put my head out of a hole in the side of the ship--and, my wiskers! how she did whizz along. Saw the white cliffs of Halbion a long way off, wich brought tiers in my i, thinking of those I had left behind, particular Sally Martin the young gal I was paying my attentions to, who gave me a _lock_ of her air when I was a leaving of the _key_. Oh! Lord Melbun, Lord Melbun! how can you rest in youre 4-post bed at nite, nowing you have broke the tize of affexion and divided 2 fond arts for hever! This mellancholly reflexion threw me into a poeticle fitte, and though I was werry uneasy in my _stommik_, and had nothing to rite on but my _chest_. I threw off as follows in a few 2nds, and arterards sung it to the well-none hair of "Willy Reilly:"--

Oakum to me[3], ye sailors bold,
Wot plows upon the sea;
To you I mean for to unfold
My mournful histo-ree.
So pay attention to my song,
And quick-el-ly shall appear,
How innocently, all along,
I vos in-weigle-ed here.

One night, returnin home to bed,
I walk'd through Pim-li-co,
And, twigging of the Palass, sed,
"I'm _Jones_ and _In-i-go_."
But afore I could get out, my boys
Pollise-man 20 A,
He caught me by the corderoys,
And lugged me right a-way.

My cuss upon Lord Melbun, and
On Jonny Russ-all-so,
That forc'd me from my native land
Across the vaves to go-o-oh.
But all their spiteful arts is wain,
My spirit down to keep;
I hopes I'll soon git back again,
To take another peep.

[3] The nautical mode of writing--"Oh! come to me."--PRINTER'S
DEVIL.

_2 o'clock._--Bell rung for all hands to come down to dinner. Thought I never saw dirtier hands in my life. They call their dinner "a mess" on broad ship, and a preshious mess it did look--no bread but hard biskit and plenty of ship's _rolls_, besides biled pork and P-soop--both these articles seemed rayther queer--felt my stommick growing quear too--got on deck, and asked where we were--was told we were in the Straits of Dover. I never was in such dreadful straits in my life--ship leaning very much on one side, which made me feel like a man

_3 o'clock._--Weather getting rather worse than better. Mind very uneasy. Capting says we shall have plenty of squalls to-night; and I heard him just now tell the mate to look to the main shrouds, so I spose it's all dickey with us, and that this log will be my sad epilog. The idear of being made fish meat was so orrible to my sensitive mind, that I couldn't refrain from weaping, which made the capting send me down stairs, to vent my sorros in the cable _tiers_.

_5 o'clock._--I'm sure we shan't srwive this night, therefore I av determined to put my heavy log into an M T rum-bottle, and throw it overbord, in bops it may be pickd up by some pirson who will bare my sad tail to my dear Sally. And now I conclewd with this short advice:--Let awl yung men take warning by my crewel fate. Let them avide bad kumpany and keep out of the Palass; and above all, let them mind their bissnesses on dri land, and never cast their fortunes on any _main_, like their unfortinet

Servant, THE BOY JONES.

* * * * *

THE TWO MACBETHS.

OR THE HAY MARKET GEMINI.

O, Gemini-
Crimini!
Nimini-
Pimini
Representatives of the Tartan hero,
Who wildly tear a passion into rags
More ragged than the hags
That round about the cauldron go!
Murderers! who murder Shakspeare so,
That 'stead of murdering sleep, ye do not do it;
But, _vice versa_, send the audience to it.
And, oh!--
But no--
Illustrious Mac-
Beth, or -ready,
And thou, small quack,
Of plaudits greedy!
Our pen, deserted by the tuneful Muses,
To write on such a barren theme refuses.

* * * * *

THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE,
POLITICAL PROMENADE AND CONSERVATIVE CONCERTS.
The most splendid night of the season! Friday, the 20th of August.
CAPTAIN ROUS'S NIGHT!
British Champagne and the British Constitution!--The Church, the
State, and Real Turtle!

The performances will commence with
FISH OUT OF WATER,
Sam Savory--Captain Rous, R.N.
After which,
HIS FIRST CHAMPAGNE;
Which will embrace the whole strength of THE STEWARDS.
In the course of the Evening, the ENLIGHTENED
LICENSED VICTUALLERS,
(Those zealous admirers of _true British spirit_) will parade the
room amid
A GRAND DISPLAY OF ELECTION ACCOUNTS.

To be followed by a GRAND PANTOMIME, called
HARLEQUIN HUMBUG;
OR, BRAVO ROUS!
OLD GLORY (afterwards Pantaloon) SIR F. BURDETT,
who has kindly offered his services on this occasion.
HARRY HUMBUG (a true British Sailor, afterwards Harlequin), CAPT. ROUS.
DON WHISKERANDOS (afterwards Clown), COL. SIBTHORPE.
The whole to conclude with a grand _melange_ of
HATS, COATS, AND UMBRELLAS.

TICKETS TO BE HAD AT ANY PRICE.

Stretchers to be at the doors at half-past 2, and policemen to take
up with their heads towards Bow-street.

VIVAT REGINA.

* * * * *

THE ADVANTAGES OF ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

The experiments of M. Delafontaine having again raised an outcry against this noble science, from the apparent absence of any benefit likely to arise from it, beyond converting human beings into pincushions and galvanic dummies. We, who look deeper into things than the generality of the world, hail it as an inestimable boon to mankind, and proceed at once to answer the numerous enquirers as to the _cui bono_ of this novel soporific.

By a judicious application of the mesmeric fluid, the greatest domestic comfort can be insured at the least possible trouble. The happiest Benedict is too well aware that ladies will occasionally exercise their tongues in a way not altogether compatible with marital ideas of quietude. A few passes of the hand ("in the way of kindness for he who would," &c. _vide_ Tobin) will now silence the most powerful oral battery; and Tacitus himself might, with the aid of mesmerism, pitch his study in a milliner's work-room. Hen-pecked husbands have now other means at their command, to secure quiet, than their razors and their garters. We have experimentalised upon our Judy, and find it answer to a miracle. Mrs. Johnson may shut up her laboratory for American Soothing Syrup; mesmerism is the only panacea for those morning and evening infantile ebullitions which affectionate mammas always assign to the teeth, the wind, or a pain in the stomach, and never to that possible cause, a pain in the temper. Mesmerism is "the real blessing to mothers," and Elliotson the Mrs. Johnson of the day. We have tried it upon our Punchininny, and find it superior to our old practice of throwing him out of the window.

Lovers, to you it is a boon sent by Cupid. Mammas, who will keep in the room when your bosoms are bursting with adoration--fathers, who will wake on the morning of an elopement, when the last trunk and the parrot are confided to you from the window--bailiffs, who will hunt you up and down their bailiwick, even to the church-door, though an heiress is depending upon your character for weekly payments--all are rendered powerless and unobtrusive by this inexplicable palmistry. Candidates, save your money; mesmerise your opponents instead of bribing them, and you may become a patriot by a show of hands.

These are a few of its social advantages--its political uses are unbounded. Why not mesmerise the Chinese? and, as for the Chartists, call out Delafontaine instead of the magistrates--a few mesmeric passes would be an easy and efficient substitute for the "Riot Act." Then the powers of _clairvoyance_--the faculty of seeing with their eyes shut--that it gives to the patient. Mrs. Ratsey, your royal charge might be soothed and instructed at the same time, by substituting a sheet of PUNCH for the purple and fine linen of her little Royal Highness's nautilus-shell.

Lord John Russell, the policy of your wily adversary would no longer be concealed. Jealous husbands, do you not see a haven of security, for brick walls may be seen through, and letters read in the pocket of your rival, by this magnetic telescope? whilst studious young gentleman may place Homer under their arms, and study Greek without looking at it.

* * * * *

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE.

The Marquis of Waterford and party visited Vauxhall Gardens on Monday. The turnpike man on the bridge was much _struck_ by their easy manner of dealing with their inferiors.

Alderman Magnay laid the first shell of an oyster grotto one night this week in the Minories. There was a large party of boys, who, with the worthy Alderman, repaired to a neighbouring fruit-stall, where the festivity of the occasion was kept up for several minutes.

The New Cut was, as usual, a scene of much animation on Saturday last, and there was rather a more brilliant display than customary of new and elegant baked-potato stands. The well-known turn-out, with five lanterns and four apertures for the steam, was the general admiration of the host of pedestrians who throng the Cut between the hours of eight and twelve on Saturday.

* * * * *

A BITTER DRAUGHT.

SIR R. PEEL, in the celebrated medicinal metaphor with which he lately favoured his constituents at Tamworth, concludes by stating, "that he really believes he does more than any political physician ever did by referring to the prescriptions which he offered in 1835 and 1840, and by saying that he sees no reason to alter them." This is, to carry out the physical figure, only another version of "_the mixture as before_." We are afraid there are no hopes of the patient.

"Why are the Whigs like the toes of a dancing-master?"--"Because they _must_ be turned out."

"Why are Colonel Sibthorp and Mr. Peter Borthwick like the covering of the dancing-master's toes?"--"Because they are a _pair of pumps_."

"Why are the Whigs and Tories like the scarlet fever and the measles?"--"Because there's no telling which is the worst."

* * * * *

A HINT TO THE UGLY.

My uncle Septimus Snagglegrable is no more! Excellent old man! no one knew his worthiness whilst he was of the living, for every one called him a scoundrel.

It is reserved for me to do justice to his memory, and one short sentence will be sufficient for the purpose--he has left me five thousand pounds! I have determined that his benevolence shall not want an imitator, and I have resolved, at a great personal sacrifice, to benefit that portion of my fellow creatures who are denominated ugly. I am particularly so. My complexion is a bright snuff-colour; my eyes are grey, and unprotected by the usual verandahs of eye-lashes; my nose is _retrousse_, and if it has a bridge, it must be of the suspension order, for it is decidedly concave. I wish Rennie would turn his attention to the state of numerous noses in the metropolis. I am sure a lucrative company might he established for the purpose of erecting bridges to noses that, like my own, have been unprovided by nature. I should be happy to become a director. _Revenons nous_--my mouth is decidedly large, and my teeth singularly irregular. My father was violently opposed to Dr. Jenner's "repeal of the small-pox,"[4] and would not have me vaccinated; the consequence of which has been that my chin is full of little dells, thickly studded with dark and stunted bristles. I have bunions and legs that (as "the right line of beauty's a curve") are the perfection of symmetry. My poor mother used to lament what she, in the plenitude of her ignorance, was pleased to denominate my disadvantages. She knew not the power of genius. To me these--well, I'll call them _defects_--have been the source of great profit. For years I have walked about the great metropolis without any known or even conjectural means of subsistence; my coat has always been without a patch--my linen without spot!

[4] Baylis.

Ugly brothers, I am about to impart to you the secret of my existence! I have lived by the fine arts--yes, by sitting as

A model for door-knockers and cherubim for tomb-stones.

The latter may perhaps surprise you, but the contour of my countenance is decidedly infantile--for when had a babby a bridge?--and the addition of a penny trumpet completes the full-blown expression of the light-headed things known to stone-masons as cherubim.

But it is to the art of knocker-designing that I flatter myself I have been of most service. By the elevation of my chin, and the assistance of a long wig, I can present an excellent resemblance of a lion, with this great advantage over the real animal--I can vary the expression according to circumstances--

"As mild as milk, or raging as the storm."

So that nervous single ladies need not be terrified out of their senses every time they knock at their door, by the grim personification of a Nero at feeding time; or a tender-hearted poor-law guardian be pestered during dinner by invitations afforded to the starving poor by the benevolent expression of his knocker.

Ugly ones! I have now imparted to you my secret.

* * * * *

ON THE POPULARITY OF MR. CH--S K--N.

Oh, Mr. Punch! what glorious times
Are these, for humbly gifted mimes;
When, spite of each detracter,
Paternal name and filial love,
Assisted by "the powers above,"
Have made C----s K----n an actor!

"'Tis true," his generous patrons say,
"Of genius he ne'er had a ray;
Yet, all his faults to smother,
The youth inherits, from his sire,
A name which all the world admire,
And dearly loves his mother!"

Stripp'd of his adventitious aid,
He ne'er ten pounds a week had made;
Yet every Thespian brother
Is now kept down, or put to flight,
While _he_ gets fifty pounds a night,
Because--he loves his mother!

Though I'm, in heart and soul, a friend
To genuine talent, Heaven forefend
That I should raise a pother,
Because the philanthropic folks
Wink and applaud a pious hoax,
For one who--loves his mother!

No! Heaven prolong his parent's life
And grant that no untimely strife
May wean them from each other!
For soon he'd find the golden fleece
Slip from his grasp, should he e'er cease
To _keep_ and--love his mother!

* * * * *

A CON. BY COLONEL SIBTHORP.

Why is a chesnut horse, going at a rapid pace up an inclined plane, like an individual in white trousers presenting a young lady in book muslin with an infantine specimen of the canine species?--Because he is giving _a gallop up_ (a girl a pup).

* * * * *

THE DRAMA.

ASTLEY'S COMPANY AT THE OLYMPIC.

The distresses of actors distress nobody but themselves. A tale of woe told off the stage by a broad comedian, begets little sympathy; and if he is in the "heavy line," people say he is used to it, and is only acting--playing off upon you a melancholy joke, that he may judge how it will _tell_ at night. Thus, when misfortune takes a benefit, charity seldom takes tickets; for she is always sceptical about the so-called miseries of the most giddy, volatile, jolly, careless, uncomplaining (where managers and bad parts are not concerned) vainest, and apparently, happiest possible members of the community, who are so completely associated with fiction, that they are hardly believed when telling the truth. _Par exemple_--nothing can be more true than that Astley's Theatre was burnt down the other day; that the whole of that large establishment were suddenly thrown out of employ; that their wardrobes were burnt to rags, their properties reduced to a cinder, and their means of subsistence roasted in a too rapid fire. True also is it, that to keep the wolf from their own doors, those of the Olympic have been opened, where the really dismounted cavalry of Astley's are continuing their campaign, having appealed to the public to support them. Judging from the night we were present, that support has been extended with a degree of lukewarmness which is exactly proportionate to the effect produced by the appeals of actors when misfortune overtakes them.

But, besides public sympathy, they put forth other claims for support. The amusements they offer are of extraordinary merit. The acting of Mr. H. Widdicomb, of Miss Daly, and Mr. Sidney Forster, was, in the piece we saw--"The Old House at Home"--full of nature and quiet touches of feeling scarcely to be met with on any other stage. Still these are qualifications the "general" do not always appreciate; though they often draw tears, they seldom draw money. Very well, to meet that deficiency, other and more popular actors have come forward to offer their aid. Mr. T.P. Cooke has already done his part, as he always does it, nobly. The same may be said of Mr. Hammond. When we were present, Mrs. H.L. Grattan and Mr. Balls appeared in the "Lady of Munster." Mr. Sloan, a popular Irish comedian from the provinces, has lent a helping hand, by coming out in a new drama. Mr. Keeley is also announced.

The pieces we saw were well got up and carefully acted; so that the patrons of the drama need not dread that, in this instance, the Astleyan-Olympic actors believe that "charity covers a multitude of sins." They don't care who sees their faults--the more the better.

* * * * *

"BEHIND THE SCENES."

When a certain class of persons, whose antipathy to gratis sea-voyages is by no means remarkable, are overtaken by the police and misfortune; when the last legal quibble has been raised upon their case and failed; when, indeed, to use their own elegant phraseology, they are "regularly stumped and done up;" then--and, to do them justice, not till then--they resort to confession, and to turning king's evidence against their accomplices.

This seems to be exactly the case with the drama, which is evidently in the last stage of decline; the consumption of new subjects having exhausted the supply. The French has been "taken from" till it has nothing more to give; the Newgate Calendar no longer affords materials; for an entire dramatic edition of it might be collected (a valuable hint this for the Syncretic Society, that desperate association for producing un-actable dramas)--the very air is exhausted in a theatrical sense; for "life in the clouds" has been long voted "law;" whilst the play-writing craft have already robbed the regions below of every spark of poetic fire; devils are decidedly out of date. In short, and not to mince the matter, as hyenas are said to stave off starvation by eating their own haunches, so the drama _must_ be on its last legs, when actors turn king's evidence, and exhibit to the public how they flirt and quarrel, and eat oysters and drink porter, and scandalise and make fun--how, in fact, they disport themselves "Behind the Scenes."

A visit to the English Opera will gratify those of the uninitiated, who are anxious to get acquainted with the manners and customs of the ladies and gentlemen of the _corps dramatique_ "at the wing." Otherwise than as a sign of dramatic destitution, the piece called "Behind the Scenes" is highly amusing. Mr. Wild's acting displays that happy medium between jocularity and earnest, which is the perfection of burlesque. Mrs. Selby plays the "leading lady" without the smallest effort, and invites the first tragedian to her treat of oysters and beer with considerable _empressement_, though supposed to be labouring at the time _under_ the stroke of the headsman's axe. Lastly, it would be an act of injustice to Mr. Selby to pass his _Spooney Negus_ over in silence. PUNCH has too brotherly an affection for his fellow-actors, to hide their faults; in the hope that, by shewing them _veluti in speculum_, they may be amended. In all kindness, therefore, he entreats Mr. Selby, if he be not bent upon hastening his own ruin, if he have any regard for the feelings of unoffending audiences, who always witness the degradation of human nature with pain--he implores him to provide a substitute for _Negus_. Every actor knows the difference between portraying imbecility and _being_ silly himself--between puerility, as characteristic of a part _in posse_, and as being a trait of the performer _in esse_. To this rule Mr. Selby, in this part, is a melancholy exception; for he seems utterly ignorant of such a distinction, broad as it is--he is silly himself, instead of causing silliness in _Spooney_. This is the more to be regretted, as whoever witnessed, with us, the first piece, saw in Mr. Selby a respectable representative of an old dandy in "Barnaby Rudge." Moreover, the same gentleman is, we understand, the adapter of the drama from Boz's tale. That too proves him to be a clever contriver of situations, and an ingenious adept with the pen and scissors.