Chapter II: A pontificating man with his arms outstretched in the shape (10)

Prince Alberts household is to be entirely re-modelled, and one or two new offices are to be added, the want of which has hitherto occasioned his Royal Highness much inconvenience. Of these, we are only authorised in alluding, at present, to Tooth-brush in Ordinary, and Shaving-pot in Waiting. There is no foundation for the report that there is to be a Lord High Clothes-brush, or Privy Boot-jack.

A VOICE FROM THE AREA. The following letter has been addressed to us by a certain party, who, as our readers will perceive, has been one of the sufferers by the late clearance made in a fashionable establishment at the West-end:

DEAR PUNCH.As you may not be awair of the mallancoly change wich as okkurred to the pore sarvunts here, I hassen to let you nothat every sole on us as lost our plaices, and are turnd owtwich is a dredful klamity, seeing as we was all very comfittible and appy as we was. I must say, in gustis to our Missus, that she was very fond of us, and wouldnt have parted with one of us if she had her will: but shes only a O in her own howse, and is never aloud to do as she licks. We got warning reglar enuff, but we still thort that somethink might turn up in our fever. However, when the day cum that we was to go, it fell upon us like a thunderboat. You cant imagine the kunfewshion we was all threw intoevery body packing up their little afares, and rummidging about for any trifele that wasnt worth leaving behind. The sarvunts as is cum in upon us is a nice sett; they have been a long wile trying after our places, and at last they have suckseeded in underminding us; but its my oppinion theyll never be able to get through the work of the house;all they cares for is the vails and purkussites. I forgot to menshun that they hadnt the decency to wait till we was off the peremasses, wich I bleave is the etticat in sich cases, but rushed in on last Friday, and tuck possession of all our plaices before we had left the concirn. I leave you to judge by this what a hurry they was to get in. Theres one comfurt, however, that isweve left things in sich a mess in the howse, that I dont think theyll ever be able to set them to rites again. This is all at present from your afflickted friend,

JOHN THE FOOTMAN.

I declare I never knew a flatter companion than yourself, said Tom of Finsbury, the other evening, to the lion of Lambeth. Thank you, Tom, replied the latter; but all the world knows that youre a flatter-er. Tom, in nautical phrase, swore, if he ever came athwart his Hawes, that he would return the compliment with interest.

[pg 101] MY FRIEND TOM. Here, methinks,

Truth wants no ornament.ROGERS.

We have the happiness to know a gentleman of the name of Tom, who officiates in the capacity of ostler. We have enjoyed a long acquaintance with himwe mean an acquaintance a long way offi.e. from the window of our dormitory, which overlooks Asns stables. We believe we are the first of our family, for some years, who has not kept a horse; and we derive a melancholy gratification in gazing for hours, from our lonely height, at the zoological possessions of more favoured mortals.

The horse is a noble animal, as a gentleman once wittily observed, when he found himself, for the first time in his life, in a position to make love; and we beg leave to repeat the remarkthe horse is a noble animal, whether we consider him in his usefulness or in his beauty; whether caparisoned in the chamfrein and demi-peake of the chivalry of olden times, or scarcely fettered and surmounted by the snaffle and hog- skin of the present; whether he excites our envy when bounding over the sandy deserts of Arabia, or awakens our sympathies when drawing sand from Hampstead and the parts adjacent; whether we see him as romance pictures him, foaming in the lists, or bearing, through flood and field, the brave, the beautiful, and the benighted; or, as we know him in reality, the companion of our pleasures, the slave of our necessities, the dislocator of our necks, or one of the performers at our funeral; whetherbut we are not drawing a bill in Chancery.

With such impressions in favour of the horse, we have ever felt a deep anxiety about those to whom his conduct and comfort are confided.

The breederwe envy.

The breakerwe pity.

The ownerwe esteem.

The groomwe respect.

AND

The ostlerwe pay.

Do not suppose that we wish to cast a slur upon the latter personage, but it is too much to require that he who keeps a caravansera should look upon every wayfarer as a brother. It is thus with the ostler: his feelings are never allowed to twine

Around one object, till he feels his heart

Of its sweet being form a deathless part.

Noto rub them down, give them a quartern and three penorth, and not too much water, are all that he has to connect him with the offspring of Childers, Eclipse, or Pot-8-os; ergo, we pay him.

My friend Tom is a fine specimen of the genus. He is about fifteen hands high, rising thirty, herring-bowelled, small head, large ears, close mane, broad chest, and legs à la parentheses ( ). His dress is a long brown-holland jacket, covering the protuberance known in Bavaria by the name of pudo, and in England by that of bustle. His breeches are of cord about an inch in width, and of such capacious dimensions, that a truss of hay, or a quarter of oats, might be stowed away in them with perfect convenience: not that we mean to insinuate they are ever thus employed, for when we have seen them, they have been in a collapsed state, hanging (like the skin of an elephant) in graceful festoons about the mid-person of the wearer. These necessaries are confined at the knee by a transverse row of pearl buttons crossing the genu patella. The pars pendula is about twelve inches wide, and supplies, during conversation or rumination, a resting-place for the thumbs or little fingers. His legs are encased either in white ribbed cotton stockings, or that peculiar kind of gaiter yclept kicksies. His feet know only one pattern shoe, the ancle-jack (or highlow as it is sometimes called), resplendent with Day and Martin, or the no less brilliant Warren. Genius of propriety, we have described his tail before that index of the mind, that idol of phrenologists, his pimple!we beg pardon, we mean his head. Round, and rosy as a pippin, it stands alone in its native loveliness, on the heap of clothes beneath.

Tom is not a low man; he has not a particle of costermongerism in his composition, though his discourse savours of that peculiar slang that might be considered rather objectionable in the salons of the élite.

The bell which he has the honour to answer hangs at the gate of a west- end livery-stables, and his consequence is proportionate. To none under the degree of a groom does he condescend a nod of recognitionwith a second coachman he drinks porterand purl (a compound of beer and blue ruin) with the more respectable individual who occupies the hammer-cloth on court-days. Tom estimates a man according to his horse, and his civility is regulated according to his estimation. He pockets a gratuity with as much ease as a state pensioner; but if some unhappy wight should, in the plenitude of his ignorance, proffer a sixpence, Tom buttons his pockets with a smile, and politely begs to leave it till it becomes more.

With an old meerschaum and a pint of tolerable sherry, we seat ourselves at our window, and hold many an imaginative conversation with our friend Tom. Sometimes we are blest with more than ideality; but that is only when he unbends and becomes jocular and noisy, or chooses a snug corner opposite our window to enjoy his otiumconfound that phrase!we would say his indolence and swagger

A pound to a hay-seed agin the bay.

Hallo! thats Tom! Yesthere he comes laughing out of Box 4, with three othersall first coachmen. One is making some very significant motions to the potboy at the Ram and Radish, and, lo! Ganymede appears with a foaming tankard of ale. Tom has taken his seat on an inverted pail, and the others are grouped easily, if not classically, around him.

One is resting his head between the prongs of a stable-fork; another is spread out like the Colossus of Rhodes; whilst a gentleman in a blue uniform has thrown himself into an attitude à la Cribb, with the facetious intention of letting daylight into the wittling department of the pot-boy of the Ram and Radish.

Tom has blown the froth from the tankard, and (as he elegantly designates it) bit his name in the pot. A second has looked at the makers name; and another has taken one of those positive draughts which evince a settled conviction that it is a last chance.

Our friend has thrust his hands into the deepest depths of his breeches- pocket, and cocking one eye at the afore-named blue uniform, asks

Will you back the bay?

The inquiry has been made in such a do-if-you-dare tone, that to hesitate would evince a cowardice unworthy of the first coachman to the first peer in Belgrave-square, and a leg of mutton and trimmings are duly entered in a greasy pocket-book, as dependent upon the result of the Derby.

The son of Tros, fair Ganymede, is again called into requisition, and the party are getting, as Tom says, As happy as Harry Stockracy.

Ive often heerd that chap mentioned, remarks the blue uniform, but I never seed no one as knowd him.

No more did I, replies Tom, though he must be a fellow such as us, up to everything.

All the coachmen cough, strike an attitude, and look wise.

Now here comes a sort of chap I despises, remarks Tom, pointing to a steady-looking man, without encumbrance, who had just entered the yard, evidently a coachman to a pious family; see him handle a hoss. Smearsmearlike bees-waxing a table. Nothing varminty about himnothing of this sort of thing (spreading himself out to the gaze of his admiring auditory), but I suppose hes useful with slow cattle, and thats a consolation to us as cant abear them. And with this negative compliment Tom has broken up his conversazione.

I once knew a country ostlerby name Peter Staggshe was a lower species of the same genusa sort of compound of my friend Tom and a waggonerthe delf of the profession. He was a character in his way; he knew the exact moment of every coachs transit on his line of road, and the birth, parentage, and education of every cab, hack, and draught-horse in the neighbourhood. He had heard of a mane-comb, but had never seen one; he considered a shilling for a feed perfectly apocryphal, as he had never received one. He kept a rough terrier-dog, that would kill anything in the country, and exhibited three rows of putrified rats, nailed at the back of the stable, as evidences of the prowess of his dog. He swore long country oaths, for which he will be unaccountable, as not even an angel could transcribe them. In short, he was a little varminty, but very little.

We will conclude this lytle historie with the epitaph of poor Peter Staggs, which we copied from a rail in Swaffham churchyard.

EPITAPH ON PETER STAGGS.

Poor Peter Staggs now rests beneath this rail,

Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale;

For twenty years he did the duties well,

Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the Bell.

But Death steppd in, and orderd Peter Staggs

To feed his worms, and leave the farmers nags.

The church clock struck onealas! twas Peters knell,

Who sighd, Im comingthats the ostlers bell!

Peace to his manes!

A HINT FOR POLITICIANS. If you wont turn, I will, as the mill-wheel said to the stream.

Why did not Wellington take a post in the new Cabinet? asked Dicky Sheil of OConnell.Bathershin! replied the head of the tail, the Duke is too old a soldier to lean on a rotten stick.

Lord Morpeth intends proceeding to Canada immediately. The object of his journey is purely scientific; he wishes to ascertain if the Fall of Niagara be really greater than the fall of the Whigs.

A PRO AND CON. When is Peel not Peel?When hes candi(e)d.

GALVANISM OUTDONE. We have heard of the very dead being endowed, by galvanic action, with the temporary powers of life, and on such occasions the extreme force of the apparatus has ever received the highest praise. The Syncretic march of mind rectifies the above errorwith them, weakness is strength. Fancy the alliterative littleness of a Stephens and a Selby, as the tools from which the drama must receive its glorious resuscitation!

NEWS FOR THE SYNCRETICS. (Extracted from the Strangers Guide to London.) Bedlam, the celebrated receptacle for lunatics, is situated in St. Georges-fields, within five minutes walk of the Kings Bench. There is also another noble establishment in the neighbourhood of Finsbury-square, where the unhappy victims of extraordinary delusions are treated with the care and consideration their several hallucinations require.

[pg 102] PEEL REGULARLY CALLED IN. At length, PEEL is called in in a regular way. Being assured of his quarterly fee, the state physician may now, in the magnanimity of his soul, prescribe new life for moribund John Bull. Whether he has resolved within himself to emulate the generous dealing of kindred professorsof those sanative philosophers, whose benevolence, stamped in modest handbills, crieth out in the street, exclaiming No cure no pay,we know not; certain we are, that such is not the old Tory practice. On the contrary, the healing, with Tory doctors, has ever been in an inverse ratio to the reward. Like the faculty at large, the Tories have flourished on the sickness of the patient. They have, with Falstaff, turned diseases to commodity; their only concern being to keep out the undertaker. Whilst theres life, theres profit,is the philosophy of the Tory College; hence, poor Mr. Bull, though shrunk, attenuated,with a blister on his head, and cataplasms at his soles,has been kept just alive enough to pay. And then his patience under Tory treatmentthe obedience of his swallow! Admirable, excellent! cried a certain doctor (we will not swear that his name was not PEEL), when his patient pointed to a dozen empty phials. Taken them all, eh? Delightful! My dear sir, you are worthy to be ill. JOHN BULL having again called in the Tories, is worthy to be ill; and very ill he will be.

The tenacity of life displayed by BULL is paralleled by a case quoted by LE VAILLANT. That naturalist speaks of a turtle that continued to live after its brain was taken from its skull, and the cavity stuffed with cotton. Is not England, with spinning-jenny PEEL at the head of its affairs, in this precise predicament? England may live; but inactive, torpid; unfitted for all healthful exertion,deprived of its grandest functionsparalyzed in its noblest strength. We have a Tory Cabinet, but where is the brain of statesmanship?

Now, however, there are no Tories. Oh, no! Sir ROBERT PEEL is a ConservativeLYNDHURST is a Conservativeall are Conservative. Toryism has sloughed its old skin, and rejoices in a new coat of many colours; but the sting remainsthe venom is the same; the reptile that would have struck to the heart the freedom of Europe, elaborates the self-same poison, is endowed with the same subtilty, the same grovelling, tortuous action. It still creeps upon its belly, and wriggles to its purpose. When adders shall become eels, then will we believe that Conservatives cannot be Tories.

When folks change their namesunless by the gracious permission of the Gazettethey rarely do so to avoid the fame of brilliant deeds. It is not the act of an over-sensitive modesty that induces Peter Wiggins to dub himself John Smith. Be certain of it, Peter has not saved half a boarding-school from the tremendous fire that entirely destroyed Ringworm HousePeter has not dived into the Thames, and rescued some respectable attorney from a death hitherto deemed by his friends impossible to him. It is from no such heroism that Peter Wiggins is compelled to take refuge in John Smith from the oppressive admiration of the world about him. Certainly not. Depend upon it, Peter has been signalised in the Hue and Cry, as one endowed with a love for the silver spoons of other menas an individual who, abusing the hospitality of his lodgings, has conveyed away and sold the best goose feathers of his landlady. What then, with his name ripe enough to drop from the tree of life, remains to Wiggins, but to subside into Smith? What hope was there for the well-known swindler, the posted pickpocket, the callous-hearted, slug-brained Tory? None: he was hooted, pelted at; all men stopped the nose at his approach. He was voted a nuisance, and turned forth into the world, with all his vices, like ulcers, upon him. Well, Tory adopts the inevitable policy of Wiggins; he changes his name! He comes forth, curled and sweetened, and with a smile upon his mealy face, and placing his felon hand above the vacuum on the left side of his bosomdeclares, whilst the tears he weeps would make a crocodile blushthat he is by no means the Tory his wicked, heartless enemies would call him. Certainly not. His name isConservative! There was, once, to be sure, a Toryin existence;

But he is dead, and nailed in his chest!

He is a creature extinct, gone with the wolves annihilated by the Saxon monarch. There may be the skeleton of the animal in some rare collections in the kingdom; but for the living creature, you shall as soon find a phoenix building in the trees of Windsor Park, as a Tory kissing hands in Windsor Castle!

The lie is but gulped as a truth, and Conservative is taken into service. Once more, he is the factotum to JOHN BULL. But when the knave shall have worn out his second namewhen he shall again be turned awaylook to your feather-beds, oh, JOHN! and foolish, credulous, leathern-eared Mr. BULLbe sure and count your spoons!

Can it be supposed that the loss of office, that the ten years hunger for the loaves and fishes endured by the Tory party, has disciplined them into a wiser humanity? Can it be believed that they have arrived at a more comprehensive grasp of intellectthat they are ennobled by a loftier consideration of the social rights of manthat they are gifted with a more stirring sympathy for the wants that, in the present iniquitous system of society, reduce him to little less than pining idiotcy, or madden him to what the statutes call crime, and what judges, sleek as their ermine, preach upon as rebellion to the governmentthe government that, in fact, having stung starvation into treason, takes to itself the loftiest praise for refusing the hangmana taskfor appeasing Justice with simple transportation?

Already the Tories have declared themselves. In the flush of anticipated success, PEEL at the Tamworth election denounced the French Revolution that escorted Charles the Tenthwith his foolish head still upon his shouldersout of France, as the triumph of might over right. It was the rightthe divine right of Charles(the sacred ampoule, yet dropping with the heavenly oil brought by the mystic dove for Clovis, had bestowed the privilege)to gag the mouth of man; to scourge a nation with decrees, begot by bigot tyranny upon follyto reduce a people into uncomplaining slavery. Such was his right: and the burst of indignation, the irresistible assertion of the native dignity of man, that shivered the throne of Charles like glass, was a felonious mighta rebellious, treasonous potencythe very wickedness of strength. Such is the opinion of Conservative PEEL! Such the old Tory faith of the child of Toryism!

Since the Tamworth speechsince the scourging of Sir ROBERT by the French pressPEEL has essayed a small philanthropic oration. He has endeavoured to paintand certainly in the most delicate water- coloursthe horrors of war. The premier makes his speech to the nations with the palm-branch in his handwith the olive around his brow. He has applied arithmetic to war, and finds it expensive. He would therefore induce France to disarm, that by reductions at home he may not be compelled to risk what would certainly jerk him out of the premiershipthe imposition of new taxes. He may then keep his Corn Lawshe may then securely enjoy his sliding scale. Such are the hopes that dictate the intimation to disarm. It is sweet to prevent war; and, oh! far sweeter still to keep out the Wigs!

The Duke of WELLINGTON, who is to be the moral force of the Tory Cabinet, is a great soldier; and by the very greatness of his martial fame, has been enabled to carry certain political questions which, proposed by a lesser genius, had been scouted by the party otherwise irresistibly compelled to admit them. (Imagine, for instance, the Marquis of Londonderry handling Catholic Emancipation.) Nevertheless, should The follies of the Wisea chronicle much wantedbe ever collected for the world, his Grace of Wellington will certainly shine as a conspicuous contributor. In the name of famine, what could have induced his Grace to insult the misery at this moment, eating the hearts of thousands of Englishmen? For, within these few days, the Victor of Waterloo expressed his conviction that England was the only country in which the poor man, if only sober and industrious, WAS QUITE CERTAIN of acquiring a competency! And it is this man, imbued with this opinion, who is to be hailed as the presiding wisdomthe great moral strengththe healing humanity of the Tory Cabinet. If rags and starvation put up their prayer to the present Ministry, what must be the answer delivered by the Duke of Wellington? YE ARE DRUNKEN AND LAZY!

If on the night of the 24th of Augustthe memorable night on which this heartless insult was thrown in the idle teeth of famishing thousandsthe ghosts of the victims of the Corn Laws,the spectres of the wretches who had been ground out of life by the infamy of Tory taxation, could have been permitted to lift the bed-curtains of Apsley-House,his Grace the Duke of Wellington would have been scared by even a greater majority than ultimately awaits his fellowship in the present Cabinet. Still we can only visit upon the Duke the censure of ignorance. He knows not what he says. If it be his belief that England suffers only because she is drunken and idle, he knows no more of England than the Icelander in his sledge: if, on the other hand, he used the libel as a party warfare, he is still one of the old set,and his crowning carnage, Waterloo, with all its greatness, is but a poor set-off against the more lasting iniquities which he would visit upon his fellow-men. Anyhow, he cannothe must notescape from his opinion; we will nail him to it, as we would nail a weasel to a barn-door; if Englishmen want competence, they must be drunkenthey must be idle. Gentlemen Tories, shuffle the cards as you will, the Duke of Wellington either lacks principle or brains.

Next week we will speak of the Whigs; of the good they have doneof the good they have, with an instinct towards aristocracymost foolishly, most traitorously, missed.

Q.

[pg 103] PUNCHS PENCILLINGSNo. IX. Red Riding Hood (the Queen) faces a wolf (Peel) in the Royal Preserve of Mount Peelion. THE ROYAL RED RIDING HOOD, AND THE MINISTERIAL WOLF.

[pg 105] ROYAL NURSERY EDUCATION REPORTNO. 3. WHO KILLED COCK RUSSELL? A NEW VERSION OF THE CELEBRATED NURSERY TALE, WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR THE PRINCESS ROYAL. Who Killd Cock Russell?

I, said Bob Peel,

The political eel,

I killd Cock Russell.

Who saw him die?

We, said the nation,

At each polling station,

We saw him die.

Who caught his place?

I, for I can lie,

Said turn-about Stanley,

I caught his place.

Wholl make his shroud?

We, cried the poor

From each Union door,

Well make his shroud.

Wholl dig his grave?

Cried the corn-laws, The fool

Has long been our tool,

Well dig his grave.

Wholl be the parson?

I, Londons bishop,

A sermon will dish up,

Ill be the parson.

Wholl be the clerk?

Sibthorp, for a lark,

If youll all keep it dark,

Hell be the clerk.

Wholl carry him to his grave?

The Chartists, with pleasure,

Will wait on his leisure,

Theyll carry him to his grave.

Wholl carry the link?

Said Wakley, in a minute,

I must be in it,

Ill carry the link.

Wholl be chief mourners?

We, shouted dozens

Of out-of-place cousins,

Well be chief mourners.

Wholl bear the pall?

As they loudly bewail,

Both OConnell and tail,

Theyll bear the pall.

Wholl go before?

I, said old Cupid,

Ill still head the stupid,

Ill go before.

Wholl sing a psalm?

I, Colonel Perceval,

(Oh, Peel, be merciful!)

Ill sing a psalm.

Wholl throw in the dirt?

I, said the Times,

In lampoons and rhymes,

Ill throw in the dirt.

Wholl toll the bell?

I, said John Bull,

With pleasure Ill pull,

Ill toll the bell.

All the Whigs in the world

Fell a sighing and sobbing,

When wicked Bob Peel

Put an end to their jobbing.

TRANSACTIONS AND YEARLY REPORT OF THE HOOKHAM-CUM-SNIVEY LITERARY, SCIENTIFIC, AND MECHANICS INSTITUTION. Collected and elaborated expressly for PUNCH, by Tiddledy Winks, Esq., Hon. Sec., and Editor of the Peckham Evening Post and Camberwell-Green Advertiser.

Previously to placing the results of my unwearied application before the public, I think it will be both interesting and appropriate to trace, in a few words, the origin of this admirable society, by whose indefatigable exertions the air-pump has become necessary to the domestic economy of every peasants cottage; and the Budelight and beer- shops, optics and out-door relief, and Daguerrotypes and dirt, have become subjects with which they are equally familiar.

About the close of last year, a few scientific labourers were in the habit of meeting at a Jerry in their neighbourhood, for the purpose of discussing such matters as the comprehensive and plainly-written reports of the British Association, as furnished by the Athenæum, offered to their notice, in any way connected with philosophy or the belles lettres. The numbers increasing, it was proposed that they should meet weekly at one anothers cottages, and there deliver a lecture on any scientific subject; and the preliminary matters being arranged, the first discourse was given On the Advantage of an Air-gun over a Fowling-piece, in bringing Pheasants down without making a noise. This was so eminently successful, that the following discourses were delivered in quick succession:

On the Toxicological Powers of Coculus Indicus in Stupifying Fish.

On the Combustion of Park-palings and loose Gate-posts.

On the tendency of Out-of-door Spray-piles to Spontaneous Evaporation, during dark nights.

On the Comparative Inflammatory properties of Lucifer Matches, Phosphorus Bottles, Tinder-boxes, and Congreves, as well as Incandescens Short Pipes, applied to Hay in particular and Ricks in general.

On the value of Cheap Literature, and Intrinsic Worth (by weight) of the various Publications of the Society for the Confusion of Useless Knowledge.

The lectures were all admirably illustrated, and the society appeared to be in a prosperous state. At length the government selected two or three of its most active members, and despatched them on a voyage of discovery to a distant part of the globe. The institution now drooped for a while, until some friends of education firmly impressed with the importance of their undertaking, once more revived its former greatness, at the same time entirely reorganizing its arrangements. Subscriptions were collected, sufficient to erect a handsome turf edifice, with a massy thatched roof, upon Timber Common; a committee was appointed to manage the scientific department, at a liberal salary, including the room to sit in, turf, and rushlights, with the addition, on committee nights, of a pint of intermediate beer, a pipe, and a screw, to each member. Gentlemen fond of hearing their own voices were invited to give gratuitous discourses from sister institutions: a museum and library were added to the building already mentioned, and an annual meeting of illuminati was agreed upon.

Amongst the papers contributed to be read at the evening meetings of the society, perhaps the most interesting was that communicated by Mr. Octavius Spiff, being a startling and probing investigation as to whether Sir Isaac Newton had his hat on when the apple tumbled on his head, what sort of an apple it most probably was, and whether it actually fell from the tree upon him, or, being found too hard and sour to eat, had been pitched over his garden wall by the hand of an irritated little boy. I ought also to make mention of Mr. Plummycrams Narrative of an Ascent to the summit of Highgate-hill, with Mr. Mulltours Handbook for Travellers from the Bank to Lisson-grove, and A Summers-day on Kennington-common. Mr. Tinhunt has also announced an attractive work, to be called Hackney: its Manufactures, Economy, and Political Resources.

It is the intention of the society, should its funds increase, to take a high place next year in the scientific transactions of the country. Led by the spirit of enterprise now so universally prevalent, arrangements are pending with Mr. Purdy, to fit up two punts for the Shepperton expedition, which will set out in the course of the ensuing summer. The subject for the Prize Essay for the Victoria Penny Coronation Medal this year is, The possibility of totally obliterating the black stamp on the post-office Queens heads, so as to render them serviceable a second time; and, in imitation of the learned investigations of sister institutions, the Copper Jinks Medal will also be given to the author of the best essay upon The existing analogy between the mental subdivision of invisible agencies and circulating decompositions.(To be continued.)

[pg 106] INAUGURATION OF THE IMAGE OF SHAKSPERE. AT THE SURREY THEATRE. Be still, my mighty soul! These ribs of mine

Are all too fragile for thy narrow cage.

By heaven! I will unlock my bosoms door.

And blow thee forth upon the boundless tide

Of thoughts creation, where thy eagle wing

May soar from this dull terrene mass away,

To yonder empyrean vaultlike rocket (sky)

To mingle with thy cognate essences

Of Love and Immortality, until

Thou burstest with thine own intensity,

And scatterest into millions of bright stars,

Each one a part of that refulgent whole

Which once was ME.

Thus spoke, or thoughtfor, in a metaphysical point of view, it does not much matter whether the passage above quoted was uttered, or only conceivedby the sublime philosopher and author of the tragedy of Martinuzzi, now being nightly played at the English Opera House, with unbounded success, to overflowing audiences22. Has this paragraph been paid for as an advertisement?PRINTERS DEVIL.Undoubtedly.ED.. These were the aspirations of his gigantic mind, as he sat, on last Monday morning, like a simple mortal, in a striped-cotton dressing-gown and drab slippers, over a cup of weak coffee. (We love to be minute on great subjects.) The door opened, and a female figurenot the Tragic musebut Sally, the maid of-all-work, entered, holding in a corner of her dingy apron, between her delicate finger and thumb, a piece of not too snowy paper, folded into an exact parallelogram.

A letter for you, sir, said the maid of-all-work, dropping a reverential curtsey.

George Stephens, Esq. took the despatch in his inspired fingers, broke the seal, and read as follows:

Surrey Theatre.

SIR,I have seen your tragedy of Martinuzzi, and pronounce it magnificent! I have had, for some time, an idea in my head (how it came there I dont know), to produce, after the Boulogne affair, a grand Inauguration of the Statue of Shakspere, on the stage of the Surrey, but not having an image of him amongst our properties, I could not put my plan into execution. Now, sir, as it appears that you are the exact ditto of the bard, I shouldnt mind making an arrangement with you to undertake the character of our friend Billy on the occasion. I shall do the liberal in the way of terms, and get up the gag properly, with laurels and other greens, of which I have a large stock on hand; so that with your popularity the thing will be sure to draw. If you consent to come, Ill post you in six-feet letters against every dead wall in town.

Yours, WILLIS JONES.

When the author of the magnificent poem had finished reading the letter he appeared deeply moved, and the maid of-all-work saw three plump tears roll down his manly cheek, and rest upon his shirt collar. I expected nothing less, said he, stroking his chin with a mysterious air. The manager of the Surrey, at least, understands mehe appreciates the immensity of my genius. I will accept his offer, and show the worldgreat Shaksperes rival in myself.

Having thus spoken, the immortal dramatist wiped his hands on the tail of his dressing-gown, and performed a pas seul as the act directs, after which he dressed himself, and emerged into the open air.

The sun was shining brilliantly, and Phoebus remarked, with evident pleasure, that his brother had bestowed considerable pains in adorning his person. His boots shone with unparalleled splendour, and his waistcoat

[We omit the remainder of the inventory of the great poets wardrobe, and proceed at once to the ceremony of the Inauguration at the Surrey Theatre.]

Never on any former occasion had public curiosity over the water been so strongly excited. Long before the doors of the theatre were opened, several passengers in the street were observed to pause before the building, and regard it with looks of profound awe. At half-past six, two young sweeps and a sand-boy were seen waiting anxiously at the gallery entrance, determined to secure front seats at any personal sacrifice. At seven precisely the doors were opened, and a tremendous rush of four persons was made to the pit; the boxes had been previously occupied by the Dramatic Council and the Syncretic Society. The silence which pervaded the house, until the musicians began to tune their violins in the orchestra, was thrilling; and during the performance of the overture, expectation stood on tip-toe, awaiting the great event of the night.

At length the curtain slowly rose, and we discovered the author of Martinuzzi elevated on a pedestal formed of the cask used by the celebrated German tub-runner (a delicate compliment, by the way, to the genius of the poet). On this appropriate foundation stood the great man, with his august head enveloped in a capacious bread-bag. At a given signal, a vast quantity of crackers were let off, the envious bag was withdrawn, and the illustrious dramatist was revealed to the enraptured spectators, in the statuesque resemblance of his elder, but not more celebrated brother, WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. At this moment the plaudits were vigorously enthusiastic. Thrice did the flattered statue bow its head, and once it laid its hand upon its grateful bosom, in acknowledgment of the honour that was paid it. As soon as the applause had partially subsided, the manager, in the character of Midas, surrounded by the nine Muses, advanced to the foot of the pedestal, and, to use the language of the reporters of public dinners, in a neat and appropriate speech, deposed a laurel crown upon the brows of Shaksperes effigy. Thereupon loud cheers rent the air, and the statue, deeply affected, extended its right hand gracefully towards the audience. In a moment the thunders of applause sank into hushed and listening awe, while the author of the magnificent poem addressed the house as follows:

My friends,You at length behold me in the position to which my immense talents have raised me, in despite of those laws which press so fatally on dramatic genius, and blight the budding hopes of aspiring authors.

This commencement softened the hearts of his auditors, who clapped their handkerchiefs to their noses.

The world, continued the statue, may regard me with envy; but I despise the world, particularly the critics who have dared to laugh at me. (Groans.) The object of my ambition is attainedI am now the equal and representative of Shaksperedetraction cannot wither the laurels that shadow my browsFinis coronat opus!I have done. To-morrow I retire into private life; but though fortune has made me great, she has not made me proud, and I shall be always happy to shake hands with a friend when I meet him.

At the conclusion of this pathetic address, loud cheers, mingled with tears and sighs, arose from the audience, one-half of whom sunk into the arms of the other half, and were borne out of the house in a fainting state; and thus terminated this imposing ceremony, which will be long remembered with delight by every lover of

A tightrope walker. THE HIGHER WALK OF THE DRAMA.

A CARD. TO THE COMMITTEE OF THE DRAMATIC AUTHORS, ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE. Mr. Levy, of Holywell-street, perceiving that his neighbour JACOB FAITHFULS farce, entitled The Cloak and Bonnet, has not given general satisfaction, begs respectfully to offer to the notice of the committee, his large and carefully-assorted stock of second-hand wearing apparel, from which he will undertake to supply any number of dramas that may be required, at a moments notice.

Mr. L. has at present on hand the following dramatic pieces, which he can strongly recommend to the public:

The Dressing Gown and Slippers.A fashionable comedy, suited for a genteel neighbourhood.

The Breeches and Gaiters.A domestic drama. A misfit at the Adelphi.

The Wig and Wig-box.A broad farce, made to fit little Keeley or anybody else.

The Smock-frock and Highlows.A tragedy in humble life, with a terrific dénouement.

*** The above will be found to be manufactured out of the best materials, and well worthy the attention of those gentlemen who have so nobly come forward to rescue the stage from its present degraded position.

THE MONEY MARKET. The scarcity of money is frightful. As much as a hundred per cent., to be paid in advance, has been asked upon bills; but we have not yet heard of any one having given it. There was an immense run for gold, but no one got any, and the whole of the transactions of the day were done in copper. An influential party created some sensation by coming into the market late in the afternoon, just before the close of business, with half-a-crown; but it was found, on inquiry, to be a bad one. It is expected that if the dearth of money continues another week, buttons must be resorted to. A party, whose transactions are known to be large, succeeded in settling his account with the Bulls, by means of postage-stamps; an arrangement of which the Bears will probably take advantage.

A large capitalist in the course of the day attempted to change the direction things had taken, by throwing an immense quantity of paper into the market; but as no one seemed disposed to have anything to do with it, it blew over.

The parties to the Dutch Loan are much irritated at being asked to take their dividends in butter; but, after the insane attempt to get rid of the Spanish arrears by cigars, which, it is well known, ended in smoke, we do not think the Dutch project will be proceeded with.

[pg 107] THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE. BY THE REPORTER OF THE OBSERVER. The mysterious and melodramatic silence which Mr. C. Mathews promised to observe as to his intentions in regard to the present season, has at length been broken. On Monday last, September the sixth, Covent Garden Theatre opened to admit a most brilliant audience. Amongst the company we noticed Madame Vestris, Mr. Oxberry, Mr. Harley, Miss Rainsforth, and several other distingué artistes. It would seem, from the substitution of Mr. Oxberry for Mr. Keeley, that the former gentleman is engaged to take the place of the latter. Whispers are afloat that, in consequence, one of the most important scenes in the play is to be omitted. Though of little interest to the audience, it was of the highest importance to the gentleman whose task it has hitherto been to perform the parts of Quince, Bottom, and Flute.

We, who are conversant with all the mysteries of the flats side of the green curtain, beg to assure our readers, that the Punch scene hath taken wing, and that the dressing-room of the above-named characters will no longer be redolent of the fumes of compounded bowls. We may here remark that, had our hint of last season been attended to, the Punch would have still been continued:Mr. Harley would not consent to have the flies picked out of the sugar. Rumour is busy with the suggestion that for this reason, and this only, Keeley seceded from the establishment.

Three characters pour into a bowl marked PUNCH. We think it exceedingly unwise in the management not to have secured the services of Madame Corsiret for the millinery department. Mr. Wilson still supplies the wigs. We have not as yet been able to ascertain to whom the swords have been consigned. Mr. Emdens assistant superintends the blue-fire and thunder, but it has not transpired who works the traps.

With such powerful auxiliaries, we can promise Mr. C. Mathews a prosperous season.

THE AMENDE HONORABLE. Quoth Will, On that young servant-maid

My heart its life-string stakes.

Quite safe! cries Dick, dont be afraid

She pays for all she breaks.

PROVIDING FOR EVIL DAYS. The iniquities of the Tories having become proverbial, the House of Lords, with that consideration for the welfare of the country, and care for the morals of the people, which have ever characterised the compeers of the Lord Coventry, have brought in a bill for the creation of two Vice-Chancellors. Brougham foolishly proposed an amendment, considering one to be sufficient, but found himself in a singular minority when the House

A man tumbles from a carriage. DIVIDED ON THE MOTION.

In the Egyptian room of the British Museum is a statue of the deity IBIS, between two mummies. This attracted the attention of Sibthorp, as he lounged through the room the other day with a companion. Why, said his friend, is that statue placed between the other two? To preserve it to be sure, replied the keenly-witted Sib. You know the old saying teaches us, In medio tutissimus Ibis.

PUNCHS THEATRE. THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JAMES DAWSON. Two men cross swords to make a letter M. ercy on us, what a code of moralitywhat a conglomeration of plots (political, social, and domestic)what an exemplar of vice punished and virtue rewardedis the Newgate Calendar! and Newgate itself! what tales might it not relate, if its stones could speak, had its fetters the gift of tongues!

But these need not be so gifted: the proprietor of the Victoria Theatre supplies the deficiency: the dramatic edition of Old-Bailey experience he is bringing out on each successive Monday, will soon be complete; and when it is, juvenile Jack Sheppards and incipient Turpins may complete their education at the moderate charge of sixpence per week. The intellectualization of the people must not be neglected: the gallery of the Victoria invites to its instructive benches the young, whose wicked parents have neglected their educationthe ignorant, who know nothing of the science of highway robbery, or the more delicate operations of picking pockets. National education is the sole aim of the sole lesseemoney is no object; but errand-boys and apprentices must take their Monday nights lessons, even if they rob the till. By this means an endless chain of subjects will be woven, of which the Victoria itself supplies the links; the Newgate Calendar will never be exhausted, and the cause of morality and melodrama continue to run a triumphant career!

The leaf of the Newgate Calendar torn out last Monday for the delectation and instruction of the Victoria audience, was the Life and Death of James Dawson, a gentleman rebel, who was very properly hanged in 1746.

The arrangement of incidents in this piece was evidently an appeal to the ingenuity of the audienceour own penetration failed, however, in unravelling the plot. There was a drunken, gaming, dissipated student of St. Johns, Cambridgea friend in a slouched hat and an immense pair of jack-boots, and a lady who delicately invites her lover (the hero) to a private interview and a cold collation. There is something about a five-hundred-pound note and a gambling-tablea heavy throw of the dice, and a heavier speech on the vices of gaming, by a likeness of the portrait of Dr. Dilworth that adorns the spelling-books. The hero rushes off in a state of distraction, and is followed by the jack-boots in pursuit; the enormous strides of which leave the pursued but little chance, though he has got a good start.

At another time two gentlemen appear in kilts, who pass their time in a long dialogue, the purport of which we were unable to catch, for they were conversing in stage-Scotch. A man then comes forward bearing a clever resemblance to the figure-head of a snuff-shop, and after a few words with about a dozen companions, the entire body proceed to fight a battle; which is immediately done behind the scenes, by four pistols, a crash, and the double-drummer, whose combined efforts present us with a representation ofas the bills kindly inform usthe Battle of Culloden! The hero is taken prisoner; but the villain is shot, and his jack-boots are cut off in their prime.

James Dawson is not despatched so quickly; he takes a great deal of dying,the whole of the third act being occupied by that inevitable operation. Newgatea stock scene at this theatrean execution, a lady in black and a state of derangement, a muffled drum, and a view of Kennington Common, terminate the life of James Dawson, who, we had the consolation to observe, from the apathy of the audience, will not be put to the trouble of dying for more than half-a-dozen nights longer.

Before the Syncretic Society publishes its next octavo on the state of the Drama, it should send a deputation to the Victoria. There they will observe the written and acted drama in the lowest stage it is possible for even their imaginations to conceive. Even Martinuzzi will bear comparison with the Life and Death of James Dawson.

THE BOARDING SCHOOL. At the Boarding School established by Mr. Bernard in the Haymarket Theatre, young ladies are instructed in flirting and romping, together with the use of the eyes, at the extremely moderate charges of five and three shillings per lesson; those being the prices of admission to the upper and lower departments of Mr. Websters academy, which is hired for the occasion by that accomplished professor of punmanship Bayle Bernard. The course of instruction was, on the opening of the seminary, as follows:

The lovely pupils were first seen returning from their morning walk in double file, hearts beating and ribbons flying; for they encountered at the door of the school three yeomanry officers. The military being very civil, the eldest of the girls discharged a volley of glances; and nothing could exceed the skill and precision with which the ladies performed their eye-practice, the effects of which were destructive enough to set the yeomanry in a complete flame; and being thus primed and loaded for closer engagements with their charming adversaries, they go off.

The scholars then proceed to their duties in the interior of the academy, and we find them busily engaged in the study of The Complete Loveletter [pg 108]Writer. It is wonderful the progress they make even in one lesson; the basis of it being a billet each has received from the red-coats. The exercises they have to write are answers to the notes, and were found, on examination, to contain not a single error; thus proving the astonishing efficacy of the Bernardian system of Belles Lettres.

Meanwhile the captain, by despatching his subalterns on special duty, leaves himself a clear field, and sets a good copy in strategetics, by disguising himself as a fruit-woman, and getting into the play-ground, for the better distribution of apples and glances, lollipops and kisses, hard-bake and squeezes of the hand. The stratagem succeeds admirably; the enemy is fast giving way, under the steady fire of shells (Spanish- nut) and kisses, thrown with great precision amongst their ranks, when the lieutenant and cornet of the troop cause a diversion by an open attack upon the fortress; and having made a practicable breach (in their manners), enter without the usual formulary of summoning the governess. She, however, appears, surrounded by her staff, consisting of a teacher and a page, and the engagement becomes general. In the end, the yeomanry are routed with great losstheir hearts being made prisoners by the senior students of this Royal Military Academy.

The yeomanry, not in the least dispirited by this reverse, plan a fresh attack, and hearing that reinforcements are en route, in the persons of the drawing, dancing, and writing masters of the Boarding School, cut off their march, and obtain a second entrance into the enemys camp, under false colours; which their accomplishments enable them to do, for the captain is a good penman, the lieutenant dances and plays the fiddle, and the cornet draws to admiration, especiallyat a month. Under such instructors the young ladies make great progress, the governess being absent to see after the imaginary daughter of a fictitious Earl of Aldgate. On her return, however, she finds her pupils in a state of great insubordination, and suspecting the teachers to be incendiaries, calls in a major of yeomanry (who, unlike the rest of his troop, is an ally of the lady), to put them out. The invaders, however, retreat by the window, but soon return by the door in their uniform, to assist their major in quelling the fears of the minors, and to complete the course of instruction pursued at the Haymarket Boarding School.

Mr. J. Webster, as Captain Harcourt, played as well as he could: and so did Mr. Webster as Lieutenant Varley, which was very well indeed, for he cannot perform anything badly, were he to try. An Irish cornet, in the mouth of Mr. F. Vining, was bereft of his proper brogue; but this loss was the less felt, as Mr. Gough personated the English Major with the rale Tipperary tongue. Mrs. Grosdenap was a perfect governess in the hands of Mrs. Clifford, and the hoydens she presided over exhibited true specimens of a finishing school, especially Miss P. Horton;that careful and pleasing artiste, who stamps character upon everything she does, and individuality upon everything she says. In short, all the parts in the Boarding School are so well acted, that one cannot help regretting when it breaks up for the evening. The circulars issued by its proprietors announce that it will be open every night, from ten till eleven, up to the Christmas holidays.

As a subject, this is a perfectly fair, nay, moral one; despite some silly opinions that have stated to the contrary. Satire, when based upon truth, is the highest province of the stage, which enables us to laugh away folly and wickedness, when they cannot be banished by direct exposure. Ladies boarding-schools form, in the mass, a gross and fearful evil, to which the Haymarket author has cleverly awakened attention. Why they are an evil, might be easily proved, but a theatrical critique in PUNCH is not precisely the place for a discussion on female education.

ENJOYMENT. The Council of the Dramatic Authors Theatre enticed us from home on Monday last, by promising what as yet they have been unable to performEnjoyment. As usual, they obtained our company under false pretences: for if any enjoyment were afforded by their new farce, the actors had it all to themselves.

It is astonishing how vain some authors are of their knowledge of any particular subject. Brewster monopolises that of the polarization of light and kaleidoscopespoor Davy surfeited us with choke damps and the safety lanternthe author of Enjoyment is great on the subject of cook-shops; the whole production being, in fact, a dramatic lecture on the slap-bang system. Mr. Bang, the principal character, is the master of an eating-house, to which establishment all the other persons in the piece belong, and all are made to display the authors practical knowledge of the internal economy of a cook-shop. Endless are the jokes about sausagesroast and boiled beef are cut, and come to again, for a great variety of facetiæin short, the entire stock of fun is cooked up from the bill of fare. The master gives his instructions to his cutter about working up the stale gravy with the utmost precision, and the sarver out undergoes a course of instruction highly edifying to inexperienced waiters.

This burletta helps to develop the plan which it is the intention of the council to follow up in their agonising efforts to resuscitate the expiring drama. They, it is clear, mean to make the stage a vehicle for instruction.