Chapter I: Part 1

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.

FOR THE WEEK ENDING JULY 31, 1841.

* * * * *

POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE.

Let me earnestly implore you, good Mr. PUNCH, to give publicity to a new invention in the art of poetry, which I desire only to claim the merit of having discovered. I am perfectly willing to permit others to improve upon it, and to bring it to that perfection of which I am delightedly aware, it is susceptible.

It is sometimes lamented that the taste for poetry is on the decline--that it is no longer relished--that the public will never again purchase it as a luxury. But it must be some consolation to our modern poets to know (as no doubt they do, for it is by this time notorious) that their productions really do a vast deal of service--that they are of a value for which they were never designed. They--I mean many of them--have found their way into the pharmacopoeia, and are constantly prescribed by physicians as soporifics of rare potency. For instance--

"---- not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world.
Shall ever usher thee to that sweet sleep"

to which a man shall be conducted by a few doses of Robert Montgomery's Devil's Elixir, called "Satan," or by a portion, or rather a potion, of "Oxford." Apollo, we know, was the god of medicine as well as of poetry. Behold, in this our bard, his two divine functions equally mingled!

But waiving this, of which it was not my intention to speak, let me remark, that the reason why poetry will no longer go down with the public, _as poetry_, is, that the whole frame-work is worn out. No new rhymes can be got at. When we come to a "mountain," we are tolerably sure that a "fountain" is not very far off; when we see "sadness," it leads at once to "madness"--to "borrow" is sure to be followed by "sorrow;" and although it is said, "_when_ poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window,"--a saying which seems to imply that poverty _may_ sometimes enter at the chimney or elsewhere--yet I assure you, in poetry, "the poor" _always_ come in, and always go out at "the door."

My new invention has closed the "door," for the future, against the vulgar crew of versifiers. A man _must_ be original. He must write common-sense too--hard exactions I know, but it cannot be helped.

I transmit you a specimen. Like all great discoveries, the chief merit of my invention is its simplicity. Lest, however, "the meanest capacity" (which cannot, by the way, be supposed to be addicted to PUNCH) should boggle at it, it may be as well to explain that every letter of the final word of each alternate line must be pronounced as though Dilworth himself presided at the perusal; and that the last letter (or letters) placed in _italics_ will be found to constitute the rhyme. Here, then, we have

A RENCONTRE WITH A TEA-TOTALLER.

On going forth last night, a friend to see,
I met a man by trade a s-n-o-_b_;
Reeling along the path he held his way.
"Ho! ho!" quoth I, "he's d-r-u-n-_k_."
Then thus to him--"Were it not better, far,
You were a little s-o-b-e-_r_?
'Twere happier for your family, I guess,
Than playing off such rum r-i-g-_s_.
Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see 'em,
Are taken up at once by t-h-_e_-_m_."
"Me drunk!" the cobbler cried, "the devil trouble you!
You want to kick up a blest r-o-_w_.
Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby,
If drain I've had!" (the lying s-n-o-_b_!)
"I've just return'd from a tee-total party,
Twelve on us jamm'd in a spring c-a-_r_-_t_.
The man as lectured, now, _was_ drunk; why, bless ye,
He's sent home in a c-h-a-i-_s_-_e_.
He'd taken so much lush into his belly,
I'm blest if he could t-o-dd-_l_-_e_.
A pair on 'em--hisself and his good lady;--
The gin had got into her h-e-_a_-_d_.
(My eye and Betty! what weak mortals _we_ are;
They said they took but ginger b-e-_e_-_r_!)
But as for me, I've stuck ('twas rather ropy)
All day to weak imperial p-o-_p_.
And now we've had this little bit o'sparrin',
Just stand a q-u-a-r-t-e-_r_-_n_!"

* * * * *

A man in New-York enjoys such very _excellent spirits_ that he has only to drink water to intoxicate himself.

* * * * *

TO JOBBING PATRIOTS.

MR. GEORGE ROBINS.
with unparalleled gratification, begs to state that he has it in
Command
to announce, that in consequence of
LORD JOHN RUSSELL'S LETTER
to the citizens of London having satisfactorily convinced her
MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY
that a change of ministry
CANNOT
be productive of a corresponding transformation of measures, and that
the late
POLITICO-GLADIATORIAL STRUGGLE
for the guerdon of office could only have emanated from a highly
commendatory desire on the part of the disinterested and patriotic
belligerents
TO SERVE THEMSELVES
or their country,
HIS ROYAL MISTRESS,
ever solicitous to enchain the hearts of her devoted subjects, by an
impartial exercise of her prerogative, has determined to submit to the
ARBITRATION OF HIS HUMBLE HAMMER,
some of those desirable _places_, so long known as the _stimuli_ to the
LACTANT LYCURGI
of the nineteenth century.

LOT 1.
FIRST LORD OF THE TREASURY,
at present in possession of Lord Melbourne. This will be found a most
eligible investment, as it embraces a considerable extent of female
patronage, comprising the appointments of those valuable legislative
adjuncts,
THE LADIES OF THE BEDCHAMBER,
AND THE ROYAL NURSES, WET AND DRY;
together with those household desiderata,
COALS AND CANDLES,
and an unlimited
RUN OF THE ROYAL KITCHEN.

LOT 2.
SECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE COLONIAL DEPARTMENT,
at present occupied by Lord John Russell. This lot must possess
considerable attraction for a gastronomical experimentalist, as its
present proprietor has for a long time been engaged in the discovery
of how few pinches of oatmeal and spoonsful of gruel are sufficient
for a human pauper, and will be happy to transfer his data to the
next fortunate proprietor. Any gentleman desirous of embarking in the
manufacture of
SUGAR CANDY, MATCHES, OR CHEAP BREAD,
would find this a desirable investment, more particularly should he
wish to form either
A PAROCHIAL OR MATRIMONIAL UNION,
as there are plans for the one, and hints for the other, which will
be thrown into the bargain, being of no further use to the present
noble incumbent.

LOT 3.
SECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE HOME DEPARTMENT,
at present the property of Lord Normanby. Is admirably calculated for
any one of a literary turn of mind, offering resources peculiarly
adapted for a proper cultivation of the Jack Sheppard and James
Hatfield "men-of-elegant-crimes" school of novel-writing--the
archives of Newgate and Horsemonger-lane being open at all times to
the inspection of the favoured purchaser.
"YES" OR "NO"
will determine the sale of this desirable lot in a few days.

LOT 4.
SECRETARY OF STATE FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS,
now in the occupancy of Lord Palmerston. Possesses advantages rarely
to be met with. From its connexion with the continental powers, Eau
de Cologne, bear's grease, and cosmetics of unrivalled excellence,
can be procured at all times, thus insuring the favour of the divine
sex,

"From the rich peasant-cheek of bronze,
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley
Of rays, that say a thousand things at once,
To the high dama's brow more melancholy."

The only requisite (besides money) for this desirable lot is, that
the purchaser must write a bold round hand for
PROTOCOLS,
understand French and Chinese, and be an
EXPERT TURNER.

LOT 5.
SEVERAL UNDER SECRETARYSHIPS,
admirably adapted for younger sons and poor relatives.

The whole of the proceeds (by the advice of her Majesty's Cabinet
Council) will be devoted to the erection of a
UNION FOR DECAYED MINISTERS.

Cards to view may be had at the Treasury any day after the meeting of
Parliament.

* * * * *

"Very like a whale!" as the schoolmaster said when he examined the boy's back after severely flogging him.

* * * * *

THE DIARY OF A LORD MAYOR.

All the world is familiar with the "Diary of a Physician," the "Diary of an Ennuyee," the "Diary of a Lady of Rank," and Heaven knows how many other diaries besides! but who has ever heard of, or saw, the "_Diary of a Lord Mayor_,--that day-book, or blotter, as it may be commercially termed, of a gigantic mind? Who has ever perused the autobiography of the Lama of Guildhall, Cham of Cripplegate, Admiral of Fleet Ditch, Great Turtle-hunter and Herod of Michaelmas geese? We will take upon ourselves to answer--not one! It was reserved for PUNCH to give to his dear friends, the public, the first and only extract which has ever been made from the genuine diary of a _late_ Lord Mayor of London, or, as that august individual was wont, when in Paris, to designate himself on his visiting tickets--

"Mr. ----
"FEU LORD MAYOR DE LONDRES."

How the precious MS. came into our possession matters little to the reader; suffice it to say, it is a secret which must ever remain confined to the bosoms of PUNCH and his cheesemonger.

DIARY.

_Nov. 10, eight o'clock._--Dreamed a horrid dream--thought that I was stretched in Guildhall with the two giants sitting on my chest, and drinking rum toddy out of firemen's buckets--fancied the Board of Aldermen were transformed into skittle-pins, and the police force into bottles of _Harvey's sauce_. Tried to squeak, but couldn't. Then I imagined that I was changed into the devil, and that Alderman Harmer was St. Dunstan, tweaking my nose with a pair of red-hot tongs. This time, I think, I _did_ shout lustily. Awoke with the fright, and found my wife pulling my nose vigorously, and calling me "My Lord!" Pulled off my nightcap, and began to have an idea I was somebody, but could not tell exactly who. Suddenly my eye rested upon the civic gown and chain, which lay upon a chair by my bed-side:--the truth flashed upon my mind--I felt I was a _real_ Lord Mayor. I remembered clearly that yesterday I had been sworn into office. I had a perfect recollection of the glass-coach, and the sheriffs, and the men in armour, and the band playing "Jim along Josey," as we passed the Fleet Prison, and the glories of the city barge at Blackfriars-bridge, and the enthusiastic delight with which the assembled multitude witnessed--

I could also call to mind the dinner--the turtle, venison, and turbot--and the popping of the corks from the throats of the champagne bottles. I was conscious, too, that I had made a speech; but, beyond this point, all the events of the night were lost in chaotic confusion. One thing, however, was certain--I was a _bona fide_ Lord Mayor--and being aware of the arduous duties I had to perform, I resolved to enter upon them at once. Accordingly I arose, and as some poet says--

"Commenced sacrificing to the Graces,
By putting on my breeches."

Sent for a barber, and authorised him to remove the superfluous hair from my chin--at the same time made him aware of the high honour I had conferred upon him by placing the head of the city under his razor--thought I detected the fellow's tongue in his cheek, but couldn't be certain. _Mem._ Never employ the rascal again.

_9 o'clock._--Dressed in full fig--sword very troublesome--getting continually between my legs. Sat down to breakfast--her ladyship complimented me on my appearance--said I looked the _beau ideal_ of a mayor--took a side glance at myself in the mirror--her ladyship was perfectly right. Trotter the shoemaker announced--walked in with as much freedom as he used to do into my shop in Coleman-street--smelt awfully of "best calf" and "heavy sole"--shook me familiarly by the hand, and actually called me "Bob." The indignation of the Mayor was roused, and I hinted to him that I did not understand such liberties, upon which the fellow had the insolence to laugh in my face--couldn't stand his audacity, so quitted the room with strong marks of disgust.

_10 o'clock._--Heard that a vagabond was singing "Jim Crow" on Tower-hill--proceeded with a large body of the civic authorities to arrest him, but after an arduous chase of half-an-hour we unfortunately lost him in Houndsditch. Suppressed two illegal apple-stalls in the Minories, and took up a couple of young black-legs, whom I detected playing at chuck-farthing on Saffron-hill. Issued a proclamation against mad dogs, cautioning all well-disposed persons to avoid their society.

_12 o'clock._--Waited upon by the secretary of the New River Company with a sample of the water they supply to the City--found that it was much improved by compounding it with an equal portion of cognac--gave a certificate accordingly. Lunched, and took a short nap in my cocked hat.

_1 o'clock._--Police-court. Disposed of several cases summarily--everybody in court amazed at the extraordinary acuteness I displayed, and the rapidity with which I gave my decisions--they did not know that I always privately tossed up--heads, complainant wins, and tails, defendant--this is the fairest way after all--no being humbugged by hard swearing or innocent looks--no sifting of witnesses--no weighing of evidence--no deliberating--no hesitating--the thing is done in an instant--and, if the guilty should escape, why the fault lies with fortune, and not with justice.

_3 o'clock._--Visited the Thames Tunnel--found Brunel a devilish _deep_ fellow--he explained to me the means by which he worked, and said he had got nearly over all his difficulties--I suppose he meant to say he had nearly got _under_ them--at all events the tunnel, when completed, will be a vast convenience to the metropolis, particularly to the _lower_ classes. From the Tunnel went to Billingsgate-market--confiscated a basket of suspicious shrimps, and ordered them to be conveyed to the Mansion-house. _Mem._ Have them for breakfast to-morrow. Return to dress for dinner, having promised to take the chair at the Grand Annual Metropolitan Anti-Hydro-without-gin-drinking Association.

* * * * *

Here a hiatus occurs in the MS.; but from cotemporary authorities we are enabled to state that his lordship was conveyed home at two o'clock on the following morning, by some jolly companions.

"Slowly and sadly they smoothed his bed,
And they told his wife and daughter
To give him, next day, a couple of red-
Herrings and soda-water."

* * * * *

THE LOVES OF THE PLANTS.

The gay _Daffodilly_, an amorous blade,
Stole out of his bed in the dark,
And calling his brother, _Jon-Quil_, forth he stray'd
To breathe his love vows to a _Violet_ maid
Who dwelt in a neighbouring park.

A spiteful old _Nettle-aunt_ frown'd on their love;
But _Daffy_, who laugh'd at her power,
A _Shepherd's-purse_ slipp'd in the nurse's _Fox-glove_,
Then up _Jacob's-ladder_ he crept to his love,
And stole to the young _Virgin's-bower_.

The _Maiden's-blush Rose_--and she seem'd all dismay'd,
Array'd in her white _Lady's-smock_,
She call'd _Mignonette_--but the sly little jade,
That instant was hearing a sweet serenade
From the lips of a tall _Hollyhock_.

The _Pheasant's eye_, always a mischievous wight,
For prying out something not good,
Avow'd that he peep'd through the keyhole that night;
And clearly discern'd, by a glow-worm's pale light,
Their _Two-faces-under-a-hood_.

Old Dowager _Peony_, deaf as a door,
Who wish'd to know more of the facts,
Invited Dame _Mustard_ and Miss _Hellebore_,
With Miss _Periwinkle_, and many friends more,
One evening to tea and to tracts.

The _Butter-cups_ ranged, defamation ran high,
While every tongue join'd the debate;
Miss _Sensitive_ said, 'twixt a groan and a sigh,
Though she felt much concern'd--yet she thought her dear _Vi_--
Had grown rather bulbous of late.

Thus the tale spread about through the busy parterre:
Miss _Columbine_ turn'd up her nose,
And the prude Lady _Lavender_ said, with a stare,
That her friend, _Mary-gold_, had been heard to declare,
The creature had toy'd with the _Rose_.

Each _Sage_ look'd severe, and each _Cocks-comb_ look'd gay,
When _Daffy_ to make their mind easy,
Miss _Violet_ married one morning in May,
And, as sure as you live, before next Lady-day,
She brought him a _Michaelmas-daisy_.

* * * * *

NOTHING WONDERFUL.

The Duke of Normandie accounts for the non-explosion of his percussion-shells, by the fact of having incautiously used some of M'Culloch's pamphlets on the corn laws. If this be the case, no person can be surprised at their _not going off_.

* * * * *

MODERN WAT TYLERS.

The anxiety of the Whigs to repeal the timber duties is quite pardonable, for, with their _wooden heads_, they doubtlessly look upon it in the light of a _poll-tax_.

* * * * *

CIVILISATION.

"If an European," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, in one of his Discourses, "when he has cut off his beard, and put false hair on his head, or bound up his own hair in formal, hard knots, as unlike nature as he can make it, and after having rendered them immoveable by the help of the fat of hogs, has covered the whole with flour, laid on by a machine with the utmost regularity--if, when thus attired, he issues forth and meets a Cherokee Indian who has bestowed as much time at his toilet, and laid with equal care and attention his yellow and red ochre on such parts of his forehead and cheeks as he judges most becoming, whichever of these two despises the other for this attention to the fashion of his country, whichever first feels himself provoked to laugh, is the barbarian."

Granting this, the popular advocates of civilisation certainly are not the most civilised of individuals. They appear to consider yellow ochre and peacocks' feathers the climax of barbarism--marabouts and kalydor the acme of refinement. A ring through the nose calls forth their deepest pity--a diamond drop to the ear commands their highest respect. To them, nothing can show a more degraded state of nature than a New Zealand chief, with his distinctive coat of arms emblazoned on the skin of his face; nor anything of greater social elevation than an English peer, with the glittering label of his "nobility" tacked to his breast. To a rational mind, the one is not a whit more barbarous than the other; they being, as Sir Joshua observes, the real barbarians who, like these _soi-disant_ civilisers, would look upon their own monstrosities as the sole standard of excellence.

The philosophy of the present age, however, is peculiarly the philosophy of outsides. Few dive deeper into the human breast than the bosom of the shirt. Who could doubt the heart that beats beneath a cambric front? or who imagine that hand accustomed to dirty work which is enveloped in white kid? What Prometheus was to the physical, Stultz is to the moral man--the one made human beings out of clay, the other cuts characters out of broad-cloth. Gentility is, with us, a thing of the goose and shears; and nobility an attribute--not of the mind, but (supreme civilisation!) of _a garter_!

Certain modern advocates appear to be devout believers in this external philosophy. They are touchingly eloquent upon the savage state of those who indulge in yellow ochre, but conveniently mute upon the condition of those who prefer carmine. They are beautifully alive to the degradation of that race of people which crushes the feet of its children, but wonderfully dead to the barbarism of that race, nearer home, which performs a like operation upon the ribs of its females. By them, also, we are told that "words would manifestly fail in portraying _so low a state of morals as is pictured in the lineaments of an Australian chief_,"--a stretch of the outside philosophy which we certainly were not prepared to meet with; for little did we dream that this noble science could ever have attained such eminence, that men of intellect would be able to discover immorality in particular noses, and crime in a certain conformation of the chin.

That an over-attention to the adornment of the person is a barbarism all must allow; but that the pride which prompts the Esquimaux to stuff bits of stone through a hole in his cheek, is a jot less refined than that which urges the dowager-duchess to thrust coloured crystals through a hole in her ear, certainly requires a peculiar kind of mental squint to perceive. Surely there is as great a want of refinement among us, in this respect, as among the natives of New Zealand. Why rush for subjects for civilisation to the back woods of America, when thousands may be found, any fine afternoon, in Regent-street? Why fly to Biddy Salamander and Bulkabra, when the Queen of Beauty and Count D'Orsay have equally urgent claims on the attention and sympathies of the civiliser?

On the subject of civilisation, two questions naturally present themselves--the one, what _is_ civilisation?--the other, have we such a superabundance of that commodity among us, that we should think about exporting it? To the former question, the journal especially devoted to the subject has, to the best of our belief, never condescended a reply; although, like the celebrated argument on the colour of the chameleon, no two persons, perhaps, have the same idea of it. In what then, does civilisation consist, and how is it to be generally promoted? Does it, as Sir E.L. B---- would doubtlessly assure us, does it lie in a strict adherence to the last month's fashions; and is it to be propagated throughout the world only by missionaries from Nugee's, and by the universal dissemination of curling-tongs and Macassar--patent leather boots and opera hats--white cambric pocket-handkerchiefs and lavender-water? Or, does it consist, as the Countess of B---- would endeavour to convince us, in abstaining from partaking twice of fish, and from eating peas with the knife? and is it to be made common among mankind only by distributing silver forks and finger-glasses to barbarians, and printing the Book of Etiquette for gratuitous circulation among them? Or, is it, as the mild and humane Judge P---- would prove to us, a necessary result of the Statutes at Large; and can it be rendered universal only by sending out Jack Ketch as a missionary--by the introduction of rope-walks in foreign parts, and the erection of gallows all over the world? Or, is it, as the Archbishop of Canterbury contests, to be achieved solely by the dissemination of bishops, and by diffusing among the poor benighted negroes the blessings of sermons, tithes, and church rates? Christianity, it has, on the other hand, been asserted, is the only practical system of civilisation; but this is manifestly the idea of a visionary. For ourselves, we must confess we incline to the opposite opinion; and think either the bishops or Jack Ketch (we hardly know which we prefer) by far the more rational means. Indeed, when we consider the high state of civilisation which this country has attained, and imagine for an instant the awful amount of distress which would necessarily accrue from the general practice of Christianity among us, even for a week, it is clear that the idea never could be entertained by any moral or religious, mind. A week's Christianity in England! What _would_ become of the lawyer, and parsons? It is too terrible to contemplate.

* * * * *

NOUVEAU MANUEL DU VOYAGEUR.

These are the continental-trip days. All the world will be now a-_tour_ing. But every one is not a Dr. Bowring, and it is rather convenient to be able to edge in a word now and then, when these rascally foreigners will chatter in their own beastly jargon. Ignorant pigs, not to accustom themselves to talk decent English! Il Signor Marchese Cantini, the learned and illustrious author of "Hi, diddlo-diddlino! Il gutto e'l violino!", has just rendered immense service to the trip-loving natives of these lovely isles, by preparing a "Guide to Conversation," that for utility and correctness of idiom surpasses all previous attempts of the same kind. With it in one hand, and a bagful of Napoleons or Zecchini in the other, the biggest dunce in London--nay, even a schoolmaster--may travel from Boulogne to Naples and back, with the utmost satisfaction to himself, and with substantial profit to the people of these barbarous climes. The following is a specimen of the way in which Il Signor has accomplished his undertaking. It will be seen at a glance how well he has united the classical with the utilitarian principle, clothing both in the purest dialect; ex. gr.:--

THIS IS ENGLISH. THIS IS FRENCH. THIS IS ITALIAN.

Does your mother know Madame, votre maman, La vostra signora you're out? sait-elle que vous madre sa che siete n'etes pas chez vous? uscito di casa?

It won't do, Mr. Cela nese passera, Questo non fara Ferguson. Monsieur Ferguson, cosi, il Signore jamais! Fergusoni!

Who are you? Est-ce que vous aviez Chi e vossignoria?
jamais un pere?

All round my hat. Tout autour mon Tutto all' interno
chapeau. del mio capello!

Go it, ye cripples! C'est ca! Battez-vous Bravo! bravo,
bien--boiteux; stroppiati!
cr-r-r-r-matin! Ancora-ancora!

Such a getting Diantre! comme on Come si ha salito-- up-stairs! monte l'escalier! e maraviglioso!

Jump, Jim Crow. Sautez, Monsiuer Salti, pergrazia,
Jaques Corbeau! Signor Giamomo
Corvo!

It would not be fair to rob the Signor of any more of his labour. It will be seen that, on the principle of the Painter and his Cow, we have distinctly written above each sentence the language it belongs to. It is always better to obviate the possibility of mistakes.

* * * * *

THE OMNIBUS

The horrors of an omnibus,
Indeed, I've cause to curse;
And if I ride in one again,
I hope 'twill be my hearse.
If you a journey have to go,
And they make no delay,
'Tis ten to one you're serv'd like _curds_,
They _spill you on the_ WHEY.

A short time since my wife and I
A short call had to make,
And giving me a _kiss_, she said--
"A _buss_ you'd better take!"
We journey'd on--two lively cads,
Were for our custom triers;
And in a twinkling we were fix'd
Fast by this _pair of pliers_!

My wife's arm I had lock'd in mine,
But soon they forced her from it;
And she was lugg'd into the _Sun_,
And I into the _Comet_!
Jamm'd to a jelly, there I sat,
Each one against me pushing;
And my poor gouty legs seem'd made
For each one's _pins--a cushion_!

My wife some time had gone before:
I urged the jarvey's speed,
When all at once the bus set off
At fearful pace, indeed!
I ask'd the coachee what caused this?
When thus his story ran:--
"Vy, _a man shied at an oss_, and so
_An oss shied at a man_!"

Oh, fearful crash! oh, fearful smash!
At such a rate we run,
That presently the _Comet_ came
In contact with the _Sun_.
At that sad time each body felt,
As parting with its soul,
We were, indeed, _a little whirl'd_,
And shook from _pole to pole_!

* * * * *

Dunn, the miller of Wimbledon, has recently given his infant the _Christian_ name of Cardigan. If there is truth in the adage of "_give a dog a bad name and hang him_," the poor child has little else in perspective than the gallows.

* * * * *

PRAY DON'T TELL THE GOVERNOR.

A SONG OF TON.

Why, y-e-s--'twas rather late last night;
In fact, past six this morning.
My rascal valet, in a fright,
Awoke, and gave me warning.
But what of that?--I'm very young.
And you've "been in the Oven," or,
Like me, you're wrong'd by rumour's tongue,
So--pray don't tell the Governor.[1]

I dined a quarter after seven,
With Dashall of the Lancers;
Went to the opera at eleven,
To see the ballet-dancers.
From thence I saunter'd to the club--
Fortune to me's a sloven--or,
I surely must have won one rub,
But--mind! don't tell the Governor!

I went to Ascot t'other day,
Drove Kitty in a tandem;
Upset it 'gainst a brewer's dray--
I'd dined, so drove at random.
I betted high--an "outside" won--
I'd swear its hoofs were cloven, or
It ne'er the favourite horse had done,
But--don't you tell the Governor.

My cottage ornee down at Kew,
So picturesque and pretty,
Cost me of thousands not a few,
To fit it up for Kitty.
She said it charm'd her fancy quite,
But (still I can't help loving her)
She bolted with the plate one night--
You needn't tell the Governor.

My creditors are growing queer,
Nay, threaten to be furious;
I'll scan their paltry bills next year,
At present I'm not curious.
Such fellows are a monstrous bore,
So I and Harry Grosvenor
To-morrow start for Gallia's shore,
And leave duns--to the Governor.

[1] The author is aware there exists a legitimate rhyme for
_Porringer_, but believes a match for governor lies still in
the _terra incognita_ of allowable rhythm.

* * * * *

THE EXPLOSIVE BOX.

Sir Hussey Vivian was relating to Sir Robert Peel the failure of the Duke of Normandie's experiment with a terrible self-explosive box, which he had buried in a mound at Woolwich, in the expectation that it would shortly blow up, but which still remains there, to the great terror of the neighbourhood, who are afraid to approach the spot where this destructive engine is interred. Sir Robert, on hearing the circumstance, declared that Lord John Russell had served him the same trick, by burying the corn-law question under the Treasury bench. No one knew at what moment it might explode, and blow them to ----. "The question," he added, "now is--who will dig it out?"

* * * * *

EXCLUSIVE INTELLIGENCE.

(_From_ OUR _West-end and "The Observer's" Correspondent._)

We have every reason to believe, unless a very respectable authority, on whom we are in the habit of relying, has grievously imposed upon us, that a very illustrious personage has consulted a certain exalted individual as to whether a certain other person, no less exalted than the latter, but not so illustrious as the former, shall be employed in a certain approaching event, which at present is involved in the greatest uncertainty. Another individual, who is more dignified than the third personage above alluded to, but not nearly so illustrious as the first, and not half so exalted as the second, has nothing whatever to do with the matter above hinted at, and it is not at all probable that he will be ever in the smallest way mixed up with it. For this purpose we have cautiously abstained from giving his name, and indeed only allude to him that there may be no misapprehension on this very delicate subject.

* * * * *

ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

The _Times_ gives a horrible description of some mesmeric experiments by a M. Delafontaine, by which a boy was deprived of _all sensation_. We suspect that some one has been operating upon the Poor Law Commissioners, for their _total want of feeling_ is a mesmeric phenomenon.

* * * * *

ON SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BART., _not_ M.P. FOR LINCOLN.

That Bulwer's from fair Lincoln bann'd,
Doth threaten evil days;
For, having much waste time on hand,
Alas! he'll scribble plays.

* * * * *

THE NEW HOUSE.

"This is the House that Jack (Bull) built."

Once there lived, as old histories learnedly show, a
Great sailor and shipbuilder, named MISTER NOAH,
Who a hulk put together, so wondrous--no doubt of it--
That all sorts of creatures could creep in and out of it.
Things with heads, and without heads, things dumb, things loquacious,
Things with tails, and things tail-less, things tame, and things pugnacious;
Rats, lions, curs, geese, pigeons, toadies and donkeys,
Bears, dormice, and snakes, tigers, jackals, and monkeys:
In short, a collection so curious, that no man
E'er since could with NOAH compare as a show-man
At length, JOHNNY BULL, with that clever fat head of his,
Design'd a much stranger and comical edifice,
To be call'd his "NEW HOUSE"--a queer sort of menagerie
To hold all his beasts--with an eye to the Treasury.
Into this he has cramm'd such uncommon monstrosities,
Such animals rare, such unique curiosities,
That we wager a CROWN--not to speak it uncivil--
This HOUSE of BULL'S beats Noah's Ark to the devil.
Lest you think that we bounce--the great fault, we confess, of men--
We proceed to detail some few things, as a specimen
Of what are to be found in this novel museum;
As it opens next month, you may all go and see 'em.
Five _Woods_, of five shades, grain, and polish, and gilding,
Are used this diversified chamber in building.
Not a nail, bolt, or screw, you'll discover to lurk in it,
Though six _Smiths_ you will find every evening at work in it.
A _Forman_ and _Master_ you'll see there appended too,
Whose words or instructions are never attended to.
A _Leader_, whom nobody follows; a pair o' _Knights_,
With courage at ninety degrees of old Fahrenheit's;
Full a hundred "Jim Crows," wheeling round about--round about,
Yet only one _Turner_'s this House to be found about.
Of hogs-heads, Lord knows, there are plenty to spare of them,
But only one _Cooper_ is kept to take care of them.
A _Ryder's_ maintain'd, but he's no horse to get upon;
There's a _Packe_ too, and only one _Pusey_ to set upon.
Two _Palmers_ are kept, holy men, in this ill, grim age,
To make every night their Conservative pilgrimage.
A _Fuller_, for scouring old coats and redressing them;
A _Taylor_ to fashion; and _Mangles_ for pressing them.
Two _Stewarts_, two _Fellowes_, a _Clerk_, and a _Baillie_,
To keep order, yet each call'd to order are, daily.
A _Duke_, without dukedom--a matter uncommon--
And _Bowes_, the delight, the enchantment of woman.
This house has a _Tennent_, but ask for the rent of it,
He'd laugh at, and send you to Brussels or Ghent for it.
Of the animals properly call'd so, a sample
We'll give to you gentlefolks now, for example:--
There are _bores_ beyond count, of all ages and sizes,
Yet only one _Hogg_, who both learned and wise is.
There's a _Buck_ and a _Roebuck_, the latter a wicked one,
Whom few like to play with--he makes such a kick at one.
There are _Hawkes_ and a _Heron_, with wings trimm'd to fly upon,
And claws to stick into what prey they set eye upon.
There's a _Fox_, a smart cove, but, poor fellow, no tail he has;
And a _Bruen_--good tusks for a feed we'll be bail he has.
There's a _Seale_, and four _Martens_, with skins to our wishes;
There's a _Rae_ and two _Roches_, and all sorts of fishes;
There's no sheep, but a _Sheppard_--"the last of the pigtails"--
And a _Ramsbottom_--chip of the old famous big tails.
Now to mention in brief a few trifles extraneous,
By connoisseurs class'd, "odds and ends miscellaneous:"--
There's a couple of _Bells_--frights--nay, Hottentots real!
A _Trollope_, of elegance _le beau ideal_.
Of _Browne_, _Green_, and _Scarlett_ men, surely a sack or more,
Besides three whole _White_ men, preserved with a _Blakemore_.
There's a _Hill_, and a _Hutt_, and a _Kirk_, and--astounding!
The entire of old _Holland_ this house to be found in.
There's a _Flower_, with a perfume so strong 'twould upset ye all;
And the beauty of _Somers_ is here found perpetual.
There's a _Bodkin_, a _Patten_, a _Rose_, and a _Currie_,
And a man that's still _Hastie_, though ne'er in a hurry.
There is _Cole_ without smoke, a "sou'-_West_" without danger;
And a _Grey_, that to place is at present a stranger.
There's a _Peel_,--but enough! if you're a virtuoso
You'll see for yourself, and next month you may do so;
When, if you don't say this _New House_ is a wonder,
We're Dutchmen--that's all!--and at once knuckle under.

* * * * *

WATERFORD ELECTION.

The Tories at Waterford carried the day,
And the reign of the Rads is for ever now past;
For one who was _Wyse_ he got out of the way,
And the hopes of the other proved _Barron_ at last.

* * * * *

STATE OF TRADE.

We are sorry to perceive that trade was never in a more alarming state than at present. A general _strike_ for wages has taken place amongst the smiths. The carpenters have been dreadfully _cut up_; and the shoemakers find, at the _last_, that it is impossible to make both _ends_ meet. The bakers complain that the pressure of the times is so great, that they cannot get the bread to _rise_. The bricklayers swear that the monopolists ought to be brought to the _scaffold_. The glaziers, having taken some _pains_ to discover the cause of the distress, declare that they can _see through_ the whole affair. The gardeners wish to get at the _root_ of the evil, and consequently have become _radical_ reformers. The laundresses have _washed_ their hands clean of the business. The dyers protest that things never looked so _blue_ in their memory, as there is but a slow demand for

The butchers are reduced to their last _stake_. The weavers say their lives hang by a single _thread_. The booksellers protest we must _turn over a new leaf_. The ironmongers declare that the times are very _hard_ indeed. The cabmen say business is completely at a _stand_. The watermen are all _aground_. The tailors object to the government _measures_;--and the undertakers think that affairs are assuming a _grave_ aspect. Public credit, too, is tottering;--nobody will take doctors' _draughts_, and it is difficult to obtain cash for the best bills (of the play). An extensive brandy-ball merchant in the neighbourhood of Oxford-street has called a meeting of his creditors; and serious apprehensions are entertained that a large manufacturer of lollypops in the Haymarket will be unable to meet his heavy liabilities. Two watchmakers in the city have stopped this morning, and what is more extraordinary, their watches have "_stopped_" too.

* * * * *

THE NORMANDIE "NO GO."

The figure, stuffed with shavings, of a French grenadier, constructed by the Duke of Normandie, and exhibited by him recently at Woolwich, which he stated would explode if fired at by bullets of his own construction, possitively objected to being blown up in such a ridiculous manner; and though several balls were discharged at the man of shavings, he showed no disposition to move. The Duke waxed exceedingly wroth at the coolness of his soldier, and swore, if he had been a true Frenchman, he would have _gone off_ at the first fire.

* * * * *

A CONUNDRUM BY COL. SIBTHORP.

"What's the difference between the top of a mountain and a person afflicted with any disorder?"--"One's a _summit of a hill_, and the other's _ill of a summut_."

* * * * *

A CLASSICAL INSCRIPTION FOR A CIGAR CASE.

[Greek: To bakchikhon doraema labe, se gar philo.].--EURIPIDES.

FREE TRANSLATION.

"Accept this gift of To-_Baccha_--cigar fellow."

* * * * *

FASHIONS FOR THE PRESENT WEEK.

Though the dog-days have not yet commenced, _muzzlin_ is very general, and a new sort of _shally_, called _shilly-shally_, is getting remarkably prevalent. _Shots_ are still considered the greatest hits, for those who are anxious to make a good impression; flounces are _out_ in the morning, and _tucks in_ at dinner-parties, the latter being excessively full, and much sought after. At _conversaziones_, puffs are very usual, and sleeves are not so tight as before, to allow of their being laughed in; jewels are not now to be met with in the head, which is left _au naturel_--that is to say, as vacant as possible.

* * * * *

"Why is the _Gazette_ like a Frenchman's letter?"--"Because it is full of _broken English_."

* * * * *

BREACH OF PRIVILEGE.

In the strangers' gallery in the American house of representatives, the following notice is posted up:--"Gentlemen will be pleased not to place their feet on the boards in front of the gallery, _as the dirt from them falls down on the senators' heads_." In our English House of Commons, this pleasant _penchant_ for dirt-throwing is practised by the members instead of the strangers. It is quite amusing to see with what energy O'Connell and Lord Stanley are wont to bespatter and heap dirt on each other's heads in their legislative squabbles!

* * * * *

SHOCKING WANT OF SYMPATHY.

Sir Peter Laurie has made a sad complaint to the Lord Mayor, of the slippery state of the wooden pavement in the Poultry, and strongly recommended the immediate removal of the _blocks_. This is most barbarous conduct on the part of Sir Peter. Has he lost all natural affection for his kindred, that he should seek to injure them in public estimation? Has he no secret sympathy for the poor blocks whom he has traduced? Let him lay his hand upon his _head_ and confess that--

"A fellow feeling; makes us wondrous kind."

* * * * *

PUNCH AND PEEL

THE NEW CABINET.

PUNCH.--Well, Sir Robert, have you yet picked your men? Come, no mystery between friends. Besides, consider your obligations to your old crony, Punch. Do you forget how I stood by you on the Catholic question? Come, name, name! Who are to pluck the golden pippins--who are to smack lips at the golden fish--who are to chew the fine manchet loaves of Downing-street?

PEEL.--The truth is, my dear Punch--

PUNCH.--Stop. You may put on that demure look, expand your right-hand fingers across the region where the courtesy of anatomy awards to politicians a heart, and talk about truth as a certain old lady with a paper lanthorn before her door may talk of chastity--you may do all this on the hustings; but this is not Tamworth: besides, you are now elected; so take one of these cigars--they were smuggled for me by my revered friend Colonel Sibthorp--fill your glass, and out with the list.

PEEL.--(_Rises and goes to the door, which he double locks; returns to his seat, and takes from his waistcoat pocket a small piece of ass's skin._) I have jotted down a few names.

PUNCH.--And, I see, on very proper material. Read, Robert, read.

PEEL.--(_In a mild voice and with a slight blush._)--"First Lord of the Treasury, and Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Robert Peel!"

PUNCH.--Of course. Well?

PEEL.--"First Lord of the Admiralty--Duke of Buckingham."

PUNCH.--An excellent man for the Admiralty. He has been at sea in politics all his life.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Foreign Affairs--Earl of Aberdeen."

PUNCH.--An admirable person for Foreign Affairs, especially if he transacted 'em in Sierra Leone. Proceed.

PEEL.--"Lord Lieutenant of Ireland--Lord Wharncliffe."

PUNCH.--Nothing could be better. Wharncliffe in Ireland! You might as well appoint a red-hot poker to guard a powder magazine. Go on.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Home Department--Goulburn."

PUNCH.--A most domestic gentleman; will take care of home, I am sure. Go on.

PEEL.--"Lord Chancellor--Sir William Follett."

PUNCH.--A capital appointment: Sir William loves the law as a spider loves his spinning; and for the same reason Chancery cobwebs will be at a premium.

PEEL.--"Secretary for the Colonies--Lord Stanley."

PUNCH.--Would make a better Governor of Macquarrie Harbour; but go on.

PEEL.--"President of the Council--Duke of Wellington."

PUNCH.--Think twice there.--The Duke will be a great check upon you. The Duke is now a little too old a mouser to enjoy Tory tricks. He has unfortunately a large amount of common sense; and how fatal must that quality be to the genius of the Wharncliffes, the Goulburns, and the Stanleys! Besides, the Duke has another grievous weakness--he won't lie.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Ireland--Sir H. Hardinge."

PUNCH.--Come, that will do. Wharncliffe, the flaming torch of Toryism, and Hardinge the small lucifer. How Ireland will be enlightened, and how oranges will go up!

PEEL.--"Lord Chamberlain--Duke of Beaufort."

PUNCH.--Capital! The very politician for a Court carpet. Besides, he knows the etiquette of every green-room from the Pavilion to the Haymarket. He is, moreover, a member of the Garrick Club; and what, if possible, speaks more for his State abilities--he used to drive the Brighton coach!

PEEL.--"Ambassador at Paris--Lord Lyndhurst."

PUNCH.--That's something like. How the graces of the Palais Royal will rejoice! There is a peculiar fitness in this appointment; for is not his Lordship son-in-law to old Goldsmid, whilom editor of the _Anti-Galliean_, and for many years an honoured and withal notorious resident of Paris! Of course BEN D'ISRAELI, his Lordship's friend, will get a slice of secretaryship--may be allowed to nib a state quill, if he must not use one. Well, go on.

PEEL.--That's all at present. How d'ye think they read?

PUNCH.--Very glibly--like the summary of a Newgate Calendar. But the truth is, I think we want a little new blood in the next Cabinet.

PEEL.--New blood! Explain, dear Punch.

PUNCH.--Why, most of your people are, unfortunately, tried men. Hence, the people, knowing them as well as they know the contents of their own breeches' pockets, may not be gulled so long as if governed by those whose tricks--I mean, whose capabilities--have not been so strongly marked. With new men we have always the benefit of hope; and with hope much swindling may be perpetrated.

PEEL.--But my Cabinet contains known men.

PUNCH.--That's it; knowing _them_, hope is out of the question. Now, with Ministers less notorious, the Cabinet farce might last a little longer. I have put down a few names; here they are on a blank leaf of _Jack Sheppard_.

PEEL.--A presentation copy, I perceive.

PUNCH.---Why, it isn't generally known; but all the morality, the wit, and the pathos, of that work I wrote myself.

PEEL.--And I must say they're quite worthy of you.

PUNCH.--I know it; but read--read Punch's Cabinet.

PEEL (_reads_).--"First Lord of the Treasury, and Chancellor of the Exchequer--the _Wizard of the North_."

PUNCH.--And, wizard as he is, he'll have his work to do. He, however, promises that every four-pound loaf shall henceforth go as far as eight, so that no alteration of the Corn Laws shall be necessary. He furthermore promises to plant Blackheath and Government waste grounds with sugar-cane, and to raise the penny post stamp to fourpence, in so delicate a manner that nobody shall feel the extra expense. As for the opposition, what will a man care for even the speeches of a Sibthorp--who can catch any number of bullets, any weight of lead, in his teeth? Go on.

PEEL.--"First Lord of the Admiralty--_T.P. Cooke_."

PUNCH.--Is he not the very man? Who knows more about the true interests of the navy? Who has beaten so many Frenchmen? Then think of his hornpipe--the very shuffling for a minister.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Foreign Affairs--_Gold dust Solomons_."

PUNCH.--Show me a better man. Consider the many dear relations he has abroad; and then his admirable knowledge of the rates of exchange? Think of his crucible. Why, he'd melt down all the crowns of Europe into a coffee service for our gracious Queen, and turn the Pope's tiara into coral bells for the little Princess! And I ask you if such feats ain't the practical philosophy of all foreign policy? Go on.

PEEL.--"Lord Lieutenant of Ireland--_Henry Moreton Dyer_."

PUNCH.--An admirable person. As Ireland is the hotbed of all crimes, do we not want a Lord Lieutenant who shall be able to assess the true value of every indiscretion, from simple murder to compound larceny? As every Irishman may in a few months be in prison, I want a Lord Lieutenant who shall be emphatically the prisoner's friend. Go on.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Home Department--_George Robins_."

PUNCH.--A man so intimately connected with the domestic affairs of the influential classes of the country. Go on.

PEEL.--"Lord Chancellor--_Mr. Dunn, barrister_."

PUNCH.--As it appears to me, the best protector of rich heiresses and orphans. Go on.

PEEL.--"Secretary for the Colonies--_Money Moses_."

PUNCH.--A man, you will allow, with a great stake, in fact, with all he has, in one of our colonial possessions. Go on.

PEEL.--"President of the Council--_Mrs. Fry_."

PUNCH.--A lady whose individual respectability may give a convenient cloak to any policy. Go on.

PEEL.--"Secretary for Ireland--_Henry Moreton Dyer's footman_."

PUNCH.--On the venerable adage of "like master like man." Go on.

PEEL.--"Lord Chamberlain--_The boy Jones_."

PUNCH.--As one best knowing all the intricacies, from the Royal bed-chamber to the scullery, of Buckingham Palace. Besides he will drive a donkey-cart. Go on.

PEEL.--"Ambassador at Paris--_Alfred Bunn, or any other translator of French Operas_."

PUNCH.--A person who will have a continual sense of the necessities of his country at home; and therefore, by his position, be enabled to send us the earliest copies of M. Scribe's printed dramas; or, in cases of exigency, the manuscripts themselves. And now, Bobby, what think you of Punch's Cabinet?

PEEL.--Why, really, I did not think the country contained so much state talent.

PUNCH.--That's the narrowness of your philosophy; if you were to look with an enlarged, a thinking mind, you'd soon perceive that the distance was not so great from St. James's to St. Giles's--from the House of Commons to the House of Correction. Well, do you accept my list?

PEEL.--Excuse me, my dear Punch, I must first try my own; when if that fails--

PUNCH.--You'll try mine? That's a bargain.

* * * * *

PUNCH'S PENCILLINGS.--No. III.

PREPARATION. DECORATION.

REALIZATION. TERMINATION.]

* * * * *

A FAIR OFFER

In compliance with my usual practice, I send you this letter, containing a trifling biographical sketch, and an offer of my literary services. I don't suppose you will accept them, treating me as for forty-three years past all the journals of this empire have done; for I have offered my contributions to them all--all. It was in the year 1798, that escaping from a French prison (that of Toulon, where I had been condemned to the hulks for forgery)--I say, from a French prison, but to find myself incarcerated in an English dungeon (fraudulent bankruptcy, implicated in swindling transactions, falsification of accounts, and contempt of court), I began to amuse my hours of imprisonment by literary composition.

I sent in that year my "Apology for the Corsican," relative to die murder of Captain Wright, to the late Mr. Perry, of the _Morning Chronicle_, preparing an answer to the same in the _Times_ journal; but as the apology was not accepted (though the argument of it was quite clear, and much to my credit), so neither was the answer received--a sublime piece, Mr. PUNCH, an unanswerable answer.

In the year 1799, I made an attempt on the journal of the late Reverend Mr. Thomas Hill, then fast sinking in years; but he had ill-treated my father, pursuing him before Mr. Justice Fielding for robbing him of a snuff-box, in the year 1740; and he continued his resentment towards my father's unoffending son. I was cruelly rebuffed by Mr. Hill, as indeed I have been by every other newspaper proprietor.

No; there is not a single periodical print which has appeared for forty-three years since, to which I did not make some application. I have by me essays and fugitive pieces in fourteen trunks, seven carpet bags of trifles in verse, and a portmanteau with best part of an epic poem, which it does not become me to praise. I have no less than four hundred and ninety-five acts of dramatic composition, which have been rejected even by the Syncretic Association.

Such is the set that for forty-three years has been made against a man of genius by an envious literary world! Are you going to follow in its wake? Ha, ha, ha! no less than seven thousand three hundred times (the exact number of my applications) have I asked that question. Think well before you reject me, Mr. PUNCH--think well, and at least listen to what I have to say.

It is this: I am not wishing any longer to come forward with tragedies, epics, essays, or original compositions. I am old now--morose in temper, troubled with poverty, jaundice, imprisonment, and habitual indigestion. I hate everybody, and, with the exception of gin-and-water, everything. I know every language, both in the known and unknown worlds; I am profoundly ignorant of history, or indeed of any other useful science, but have a smattering of all. I am excellently qualified to judge and lash the vices of the age, having experienced, I may almost say, every one of them in my own person. The immortal and immoral Goethe, that celebrated sage of Germany, has made exactly the same confession.

I have a few and curious collection of Latin and Greek quotations.

And what is the result I draw from this? This simple one--that, of all men living, I am the most qualified to be a CRITIC, and hereby offer myself to your notice in that capacity.

Recollect, I am always at Home--Fleet Prison, Letter L, fourth staircase, paupers'-ward--for a guinea, and a bottle of Hodges' Cordial, I will do anything. I will, for that sum, cheerfully abuse my own father or mother. I can smash Shakspeare; I can prove Milton to be a driveller, or the contrary: but, for preference, take, as I have said, the abusive line.