Chapter XVI: Act THREE (4)

Since each _gobe-mouche_ is speaking of Nanking or Peking,
And as each critic, wit, or professional diner,
Explains that you can't choose but see that the Mantchews
Must soon be entirely driven from China,
And that a high price on our Pekoe and Hyson
Must be the infallible end of the clatter,
_Mr. Punch_, who's a strong _gout_ for Souchong and Congou,
Determines to go and see what is the matter,
It boots not to say _how_ he goes; for to-day
Young and old, grave and gay, so affect locomotion,
That the press every hour produces a shower,
Of "Rough Notes of a Slide on the Great Frozen Ocean,"
Or "A Midsummer's Ramble from Stamford to Stambol;"
Or "The Steppes of the Cossacks, by one who has walked in 'em;"
And I'm sure that whate'er _Mr. Punch's_ plans were,
If _these_ tourists could prosper, _he_ wouldn't be baulked in 'em.
Like the witches, perchance, he might choose to advance,
And so order his coachman to bring out his brougham;
Or ask Phoebus to lead forth that spirited steed,
Which is furnished, in turn, by each Muse, with a groom;
But, however, we'll fancy him safely in Quansi,
Or Quantong, where, taking his place 'mid the great, he,
Like any philandering son of a mandarin,
Sits enjoying his opium _cum dignitate_.
Rich and stately pagodas he finds on the road, as
He goes through the land, for the most part erected,
When the smallest house-tax on Gaul, Briton, or Saxon,
Would have stood not the least chance of being collected.
Wide canals, dykes, and sluices he sees, too, whose uses
Were applied both to traffic, to drainage, and tillage,
When a hard rain had undone both Paris and London,
To the mud they were made of restoring each village.
And they show him the pages of China's first sages,
Which were printed for sale in the towns of the Tartar;
When, with us, scarce a spark of wit gleamed in one clerk,
And DE MONTFORT "his mark" set to our Magna Charta.
They declare, too, that banking quite flourished in Nanking,
And that printed bank-notes were in vogue at the hour
When our yeomen and reeves exchanged bannocks for beeves,
And seldom bought less than a sheep'sworth of flour.
And he learns their silk factories furnished phylacteries,
Robes, handkerchiefs, tapestry too, in the jolly days
When our sires wore a quaint but light coat of blue paint,
With a few streaks of red upon high days and holidays;
And that long, long 'ere BACON and BUNGAY were taken
Unawares by the sudden blow up of their crucible,
Each Chinese fire-eater had found "vile saltpetre"
To the purpose of killing "tall fellows" reducible.
Then the more he enquires concerning their sires,
The greater the reason he sees to anticipate
That much of the mystery shrouding the history
Of Europe, the records of China will dissipate;
For as old HOANG TI built the wall, strong and high,
To check the fierce Huns as it now checks the Tartars,
Not long after old HANNIBAL conquered at Cannae,
And then wasted his time in his snug winter quarters;
And as if China's sons had not driven those Huns
Into Europe by many a subsequent battle, a
Longer respite, I ween, for old Rome there had been,
Nor Europe so early had bowed to an ATTILA.
It is clear that a stranger and far greater danger
Threatened Rome when on Carthage her wrath she was wreaking;
And that Cato the Censor had shown greater sense, or
Discernment, by crying "_Delenda est_ Peking!"
But alas! all these stories of China's old glories,
_Mr. Punch_ plainly sees it is vain to recall,
Since the course of the nation in civilisation
Has for ages been typified best by its wall.
No more, like his sires, the Chinese aspires
In science and art to be making some new step;
But the national skill, like a soldier on drill,
Keeps performing a kind of perpetual goose-step.
For the vast population, the _hand_ cultivation
Of the still fertile country no longer suffices;
Though to drain swamps they toil, and to carry up soil
To the rocky hill sides, no unfrequent device is.
And, on seeing their dainties, poor _Punch_ fit to faint is,
As he cries, "Nought but famine gives such things a price!"
"Rats and mice, and such _small_ deer," snakes and puppies are all dear.
As helping to eke out their pittance of rice.
Now whilst thus his quick wit is on their antiquities
Busy as that of a LAYARD or BONOMI;
Or, like that of M'CULLOCH, of pig, sheep, and bullock,
Rice and tea, is discussing the social economy,
There springs up a great riot near, and the patriot
Army comes marching along in its pride;
Crying out as they go, "We are hostile to Fo!"
They fling down the josses on every side,
And smash, in their scrimmages, all Buddha's images,
Whilst a new-fangled creed by their chiefs is propounded,
Which they call Christianity; though, when _Punch_ comes to scan it, he
Finds it is but CONFUCIUS his creed "worse confounded."
Now in hamlet or city, all quarter or pity
To their long hated rulers the natives refuse;
"Peacock's plumes" and "Red buttons" are nought but lost muttons.
Whilst impatient his badges of serfdom to lose,
Each Chinese without fail parts his head from his tail,
And henceforth minds his _toupees_ instead of his _queues_.
_Mr. Punch_--whilst applauding their courage, and lauding
Their natural wish to recover their freedom--
Still thinks that society may with propriety
Expect him a brief "screed o' doctrine" to read 'em.
So he summons their leader, and says, "You indeed err,
If you think that this triumph your labour will terminate;
When the Mantchews have vanished, there still must be banished
Many faults which for ages you've suffered to germinate.
Your own gross inhumanity, cunning, and vanity,
Which still are so great that I cannot ignore 'em,
Helped the Mantchews, who knew you right well, to subdue you,
As the Mongols and Khalkas had oft done before 'em.
You have broken your chains of to-day with small pains;
But hereafter, if courage and honesty you lack, you
Will be conquered once more--like your fathers of yore,
By the might of some yet to come KUBLAI or HULAKHU;
For the hordes of the North are still ripe to burst forth.
As oft in their tents the rude minstrel or rhymer
Tunes his harp in the praise of those glorious days,
When their sires fought bravely for GENGIS or TIMUR.
To conclude. If you'd thrive, you must earnestly strive
To rub out of men's minds the stern dictum of TENNYSON,
That 'in Europe one day beats a year in Cathay,'
And thereto _Punch_ heartily gives you his benison."

* * * * *

HINT TO RAILWAY ROGUES.

There is a certain arrangement which Railway Directors would do well to adopt in the construction of their time-tables. It is one very generally prevalent among that class of tradesmen whom Railway Companies, for the most part, resemble, generally, in their manner of doing business, considered with reference to fairness and honesty. At present, the hours of arrival and departure are given in the tables--together with a simple disclaimer of the obligation to keep them. This is like giving an I.O.U., under protest of non-liability for the amount; a coarse and clumsy mode of shirking responsibility, and, what is worse, an ineffectual one, being impracticable in law. A far preferable device would be that of printing the hours in large letters with the qualification of "somewhere about" prefixed in very small. By this expedient the appearance of contradicting an engagement would be presented without the reality, and the comfort of security would attend the advantage of swindling.

* * * * *

RIVAL REAPING-MACHINES.

We hear a great deal about the merits of some rival reaping-machines, but we know of nothing that can equal in the force of rivalry those wonderful reaping-machines--a barrister's tongue, and a physician's finger and thumb; which are the means used by both in reaping their tremendous harvests.

* * * * *

AN IMPERIAL SWEEP.

We believe there is a species of long broom, called "a Turk's Head." Now we should say, that the EMPEROR OF RUSSIA would soon make a clean sweep of the Mohammedan Church, Empire and all, if the Sultan would but only put the "Turk's Head" in his hands.

* * * * *

* * * * *

QUEEN CHRISTINA IN ENGLAND.

QUEEN DOWAGER CHRISTINA--who has brightened our darkened land with the lustre of her presence--is sedulously studying all our London institutions, in order to do her best to take back and naturalise copies thereof in Spain. She has already visited the Bank of England, and exhibited the most interesting astonishment on learning that the dividends were regularly paid to the public creditor. At first she received the intelligence laughingly, as a bit of heavy _badinage_, the best joke that the dull English could get up for her. However, the Governor of the Bank of England, having gravely assured HER MAJESTY that the Bank regularly paid the public creditor--he moreover produced the books in testimony of the pleasing fact--CHRISTINA, as an ex-queen and a lady, with a frank smile and a graceful curtsey, avowed her belief in the singular custom.

CHRISTINA, though still handsome and by no means old, is nevertheless addicted to serious meditation. It is said that, in token of her contempt of all worldly fopperies, she has worked more than one flag for fast-sailing vessels, trading to the coast of Africa, and landing--(LUCIFER willing and able)--their black merchandise at the Havannah. The flag has at once been typical of the profits of trade, and the final nothingness of all commercial things; _i. e._--a Death's Head and Cross-Bones embroidered in white silk upon black satin; and duly blessed by HER MAJESTY'S confessor. It is said that HER MAJESTY, in admiration of _Uncle Tom_, offered a very handsome testimonial to MRS. BEECHER STOWE; namely, a little black boy, wonderfully accomplished, as page. This story, however, wants confirmation.

We keep the most interesting intelligence for the last. HER MAJESTY has paid a visit to the cemeteries of Norwood, Kensal Green, and Highgate; and--she is an excellent artist--was so much pleased with the last, that she made a sketch of the burial-grounds with her own royal hand, and sent it off by express to Madrid, accompanied by an autograph letter to her queenly daughter, recommending the sketch to be followed (with all allowance for limited space) in the new cemetery (_when_ granted) to the Protestant English.

* * * * *

AN OMNIBUSIAN SONG.

(_After_ BARRY CORNWALL.)

Ride! Who rides
In a 'bus that taketh twelve insides?
Ah! who is this lady fine
That falls on this lap of mine?
A lady is she,
As big as three.
I prefer her room to her company.

Smoke! Who smokes
To the great annoyance of other folks?
Ah! who is this snob so fine?
A gent, Sirs! a gent!
He comes with the noxious scent
Of tobacco, beer, and wine:
Far better that he
On the roof should be.
I prefer his room to his company.

* * * * *

COTTON AFLOAT.

The Americans have made another magnificent discovery of the use of cotton. Cotton makes the best cordage for ships. It runs freer, and ties tighter knots. (The knots hitherto caused by cotton all _Uncle Tom's_ can bear witness to.) Cotton, moreover, makes the best sails: for the _Sovereign of the Seas_, Yankee craft, has sails as well as rigging of the fabric. What a slave-clipper might be rigged by the appropriate cotton! What a thing of life (and death) to walk the middle-passage; to fly in and out of African bays and creeks! But one ceremony would be needed to make such a craft perfect. She ought to be christened by the QUEEN DOWAGER OF SPAIN. As HER MAJESTY is about the richest slaveholder, the very largest dealer in human flesh, it would be very appropriate that she should give a name to the kidnapping craft. We would suggest as a name _The Christina_. The slaver rigged with cotton, and the Dowager Queen rigged with the spoils of slavery, would be worthy of one another.

* * * * *

HOW TO WRITE THE BIOGRAPHY OF A WOMAN.

An impudent fellow says: "Show me all the dresses a woman has worn in the course of her life, and I will write her Biography from them."

* * * * *

* * * * *

PERVERSION OF A CLERGYMAN.

The Advertisements that are sent to some of our contemporaries, must be altered by them. Here, for instance, is a notification, extracted from the _Lincoln, Rutland, and Stamford Mercury_, by which unprincipled journal it has evidently been corrupted in the grossest manner:--

THE REVEREND RALPH WILLIAM TOLLEMACHE having obtained the exclusive
right of Shooting, Sporting, &c., over the whole of the Manor of
CLIPSHAM (except Addah Wood), and Lands belonging to J. M. PAGET,
Esquire, in the Lordship of PICKWORTH, in the county of Rutland,
hopes that all qualified Persons will refrain from trespassing upon
the said Lands; as also upon Lands in the Lordship of SOUTH WITHAM,
over which he has the right of Shooting, &c., including Lands
belonging to the Blue Bull Farm in the Parish of CASTLE BYTHAM and
the Hamlet of LOBTHORPE, in the county of Lincoln; and in the Parish
of THISTLETON, in the county of Rutland; also on the Blue Point Farm
in the Parish of WYMONDHAM, in the county of Leicester.

All Poachers, &c., will be proceeded against _with the utmost rigour
of the law_; and MR. TOLLEMACHE _hereby gives notice_, that he will
pay to any Person who will give such information as will lead to the
_conviction_ of any Person or Persons, for any breach whatsoever of
the Game Laws upon any of the aforementioned Lands, the sum of Ten
Shillings upon _each such conviction_.

_South Witham_, August 22, 1853.

In the above announcement should be made the following corrections:--For "Shooting, Sporting, &c.," read "Preaching, Praying, &c.;" for "Manor," read "Parish;" for "Persons," read "Parsons;" for "County of Lincoln," read "Diocess of Lincoln," &c. &c.

For "All Poachers, &c., will be proceeded against with the utmost rigour of the law," read "All Preachers will be proceeded against with the utmost rigour of the Gospel"--by "Poachers," understanding to be meant unauthorised fanatics and disseminators of false doctrine. Understand, also, that the hope expressed by MR. TOLLEMACHE, "that all qualified Parsons will refrain from trespassing," &c., means that he does not wish other clergymen to interfere with his people. Lastly, for "Conviction," read "Conversion;" for "for," "from;" and for "Game," "Divine." This is a quaint way of expressing himself on the part of the REVEREND RALPH WILLIAM LIONEL TOLLEMACHE; but JOHN BUNYAN was quaint; so was JOHN WESLEY: so was ROWLAND HILL--why not MR. TOLLEMACHE?

It is too bad to represent a Minister as addicted to the sports of the Field, when, in fact, he devotes himself to the labours of the Vineyard; as beating stubble and cover with retrievers of the canine species, instead of perambulating the highways and by-ways with Scripture Readers; and in place of converting criminals to rectitude, as converting poachers into criminals.

The spiritual manor of the REVEREND MR. TOLLEMACHE includes several districts; but, anxious as he is to do the work of them himself, it is not fair to call him a pluralist. His mild wish that his brethren will refrain from trespassing on his ground, assures us that he has no difficulty in forgiving all his neighbours their trespasses.

* * * * *

THE DISAPPOINTED DIRECTOR.

(A FABLE.)

An eminent Railway Director, having early business of importance, ordered himself to be called at 6. He was not roused till 6.35. His footman said he was very sorry; he had overslept himself. But he protested he had made every effort to insure his getting up soon enough.

The Railway Director rang for his hot water. It was lukewarm. The kettle had not been got to boil. However, the housemaid vowed she had made every effort to insure its boiling.

The Director of Railways sat down to breakfast. He had to wait five minutes for his egg: and then it was but half done. The egg had not been thought of till just that moment, and then had to be sent out for. Nevertheless the cook had, she declared, made every effort to insure breakfast betimes.

Having swallowed his coffee, which was filthy, notwithstanding that the servant had made every effort to insure its goodness, and devoured his heavy roll, to insure whose lightness every effort had been made by the baker; the Railway Director called for his boots, which did not shine, although every effort had been made to polish them. He then took a cab, and arrived at his destination about a quarter of an hour later than the time that should have been occupied by the journey; still, the driver averred stoutly that he had made every effort to get his horse to go.

A large party of friends and colleagues, including several capitalists, most of whom were great epicures and gluttons, and also dyspeptic and gouty subjects, whose stomachs and tempers were alike impatient, had assembled at the house of the Railway Director to dine at 7.30. The dinner was not announced till 8.15, albeit Messrs. BUBB and GRUBB, with all the resources of MAGOG'S Coffee-House at command, had made every effort to insure punctuality.

Hereupon the Railway Director, losing control over his feelings, indignantly demanded what was the meaning of all this? adding, with an oath, that he supposed the world to be in a conspiracy against him. To which one of his guests, a little punchy man, who was wiser than the rest, replied, "You are quite right; but the reason why the world has conspired against you is, because you and your association conspire against the world to deceive and defraud it; for you fix certain hours in your time-tables, thereby engaging to keep them, and, not keeping them, pretend that you have only contracted to make every effort to insure punctuality in keeping them. And this is all the reply you have to make to the complaints of those whom you have choused. And so, the world has combined to pay you in your own coin, in order that you may feel how disagreeable it is to have people, from whom you expect punctuality, not showing it; but instead of practising it, putting you off with the excuse that they have made every effort to insure it."

MORAL.

Railway Companies are servants of the public; but if the Director of any Railway Company were to be treated by his own domestics and tradesfolk with the same neglect and inattention that he and his fellows treat the public with, and were to have agreements and bargains made with himself violated with the like impudence, he would be mightily incensed and exasperated. And, instead of assuaging, it would only aggravate his wrath to tell him that every effort had been made to discharge those obligations to the fulfilment of which there had been paid small regard, if any.

* * * * *

OCEAN MELODIES.

(_Refined from the original_ Sea-Songs, _for the use of the Yacht Clubs._)

The Wife wishes to go upon the Continent.

ADELINA has flirted--not once, she declares,
Since you placed on her finger the ring that she wears;
Since at gloomy ST. GEORGE'S your bride she became,
And you gave her an Opera-box marked with her name.

When I sailed in that yacht a whole fortnight with you,
Did I say I was bored (if I did it was true),
With my ALFRED for hours at _ecarte_ I played,
And his meerschaum I lit, and his coffee I made.

When, the night we'd a box at ST. JULLIEN'S last _bal_,
And--goodness knows why--you deserted the _salle_,
I gave you a smile when you chose to appear,
Nor asked whom you knew on that horrid top tier.

Why won't you, dear AL, by mamma be advised?
A wife who don't pout, AL, deserves to be prized--
So to Constance and Rome ADELINA you'll take,
Or a nice piece of work that young person will make.

* * * * *

A NUISANCE.

"MR. PUNCH,--I should be very much obliged if you would put a stop to a species of annoyance which I am continually subject to. I allude to a system of 'Notes and Queries,' which is becoming daily more and more impertinently annoying. These questions are put to me every morning through the medium of the newspapers, which I am obliged to read, 'just to be in the world.' I am a poor student, Sir, and have enough to do to answer questions of a very different description to the following, viz., 'Do you want luxuriant whiskers?' 'Have you been to ---- emporium?' 'Do you bruise your oats?' &c. &c. And then if I take a walk, there is scarcely a street in which I am not assailed by a pictorial Barmaid ejaculating 'Sherry, Sir?' Do, _Mr. Punch_, allow me, through your columns, to answer these impertinent questions once for all. I have _not_ been and never will go to ---- emporium. My AMELIA doesn't care about whiskers, and therefore _I_ don't; and as for bruising oats, and drinking sherry, 'this my answer:'--I don't keep horses, and when I want (and can pay for) wine I'll ask for it.

"I am, _Mr. Punch_, yours &c., FIZ.'

* * * * *

"Non Tali Auxilio."

The head of the Chinese rebellion is extremely indignant with the conduct of the Comet who has lately been rushing about his dominions. He has dispatched a near relation of the Moon's to arrest him in his flight, and, wherever he may find him, instantly to cut off his tail.

* * * * *

A NEW ZODIACAL LIGHT.

At the recent Meeting of the British Association, PROFESSOR GLIMM, of Finsterberg, favoured Section A with the outlines of his plan for the better arrangement of the signs of the zodiac, which, as he truly remarked, were in a very unsatisfactory state, and not at all in accordance with the spirit of the age. "What occasion have we," he asked, "for Libra, the Balance, when we have already the scales of the Pisces?" He therefore proposes to remove Libra from its control over the harvest month, and to substitute for it Virga, which, as every school-boy knows, is the Latin for a threshing machine in common use. As Aquarius comes under the provisions of the New Cab Act, which declares that no water-man shall be allowed on the stand, he is to retire on a pension, and his berth is to be held over for FATHER MATHEW.

The weapons of Sagittarius, and his mode of conducting the chase, have become quite obsolete, and can only excite ridicule in an age which has made so many improvements in fire-arms. He is therefore to share the honourable retirement of Aquarius, and his duties and emoluments are to be divided amongst a troop of shooting stars. These last have petitioned that Canis Venaticus (the hunting dog) may be allowed to attend them, but their request cannot be complied with until it has been ascertained that this celestial pointer will refrain from worrying Taurus and Aries, and barking at the heels of Virgo. PROFESSOR GLIMM has also persuaded some distinguished members of the Peace Society to arbitrate between the Gemini, who have not been on visiting terms for many years. By the intervention of these gentlemen, it is hoped these discreditable squabbles will be stopped, and Castor and Pollux will be once more seen in company.

* * * * *

OUR TOURIST IN PARIS.--No. 3.

The Englishman in Paris lives one of two lives: a life of duty or a life of pleasure. In the former case he wanders drearily through the Louvre and the Luxembourg; he makes painful pilgrimages to churches, museums, and galleries, in the hope of picking up a knowledge of Art. He devotes this day to St. Denis, the next to Versailles, the third to St. Cloud. He fills his catalogue and guide-books with annotations, and perhaps spends a cheerful evening over a diary, in which desperate efforts are made to distinguish the styles of RUBENS and TITIAN, and the eras of Notre Dame and the Sainte Chapelle. In the latter case he frequents the Opera Comique, the theatres, and the public balls: he breakfasts in the Palais Royal, and dines at PHILIPPE'S, and makes a regular promenade in the Champs Elysees every afternoon. The well-balanced mind of your correspondent seizes the advantages of both these systems. He devotes his morning to the cultivation of his intellect, and the rest of the day to the gratification of his tastes.

Behold him, then, after a conscientious study of the pictures in the Louvre, prepared to refresh himself by an airing in the Elysian fields. What a panorama of superb points of view! The Rue de la Paix, the Place and Column Vendome, the Attic Madeleine, the endless arcades of the Rue de Rivoli, the imperial facade of the Tuileries, its classic gardens, the noble opening of the Place de la Concorde, with its obelisk and fountains, and the avenue ending with the sublime Arch of the Star. Where else can such a group of beauties be found? No wonder the poor Parisians find London dull and ugly! But the less we talk about the appearance of our dingy city the better; we must forget Trafalgar Square and its monuments, and console ourselves with our pavement, our drainage, and our comfortable firesides.

The sun shines cheerfully, the air is pure, and the philosopher enters the Champs Elysees in a state of serene enjoyment, proposing to study the manners of the great nation. He observes an ancient man by the wayside in tattered garments, who plays soft tunes on a bass trombone. No one pays the least attention to this mild minstrelsy. It is a perfect image of Wisdom talking in the streets, and no man regarding her. Another poor creature seated on the ground, grinds a feeble tootling organ amid similar neglect. The French are evidently not a musical people. The observer passes on to a temple of Punch, at whose exhibition (in reverence to the august original in England) he is about to assist, when he is suddenly aroused to a sense of a cruel disappointment. He might just as well be in Hyde Park. It is the drive by the Serpentine over again. Why, there's OVERALLS, of the Blues. There's SWELLINGS SWELLINGS; you never can go anywhere without seeing him. That was BOB HILTON, driving the high-stepping grey horse. There goes THREADPAPER of the Foreign Office, with his infant moustache (what the deuce does _he_ want with a moustache, I should like to know?) There's old GRATINGS, who is such a bore at the Club; there's CHARLEY MARTINGALE of the Plungers, with HOOKER (known by his friends as the Bravo) in his wonderful tight trousers. But who isn't here? Two men behind are talking about the Metropolitan Handicap and GRUMBLER'S chance of the Derby. Really, really, this is too bad. The ancient poet asks, "What exile from his fatherland can leave _himself_ behind?" The question now is what man, by departure from his country, can hope to be free from his countrymen? It is intolerable. How is it possible to take notes of Parisian manners when you are seized upon by SWELLINGS SWELLINGS and catechised about the prospects of the Haymarket Opera? You get rid of him by informing him, in confidence, that it has been taken by MR. JOHN BRIGHT for a series of Bal Masques and Ballet entertainments, when up come the BRAVO and MARTINGALE, who want to know when PYTCHLEY'S stud is to be sold. You profess a sulky ignorance of the subject, and try to get away, when MARTINGALE enters upon a sketch of French character, which he holds very low, chiefly on grounds of a sporting nature. Ever see such dogs?--ever see such horses?--ever see such riding and driving?--ever see such grooms and coachmen? You should go to one of their steeple-chases and look at them tumbling about. The last time, at La Marche, white and red cap came pounding along fifty miles an hour, and pulled up short at the brook to inquire for the _bridge_.

"_Ou est le pont, Messieurs? Mon Dieu, je vais perdre! De grace, ou est le pont?_" and another man got with his horse on to the top of a bank, where he stopped for a quarter-of-an-hour without being able to get off again, until at last the crowd flicked the unfortunate animal with their pocket-handkerchiefs into a state of madness, when he jumped down, only it was on the wrong side, and his rider gave up the adventure. MARTINGALE was also very severe on the cavalry, whom he described as tailors mounted on bad cart-horses, and unable to stand for a moment before British heavies.

HOOKER endorsed the criticisms of his friend, and called attention to the cavaliers who pranced up and down the drive. Certainly it was rather a ludicrous contrast, both for men and cattle, with our exhibition in Rotten Row. The horses were mostly weedy, leggy, tucked up brutes, all mane and tail, and worth about two pound ten each. One young fellow, a tremendous dandy, galloped up and down on a gray Arab-looking pony that an English gentleman would have put his little boy of twelve upon. The styles of riding were various. There were the _haute ecole_ men, who rode very long, and showed all their saddle in front of them, and the Anglo-maniacs, who rode very short, and showed all their saddle behind them. Some gentlemen seemed disposed to tie their legs together under their horse's belly; others projected them on each side of his chest like the cat-heads of a man-of-war. They all rode on the curb, with a grasp of iron, holding the snaffle in the other hand, perpetually nagging and spurring and hustling the wretched animals about, till they did not know what to be at. HOOKER'S honest Yorkshire heart swelled with bitterness all the time. "They oughtn't to be trusted out with a horse," he said. "It's a shame, by JOVE! They drive like a butcher, and ride like a chummy on a moke" (HOOKER meant to say, a sweep on a donkey; but he always prefers idiomatic expressions, which add great vigour to his discourse). "However, I won't be unjust to the Mossoos. They can cook a good dinner, and no mistake. Come to-night, old fellow, and dine with us in the Rue Montorgueil. There's HAYCOCK of the 190th coming, and we shall have some of CLICQUOT'S Champagne."

Good. We will be there.

* * * * *

A MUSICAL PUMP.

A Composer, whom we cannot do less than call a Musical Pump, so full is his head of crotchets and water--has published three watery sheets of music for the Pianoforte, respectively entitled "The Morning Mist," "The Rainbow," and "The Waterfall." Why should he stop here? why not thoroughly drain the subject? why not fathom it in all its depths, until he has not left a drop of water that can be sounded, or out of which any sound can be got, by any other composer? In our liberality, we beg to suggest a few subjects for him.

THE SHOWER OF RAIN--dedicated to the Lessee of Vauxhall, with an illuminated frontispiece, showing a view of the "Ten Thousand additional Lamps," in water colours.

THE UMBRELLA GALOP, and PARASOL POLKA, dedicated to the fair frequenters of the Horticultural and Botanical Gardens--with a fine running accompaniment.

THE DELUGE--humbly inscribed to LORD MAIDSTONE.

THE MACKINTOSH MARCH--with a view of Chobham Camp--and a beautiful waterproof wrapper.

THE BUCKET OF WATER--A composition for the milk-pail.

THE OVERFLOW--with a splendid engraving of the Surrey Zoological Gardens, showing the overflow caused by a little Poole. "Exceedingly playful."--_Musical Review._

THE CATS AND DOGS' SCHOTTISHE, as danced at all the Scottish Fetes in Holland Park, Cremorne, &c.

And when the subject of rain-water is fairly pumped out, there are all the other atmospheric changes, of which our climate offers such a tempting variety, and some of which must surely contain a few of the elements of success. We scarcely know which are the most ridiculous--the titles that are given now-a-days to new shirts, or the subjects that are chosen, as the sources of inspiration, by our musical composers.

* * * * *

EXTREME CONSCIENTIOUSNESS.

The _Field_ newspaper prides itself in giving "No Reports of Prize Fights." So conscientious is the paper in this particular, that it has announced its determination--in the event of the decimal coinage being adopted--to turn away every farthing, rather than derive a profit from a single _mil_.

* * * * *

CAUSE AND EFFECT.--It is said that a cause is always followed by effect, but this is not the case at all events at law, where a cause is too frequently followed by "No Effects."

* * * * *

LINES ON THE BURIAL OF A BRITISH PROTESTANT IN SPAIN.

Not a knell gave out any funeral note,
As his corpse to the shingles we hurried;
And below water-mark we had bare leave got
That our countryman's bones should be buried.

We buried him, dog-like, on that mean site,
The tide on the point of turning,
At the wretched Spaniards' bigot spite
With contempt intensely burning.

No use in coffin enclosing his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud that bound him!
For he lay where he scarce would remain long at rest,
With the ocean washing round him.

None at all were the prayers we read;
And we felt more of rage than sorrow,
As we thought on the brutes who insult us when dead,
And don't pay us alive what they borrow

We thought as we hollowed his shelly bed,
And smoothed down his pebbly pillow,
That the crabs and the lobsters would creep o'er his head,
And we with our fleets on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of our spirit as gone!
Our guns might to atoms have brayed them,
Yet we've let the rascals in this way go on,
Treating those very Britons who made them.

But half of our shameful job was done,
When the waves roared the hour of retiring,
And we knew we the distance should have to run,
To divert a rabble admiring.

Sharply and quickly we laid him down,
'Mid the jeers of the monks, young and hoary,
And we said, unless Spain is compelled to atone,
All a humbug is Old England's glory!

* * * * *

THE LAWYERS ABROAD.

Our latest advices inform of us of an extensive inundation of the Rhine. It is impossible to get into a steamer without having "with you MR. SERGEANT SOMEBODY," or finding a Judge "sitting in error" by taking possession of the camp-stool we have for an instant quitted. Every town in Switzerland has its proportion of British Lawyers. Peru the other day could boast of two justices besides its own; and many a legal luminary has been exploring the summits of the Jura, as an agreeable change from his habitual contemplation of the _summun jus_. Equity draftsmen instead of drawing conveyances have been glad to get conveyances to draw them; and the common lawyer has forgotten every other motion but locomotion, which, at this season of the year, is almost a motion of course. The diligences nearly all over the Continent are so unusually loaded, that there is scarcely a vacant corner to be found in any one of them, but we cannot be surprised that when so many lawyers are travelling by them they should be rather heavily charged.

* * * * *

THE CLOTH AND THE PLUSH.

In SWIFT'S time a Chaplain was a mere clerical domestic; and some Curates appear to be little better now. Did ever any one hear of an ordained valet?--somebody wants to hear of such a servant, however, to judge herefrom:--

Curacy, with Title for Holy Orders, in the Diocese of Canterbury.
Remuneration--board and lodging, and L20 per annum. For further
particulars apply to MR. CLERC SMITH, Secretary to the Church of
England Club, 36, Southampton Street, Strand.

The above is taken from the _Times_. What is the Curate expected to undertake for L20 a year and his victuals? The cure of Soles--in the sense of scraping them, perhaps--with the additional duty of polishing upper leathers. To answer the bell that rings for prayers, peradventure--and also that which rings for hot water. We should like to know whether the employer of such a Curate returns him in his Assessed Tax Paper, with a farther entry on his account under the head of Hair Powder.

* * * * *

POLITICAL CAPITAL.--The only capital most Irish Members have, and even that is at a terrible discount.

* * * * *

Reflective Cabman. "_Vell, it all 'us was so! The genteeler the Party, the wosser the Fare!_"]

* * * * *

A CITY WITHOUT SMOKE!

That a city can exist without Smoke, we beg to refer our readers for the proof of such a possibility to MR. BURFORD'S Panorama in Leicester Square. There they will be able to admire, in all its beauty and undefiled cleanliness, the lovely City of Mexico. You are standing on the top of the Grand Cathedral, and, look in all directions as you will, you cannot see the smallest wreath of smoke curling about the place. Now, we should like to see the curl taken out of London in a similar manner. It may not look, perhaps, so grand, so showy and glittering as Mexico, but still it may, in its new aspect, appear sufficiently tempting to induce Mr. BURFORD to select it as the subject of some future Panorama. The probability is, we should not know it again as the same city, in which we are now, like so many living chimneys, inhaling and exhaling smoke all day long. The new Zealander, when he does view the ruins of our sooty metropolis from London Bridge, would be able to see them at all events to greater advantage then than he would if he were to take his private view from one of the parapets to-morrow. For our own selves, we are most anxious to see how London would look without smoke--for, in the name of darkness, it looks ugly enough with it.

* * * * *

"THE GREAT GLOBE ITSELF."

MR. ALBERT SMITH alters his song of "_Galignani's Messenger_" to the current events of the day. MR. WYLD will have to follow his example, and keep a staff of colourmen constantly at work on his Model. Poland is gone! Turkey threatened! and in the _Times_ of Saturday, we find--

"Last week of Hindostan!"

And

"Mont Blanc will close this Evening!"

* * * * *

ANOTHER INSULT FROM THE SAXON.

(_From "The Nation._")

Another insult, hot and hissing, has been flung in the scar-seamed face of Ireland from the Saxon! And the Crystal Palace--or, rather, the Vitreous Dungeon for Ireland's liberties--was the appointed scene of the atrocity. Among the more sublimating objects was the venerable form of O'CONNELL (in something harder than wax!) surrounded by a crowd of his own finest peasantry.

"That's O'CONNELL," said the QUEEN.

"And very like him," said PRINCE ALBERT. And with all respect for his Royal Highness--(for, as we are slaves, we have learned to treat the Saxon with respect!) with all respect we ask, how he should presume to know it was like the deified lineaments of the sublime Liberator?--"And very like him!" said the Queen's husband; but--patience is the badge of all our tribe, and we'll let _that_ pass.

But the withering insult is now to be recorded; if it do not, as we write it, turn our steel pen red-hot, and singe the paper into flames!

The DUKE OF WELLINGTON--the second Duke--the son of O'CONNELL'S "stunted corporal"--yes, Dux Secundus--presumed to "buy O'CONNELL and the peasantry!"

Think of that, oh countrymen! The DUKE OF WELLINGTON dared to put his hand into his pocket, and to take out so much tax-wrung, Saxon gold, and--counting it piece by piece--he laid it down as the price of O'CONNELL!

What did he mean by that cowardly, atrocious, ready-money transaction? Why, this: by purchasing O'CONNELL he intended to fling this burning libel in the face of Ireland--he wished to show it as his decided opinion that O'CONNELL _could be bought!!!_

But the day of reckoning with the Saxon _will_ come. Meantime, if we hug our chain, it is only to count and _pay for_ the links!

* * * * *

A CLERK PAID IN KIND.

Law is looking up at Manchester--to judge from a paragraph in the _Morning Herald_; to wit--

"MANCHESTER LIBERALISM.--The following announcement has been posted
on the walls of the Manchester Law Library:--'An experienced clerk,
who writes a good hand, is wanted by a respectable solicitor in
Manchester. Salary 7_s._ per week, with perquisites in the shape of
cast-off clothes. Apply to the librarian.'"

Dull literalism would denounce the respectable solicitor who proposes to pay an experienced clerk principally in cast-off clothes, as a screw. Many a plodding fellow will expatiate on the unreasonableness on the part of a legal gentleman who remunerates a clerk on this scale, of being astonished that the said clerk should go seedy, or stretch forth his hand and commit acts contrary to ordinances and statutes in such case made and provided. It will occur to the stolid mind that the offer of a stipend of old clothes is not likely to attract any clerk of experience, beyond that of a Jew salesman. But the true man of figures, he who understands the language of Fancy, revelling in metaphor, perceives at once that the proposition which seems so stingy is, in fact, very liberal. He discerns that by cast-off clothes is meant a share in the business, consisting in those suits, which though considerably profitable, are not of sufficient importance to be attended to by the head of the establishment. It is pleasing to find the language of poetry thus obtaining, in a profession of which the phraseology has hitherto been so very unimaginative.

* * * * *

WASHING MADE AGREEABLE.

There is no washing, after all, like gold-washing. It is the kind of washing that pays the best, and the only one that a gentleman can, with credit, put his hands to.

* * * * *

_Edward (to his Military Cousin)._ "NO! I SHAN'T! I SHAN'T GO AND SHOOT BLACKBIRDS; AND I TELL YOU WHAT, MASTER CHARLEY, YOU DRAGOON SWELLS WON'T HAVE QUITE SUCH A PULL UPON US CIVILIANS NOW, FOR WE ARE ALL GOING TO GROW BEARDS AND MOUSTACHIOS."]

* * * * *

CLASSICALITIES FOR THE NEW COINAGE.

In adopting the decimal coinage, it would be desirable to alter as little as possible the existing nomenclature of the QUEEN'S cash. The idea of the decimal may be expressed by the slightest variation of a term in vernacular use to denote a certain piece of money. By the change of a letter in the word "Tanner," the sixpence might, nominally, be retained to the great bulk of the people; whilst, by the conversion alluded to, namely, into "Tenner," the new elements of its constitution would be at the same time signified. The novel word "Mil," should be rejected; and for it might be substituted the similarly sounding but more familiar name of "Bill," the adoption of which may be recommended on the ground of analogy, as the shilling has been already long stamped with the popular diminutive of "Bob." If the somewhat fanciful expression "Mil," or "Mill," is employed, the principle of its derivation should be consistently carried out. The words "Winder," "Bender," "Twister," "Topper," and "Stunner," might be borrowed to designate money, which itself should change its present correct appellation for the more sportive and appropriate title of Blunt. The mutation of "Florin" into "Floorer" would be obviously called for, and the crown piece might be neatly styled a "Punisher," as being the well-known amount of the fine for inebriety.

On all the coins emanating from the pugilistic mint, it would be requisite that the Lion and the Unicorn should be fighting; and whilst V. R. figured on one side of them, P. R. should be stamped on the other, that it might in every respect be characterised by the true ring.

* * * * *

PUNCH'S POTATO PROPHECY.

The reader, who minds his _Punch_, of course remembers what _Punch_ prophesied in 1847 on the Irish potato rot. From that very decay, _Punch_ predicted regeneration.

"The butcher, the baker,
The candle-stick maker,
All jumped out of a rotten potato."

So runs the childish doggrel; but _Punch_ heard in that shambling verse a musical promise; and hearing, foretold the coming time when, from the very blight that smote the people of Ireland through Ireland's potatos, there should be peace and plenty for Ireland regenerate. And is it not so? Answer with one of your wildest roars, oh, Lion of Judah! Is it not so--reply and tenderly, cooingly, oh Dove of Galway!

* * * * *

DISRAELI'S COAT AND BADGE.

Was a smarter old feller than I be e'er seen
In these bright brass buttons--this new quoat of green?
Why is it I'm rigged out so fine as this here?
Why for sarvin' one master for full thirty year.

But wherefore should I be so proud o' my clothes,
And strut in 'em so, stickin' up my old nose?
Do I think the prize-suit such an honour to wear?
Shoo! it baint for the raiment alone as I care.

'Tisn't that--the mere valley and worth of the coat--
'Tis the honour the present is meant to denote,
The respect I be held in, the height of esteem,
Which is far above all I could possible dream.

Why, what dost thee think, man? these things is no less
Than a passpoort for wearers, a privileged dress,
I puts on this quoat on my back--that was all--
And they lets me walk in to the grand County Ball.

There was MEASTER DISRAELI, the friend o' the land,
He comes and he catches me hold by the hand,
"Come along," a sez, "JOHN;" up the room then we stumps,
Which occasioned some noise, as I didn't wear pumps.

To a Lord and a Lady of rank and degree,
'Mongst a whole kit of other fine folks he led me,
And he says to 'em, s'ee, "I the honour ha' got
O 'troducin' my friend to yer, MEASTER JOHN TROTT.

"He's a noble, is JOHN, though he isn't a Peer,--
I wun't say as how he's the noblest that's here;
But an honest man JOHN is, and all on you know,
In course, what the poet calls him as is so.

"Look at this horny palm! how became it like that,
So that on it he uses to slice bacon fat?
Why by thirty years' toil--and for whom, d'ye suppose?
For a wife and five children?--not only for those--

"My lady, to earn his own bread warn't enow,
He yarned your meat as well, by the damp of his brow;
And your silks, and your satins, and jewels besides,
And the coaches you keeps, and the hosses you rides.

"Arter that, I be certain that you won't deny
MEASTER TROTT your fair hand for a dance by and by."
"Such a trifle," she said, "I of course can't withhold."
"But for dancin'" I sez, "I'm afeard I'm too old."

"Oh! we won't 'tempt the Poker, nor Valsa dew Tong,
And I'm sure we shall get very nicely along,"
Said my lady; when straightways the music did play,
And to "_Pop goes the Weasel_" we capered away.

Her ladyship flew, amost, over the ground,
Which I could do nothin' but hammer and pound;
But nobody laughed, for in course they thought how
Arkard they'd look suppose they was tryin' to plough.

When the dancin' was done unto supper we went,
And I feasted away to my full heart's content,
On cake, chicken, lobster, sweets, aught I could find,
The fust time I ever ate all I'd a mind.

'Tis the bein' acknowledged, you see, like that 'ere,
Is what makes me feel proudish this clothin' to wear,
I should say "Dash the buttons!" if that warn't the case,
And consider the quoat but a badge o' disgrace.

* * * * *

IRON BARS OF MUSIC.

We have often wished that we could suggest anything that would afford some scope for the unemployed ability of the artists of our almost extinct English Opera. Here, in an advertisement out of the _Times_, appears to be something like an opening for one of them--if the foreign predilections of our superior classes have not starved them all:--

ORGAN.--WANTED, a respectable man to act as TURNKEY in a County
Prison. One who understands music, can play the Organ, and sing bass
would be preferred. For further particulars apply, post paid, to T.
T. S., Post-office, Bath.

The popular air of "_Still so gently o'er me stealing_," will immediately suggest itself as one of the first airs that would be called for from the musical turnkey, having been transposed so as to be sung in the bass, which "would be preferred." Any one who had personated the gaoler in the vernacular version of _Fidelio_ would, however, be the man for the situation; and it is pleasing to imagine such a respectable vocalist leading the Prison Chorus at the head of real convicts. A pretty idea, too, is that of a Nightingale within four stone walls, beguiling the tedium of confinement with his "jug-jug." Of course the harmonious turnkey would enchant his incarcerated audience by his performance of the Witch music of MATTHEW LOCKE. That he should also be an organist is a good notion; phrenologists will admit it to be judicious to play the organ of tune against that of acquisitiveness or theft, and all other human organs out of tune and discordant with man's better nature. Talking of the organ, SEBASTIAN BACH would have been just the very turnkey in request, for he was a master of that noble instrument; and the kind of piece which he most delighted in performing thereon was a QUOD-_libet_.

It is to be hoped that the cultivation of music will be introduced at Newgate; and then, perhaps, we shall at last witness a genuine representation of the _Beggar's Opera_.

* * * * *

OUR TOURIST IN PARIS.--No. 4.

When, Sir, you selected me from the crowd of eminent persons who solicited the honour of furnishing you with their impressions of the French metropolis, you were good enough to attribute to me an uncommon impartiality and serenity of mind. "That impartiality," you observed with your usual force and felicity of language, "will preserve your communications from the onesidedness that usually deforms a traveller's views of foreign country." My modesty, Sir, (almost amounting to bashfulness) is well known to you, but I will venture to say that you were correct in your estimate. I feel myself equally free from the sturdy prepossessions nourished by MR. DOWLAS of Mecklenburgh Square and the rose-coloured delusions which captivate young THREADPAPER of the Foreign Office. The former gentleman marches through this city in company with MRS. D. and the girls, armed with a guide-book and a pocket map, and finds all barren. The latter wishes to introduce absolute government into England, supported by an army of five hundred thousand men and a censorship of the press. THREADPAPER is of tender years; his moustache is downy, indeed hardly visible without a glass; he will grown wiser with time, but MR. DOWLAS, I very much fear, is beyond all cure.

D., you old humbug! what do you mean by uttering your shallow vulgar criticism on the greatest nation of Continental Europe? You know nothing of their history, except that they were beaten at the battle of Waterloo; you can't speak a word of their language; you can't read one of their newspapers; you are supremely ignorant of their character and institutions, and yet you treat them as a mob of hairdressers, dancing masters, and cooks (and not good cooks either), and exult in the time-honoured conviction that one Englishman can thrash two Frenchmen. DOWLAS, attend to me, I am going to talk about taste--a word that ought to excite shame and anguish in your mind. For a quarter of a century you have been smothering the world with printed fabrics of fantastic and horrible ugliness. Millions upon millions of yards of these abominations have found their way into every nook and corner of the world. Remote tribes of wandering Tartars and the squaws of painted Choktaws have clad their bodies and depraved their souls with your outrageous patterns. Bales marked with the well-known D. (oh, how could you, MR. DOWLAS, Sir?) have carried their baleful influence into the innocent populations of the Peaceful Ocean. The least hideous of these productions are those you have stolen (and spoiled) from the French, and if there is any improvement in your patterns of late years, it is entirely to be attributed to your piracy of French designs.