Chapter XVIII: Canto THE SECOND: Matrimony (4)

Bruise the fair sugar lumps--
Nature intended
Her sweet and severe
To be everywhere blended.

Pour the still water--
Unwarning by sound,
Eternity's ocean
Is hemming us round.

Mingle the spirit,
The life of the bowl--
Man is an earth-clod
Unwarmed by a soul!

Drink of the stream
Ere its potency goes!--
No bath is refreshing
Except while it glows!

THE SONG OF THE HUMBUGGED HUSBAND.
PUNCH.

She's not what fancy painted her--
I'm sadly taken in:
If some one else had won her, I
Should not have cared a pin.

I thought that she was mild and good
As maiden e'er could be;
I wonder how she ever could
Have so much humbugg'd me.

They cluster round and shake my hand--
They tell me I am blest:
My case they do not understand--
I think that I know best.

They say she's fairest of the fair--
They drive me mad and madder.
What do they mean by it? I swear
I only wish they had her.

'Tis true that she has lovely locks,
That on her shoulders fall;
What would they say to see the box
In which she keeps them all?
Her taper fingers, it is true,
'Twere difficult to match:
What would they say if they but knew
How terribly they scratch?

TEMPERANCE SONG. PUNCH. AIR--FRIEND OF MY SOUL.

Friend of my soul, this water sip,
Its strength you need not fear;
Tis not so luscious as egg-flip,
Nor half so strong as beer.
Like Jenkins when he writes,
It can not touch the mind;
Unlike what he indites,
No nausea leaves behind.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO ** **** ***** ON THE 29TH Of SEPTEMBER
WHEN WE PARTED FOR THE LAST TIME.
PUNCH.

I have watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms,
As link'd in Love's fetters we wander'd each day;
And each night I have sought a new life in thy arms,
And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye.

But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread,
Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever,
And I look to the moment of parting with dread,
For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever.

Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart!
Thou know'st all its secrets--each joy and each grief;
And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impart
To its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief.

The last of a long and affectionate race,
As thy days are declining I love thee the more,
For I feel that thy loss I can never replace--
That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore.

Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years, I can not--I will not--forget what thou wert! While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears, In fancy will wash thee once more--MY LAST SHIRT. GRUB-STREET.

MADNESS.
PUNCH.

There is a madness of the heart, not head--
That in some bosoms wages endless war;
There is a throe when other pangs are dead,
That shakes the system to its utmost core.

There is a tear more scalding than the brine
That streams from out the fountain of the eye,
And like the lava leaves a scorched line,
As in its fiery course it rusheth by.

What is that madness? Is it envy, hate,
Or jealousy more cruel than the grave,
With all the attendants that upon it wait
And make the victim now despair, now rave?

It is when hunger, clam'ring for relief,
Hears a shrill voice exclaim, "That graceless sinner,
The cook, has been, and gone, and burnt the beef,
And spilt the tart--in short, she's dish'd the dinner!"

THE BANDIT'S FATE.
PUNCH.

He wore a brace of pistols the night when first we met, His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet, His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone, Of a bandit-chief, who feels remorse, and tears his hair alone-- I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.

A private bandit's belt and boots, when next we met, he wore His salary, he told me, was lower than before; And standing at the O. P. wing he strove, and not in vain, To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid. I saw it but a moment--and I wish I saw it now-- As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow.

And once again we met; but no bandit chief was there; His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near, He can not liquidate his "chalk," or wipe away his beer. I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.

LINES WRITTEN AFTER A BATTLE. BY AN ASSISTANT SURGEON OF THE NINETEENTH NANKEENS. PUNCH.

Stiff are the warrior's muscles,
Congeal'd, alas! his chyle;
No more in hostile tussles
Will he excite his bile.
Dry is the epidermis,
A vein no longer bleeds--
And the communis vermis
Upon the warrior feeds.

Compress'd, alas! the thorax,
That throbbed with joy or pain;
Not e'en a dose of borax
Could make it throb again.
Dried up the warrior's throat is,
All shatter'd too, his head:
Still is the epiglottis--
The warrior is dead.

THE PHRENOLOGIST TO HIS MISTRESS.
PUNCH.

Though largely developed's my organ of order,
And though I possess my destructiveness small,
On suicide, dearest, you'll force me to border,
If thus you are deaf to my vehement call

For thee veneration is daily extending,
On a head that for want of it once was quite flat;
If thus with my passion I find you contending,
My organs will swell till they've knocked off my hat

I know, of perceptions, I've none of the clearest;
For while I believe that by thee I'm beloved,
I'm told at my passion thou secretly sneerest;
But oh! may the truth unto me never be proved!

I'll fly to Deville, and a cast of my forehead
I'll send unto thee;--then upon thee I'll call.
Rejection--alas! to the lover how horrid--
When 'tis passion that SPURS-HIM, 'tis bitter as GALL.

THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE.
PUNCH.

I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me-- Our mutual flame is like th' affinity That doth exist between two simple bodies: I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. 'Tis little that the holy marriage vow Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical O, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, A living acid; thou an alkali Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together, We both might coalesce into one salt, One homogeneous crystal. Oh! that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen; We would unite to form olefiant gas, Or common coal, or naphtha--would to heaven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime! And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret. I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda. In that case We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead we'd form that's named from Epsom. Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis, Our happy union should that compound form, Nitrate of Potash--otherwise Saltpeter. And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We'd live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshly TERTIUM QUID, Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs? We will. The day, the happy day, is nigh, When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine.

A BALLAD OF BEDLAM.
PUNCH.

O, lady wake!--the azure moon
Is rippling in the verdant skies,
The owl is warbling his soft tune,
Awaiting but thy snowy eyes.
The joys of future years are past,
To-morrow's hopes have fled away;
Still let us love, and e'en at last,
We shall be happy yesterday.

The early beam of rosy night
Drives off the ebon morn afar,
While through the murmur of the light
The huntsman winds his mad guitar.
Then, lady, wake! my brigantine
Pants, neighs, and prances to be free;
Till the creation I am thine,
To some rich desert fly with me.

STANZAS TO AN EGG. [BY A SPOON.] PUNCH.

Pledge of a feather'd pair's affection,
Kidnapped in thy downy nest,
Soon for my breakfast--sad reflection!--
Must thou in yon pot be drest.

What are the feelings of thy mother?
Poor bereaved, unhappy hen!
Though she may lay, perchance, another,
Thee she ne'er will see again.

Yet do not mourn. Although above thee
Never more shall parent brood.
Know, dainty darling! that I love thee
Dearly as thy mother could.

A FRAGMENT.
PUNCH.

His eye was stern and wild,--his cheek was pale and cold as clay; Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay; He mused awhile--but not in doubt--no trace of doubt was there; It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair. Once more he look'd upon the scroll--once more its words he read-- Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread. I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue cold-gleaming steel, And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel! A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my head,-- I could not stir--I could not cry--I felt benumb'd and dead; Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er; I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more.

* * * * * * *

Again I looked,--a fearful change across his face had pass'd-- He seem'd to rave,--on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast; He raised on high the glittering blade--then first I found a tongue-- "Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung; He heard me, but he heeded not; one glance around he gave; And ere I could arrest his hand, he had begun to SHAVE!

EATING SONG.
PUNCH.

Oh! carve me yet another slice,
O help me to more gravy still,
There's naught so sure as something nice
To conquer care, or grief to kill.

I always loved a bit of beef,
When Youth and Bliss and Hope were mine;
And now it gives my heart relief
In sorrow's darksome hour--to dine!

THE SICK CHILD. [BY THE HONOBABLE WILHELMINA SKEGGS.] PUNCH.

A weakness seizes on my mind--I would more pudding take; But all in vain--I feel--I feel--my little head will ache. Oh! that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am, And finish with a piece of bread that pot of currant jam.

I gaze upon the cake with tears, and wildly I deplore That I must take a powder if I touch a morsel more, Or oil of castor, smoothly bland, will offer'd be to me, In wave pellucid, floating on a cup of milkless tea.

It may be so--I can not tell--I yet may do without; They need not know, when left alone, what I have been about. I long to eat that potted beef--to taste that apple-pie; I long--I long to eat some more, but have not strength to try.

I gasp for breath, and now I know I've eaten far too much; Not one more crumb of all the feast before me can I touch. Susan, oh! Susan, ring the bell, and call for mother, dear, My brain swims round--I feel it all--mother, your child is queer!

THE IMAGINATIVE CRISIS.
PUNCH.

Oh, solitude! thou wonder-working fay, Come nurse my feeble fancy in your arms, Though I, and thee, and fancy town-pent lay, Come, call around, a world of country charms. Let all this room, these walls dissolve away, And bring me Surrey's fields to take their place: This floor be grass, and draughts as breezes play; Yon curtains trees, to wave in summer's face; My ceiling, sky; my water-jug a stream; My bed, a bank, on which to muse and dream. The spell is wrought: imagination swells My sleeping-room to hills, and woods, and dells! I walk abroad, for naught my footsteps hinder, And fling my arms. Oh! mi! I've broke the WINDER!

LINES TO BESSY. [BY A STUDENT AT LAW.] PUNCH.

My head is like a title-deed,
Or abstract of the same:
Wherein, my Bessy, thou may'st read
Thine own long-cherish'd name.

Against thee I my suit have brought,
I am thy plaintiff lover,
And for the heart that thou hast caught,
An action lies--of trover.

Alas, upon me every day
The heaviest costs you levy:
Oh, give me back my heart--but nay!
I feel I can't replevy.

I'll love thee with my latest breath,
Alas, I can not YOU shun,
Till the hard hand of SHERIFF death
Takes me in execution.

Say, BESSY dearest, if you will
Accept me as a lover?
Must true affection file a bill
The secret to discover?

Is it my income's small amount
That leads to hesitation?
Refer the question of account
To CUPID'S arbitration.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CLIENT.
PUNCH.

Oh! take away my wig and gown,
Their sight is mockery now to me.
I pace my chambers up and down,
Reiterating "Where is HE?"

Alas! wild echo, with a moan,
Murmurs above my feeble head:
In the wide world I am alone;
Ha! ha! my only client's--dead!

In vain the robing-room I seek;
The very waiters scarcely bow,
Their looks contemptuously speak,
"He's lost his only client now."

E'en the mild usher, who, of yore,
Would hasten when his name I said,
To hand in motions, comes no more,
HE knows my only client's dead.

Ne'er shall I, rising up in court,
Open the pleadings of a suit:
Ne'er shall the judges cut me short
While moving them for a compute.

No more with a consenting brief
Shall I politely bow my head;
Where shall I run to hide my grief?
Alas! my only client's dead.

Imagination's magic power
Brings back, as clear, as clear as can be,
The spot, the day, the very hour,
When first I sign'd my maiden plea.

In the Exchequer's hindmost row
I sat, and some one touched my head,
He tendered ten-and-six, but oh!
That only client now is dead.

In vain I try to sing--I'm hoarse:
In vain I try to play the flute,
A phantom seems to flit across--
It is the ghost of a compute.

I try to read,--but all in vain;
My chamber listlessly I tread;
Be still, my heart; throb less, my brain;
Ho! ho! my only client's dead.

I think I hear a double knock:
I did--alas! it is a dun.
Tailor--avaunt! my sense you shock;
He's dead! you know I had but one.

What's this they thrust into my hand?
A bill returned!--ten pounds for bread!
My butcher's got a large demand;
I'm mad! my only client's dead.

LOVE ON THE OCEAN.
PUNCH.

They met, 't was in a storm
On the deck of a steamer;
She spoke in language warm,
Like a sentimental dreamer.
He spoke--at least he tried;
His position he altered;
Then turned his face aside,
And his deep-ton'd voice falter'd.

She gazed upon the wave,
Sublime she declared it;
But no reply he gave--
He could not have dared it.
A breeze came from the south,
Across the billows sweeping;
His heart was in his mouth,
And out he thought 't was leaping.

"O, then, Steward!" he cried
With the deepest emotion;
Then totter'd to the side,
And leant o'er the ocean.
The world may think him cold,
But they'll pardon him with quickness,
When the fact they shall be told,
That he suffer'd from sea-sickness.

"OH! WILT THOU SEW MY BUTTONS ON?" [Footnote: "Wilt thou love me then as now" and "I will love thee then as now" were two popular songs in 1849] AND "YES, I WILL SEW THY BUTTONS ON!" PUNCH.

[Just at present no lyrics have so eclatant a succes de societe as the charming companion ballads which, under the above pathetic titles, have made a fureur in the fashionable circles to which the fair composer, to whom they are attributed in the causeries of May Fair and Belgravia (The HON. MRS. N--T--N), belongs. The touching event to which they refer, is the romantic union of the HON. MISS BL--CHE DE F--TZ--FL--M to C--PT--N DE B--RS, of the C-DS--M G--DS, which took the beau monde by surprise last season. Previous to the eclaircissement, the gifted and lovely composer, at a ball given by the distinguished D--CH--SS of S--TH--D, accidentally overheard the searching question of the gallant but penniless Captain, and the passionate and self- devoted answer of his lovely and universally admired fiancee. She instantly rushed home and produced these pathetic and powerful ballads.]

"Oh! wilt thou sew my buttons on,
When gayer scenes recall
That fairy face, that stately grace,
To reign amid the ball?
When Fulham's bowers their sweetest flowers
For fete-champetres shall don,
Oh! say, wilt thou, of queenly brow,
Still sew my buttons on?

"The noble, sweet, are at thy feet,
To meet a freezing eye;
The gay, the great, in camp and state,
In vain around thee sigh.
Thou turn'st away, in scorn of sway,
To bless a younger son--
But when we live in lodgings, say,
Wilt sew his buttons on?"

"Yes I will sew thy buttons on,
Though all look dark and drear;
And scant, they say, lieutenant's pay,
Two hundred pounds a year.
Let HOW'LL and JAMES tempt wealthier dames,
Of gauds and gems I'll none;
Nor ask to roam, but sit at home,
And sew thy buttons on!

"When ladies blush 'neath lusters' flush,
And fast the waltzers fly,
Though tame at tea I bide with thee,
No tear shall dim my eye.
When summer's close brings Chiswick shows--
When all from town have gone,
I'll sit me down, nor pout nor frown,
But sew thy buttons on!"

THE PAID BILL A BALLAD OF DOMESTIC ECONOMY. PUNCH O fling not this receipt away, Given by one who trusted thee; Mistakes will happen every day However honest folks may be. And sad it is, love, twice to pay; So cast not that receipt away!

Ah, yes; if e'er, in future hours, When we this bill have all forgot, They send it in again--ye powers! And swear that we have paid it not-- How sweet to know, on such a day We've never cast receipts away!

PARODY FOR A REFORMED PARLIAMENT.
PUNCH.

The quality of bribery is deep stained; It droppeth from a hand behind the door Into the voter's palm. It is twice dirty: It dirts both him that gives, and him that takes. 'Tis basest in the basest, and becomes Low blacklegs more than servants of the Crown. Those swindlers show the force of venal power, The attribute to trick and roguery, Whereby 'tis managed that a bad horse wins: But bribery is below their knavish "lay." It is the vilest of dishonest things; It was the attribute to Gatton's self; And other boroughs most like Gatton show When bribery smothers conscience. Therefore, you, Whose conscience takes the fee, consider this-- That in the cause of just reform, you all Should lose your franchise: we do dislike bribery; And that dislike doth cause us to object to The deeds of W. B.

THE WAITER.
PUNCH.

I met the waiter in his prime
At a magnificent hotel;
His hair, untinged by care or time,
Was oiled and brushed exceeding well.
When "waiter," was the impatient cry,
In accents growing stronger,
He seem'd to murmur "By and by,
Wait a little longer."

Within a year we met once more, 'Twas in another part of town-- An humbler air the waiter wore, I fancied he was going down. Still, when I shouted "Waiter, bread!" He came out rather stronger, As if he'd say with toss of head, "Wait a little longer."

Time takes us on through many a grace; Of "ups and downs" I've had my run, Passing full often through the shade And sometimes loitering in the sun. I and the waiter met again At a small inn at Ongar; Still, when I call'd, 't was almost vain-- He bade me wait the longer.

Another time--years since the last-- At eating-house I sought relief From present care and troubles past, In a small plate of round of beef. "One beef, and taturs," was the cry, In tones than mine much stronger; 'T was the old waiter standing by, "Waiting a little longer."

I've marked him now for many a year; I've seen his coat more rusty grow; His linen is less bright and clear, His polished pumps are on the go. Torn are, alas! his Berlin gloves-- They used to be much stronger, The waiter's whole appearance proves He can not wait much longer.

I sometimes see the waiter still; 'Gainst want he wages feeble strife; He's at the bottom of the hill, Downward has been his path through life. Of "waiter, waiter," there are cries, Which louder grow and stronger; 'Tis to old Time he now replies, "Wait a little longer."

THE LAST APPENDIX TO "YANKEE DOODLE."
PUNCH, 1851.

YANKEE DOODLE sent to Town
His goods for exhibition;
Every body ran him down,
And laugh'd at his position.
They thought him all the world behind;
A goney, muff, or noodle;
Laugh on, good people--never mind--
Says quiet YANKEE DOODLE.

Chorus.--YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

YANKEE DOODLE had a craft,
A rather tidy clipper,
And he challenged, while they laughed,
The Britishers to whip her.
Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped,
And that on their own water;
Of all the lot she went a-head,
And they came nowhere arter.

Chorus.--YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

O'er Panama there was a scheme
Long talk'd of, to pursue a
Short route--which many thought a dream--
By Lake Nicaragua.
JOHN BULL discussed the plan on foot,
With slow irresolution,
While YANKEE DOODLE went and put
It into execution.

Chorus.--YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

A steamer of the COLLINS line,
A YANKEE DOODLE'S notion,
Has also quickest cut the brine
Across the Atlantic Ocean.
And British agents, no ways slow
Her merits to discover,
Have been and bought her--just to tow
The CUNARD packets over.

CHORUS.--YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack,
But that again don't mention:
I guess that COLTS' revolvers whack
Their very first invention.
By YANKEE DOODLE, too, you're beat
Downright in Agriculture,
With his machine for reaping wheat,
Chaw'd up as by a vulture.

CHORUS.--YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

You also fancied, in your pride,
Which truly is tarnation,
Them British locks of yourn defied
The rogues of all creation;
But CHUBBS' and BRAMAH'S HOBBS has pick'd,
And you must now be view'd all
As having been completely licked
By glorious YANKEE DOODLE.

CHORUS.--YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

LINES FOR MUSIC.
PUNCH.

Come strike me the harp with its soul-stirring twang, The drum shall reply with its hollowest bang; Up, up in the air with the light tamborine, And let the dull ophecleide's groan intervene; For such is our life, lads, a chaos of sounds, Through which the gay traveler actively bounds. With the voice of the public the statesman must chime, And change the key-note, boys, exactly in time; The lawyer will coolly his client survey, As an instrument merely whereon he can play. Then harp, drum, and cymbals together shall clang, With a loud-tooral lira, right tooral, bang, bang!

DRAMA FOR EVERY-DAY LIFE. LUDGATE HILL.--A MYSTERY. PUNCH.

MR. MEADOWS . . . . A Country Gentleman. PRIGWELL . . . . . With a heavy heart and light fingers. BROWN . . . . . . . Friends of each other. JONES . . . . . . . Friends of each other. BLIND VOCALIST . . Who will attempt the song of "Hey the Bonny Breast Knot."

The Scene represents Ludgate Hill in the middle of the day; Passengers, Omnibuses, etc., etc., passing to and fro.

MEADOWS enters, musing.

MEADOWS. I stand at last on Ludgate's famous hill; I've traversed Farringdon's frequented vale, I've quitted Holborn's heights--the slopes of Snow, Where Skinner's sinuous street, with tortuous track, Trepans the traveler toward the field of Smith; That field, whose scents burst on the offended nose With foulest flavor, while the thrice shocked ear, Thrice shocked with bellowing blasphemy and blows, Making one compound of Satanic sound, Is stunned, in physical and moral sense. But this is Ludgate Hill--here commerce thrives; Here, merchants carry trade to such a height That competition, bursting builders' bonds, Starts from the shop, and rushing through the roof, Unites the basement with the floors above; Till, like a giant, that outgrows his strength, The whole concern, struck with abrupt collapse, In one "tremendous failure" totters down!-- 'Tis food on which philosophy may fatten. [Turns round, musing, and looks into a shop window

Enter PRIGWELL, talking to himself.

PRIGWELL. I've made a sorry day of it thus far; I've fathomed fifty pockets, all in vain; I've spent in omnibuses half-a-crown; I've ransacked forty female reticules-- And nothing found--some business must be done. By Jove--I'd rather turn Lascar at once: Allow the walnut's devastating juice To track its inky course along my cheek, And stain my British brow with Indian brown. Or, failing that, I'd rather drape myself In cheap white cotton, or gay colored chintz-- Hang roung my ear the massive curtain-ring-- With strings of bold, effective glassy beads Circle my neck--and play the Brahmin Priest, To win the sympathy of passing crowds, And melt the silver in the stranger's purse. But ah! (SEEING MEADOWS) the land of promise looms before me The bulging skirts of that provincial coat Tell tales of well-filled pocket-books within. [Goes behind Meadows and empties his pockets

This is indeed a prize!
[Meadows turns suddenly round,

Your pardon, sir;
Is this, the way to Newgate?

MEADOWS. Why, indeed I scarce can say; I'm but a stranger here, I should not like to misdirect you.

PRIGWELL. Thank you, I'll find the way to Newgate by myself. [Exit.

MEADOWS (STILL MUSING). This is indeed a great Metropolis.

ENTER BLIND VOCALIST.

BLIND VOCALIST (SINGING). Hey, the bonny! (KNOCKS UP AGAINST MEADOWS, WHO EXIT). Ho! the bonny--(A PASSENGER KNOCKS UP AGAINST THE BLIND VOCALIST ON THE OTHER SIDE). Hey, the bonny--(A BUTCHER'S TRAY STRIKES THE BLIND VOCALIST IN THE CHEST)--breast knot. AS HE CONTINUES SINGING "HEY, THE BONNY! HO, THE BONNY," THE BLIND VOCALIST ENCOUNTERS VARIOUS COLLISIONS, AND HIS BREATH BEING TAKEN AWAY BY A POKE OR A PUSH BETWEEN EACH BAR, HE IS CARRIED AWAY BY THE STREAM OF PASSENGERS.

ENTER BROWN AND JONES. MEETING, THEY STOP AND SHAKE HANDS MOST CORDIALLY FOR SEVERAL MINUTES.

BROWN. How are you, JONES?

JONES. Why, BROWN, I do declare 'Tis quite an age since you and I have met.

BROWN. I'm quite delighted.

JONES. I'm extremely glad.
[An awkward pause

BROWN. Well! and how are you?

JONES. Thank you, very well; And you, I hope are well?

BROWN. Quite well, I thank you.
[Another awkward pause.

JONES. Oh!--by the way--have you seen THOMSON lately?

BROWN. Not very lately. (After a pause, and as if struck with a happy idea). But I met with SMITH-- A week ago.

JONES. Oh! did you though, indeed? And how was SMITH?

Brown. Why, he seemed pretty well [Another long pause; at the end of which both appear as if they were going to speak to each other.

JONES. I beg your pardon.

SMITH. You were going to speak?

JONES. Oh! nothing. I was only going to say-- Good morning.

SMITH. Oh! and so was I. Good-day.
[Both shake hands, and are going off in opposite directions,
when Smith turns round. Jones turning round at the same
time they both return and look at each other.

JONES. I thought you wished to speak, by looking back.

BROWN. Oh no. I thought the same.

BOTH TOGETHER. Good-by! Good-by! [Exeunt finally; and the conversation and the curtain drop together.

PROCLIVIOR. (A slight Variation on LONGFELLOW'S "EXCELSIOR.") PUNCH.

The shades of night were falling fast, As tow'rd the Haymarket there pass'd A youth, whose look told in a trice That his taste chose the queer device-- PROCLIVIOR!

His hat, a wide-awake; beneath He tapp'd a cane against his teeth; His eye was bloodshot, and there rung, Midst scraps of slang, in unknown tongue, PROCLIVIOR!

In calm first-floors he saw the light Of circles cosy for the night; But far ahead the gas-lamps glow; He turn'd his head, and murmur'd "Slow," PROCLIVIOR!

"Come early home," his Uncle said, "We all are early off to bed; The family blame you far and wide;" But loud that noisy youth replied-- PROCLIVIOR!

"Stay," said his Aunt, "come home to sup, Early retire--get early up." A wink half quivered in his eye; He answered to the old dame's sigh-- PROCLIVIOR!

"Mind how you meddle with that lamp! And mind the pavement, for it's damp!" Such was the Peeler's last good-night A faint voice stutter'd out "All right." PROCLIVIOR!

At break of day, as far West-ward A cab roll'd o'er the highways hard, The early mover stopp'd to stare At the wild shouting of the fare-- PROCLIVIOR!

And by the bailiff's faithful hound, At breakfast-time, a youth was found, Upon three chairs, with aspect nice, True to his young life's queer device, PROCLIVIOR!

Thence, on a dull and muggy day, They bore him to the Bench away, And there for several months he lay, While friends speak gravely as they say-- PROCLIVIOR!

JONES AT THE BARBER'S SHOP.
PUNCH.

SCENE.--A Barber's Shop. Barber's men engaged in cutting hair, making wigs, and other barberesque operations.

Enter JONES, meeting OILY the barber.

JONES. I wish my hair cut.

OILY. Pray, sir, take a seat.

OILY puts a chair for JONES, who sits. During the following dialogue OILY continues cutting JONES'S hair.

OILY. We've had much wet, sir.

JONES. Very much, indeed.

OILY. And yet November's early days were fine.

JONES. They were.

OILY. I hoped fair weather might have lasted us
Until the end.

JONES. At one time--so did I.

OILY. But we have had it very wet.

JONES. We have.

[A pause of some minutes.

OILY. I know not, sir, who cut your hair last time; But this I say, sir, it was badly cut: No doubt 't was in the country.

JONES. No! in town!

OILY. Indeed! I should have fancied otherwise.

JONES. 'Twas cut in town--and in this very room.

OILY. Amazement!--but I now remember well. We had an awkward, new provincial hand, A fellow from the country. Sir, he did More damage to my business in a week Than all my skill can in a year repair. He must have cut your hair.

JONES (looking at him). No--'twas yourself.

OILY. Myself! Impossible! You must mistake.

JONES. I don't mistake--'twas you that cut my hair.

[A long pause, interrupted only by the clipping of the scissors.

OILY. Your hair is very dry, sir.

JONES. Oh! indeed.

OILY. Our Vegetable Extract moistens it.

JONES. I like it dry.

OILY. But, sir, the hair when dry.

Turns quickly gray.

JONES. That color I prefer,

OILY. But hair, when gray, will rapidly fall off,
And baldness will ensue.

JONES. I would be bald.

OILY. Perhaps you mean to say you'd like a wig.-- We've wigs so natural they can't be told From real hair.

JONES. Deception I detest.

[Another pause ensues, during which OILY blows down JONES'S neck, and relieves him from the linen wrapper in which he has been enveloped during the process of hair-cutting.

OILY. We've brushes, soaps, and scent, of every kind.

JONES. I see you have. (Pays 6d.) I think you'll find that
right.
OILY. If there is nothing I can show you, sir,

JONES. No: nothing. Yet--there may be something, too,
That you may show me.

OILY. Name it, sir.

JONES. The door.

[EXIT JONES. OILY (to his man). That's a rum customer at any rate. Had I cut him as short as he cut me, How little hair upon his head would be! But if kind friends will all our pains requite, We'll hope for better luck another night.

[Shop-bell rings and curtain falls.

THE SATED ONE. [IMPROMPTU AFTER CHRISTMAS DINNER.] PUNCH.

It may not be--go maidens, go, Nor tempt me to the mistletoe; I once could dance beneath its bough, But must not, will not, can not, now!

A weight--a load within I bear; It is not madness nor despair; But I require to be at rest, So that my burden may-digest!

SAPPHICS OF THE CABSTAND [Footnote: See The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder] PUNCH.

FRIEND OF SELF-GOVERNMENT.

Seedy Cab-driver, whither art thou going? Sad is thy fate--reduced to law and order, Local self-government yielding to the gripe of Centralization.

Victim of FITZROY! little think the M.P.s, Lording it o'er cab, 'bus, lodging-house, and grave-yard, Of the good times when every Anglo Saxon's House was his castle.

Say, hapless sufferer, was it Mr. CHADWICK-- Underground foe to the British Constitution-- Or my LORD SHAFTESBURY, put up MR. FITZROY Thus to assail you?

Was it the growth of Continental notions, Or was it the Metropolitan police-force Prompted this blow at Laissez-faire, that free and Easiest of doctrines?

Have you not read Mr. TOULMIN SMITH'S great work on Centralization? If you haven't, buy it; Meanwhile I should be glad at once to hear your View on the subject.

CAB-DRIVER.

View on the subject? jiggered if I've got one; Only I wants no centrylisin', I don't-- Which I suppose it's a crusher standin' sentry Hover a cabstand.

Whereby if we gives e'er a word o' cheek to Parties as rides, they pulls us up like winkin'-- And them there blessed beaks is down upon us Dead as an 'ammer! As for Mr. TOULMIN SMITH, can't say I knows him-- But as you talks so werry like a gem'man, Perhaps you're goin in 'ansome style to stand a Shillin' a mile, sir?

FRIEND OF SELF--GOVERNMENT.

I give a shilling? I will see thee hanged first-- Sixpence a mile--or drive me straight to Bow-street-- Idle, ill-mannered, dissipated, dirty, Insolent rascal!

JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND. [Footnote: In this poem the Scottish words and phrases are all ludicrously misapplied] [AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BURNS.] COMMUNICATED BY THE EDINBURG SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CIVILIZATION IN ENGLAND PUNCH.

O mickle yeuks the keckle doup, An' a' unsicker girns the graith, For wae and wae the crowdies loup O'er jouk an' hallan, braw an' baith. Where ance the coggie hirpled fair, And blithesome poortith toomed the loof There's nae a burnie giglet rare But blaws in ilka jinking coof.

The routhie bield that gars the gear Is gone where glint the pawky een. And aye the stound is birkin lear Where sconnered yowies wheepen yestreen. The creeshie rax wi' skelpin' kaes Nae mair the howdie bicker whangs, Nor weanies in their wee bit claes Glour light as lammies wi' their sangs.

Yet leeze me on my bonnie byke! My drappie aiblins blinks the noo, An' leesome luve has lapt the dyke Forgatherin' just a wee bit fou. And SCOTIA! while thy rantin' lunt Is mirk and moop with gowans fine, I'll stowlins pit my unco brunt, An' cleek my duds for auld lang syne.

THE POETICAL COOKERY-BOOK. PUNCH THE STEAK. Air.--"The Sea."

Of Steak--of Steak--of prime Rump Steak-- A slice of half-inch thickness take, Without a blemish, soft and sound; In weight a little more than a pound. Who'd cook a Stake--who'd cook a Steak-- Must a fire clear proceed to make: With the red above and the red below, In one delicious genial glow. If a coal should come, a blaze to make, Have patience! You mustn't put on your Steak.

First rub--yes, rub--with suet fat, The gridiron's bars, then on it flat Impose the meat; and the fire soon Will make it sing a delicious tune. And when 'tis brown'd by the genial glow, Just turn the upper side below. Both sides with brown being cover'd o'er, For a moment you broil your Steak no more, But on a hot dish let it rest, And add of butter a slice of the best; In a minute or two the pepper-box take, And with it gently dredge your Steak.

When seasoned quite, upon the fire Some further time it will require; And over and over be sure to turn Your Steak till done--nor let it burn; For nothing drives me half so wild As a nice Rump Steak in the cooking spiled. I've lived in pleasure mixed with grief, On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef, With plenty of cash, and power to range, But my Steak I never wished to change: For a Steak was always a treat to me, At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea.

ROASTED SUCKING-PIG. AIR--"Scots wha has."

Cooks who'd roast a Sucking-pig, Purchase one not over big; Coarse ones are not worth a fig; So a young one buy. See that he is scalded well (That is done by those who sell), Therefore on that point to dwell, Were absurdity.

Sage and bread, mix just enough, Salt and pepper quantum suff., And the Pig's interior stuff, With the whole combined. To a fire that's rather high, Lay it till completely dry; Then to every part apply Cloth, with butter lined.

Dredge with flour o'er and o'er, Till the Pig will hold no more; Then do nothing else before 'Tis for serving fit. Then scrape off the flour with care; Then a butter'd cloth prepare; Rub it well; then cut--not tear-- Off the head of it.

Then take out and mix the brains With the gravy it contains; While it on the spit remains, Cut the Pig in two. Chop the sage, and chop the bread Fine as very finest shred; O'er it melted butter spread-- Stinginess won't do.

When it in the dish appears, Garnish with the jaws and ears; And when dinner-hour nears, Ready let it be. Who can offer such a dish May dispense with fowl and fish; And if he a guest should wish, Let him send for me!

BEIGNET DE POMME. AIR--"Home, Sweet Home."

'Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam, On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme. Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share, And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!

A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain, If you stir not the mixture again and again; Some beer, just to thin it, may into it fall; Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!

Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice, And cut out the cores--if you 'll take my advice; Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam, And you'll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme. Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme! Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!

CHERRY PIE. AIR--"Cherry Ripe."

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry, Kentish cherries you may buy. If so be you ask me where To put the fruit, I'll answer "There!" In the dish your fruit must lie, When you make your Cherry Pie. Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! etc.

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry, Full and fair ones mind you buy Whereabouts the crust should go, Any fool, of course will know; In the midst a cup may lie, When you make your Cherry Pie. Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! etc.

DEVILED BISCUIT. AIR--"A Temple of Friendship."

"A nice Devil'd Biscuit," said JENKINS enchanted,
"I'll have after dinner--the thought is divine!"
The biscuit was bought, and he now only wanted--
To fully enjoy it--a glass of good wine.
He flew to the pepper, and sat down before it,
And at peppering the well-butter'd biscuit he went;
Then, some cheese in a paste mix'd with mustard spread o'er it
And down to be grill'd to the kitchen 'twas sent.

"Oh! how," said the Cook, "can I this think of grilling,
When common the pepper? the whole will be flat.
But here's the Cayenne; if my master is willing,
I'll make, if he pleases, a devil with that."
So the Footman ran up with the Cook's observation
To JENKINS, who gave him a terrible look:
"Oh, go to the devil!" forgetting his station,
Was the answer that JENKINS sent down to the Cook.

RED HERRINGS. AIR--"Meet Me By Moonlight."

Meet me at breakfast alone,
And then I will give you a dish
Which really deserves to be known,
Though it's not the genteelest of fish.
You must promise to come, for I said
A splendid Red Herring I'd buy--
Nay, turn not away your proud head;
You'll like it, I know, when you try.

If moisture the Herring betray,
Drain, till from moisture 'tis free;
Warm it through in the usual way,
Then serve it for you and for me.
A piece of cold butter prepare,
To rub it when ready it lies;
Egg-sauce and potatoes don't spare,
And the flavor will cause you surprise

IRISH STEW. AIR--"Happy Land."

Irish stew, Irish stew!
Whatever else my dinner be,
Once again, once again,
I'd have a dish of thee.

Mutton chops, and onion slice,
Let the water cover,
With potatoes, fresh and nice;
Boil, but not quite over,
Irish stew, Irish stew!
Ne'er from thee, my taste will stray.
I could eat
Such a treat
Nearly every day.
La, la, la, la!

BARLEY BROTH. Air--"The King, God bless him!"

A basin of Barley Broth make, make for me;
Give those who prefer it, the plain:
No matter the broth, so of barley it be,
If we ne'er taste a basin again.
For, oh I when three pounds of good mutton you buy,
And of most of its fat dispossess it,
In a stewpan uncover'd, at first, let it lie;
Then in water proceed to dress it.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
In a stewpan uncover'd, at first, let it lie;
Then in water proceed to dress it.

What a teacup will hold--you should first have been told--
Of barley you gently should boil;
The pearl-barley choose--'tis the nicest that's sold--
All others the mixture might spoil.
Of carrots and turnips, small onions, green peas
(If the price of the last don't distress one),
Mix plenty; and boil altogether with these
Your basin of Broth when you dress one.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Two hours together the articles boil;
There's your basin of Broth, if you'd dress one.

CALF'S HEART. Air--"Maid of Athens, ere we part."

Maid of all work, as a part Of my dinner, cook a heart; Or, since such a dish is best, Give me that, and leave the rest. Take my orders, ere I go; Heart of calf we'll cook thee so.

Buy--to price you're not confined-- Such a heart as suits your mind: Buy some suet--and enough Of the herbs required to stuff; Buy some le non-peel--and, oh! Heart of calf, we'll fill thee so.

Buy some onions--just a taste-- Buy enough, but not to waste; Buy two eggs of slender shell Mix, and stir the mixture well; Crumbs of bread among it throw; Heart of calf we'll roast thee so. Maid of all work, when 'tis done, Serve it up to me alone: Rich brown gravy round it roll, Marred by no intruding coal; Currant jelly add--and lo! Heart of calf, I'll eat thee so.

THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING. AIR--"Jeannette and Jeannott."

If you wish to make a pudding in which every one delights, Of a dozen new-laid eggs you must take the yolks and whites; Beat them well up in a basin till they thoroughly combine, And shred and chop some suet particularly fine;

Take a pound of well-stoned raisins, and a pound of currants dried, A pound of pounded sugar, and a pound of peel beside; Stir them all well up together with a pound of wheaten flour, And let them stand and settle for a quarter of an hour;

Then tie the pudding in a cloth, and put it in the pot,-- Some people like the water cold, and some prefer it hot; But though I don't know which of these two methods I should praise, I know it ought to boil an hour for every pound it weighs.

Oh! if I were Queen of France, or, still better, Pope of Rome, I'd have a Christmas pudding every day I dined at home; And as for other puddings whatever they might be, Why those who like the nasty things should eat them all for me.

APPLE PIE. AIR-"All that's bright must fade."

All new dishes fade--
The newest oft the fleetest;
Of all the pies now made,
The Apple's still the sweetest;
Cut and come again,
The syrup upward springing!
While my life and taste remain,
To thee my heart is clinging.
Other dainties fade--
The newest oft the fleetest;
But of all the pies now made,
The Apple's still the sweetest.

Who absurdly buys
Fruit not worth the baking?
Who wastes crust on pies
That do not pay for making?
Better far to be
An Apple Tartlet buying,
Than to make one at home, and see
On it there's no relying:
That all must be weigh'd,
When thyself thou treatest--
Still a pie home-made
Is, after all, the sweetest.

Who a pie would make,
First his apple slices;
Then he ought to take
Some cloves--the best of spices:
Grate some lemon rind,
Butter add discreetly;
Then some sugar mix--but mind
The pie's not made too sweetly.
Every pie that's made
With sugar, is completest;
But moderation should pervade--
Too sweet is not the sweetest.

Who would tone impart,
Must--if my word is trusted--
Add to his pie or tart
A glass of port--old crusted
If a man of taste,
He, complete to make it,
In the very finest paste
Will inclose and bake it.
Pies have each their grade;
But, when this thou eatest,
Of all that e'er were made,
You'll say 'tis best and sweetest.

LOBSTER SALAD. AIR-"Blue Bonnets Over The Border."

Take, take, lobsters and lettuces;
Mind that they send you the fish that you order:
Take, take, a decent-sized salad bowl,
One that's sufficiently deep in the border.
Cut into many a slice
All of the fish that's nice,
Place in the bowl with due neatness and order:
Then hard-boil'd eggs you may
Add in a neat array
All round the bowl, just by way of a border.

Take from the cellar of salt a proportion:
Take from the castors both pepper and oil,
With vinegar, too--but a moderate portion--
Too much of acid your salad will spoil.
Mix them together,
You need not mind whether
You blend them exactly in apple-pie order;
But when you've stirr'd away,
Mix up the whole you may--
All but the eggs, which are used as a border.

Take, take, plenty of seasoning;
A teaspoon of parsley that's chopp'd in small pieces:
Though, though, the point will bear reasoning,
A small taste of onion the flavor increases.
As the sauce curdle may,
Should it: the process stay,
Patiently do it again in due order;
For, if you chance to spoil
Vinegar, eggs, and oil,
Still to proceed would on lunacy border.

STEWED STEAK AIR--"Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed."

Had I pound of tender Steak,
I'd use it for a stew;
And if the dish you would partake,
I'll tell you what to do.
Into a stew-pan, clean and neat,
Some butter should be flung:
And with it stew your pound of meat,
A tender piece--but young.

And when you find the juice express'd
By culinary art,
To draw the gravy off, were best,
And let it stand apart.
Then, lady, if you'd have a treat,
Be sure you can't be wrong
To put more butter to your meat,
Nor let it stew too long.

And when the steak is nicely done,
To take it off were best;
And gently let it fry alone,
Without the sauce or zest;
Then add the gravy--with of wine
A spoonful in it flung;
And a shalot cut very fine--
Let the shalot be young.

And when the whole has been combined,
More stewing 't will require;
Ten minutes will suffice--but mind
Don't have too quick a fire.
Then serve it up--'t will form a treat!
Nor fear you've cook'd it wrong;
GOURMETS in all the old 't will meet,
And GOURMANDS in the young.

GREEN PEA SOUP. AIR--"The Ivy Green." Oh! a splendid Soup is the true Pea Green I for it often call; And up it comes in a smart tureen, When I dine in my banquet hall. When a leg of mutton at home is boil'd, The liquor I always keep, And in that liquor (before 'tis spoil'd) A peck of peas I steep. When boil'd till tender they have been, I rub through a sieve the peas so green.

Though the trouble the indolent may shock, I rub with all my power; And having return'd them to the stock, I stew them for more than an hour; Then of younger peas I take some more, The mixture to improve, Thrown in a little time before The soup from the fire I move. Then seldom a better soup is seen, Than the old familiar soup Pea Green.

Since first I began my household career, How many my dishes have been! But the one that digestion never need fear, Is the simple old soup Pea Green. The giblet may tire, the gravy pall, And the turtle lose its charm; But the Green Pea triumphs over them all, And does not the slightest harm. Smoking hot in a smart tureen, A rare soup is the true Pea Green!

TRIFLE. AIR--"The Meeting of the Waters."

There's not in the wide world so tempting a sweet As that Trifle where custard and macaroons meet; Oh! the latest sweet tooth from my head must depart Ere the taste of that Trifle shall not win my heart.

Yet it is not the sugar that's thrown in between, Nor the peel of the lemon so candied and green; 'Tis not the rich cream that's whipp'd up by a mill: Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.

'Tis that nice macaroons in the dish I have laid, Of which a delicious foundation is made; And you'll find how the last will in flavor improve, When soak'd with the wine that you pour in above.

Sweet PLATEAU of Trifle! how great is my zest For thee, when spread o'er with the jam I love best, When the cream white of eggs--to be over thee thrown, With a whisk kept on purpose--is mingled in one!

MUTTON CHOPS. AIR--"Come dwell with me."

Come dine with me, come dine with me, And our dish shall be, our dish shall be, A Mutton Chop from the butcher's shop-- And how I cook it you shall see. The Chop I choose is not too lean; For to cut off the fat I mean. Then to the fire I put it down, And let it fry until 'tis brown. Come dine with me; yes, dine with me, etc.

I'll fry some bread cut rather fine, To place betwixt each chop of mine; Some spinach, or some cauliflowers, May ornament this dish of ours. I will not let thee once repine At having come with me to dine: 'T will be my pride to hear thee say, "I have enjoy'd my Chop, to-day." Come, dine with me; yes, dine with me; Dine, dine, dine, with me, etc.

BARLEY WATER. AIR--"On the Banks of Allan Water."

For a jug of Barley Water
Take a saucepan not too small;
Give it to your wife or daughter,
If within your call.
If her duty you have taught her,
Very willing each will be
To prepare some Barley Water
Cheerfully for thee.

For a jug of Barley Water,
Half a gallon, less or more,
From the filter that you bought her,
Ask your wife to pour.
When a saucepan you have brought her
Polish'd bright as bright can be,
In it empty all the water,
Either you or she.

For your jug of Barley Water
('Tis a drink by no means bad),
Some two ounces and a quarter
Of pearl barley add.
When 'tis boiling, let your daughter
Skim from blacks to keep it free;
Added to your Barley Water
Lemon rind should be.

For your jug of Barley Water
(I have made it very oft),
It must boil, so tell your daughter,
Till the barley's soft.
Juice of a small lemon's quarter
Add; then sweeten all like tea;
Strain through sieve your Barley Water--
'Twill delicious be.

BOILED CHICKEN. AIR--"Norah Creina."

Lesbia hath a fowl to cook;
But, being anxious not to spoil it,
Searches anxiously our book,
For how to roast, and how to boil it.
Sweet it is to dine upon--
Quite alone, when small its size is;--
And, when cleverly 'tis done,
Its delicacy quite surprises. Oh! my tender pullet dear!
My boiled--not roasted--tender Chicken;
I can wish
No other dish,
With thee supplied, my tender Chicken!

Lesbia, take some water cold,
And having on the fire placed it,
And some butter, and be bold--
When 'tis hot enough--taste it.
Oh! the Chicken meant for me
Boil before the fire grows dimmer,
Twenty minutes let it be
In the saucepan left to simmer.
Oh, my tender Chicken dear!
My boil'd, delicious, tender Chicken!
Rub the breast
(To give a zest)
With lemon-juice, my tender Chicken.