The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 1, July 24, 1841, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 1, July 24, 1841 Author: Various Release Date: February 7, 2005 [EBook #14920] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH *** Produced by Syamanta Saikia, Jon Ingram, Barbara Tozier and the PG Online Distributed Proofreading Team PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOL. 1. JULY 24, 1841. A MODEST METHOD OF FORMING A NEW BUDGET SO AS TO PROVIDE FOR THE DEFICIENCY OF THE REVENUE. oor Mr. Dyer! And so this gentleman has been dismissed from the commission of the peace for humanely endeavouring to obtain the release of Medhurst from confinement. Two or three thousand pounds, he thought, given to some public charity, might persuade the Home Secretary to remit the remainder of his sentence, and dispose the public to look upon the prisoner with an indulgent eye. Now, Mr. Punch, incline thy head, and let me whisper a secret into thine ear. If the Whig ministry had not gone downright mad with the result of the elections, instead of dismissing delectable Dyer, they would have had him down upon the Pension List to such a tune as you wot not of, although of tunes you are most curiously excellent. For, oh! what a project did he unwittingly shadow forth of recruiting the exhausted budget! Such a one as a sane Chancellor of the Exchequer would have seized upon, and shaken in the face of “Robert the Devil,” and his crew of “odious monopolists.” Peel must still have pined in hopeless opposition, when Baring opened his plan. Listen! Mandeville wrote a book, entitled “Private Vices Public Benefits.” Why cannot public crimes, let me ask, be made so? you, perhaps, are not on the instant prepared with an answer—but I am. Let the Chancellor of the Exchequer forthwith prepare to discharge all the criminals in Great Britain, of whatever description, from her respective prisons, on the payment of a certain sum, to be regulated on the principle of a graduated or “sliding scale.” A vast sum will be thus instantaneously raised,—not enough, however, you will say, to supply the deficiency. I know it. But a moment’s further attention. Mr. Goulburn, many years since, being then Chancellor of the Exchequer, and, like brother Baring, in a financial hobble, proposed that on the payment, three years in advance, of the dog and hair-powder tax, all parties so handsomely coming down with the “tin,” should henceforth and for ever rejoice in duty-free dog, and enjoy untaxed cranium. Now, why not a proposition to this effect—that on the payment of a good round sum (let it be pretty large, for the ready is required), a man shall be exempt from the present legal consequences of any crime or crimes he may hereafter commit; or, if this be thought an extravagant scheme, and not likely to take with the public, at least let a list of prices be drawn up, that a man may know, at a glance, at what cost he may gratify a pet crime or [pg 13] favourite little foible. Thus:— For cutting one’s own child’s head off—so much. (I really think I would fix this at a high price, although I am well aware it has been done for nothing.) For murdering a father or a mother—a good sum. For ditto, a grand ditto, or a great-grand ditto—not so much: their leases, it is presumed, being about to fall in. Uncles, aunts, cousins, friends, companions, and the community in general—in proportion. The cost of assaults and batteries, and other diversions, might be easily arranged; only I must remark, that for assaulting policemen I would charge high; that being, like the Italian Opera, for the most part, the entertainment of the nobility. You may object that the propounding such a scheme would be discreditable, and that the thing is unprecedented. Reflect, my dear PUNCH, for an instant. Surely, nothing can be deemed to be discreditable by a Whig government, after the cheap sugar, cheap timber, cheap bread rigs. Why, this is just what might have been expected from them. I wonder they had not hit upon it. How it would have “agitated the masses!” As to the want of a precedent, that is easily supplied. Pardons for all sorts and sizes of crimes were commonly bought and sold in the reign of James I.; nay, pardon granted in anticipation of crimes to be at a future time committed. After all, you see, Mr. Dyer’s idea was not altogether original. Your affectionate friend, CHRISTOPHER SLY. Pump Court. P.S.—Permit me to congratulate you on the determination you have come to, of entering the literary world. Your modesty may be alarmed, but I must tell you that several of our “popular and talented” authors are commonly thought to be greatly indebted to you. They are said to derive valuable hints from you, particularly in their management of the pathetic. Keep a strict eye upon your wife, Judith. You say she will superintend your notices of the fashions, &c.; but I fear she has been already too long and exclusively employed on certain newspapers and other periodicals. Her style is not easily mistaken. WHIG-WAGGERIES. The Whigs must go: to reign instead The Tories will be call’d; The Whigs should ne’er be at the head— Dear me, I’m getting bald! The Whigs! they pass’d that Poor Law Bill; That’s true, beyond a doubt; The poor they’ve treated very ill— There, kick that beggar out! The Whigs about the sugar prate! They do not care one dump About the blacks and their sad state— Just please to pass the lump! Those niggers, for their sufferings here, Will angels be when dying; Have wings, and flit above us—dear— Why, how those blacks are flying! The Whigs are in a state forlorn; In fact, were ne’er so low: They make a fuss about the corn— My love, you’re on my toe! The Whigs the timber duty say They will bring down a peg; More wooden-pated blockheads they! Fetch me my wooden leg! COURT CIRCULAR. Deaf Burke took an airing yesterday afternoon in an open cart. He was accompanied by Jerry Donovan. They afterwards stood up out of the rain under the piazzas in Covent Garden. In the evening they walked through the slops. The dinner at the Harp, yesterday, was composed of many delicacies of the season, including bread-and-cheese and onions. The hilarity of the evening was highly increased by the admirable style in which Signor Jonesi sang “Nix my dolly pals.” Despatches yesterday arrived at the house of Reuben Martin, enclosing a post order for three-and six-pence. The Signor and Deaf Burke walked out at five o’clock. They after wards tossed for a pint of half-and-half. Jerry Donovan and Bill Paul were seen in close conversation yesterday. It is rumoured that the former is in treaty with the latter for a pair of left-off six-and-eightpenny Clarences. Paddy Green intends shortly to remove to a three-pair back-room in Little Wild-street, Drury-lane, which he has taken for the summer. His loss will be much felt in the neighbourhood. AN AN-TEA ANACREONTIC.—No. 2. Rundell! pride of Ludgate Hill! I would task thine utmost skill; I would have a bowl from thee Fit to hold my Howqua tea. And oh! leave it not without Ivory handle and a spout. Where thy curious hand must trace Father Mathew’s temperate face, So that he may ever seem Spouting tea and breathing steam. On its sides do not display Fawns and laughing nymphs at play But portray, instead of these, Funny groups of fat Chinese: On its lid a mandarin, Modelled to resemble Lin. When completed, artisan, I will pay you—if I can. SPORTING. THE KNOCKER HUNT. On Thursday, July 8, 1841, the celebrated pack of Knocker Boys met at the Cavendish, in Jermyn Street. These animals, which have acquired for themselves a celebrity as undying as that of Tom and Jerry, are of a fine powerful breed, and in excellent condition. The success which invariably attends them must be highly gratifying to the distinguished nobleman who, if he did not introduce this particular species into the metropolis, has at least done much to bring it to its present extraordinary state of perfection. As there may be some of our readers who are ignorant of the purposes for which this invaluable pack has been organised, it may be as well to state a few particulars, before proceeding to the detail of one of the most splendid nights upon record in the annals of disorderism. The knocker is a thing which is generally composed of brass or iron. It has frequently a violent resemblance to the “human face divine,” or the ravenous expressiveness of a beast of prey. It assumes a variety of phases under peculiar vinous influences. A gentleman, in whose veracity and experience we have the most unlimited confidence, for a series of years kept an account of the phenomena of his own knocker; and by his permission the following extracts are now submitted to the public:— 1840. [pg 14] Nov. 12—Dined with Captain ——. Capital spread—exquisite liqueurs—magnificent wines— unparalleled cigars—drank my four bottles—should have made it five, but found I had eaten something which disagreed with me—Home at four. State of Knocker.—Jumping up and down the surface of the door like a rope dancer, occasionally diverging into a zig-zag, the key-hole partaking of the same eccentricities. Nov. 13.—Supped with Charley B——. Brandy, genuine cognac—Cigars principè. ESTIMATED CONSUMPTION: brandy and water, eighteen glasses—cigars, two dozen—porter with a cabman, two pots. State of Knocker.—Peripatetic—moved from our house to the next—remained till it roused the family— returned to its own door, and became duplicated—wouldn’t wake the house-porter till five. N.B. Found I had used my own thumb for a sounding-plate, and had bruised my nail awfully. Nov. 14.—Devoted the day to soda-water and my tailor’s bill—gave a draught for the amount, and took another on my own account. Nov. 15.—Lectured by the “governor”—left the house savage—met the Marquess—got very drunk unconsciously—fancied myself a merman, and that the gutter in the Haymarket was the Archipelago— grew preposterous, and felt that I should like to be run over—thought I was waltzing with Cerito, but found I was being carried on a stretcher to the station-house—somebody sent somewhere for bail, and somebody bailed me. State of Knocker.—Very indistinct—then became uncommonly like the “governor” in his nightcap —could NOT reach it—presume it was filial affection that prevented me—knocked of its own accord, no doubt agitated by sympathy—reverberated in my ears all night, and left me with a confounded head-ache in the morning. The above examples are sufficient to show the variability of this singular article. Formerly the knocker was devoted entirely to the menial occupation of announcing, by a single dab, or a variation of raps, the desire of persons on the door-step to communicate with the occupants of the interior of a mansion. Modern genius has elevated it into a source of refined pleasure and practical humour, affording at the same time employment to the artisan, excitement to the gentleman, and broken heads and dislocations of every variety to the police! We will now proceed to the details of an event which PUNCH alone is worthy to record:— Notice of a meet having been despatched to all the members of the “Knocker Hunt,” a splendid field—no street—met at the Cavendish—the hotel of the hospitable Marquess. The white damask which covered the mahogany was dotted here and there with rich and invigorating viands; whilst decanters of port and sherry—jugs of Chateau Margaux— bottles of exhilarating spirits, and boxes of cigars, agreeably diversified the scene. After a plentiful but orderly discussion of the “creature comforts,” (for all ebullitions at home are strictly prohibited by the Marquess) it was proposed to draw St. James’s Square. This suggestion was, however, abandoned, as it was reported by Captain Pepperwell, that a party of snobs had been hunting bell-handles in the same locality, on the preceding night. Clarges Street was then named; and off we started in that direction, trying the west end of Jermyn Street and Piccadilly in our way; but, as was expected, both coverts proved blank. We were almost afraid of the same result in the Clarges Street gorse; for it was not until we arrived at No. 33, that any one gave tongue. Young Dashover was the first, and clearly and beautifully came his shrill tone upon the ear, as he exclaimed “Hereth a knocker—thuch a one, too!” The rush was instantaneous; and in the space of a moment one feeling seemed to have taken possession of the whole pack. A more splendid struggle was never witnessed by the oldest knocker-hunter! A more pertinacious piece of cast-iron never contended against the prowess of the Corinthian! After a gallant pull of an hour and a half, “the affair came off,” and now graces the club- room of the “Knocker Hunt.” The pack having been called off, were taken to the kennel in the Haymarket, when one young dog, who had run counter at a bell-handle, was found to be missing; but the gratifying intelligence was soon brought, that he was safe in the Vine-street station-house. The various compounds known as champagne, port, sherry, brandy, &c., having been very freely distributed, Captain Pepperwell made a proposition that will so intimately connect his name with that of the immortal Marquess, that, like the twin-born of Jupiter and Leda, to mention one will be to imply the other. Having obtained silence by throwing a quart measure at the waiter, he wriggled himself into an upright position, and in a voice tremulous from emotion—perhaps brandy, said— “Gentlemen of—the Knocker Hunt—there are times when a man can’t make—a speech without con-considerable inconvenience to himself—that’s my case at the present moment—but my admiration for the distinguished foun—der of the Knocker Hunt—compels me—to stand as well as I can—and propose, that as soon as we have knockers enough —they be melted down—by some other respectable founder, and cast into a statue of—the Marquess of Waterford!” Deafening were the cheers which greeted the gallant captain! A meeting of ladies has since been held, at which resolutions were passed for the furtherance of so desirable an object, and a committee formed for the selection of a design worthy of the originator of the Knocker Hunt. To that committee we now appeal. TO HENRY, MARQUESS OF WATERFORD, AND HIS JOLLY COMPANIONS IN LOWE, THIS STATUE OF ACHILLES, CAST FROM KNOCKERS TAKEN IN THE VICINITIES OF SACKVILLE-STREET, VIGO-LANE, AND WATERLOO-PLACE, IS INSCRIBED BY THEIR GENTLEWOMEN. PLACED ON THIS SPOT ON THE FIRST DAY OF APRIL, MDCCCXLII. BY COMMAND OF COLONEL ROWAN. Mem. The hunt meet again on Monday next, as information has been received that a splendid knocker occupies the door of Laing’s shooting gallery in the Haymarket. [pg 15] STENOTYPOGRAPHY. Our printer’s devil, with a laudable anxiety for our success, has communicated the following pathetic story. As a specimen of stenotypography, or compositor’s short-hand, we consider it unique. SERAPHINA POPPS; OR, THE BEAUTY OF BLOOMSBURY. Seraphina Popps was the daughter of Mr. Hezekiah Popps, a highly respectable pawnbroker, residing in —— Street, Bloomsbury. Being an only child, from her earliest infancy she wanted for 0, as everything had been made ready to her . She grew up as most little girls do, who live long enough, and became the universal !1 of all who knew her, for “None but herself could be her ||.”2 Amongst the most devoted of her admirers was Julian Fitzorphandale. Seraphina was not insensible to the worth of Julian Fitzorphandale; and when she received from him a letter, asking permission to visit her, she felt some difficulty in replying to his ?3; for, at this very critical .4, an unamiable young man, named Augustus St. Tomkins, who possessed considerable £. s. d. had become a suitor for her . She loved Fitzorphandale +5 St. Tomkins, but the former was ∪ of money; and Seraphina, though sensitive to an extreme, was fully aware that a competency was a very comfortable “appendix.” She seized her pen, but found that her mind was all 6’s and 7’s. She spelt Fitzorphandale, P-h-i-t-z; and though she commenced ¶6 after ¶, she never could come to a “finis.” She upbraided her unlucky ∗ ∗, either for making Fitzorphandale so poor, or St. Tomkins so ugly, which he really was. In this dilemma we must leave her at present. Although Augustus St. Tomkins was a 7, he did not possess the universal benevolence which that ancient order inculcates; but revolving in his mind the probable reasons for Seraphina’s hesitation, he came to this conclusion: she either loved him −8 somebody else, or she did not love him at all. This conviction only ×9 his worst feelings, and he resolved that no ℈℈10 of conscience should stand between him and his desires. On the following day, Fitzorphandale had invited Seraphina to a pic-nic party. He had opened the &11 placed some boiled beef and ^^12 on the verdant grass, when Seraphina exclaimed, in the mildest ``´´13, “I like it well done, Fitzorphandale!” As Julian proceeded to supply his beloved one with a §14 of the provender, St. Tomkins stood before them with a †15 in his . Want of space compels us to leave the conclusion of this interesting romance to the imagination of the reader, and to those ingenious playwrights who so liberally supply our most popular authors with gratuitous catastrophes. NOTES BY THE FLY-BOY. 1. Admiration. 2. Parallel. 3. Note of Interrogation. 4. Period. 5. More than. 6. Paragraph. 7. Freemason. 8. Less than. 9. Multiplied. 10. Scruples. 11. Hampers-and. 12. Carets. 13. Accents. 14. Section. 15. Dagger. NEWS OF EXTRAORDINARY INTEREST. A mechanic in Berlin has invented a balance of extremely delicate construction. Sir Robert Peel, it is said, intends to avail himself of the invention, to keep his political principles so nicely balanced between Whig and Tory, that the most accurate observer shall be unable to tell which way they tend. The London Fire Brigade have received directions to hold themselves in readiness at the meeting of Parliament, to extinguish any conflagration that may take place, from the amazing quantity of inflammatory speeches and political fireworks that will be let off by the performers on both sides of the house. The following extraordinary inducement was held out by a solicitor, who advertised last week in a morning paper, for an office-clerk; “A small salary will be given, but he will have enough of over-work to make up for the deficiency.” “MORE WAYS THAN ONE,” &c. [pg 15] The incomplete state of the Treasury has been frequently lamented by all lovers of good taste. We are happy to announce that a tablet is about to be placed in the front of the building, with the following inscription:— TREASURY. FINISHED BY THE WIGS, ANNO DOM. MDCCCXLI. A CON. BY TOM COOKE. Why is the common chord in music like a portion of the Mediterranean?—Because it’s the E G & C (Ægean Sea). MONSIEUR JULLIEN. “One!”—crash! “Two!”—clash! “Three!”—dash! “Four!”—smash! Diminuendo, Now crescendo:— Thus play the furious band, Led by the kid-gloved hand Of Jullien—that Napoleon of quadrille, Of Piccolo-nians shrillest of the shrill; Perspiring raver Over a semi-quaver; Who tunes his pipes so well, he’ll tell you that The natural key of Johnny Bull’s—A flat. Demon of discord, with mustaches cloven— Arch impudent improver of Beethoven— Tricksy professor of charlatanerie— Inventor of musical artillery— Barbarous rain and thunder maker— Unconscionable money taker— Travelling about both near and far, Toll to exact at every bar— What brings thee here again, To desecrate old Drury’s fane? Egregious attitudiniser! Antic fifer! com’st to advise her ’Gainst intellect and sense to close her walls? To raze her benches, That Gallic wenches Might play their brazen antics at masked balls? Ci-devant waiter Of a quarante-sous traiteur, Why did you leave your stew-pans and meat-oven, To make a fricassee of the great Beet-hoven? And whilst your piccolos unceasing squeak on, Saucily serve Mozart with sauce-piquant; Mawkishly cast your eyes to the cerulean— Turn Matthew Locke to potage à la julienne! Go! go! sir, do, Back to the rue, Where lately you Waited upon each hungry feeder, Playing the garçon, not the leader. Pray, put your hat on, Coupez votre bâton. Bah Va!! CLAR’ DE KITCHEN. It is now pretty well understood, that if the Tories come into office, there will be a regular turn out of the present royal household. Her Majesty, through the gracious condescension of the new powers, will be permitted to retain her situation in the royal establishment, but on the express condition that there shall be— NO FOLLOWERS ALLOWED. A PARTY OF MEDALLERS. A subscription has been opened for a medal to commemorate the return of Lord John Russell for the city of London. We would suggest that his speech to the citizens against the corn-laws would form an appropriate inscription for the face of the medal, while that to the Huntingdonshire farmers in favour of them would be found just the thing for the reverse. A CHAPTER ON BOOTS. “Boots? Boots!” Yes, Boots! we can write upon boots—we can moralise upon boots; we can convert them, as Jacques does the weeping stag in “As You Like It,” (or, whether you like it or not,) into a thousand similes. First, for— but, “our sole’s in arms and eager for the fray,” and so we will at once head our dissertation as we would a warrior’s host with WELLINGTONS. These are the most judicious species of manufactured calf-skin; like their great “godfather,” they are perfect as a whole; from the binding at the top to the finish at the toe, there is a beautiful unity about their well-conceived proportions: kindly considerate of the calf, amiably inclined to the instep, and devotedly serviceable to the whole foot, they shed their protecting influence over all they encase. They are walked about in not only as protectors of the feet, but of the honour of the wearer. Quarrel with a man if you like, let your passion get its steam up even to blood-heat, be magnificent while glancing at your adversary’s Brutus, grand as you survey his chin, heroic at the last button of his waistcoat, unappeased at the very knees of his superior kersey continuations, inexorable at the commencement of his straps, and about to become abusive at his shoe-ties, the first cooler of your wrath will be the Hoby-like arched instep of his genuine Wellingtons, which, even as a drop of oil upon the troubled ocean, will extend itself over the heretofore ruffled surface of your temper.— Now for BLUCHERS. [pg 16] Well, we don’t like them. They are shocking impostors—walking discomforts! They had no right to be made at all; or, if made, ‘twas a sin for them to be so christened (are Bluchers Christians?). They are Wellingtons cut down; so, in point of genius, was their baptismal sponsor: but these are vilely tied, and that the hardy old Prussian would never have been while body and soul held together. He was no beauty, but these are decidedly ugly commodities, chiefly tenanted by swell purveyors of cat’s-meat, and burly-looking prize-fighters. They have the fortiter in re for kicking, but not the suaviter in modo for corns. Look at them villanously treed out at the “Noah’s Ark” and elsewhere; what are they but eight-and-six-penny worth of discomfort! They will no more accommodate a decent foot than the old general would have turned his back in a charge, or cut off his grizzled mustachios. If it wasn’t for the look of the thing, one might as well shove one’s foot into a box-iron. We wouldn’t be the man that christened them, and take a trifle to meet the fighting old marshal, even in a world of peace; in short, they are ambulating humbugs, and the would-be respectables that wear ‘em are a huge fraternity of “false pretenders.” Don’t trust ‘em, reader; they are sure to do you! there’s deceit in their straps, prevarication in their trousers, and connivance in their distended braces. We never met but one exception to the above rule—it was John Smith. Every reader has a friend of the name of John Smith—in confidence, that is the man. We would have sworn by him; in fact, we did swear by him, for ten long years he was our oracle. Never shall we forget the first, the only time our faith was shaken. We gazed upon and loved his honest face; we reciprocated the firm pressure of his manly grasp; our eyes descended in admiration even unto the ground on which he stood, and there, upon that very ground—the ground whose upward growth of five feet eight seemed Heaven’s boast, an “honest man”—we saw what struck us sightless to all else—a pair of Bluchers! We did not dream his feet were in them; ten years’ probation seemed to vanish at the sight!—we wept! He spoke— could we believe our ears? “Marvel of marvels!” despite the propinquity of the Bluchers, despite their wide-spreading contamination, his voice was unaltered. We were puzzled! we were like the first farourite when “he has a leg,” or, “a LEG has him,” i.e., nowhere! John Smith coughed, not healthily, as of yore; it was a hollow emanation from hypocritical lungs: he sneezed; it was a vile imitation of his original “hi-catch-yew!” he invited us to dinner, suggested the best cut of a glorious haunch—we had always had it in the days of the Wellingtons—now our imagination conjured up cold plates, tough mutton, gravy thick enough in grease to save the Humane Society the trouble of admonitory advertisements as to the danger of reckless young gentlemen skating thereon, and a total absence of sweet sauce and currant-jelly. We paused—we grieved—John Smith saw it—he inquired the cause—we felt for him, but determined, with Spartan fortitude, to speak the truth. Our native modesty and bursting heart caused our drooping eyes once more to scan the ground, and, next to the ground, the wretched Bluchers. But, joy of joys! we saw them all! ay, all!—all—from the seam in the sides to the leech-like fat cotton-ties. We counted the six lace-holes; we examined the texture of the stockings above, “curious three-thread”— we gloated over the trousers uncontaminated by straps, we hugged ourselves in the contemplation of the naked truth. John Smith—our own John Smith—your John Smith—everybody’s John Smith—again entered the arm-chair of our affections, the fire of our love stirred, like a self-acting poker, the embers of cooling good fellowship, and the strong blaze of resuscitated friendship burst forth with all its pristine warmth. John Smith wore Bluchers but he wore them like an honest man; and he was the only specimen of the genus homo (who sported trowsers) that was above the weakness of tugging up his suspenders and stretching his broadcloth for the contemptible purpose of giving a fictitious, Wellingtonian appearance to his eight-and-sixpennies. ANKLE-JACKS, to indulge in the sporting phraseology of the Racing Calendar, appear to be “got by Highlows out of Bluchers.” They thrive chiefly in the neighbourhoods of Houndsditch, Whitechapel, and Billingsgate. They attach themselves principally to butchers’ boys, Israelitish disposers of vix and pinthils, and itinerant misnomers of “live fish.” On their first introduction to their masters, by prigging or purchase, they represent some of the glories of “Day and Martin;” but, strange to say, though little skilled in the penman’s art, their various owners appear to be imbued with extraordinary veneration for the wholesome advice contained in the round-text copy, wherein youths are admonished to “avoid useless repetition,” hence that polish is the Alpha and Omega of their shining days. Their term of servitude varies from three to six weeks: during the first they are fastened to the topmost of their ten holes; the next fortnight, owing to the breaking of the lace, and its frequent knotting, they are shorn of half their glories, and upon the total destruction of the thong (a thing never replaced), it appears a matter of courtesy on their parts to remain on at all. On some occasions various of their wearers have transferred them as a legacy to very considerable mobs, without particularly stating for which especial individual they were intended. This kicking off their shoes “because they wouldn’t die in them,” has generally proved but a sorry method of lengthening existence. HESSIANS, are little more than ambitious Wellingtons, curved at the top—wrinkled at the bottom (showing symptoms of superannuation even in their infancy), and betasselled in the front, offering what a Wellington never did—a weak point for an enemy to seize and shake at his pleasure. There’s no “speculation” in them—they are entirely superficial: like a shallow fellow, you at once see through, and know all about them. There is no mystery as to the height they reach, how far they are polished, or the description of leg they cling round. Save Count D’Oraay, we never saw a calf in a pair of them—that is, we never saw a leg with a calf. Their general tenants are speculative Jew clothesmen who have bought them “vorth the monish” (at tenth hand), seedy chamber counsel, or still more seedy collectors of rents. They are fast falling into decay; like dogs, they have had their “Day (and Martin’s”) Acts, but both are past. But woh! ho! TOPS! TOPS!! TOPS!!! Derby!—Epsom!—Ledger!—Spring Summer, Autumn Meetings—Miles, Half-miles —T.Y.C.—Hurdles, Heats, names, weights, colours of the riders—jockies, jackets, —Dead Heats—sweats—distances—trainings—scales—caps, and all—what would you be without Top Boots? What! and echo answers—nothing! Ay, worse than nothing—a chancery suit without money—an Old Bailey culprit without an alibi—a debtor without an excuse—a new play without a titled author—a manager without impudence—a thief without a character—a lawyer without a wig— or a Guy Faux without matches! Tops, you must be “made to measure.” Wellingtons, Hessians, Bluchers, Ankle- Jacks, and Highlows, can be chosen from, fitted, and tried on; but you must be measured for, lasted, back-strapped, top’d, wrinkled and bottomed, according to order. So it is with your proprietors—the little men who ride the great running horses. There’s an impenetrable mystery about those little men—they are, we know that, but we know not how. Bill Scott is in the secret—Chifney is well aware of it—John Day could enlighten the world—but they won’t! They know the value of being “light characters”—their fame is as “a feather,” and downey are they, even as the illustration of that fame. They conspire together like so many little Frankensteins. The world is treated with a very small proportion of very small jockeys; they never increase beyond a certain number, which proves they are not born in the regular way: as the old ones drop off, the young ones just fill their places, and not one to spare. Whoever heard of a “mob of jockeys,” a glut of “light-weights,” or even a handful of “feathers?”—no one! It’s like Freemasonry—it’s an awful mystery! Bill Scott knows all about the one, and the Duke of Sussex knows all about the other, but the uninitiated know nothing of either! Jockeys are wonders—so are their boots! Crickets have as much calf, grasshoppers as much ostensible thigh; and yet these superhuman specimens of manufactured leather fit like a glove, and never pull the little gentlemen’s legs off. That’s the extraordinary part of it; they never even so much as dislocate a joint! Jockey bootmakers are wonderful men! Jockeys ain’t men at all! Look, look, look! Oh, dear! do you see that little fellow, with his merry-thought-like looking legs, clinging round that gallant bright chesnut, thoro’bred, and sticking to his ribs as if he meant to crimp him for the dinner of some gourmand curious in horse-flesh! There he is, screwing his sharp knees into the saddle, sitting well up from his loins, stretching his neck, curving his back, stiffening the wire-like muscles of his small arms, and holding in the noble brute he strides, as a saftey-valve controls the foaming steam; only loosing him at his very pleasure. Look, look! there’s the grey filly, with the other made-to-measure feather on her back; do you notice how she has crawled up to the chesnut? Mark, mark! his arms appear to be India-rubber! Mercy on us, how they stretch! and the bridle, which looked just now like a solid bar of wrought iron, begins to curve! See how gently he leans over the filly’s neck; while the chesnut’s rider turns his eyes, like a boiled lobster, almost to the back of his head! Oh, he’s awake! he still keeps the lead: but the grey filly is nothing but a good ‘un. Now, the Top-boots riding her have become excited, and commence tickling her sides with their flashing silver spurs, putting an extra foot into every bound. She gains upon the chesnut! This is something like a race! The distance-post is reached! The Top-boots on the grey are at work again. Bravo! the tip of the white nose is beyond the level of the opposing boots! Ten strides, and no change! “She must win!” “No, she can’t!” “Grey for ever!” “Chesnut for a hundred!” “Done! done!”—Magnificent!—neck and neck!— splendid!—any body’s race! Bravo grey!—bravo chesnut!—bravo both! Ten yards will settle it. The chesnut rider [pg 17] throws up his arms—a slight dash of blood soils the “Day and Martin”—an earth-disdaining bound lands chesnut a winner of three thousand guineas! and all the world are in raptures with the judgment displayed in the last kick of the little man’s TOP BOOTS. FUSBOS. HINTS ON MELO-DRAMATIC MUSIC. It has often struck us forcibly that the science of melo-dramatic music has been hitherto very imperfectly understood amongst us. The art of making “the sound an echo of the sense”—of expressing, by orchestral effects, the business of the drama, and of forming a chromatic commentary to the emotions of the soul and the motions of the body, has been shamefully neglected on the English stage. Ignorant composers and ignoble fiddlers have attempted to develop the dark mysteries and intricate horrors of the melo-drama; but unable to cope with the grandeur of their subject, they have been betrayed into the grossest absurdities. What, for instance, could be more preposterous than to assign the same music for “storming a fort,” and “stabbing a virtuous father!” Equally ridiculous would it be to express “the breaking of the sun through a fog,” and “a breach of promise of marriage;” or the “rising of a ghost,” and the “entrance of a lady’s maid,” in the same keys. The adaptation of the different instruments in the orchestra to the circumstance of the drama, is also a matter of extreme importance. How often has the effect of a highly-interesting suicide been destroyed by an injudicious use of the trombone; and a scene of domestic distress been rendered ludicrous by the intervention of the double-drum! If our musical composers would attend more closely than they have been in the habit of doing, to the minutiæ of the scene which is intrusted to them to illustrate, and study the delicate lights and shades of human nature, as we behold it nightly on the Surrey stage, we might confidently hope, at no very distant period, to see melo-drama take the lofty position it deserves in the histrionic literature of this country. We feel that there is a wide field here laid open for the exercise of British talent, and have therefore, made a few desultory mems. on the subject, which we subjoin; intended as modest hints for the guidance of composers of melodramatic music. The situations we have selected from the most popular Melos. of the day; the music to be employed in each instance, we have endeavoured to describe in such a manner as to render it intelligible to all our readers. Music for the entrance of a brigand in the dark, should be slow and mysterious, with an effective double bass in it. Ditto, for taking wine—an allegro, movement, with da capo for the second glass. Ditto, for taking porter, beer, or any other inferior swipes—a similar movement, but not con spirito. Ditto, for the entrance of an attorney—a coda in one sharp, 6-8 time. If accompanied by a client, an accidental flat may be introduced. Ditto, for discovering a lost babby—a simply affettuoso strain, in a minor key. Ditto, for recognising a disguised count—a flourish of trumpets, and three bars rest, to allow time for the countess to faint in his arms. Ditto, for concealing a lover in a closet, and the sudden appearance of the father, guardian, or husband, as the case may be—a prestissimo movement, with an agitated cadenza. Ditto, for taking an oath or affidavit—slow, solemn music, with a marked emphasis when the deponent kisses the book. Ditto, for a lover’s vow—a tender, broken adagio. Ditto, for kicking a low comedy man—a brisk rapid stoccato passage, with a running accompaniment on the kettle- drums. The examples we have given above will sufficiently explain our views; but there are a vast number of dramatic situations that we have not noticed, which might be expressed by harmonious sounds, such as music for the appearance of a dun or a devil—music for paying a tailor—music for serving a writ—music for an affectionate embrace—music for ditto, very warm—music for fainting—music for coming-to—music for the death of a villain, with a confession of bigamy; and many others “too numerous to mention;” but we trust from what we have said, that the subject will not be lost sight of by those interested in the elevation of our national drama. THE RISING SUN. The residence of Sir Robert Peel has been so besieged of late by place-hunters, that it has been aptly termed the New Post Office. THE PUNCH CORRESPONDENCE. In presenting the following epistle to my readers, it may be necessary to apprise them, that it is the genuine production of my eldest daughter, Julia, who has lately obtained the situation of lady’s-maid in the house of Mr. Samuel Briggs, an independent wax and tallow-chandler, of Fenchurch-street, City, but who keeps his family away from business, in fashionable style, in Russell-square, Bloomsbury. The example of many of our most successful literary chiffonniers, who have not thought it disgraceful to publish scraps of private history and unedited scandal, picked up by them in the houses to which they happened to be admitted, will, it is presumed, sufficiently justify my daughter in communicating, for the amusement of an enlightened public, and the benefit of an affectionate parent, a few circumstances connected with Briggs’ family, with such observations and reflections of her own as would naturally suggest themselves to a refined and intelligent mind. Should this first essay of a timid girl in the thorny path of literature be favourably received by my friends and patrons, it will stimulate her to fresh exertions; and, I fondly hope, may be the means of placing her name in the same rank by those of Lady Morgan, Madame Tussaud, Mrs. Glasse, the Invisible Lady, and other national ornaments of the feminine species.—[PUNCH. Russl Squear, July 14. Dear PA,—I nose yew will he angxious to ear how I get on sins I left the wing of the best of feathers. I am appy to say I am hear in a very respeckble fammaly, ware they keeps too tawl footmen to my hand; one of them is cawld John, and the other Pea-taw,—the latter is as vane as a P-cock of his leggs, wich is really beutyful, and puffickly streight—though the howskeaper ses he has bad angles; but some pipple loox at things with only 1 i, and sea butt there defex. Mr. Wheazey is the ass-matick butler and cotchman, who has lately lost his heir, and can’t get no moar, wich is very diffycult after a serting age, even with the help of Rowland’s Madagascar isle. Mrs. Tuffney, the howsekeaper, is a prowd and oystere sort of person. I rather suspex that she’s jellows of me and Pea-taw, who as bean throwink ship’s i’s at me. She thinks to look down on me, but she can’t, for I hold myself up; and though we brekfists and t’s at the same board, I treat with a deal of hot-tar, and shoes her how much I dispeyses her supper-silly-ous conduck. Besides these indyvidules, there’s another dome-stick, wich I wish to menshun particlar—wich is the paige Theodore, that, as the poat says, as bean “—contrived a double debt to pay, A paige at night—a tigger all the day.” In the mornink he’s a tigger, drest in a tite froc-cote, top-boots, buxkin smawl-closes, and stuck up behind Master Ahghustusses cab. In the heavening he gives up the tigger, and comes out as the paige, in a fansy jackit, with too rose of guilt buttings, wich makes him the perfeck immidge of Mr. Widdycomb, that ice sea in the serkul at Hashley’s Amphitheatre. The paige’s bisiness is to weight on the ladies, wich is naterally light work; and being such a small chap, you may suppose they can never make enuff of him. These are all the upper servants, of coarse, I shan’t lower myself by notusing the infearyour crechurs; such as the owsmade, coke, edcett rar, but shall purceed drackly to the other potion of the fammaly, beginning with the old guv’nor (as Pee-taw cawls him), who as no idear of i life, and, like one of his own taller lites, has only dipped into good sosiety. Next comes Missus:—in fact, I ot to have put her fust, for the grey mayor is the best boss in our staybill, (Exkews the wulgarisrm.) After Missus, I give persedince to Mr. Ahghustuss, who, bean the only sun in the house, is natrally looked up to by everybody in it. He as bean brot up a perfick genelman, at Oxfut, and is consekently fond of spending his knights in le trou de charbon, and afterwards of skewering the streets —twisting double knockers, pulling singlebelles, and indulging in other fashonable divertions, to wich the low-minded polease, and the settin madgistrets have strong objexions. His Pa allows him only sicks hundred a-year, wich isn’t above 1/2 enuff to keep a cabb, a cupple of hosses, and other thinks, which it’s not necessary to elude to here. Isn’t it ogious to curb so fine a spirit? I wish you see him, Pa; such i’s, and such a pear of beutyful black musquitoes on his lip —enuff to turn the hidds of all the wimming he meats. The other membranes of this fammaly are the 3 dorters—Miss Sofiar, Miss Selinar, and Miss Jorgina, wich are all young ladyes, full groan, and goes in public characters to the Kaledonian bawls, and is likewise angxious to get off hands as soon as a feverable opportunity hoffers. It’s beleaved the old guv’nor can give them ten thowsand lbs. a-peace, wich of coarse will have great weight with a husband. There’s some Qrious stoaries going—Law! there’s Missuses bell. I must run up-stairs, so must conclewd obroply, but hope to resoom my pen necks weak. Believe me, my dear Pa, Your affeckshnt JULIA PUNCH. CHARACTERISTIC CORRESPONDENCE. The following notes actually passed between two (now) celebrated comedians:— Dear J——, Send me a shilling. Yours, B——, P.S.—On second thoughts, make it two. To which his friend replied— Dear B——, I have but one shilling in the world. Yours, J——, P.S.—On second thoughts, I want that for dinner. A young artist in Picayune takes such perfect likenesses, that a lady married the portrait of her lover instead of the original. PUNCH AND PEEL. Arcades ambo. READER.—God bless us, Mr. PUNCH! who is that tall, fair-haired, somewhat parrot-faced gentleman, smiling like a schoolboy over a mess of treacle, and now kissing the tips of his five fingers as gingerly as if he were doomed to kiss a nettle? PUNCH.—That, Mr. Reader, is the great cotton-plant, Sir Robert Peel; and at this moment he has, in his own conceit, seized upon “the white wonder” of Victoria’s hand, and is kissing it with Saint James’s devotion. READER.—What for, Mr. PUNCH? PUNCH.—What for! At court, Mr. Reader, you always kiss when you obtain an honour. ‘Tis a very old fashion, sir— old as the court of King David. Well do I recollect what a smack Uriah gave to his majesty when he was appointed to the post which made Bathsheba a widow. Poor Uriah! as we say of the stag, that was when his horns were in the velvet. READER.—You recollect it, Mr. PUNCH!—you at the court of King David! PUNCH.—I, Mr. Reader, I!—and at every court, from the court of Cain in Mesopotamia to the court of Victoria in this present, flinty-hearted London; only the truth is, as I have travelled I have changed my name. Bless you, half the Proverbs given to Solomon are mine. What I have lost by keeping company with kings, not even Joseph Hume can calculate. READER.—And are you really in court confidence at this moment? PUNCH.—Am I? What! Hav’n’t you heard of the elections? Have you not heard the shouts Io Punch? Doesn’t my nose glow like coral—ar’n’t my chops radiant as a rainbow—hath not my hunch gone up at least two inches—am I not, from crown to toe-nails, brightened, sublimated? Like Alexander—he was a particular friend of mine, that same Alexander, and therefore stole many of my best sayings—I only know that I am mortal by two sensations—a yearning for loaves and fishes, and a love for Judy. READER.—And you really take office under Peel? PUNCH.—Ha! ha! ha! A good joke! Peel takes office under me. Ha! ha! I’m only thinking what sport I shall have with the bedchamber women. But out they must go. The constitution gives a minister the selection of his own petticoats; and therefore there sha’n’t be a yard of Welsh flannel about her Majesty that isn’t of my choice. READER.—Do you really think that the royal bedchamber is in fact a third house of Parliament—that the affairs of the state are always to be put in the feminine gender? PUNCH.—Most certainly: the ropes of the state rudder are nothing more than cap-ribbons; if the minister hav’n’t hold of them, what can he do with the ship? As for the debates in parliament, they have no more to do with the real affairs of the country than the gossip of the apple-women in Palace-yard. They’re made, like the maccaroni in Naples, for the poor to swallow; and so that they gulp down length, they think, poor fellows, they get strength. But for the real affairs of the country! Who shall tell what correspondence can be conveyed in a warming-pan, what intelligence—for “There may be wisdom in a papillote”— may be wrapt up in the curl-papers of the Crown? What subtle, sinister advice may, by a crafty disposition of royal pins, be given on the royal pincushion? What minister shall answer for the sound repose of Royalty, if he be not permitted to make Royalty’s bed? How shall he answer for the comely appearance of Royalty, if he do not, by his own delegated hands, lace Royalty’s stays? I shudder to think of it; but, without the key of the bedchamber, could my friend Peel be made responsible for the health of the Princess? Instead of the very best and most scrupulously-aired diaper, [pg 18] might not—by negligence or design, it matters not which—the Princess Royal be rolled in an Act of Parliament, wet from Hansard’s press? READER.—Dreadful, soul perturbing suggestion! Go on, Mr. PUNCH. PUNCH.—Not but what I think it—if their constitution will stand damp paper—an admirable way of rearing young princesses. Queen Elizabeth—my wife Judy was her wet nurse—was reared after that fashion. READER.—David Hume says nothing of it. PUNCH.—David Hume was one of the wonders of the earth—he was a lazy Scotchman; but had he searched the State Paper Office, he would have found the documents there—yes, the very Acts of Parliament—the very printed rollers. To those rollers Queen Elizabeth owed her knowledge of the English Constitution. READER.—Explain—I can’t see how. PUNCH.—Then you are very dull. Is not Parliament the assembled wisdom of the country? READER.—By a fiction, Mr. PUNCH. PUNCH—Very well, Mr. Reader; what’s all the world but a fiction? I say, the assembled wisdom; an Act of Parliament is the sifted wisdom of the wise—the essence of an essence. Very well; know you not the mystic, the medicinal effects of printer’s ink? The devil himself isn’t proof to a blister of printer’s ink. Well, you take an Act of Parliament—and what is it but the finest plaster of the finest brains—wet, reeking wet from the press. Eschewing diaper, you roll the Act round the royal infant; you roll it up and pin it in the conglomerated wisdom of the nation. Now, consider the tenderness of a baby’s cuticle; the pores are open, and a rapid and continual absorption takes place, so that long before the Royal infant cuts its first tooth, it has taken up into its system the whole body of the Statutes. READER.—Might not some patriots object to the application of the wisdom of the country to so domestic a purpose? PUNCH.—Such patriots are more squeamish than wise. Sir, how many grown up kings have we had, who have shown no more respect for the laws of the country, than if they had been swaddled in ‘em? READER.—Do you think your friend Sir Robert is for statute rollers? PUNCH.—I can answer for Sir Robert on every point. His first attack before he kisses hands—and he has, as you perceive, been practising this half-hour—will be upon the women of the bedchamber. The war with China—the price of sugar—the corn-laws—the fourteen new Bishops about to be hatched—timber—cotton—a property tax, and the penny post—all these matters and persons are of secondary importance to this greater question—whether the female who hands the Queen her gown shall think Lord Melbourne a “very pretty fellow in his day;” or whether she shall believe my friend Sir Robert to be as great a conjuror as Roger Bacon or the Wizard of the North—if the lady can look upon...