The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 1, September 18, 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, September 18, 1841 Author: Various Release Date: February 7, 2005 [EBook #14928] 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. SEPTEMBER 18, 1841. THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE. CHAPTER IV. HAS A GREAT DEAL TO SAY ABOUT SOME ONE ELSE BESIDES OUR HERO. indness was a characteristic of Agamemnon’s disposition, and it is not therefore a matter of surprise that “the month”—the month, par excellence, of “all the months i’the kalendar”—produced a succession of those annoyances which, in the best regulated families, are certain to be partially experienced by the masculine progenitor. O, bachelors! be warned in time; let not love link you to his flowery traces and draw you into the temple of Hymen! Be not deluded by the glowing fallacies of Anacreon and Boccaccio, but remember that they were bachelors. There is nothing exhilarating in caudle, nor enchanting in Kensington-gardens, when you are converted into a light porter of children. We have been married, and are now seventy-one, and wear a “brown George;” consequently, we have experience and cool blood in our veins—two excellent auxiliaries in the formation of a correct judgment in all matters connected with the heart. Our pen must have been the pinion of a wild goose, or why these continued digressions? Agamemnon’s troubles commenced with the first cough of Mrs. Pilcher on the door-mat. Mrs. P. was the monthly nurse, and monthly nurses always have a short cough. Whether this phenomenon arises from the obesity consequent upon arm-chairs and good living, or from an habitual intimation that they are present, and have not received half-a-crown, or a systematic declaration that the throat is dry, and would not object to a gargle of gin, and perhaps a little water, or—but there is no use hunting conjecture, when you are all but certain of not catching it. Mrs. Pilcher was “the moral of a nurse;” she was about forty-eight and had, according to her own account, “been the mother of eighteen lovely babes, born in wedlock,” though her most intimate friends had never been introduced to more than one young gentleman, with a nose like a wart, and hair like a scrubbing-brush. When he made his debut, he was attired in a suit of blue drugget, with the pewter order of the parish of St. Clement on his bosom; and rumour declared that he owed his origin to half-a-crown a week, paid every Saturday. Mrs. [pg 109] Pilcher weighed about thirteen stone, including her bundle, and a pint medicine-bottle, which latter article she invariably carried in her dexter pocket, filled with a strong tincture of juniper berries, and extract of cloves. This mixture had been prescribed to her for what she called a “sinkingness,” which afflicted her about 10 A.M., 11 A.M. (dinner), 2 P.M., 3 P.M. 4 P.M. 5 P.M. (tea), 7 P.M., 8 P.M. (supper), 10 P.M., and at uncertain intervals during the night. Mrs. Pilcher was a martyr to a delicate appetite, for she could never “make nothing of a breakfast if she warn’t coaxed with a Yarmouth bloater, a rasher of ham, or a little bit of steak done with the gravy in.” Her luncheon was obliged to be a mutton-chop, or a grilled bone, and a pint of porter, bread and cheese having the effect of rendering her “as cross as two sticks, and as sour as werjuice.” Her dinner, and its satellites, tea and supper, were all required to be hot, strong, and comfortable. A peculiar hallucination under which she laboured is worthy of remark. When eating, it was always her declared conviction that she never drank anything, and when detected coquetting with a pint pot or a tumbler, she was equally assured that she never did eat anything after her breakfast. Mrs. Pilcher’s duties never permitted her to take anything resembling continuous rest; she had therefore another prescription for an hour’s doze after dinner. Mrs. Pilcher was also troubled with a stiffness of the knee-joints, which never allowed her to wait upon herself. When this amiable creature had deposited herself in Collumpsion’s old easy-chair, and, with her bundle on her knees, gasped out her first inquiry— “I hopes all’s as well as can be expected?” The heart of Pater Collumpsion trembled in his bosom, for he felt that to this incongruous mass was to be confided the first blossom of his wedded love; and that for one month the dynasty of 24, Pleasant-terrace was transferred from his hands to that of Mrs. Waddledot, his wife’s mother, and Mrs. Pilcher, the monthly nurse. There was a short struggle for supremacy between the two latter personages; but an angry appeal having been made to Mrs. Applebite, by the lady, “who had nussed the first families in this land, and, in course, know’d her business,” Mrs. Waddledot was forced to yield to Mrs. Pilcher’s bundle in transitu, and Mrs. Applebite’s hysterics in perspective. Mrs. Pilcher was a nursery Macauley, and had the faculty of discovering latent beauties in very small infants, that none but doting parents ever believed. Agamemnon was an early convert to her avowed opinions of the heir of Applebite, who, like all other heirs of the same age, resembled a black boy boiled—that is, if there is any affinity between lobsters and niggers. This peculiar style of eloquence rendered her other eccentricities less objectionable; and when, upon one occasion, the mixture of juniper and cloves had disordered her head, instead of comforting her stomachic regions, she excused herself by solemnly declaring, that “the brilliancy of the little darling’s eyes, and his intoxicating manners, had made her feel as giddy as a goose.” Collumpsion and Theresa both declared her discernment was equal to her caudle, of which, by-the-bye, she was an excellent concocter and consumer. Old John and the rest of the servants, however, had no parental string at which Mrs. Pilcher could tug, and the consequence was, that they decided that she was an insufferable bore. Old John, in particular, felt the ill effects of the heir of Applebite’s appearance in the family, and to such a degree did they interfere with his old comforts, without increasing his pecuniary resources, that he determined one morning, when taking up his master’s shaving water, absolutely to give warning; for what with the morning calls, and continual ringing for glasses—the perpetual communication kept up between the laundry-maid and the mangle, and of which he was the circulating medium—the insolence of the nurse, who had ordered him to carry five soiled—never mind—down stairs: all these annoyances combined, the old servant declared were too much for him. Collumpsion laid his hand on John’s shoulder, and pointing to some of the little evidences of paternity which had found their way even into his dormitory, said, “John, think what I suffer; do not leave me; I’ll raise your wages, and engage a boy to help you; but you are the only thing that reminds me of my happy bachelorhood—you are the only one that can feel a—feel a—” “Caudle regard,” interrupted John. “Caudle be ——.” The “rest is silence,” for at that moment Mrs. Waddledot entered the room, gave a short scream, and went out again. The month passed, and a hackney-coach, containing a bundle and the respectable Mrs. Pilcher, &c., rumbled from the door of No. 24, to the infinite delight of old John the footman, Betty the housemaid, Esther the nurserymaid, Susan the cook, and Agamemnon Collumpsion Applebite the proprietor. How transitory is earthly happiness! How certain its uncertainty! A little week had passed, and the “Heir of Applebite” gave notice of his intention to come into his property during an early minority, for his once happy progenitor began to entertain serious intentions of employing a coroner’s jury to sit upon himself, owing to the incessant and “ear-piercing pipe” of his little cherub. Vainly did he bury his head beneath the pillow, until he was suffused with perspiration—the cry reached him there and then. Cold air was pumped into the bed by Mrs. Applebite, as she rocked to and fro, in the hope of quieting the “son of the sleepless.” Collumpsion was in constant communication with the dressing-table—now for moist-sugar to stay the hiccough—then for dill-water to allay the stomach-ache. To save his little cherub from convulsions, twice was he converted into a night- patrole, with the thermometer below zero—a bad fire, with a large slate in it, and an empty coal-scuttle. SURREY ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS. “Variety,” say our school copy-books, “is charming;” hence this must be the most charming place of amusement in London. The annexed list of entertainments was produced on Tuesday last, when were added to the usual passe-temps, a flower and fruit show. Wild beasts in cages; flowers of all colours and sizes in pots; enormous cabbages; Brobdignag apples; immense sticks of rhubarb; a view of Rome; a brass band; a grand Roman cavalcade passing over the bridge of St. Angelo; a deafening park of artillery, and an enchanting series of pyrotechnic wonders, such as catherine-wheels, flower-pots, and rockets; an illumination of St. Peter’s; blazes of blue-fire, showers of steel-filings, and a grand blow up of the castle of St. Angelo. Such are the entertainments provided by the proprietor. The company—which numbered at least from five to six thousand—gave them even greater variety. Numerous pic-nic parties were seated about on the grass; sandwiches, bottled stout, and (with reverence be it spoken) more potent liquors seemed to be highly relished, especially by the ladies. Ices were sold at a pastry-cook’s stall, where a continued feu-de-joie of ginger-pop was kept up during the whole afternoon and evening. In short, the scene was one of complete al fresco enjoyment; how could it be otherwise? The flowers delighted the eye; Mr. Godfrey’s well-trained band (to wit, Beethoven’s symphony in C minor, with all the fiddle passages beautifully executed upon clarionets!) charmed the ear; and the edibles and drinkables aforesaid the palate. Under such a press of agreeables, the Surrey Zoological Gardens well deserve the name of an Englishman’s paradise. ON THE SCIENCE OF ELECTIONEERING. To the progress of science and the rapid march of moral improvement the most effectual spur that has ever been applied was the Reform Bill. Before the introduction of that measure, electioneering was a simple process, hardly deserving the name of an art; it has now arrived at the rank of a science, the great beauty of which is, that, although complicated in practice, it is most easy of acquirement. Under the old system boroughs were bought by wholesale, scot and lot; now the traffic is done by retail. Formerly there was but one seller; at present there must be some thousands at least—all to be bargained with, all to be bought. Thus the “agency” business of electioneering has wonderfully increased, and so have the expenses. In fact, an agent is to an election what the main-spring is to a watch; he is, in point of fact, the real returning- officer. His importance is not less than the talents and tact he is obliged to exert. He must take a variety of shapes, must tell a variety of lies, and perform the part of an animated contradiction. He must benevolently pay the taxes of one man who can’t vote while in arrear; and cruelly serve notices of ejectment upon another, though he can show his last quarter’s receipt—he must attend temperance meetings, and make opposition electors too drunk to vote. He must shake hands with his greatest enemy, and palm off upon him lasting proofs of friendship, and silver-paper hints which way to vote. He must make flaming speeches about principle, puns about “interest,” and promises concerning everything, to everybody. He must never give less than five pounds for being shorn by an honest and independent voter, who never shaves for less than two-pence—nor under ten, for a four-and- ninepenny goss to an uncompromising hatter. He must present ear-rings to wives, bracelets to daughters, and be continually broaching a hogshead for fathers, husbands, and brothers. He must get up fancy balls, and give away fancy dresses to ladies whom he fancies—especially if they fancy his candidate, and their husbands fancy them. He must plan charities, organise mobs, causing free-schools to be knocked up, and opponents to be knocked down. Finally, he must do all these acts, and spend all these sums purely for the good of his country; for, although a select committee of the house tries the validity of the election—though they prove bribery, intimidation, and treating to everybody’s satisfaction, yet they always find out that the candidate has had nothing to do with it—that the agent is not his agent, but has acted solely on patriotic grounds; by which he is often so completely a martyr, that he is, after all, actually prosecuted for bribery, by order of the very house which he has helped to fill, and by the very man (as a part of the parliament) he has himself returned. That this great character might not be lost to posterity, we furnish our readers with the portrait of [pg 110] AN ELECTION AGENT. THE STATISTICAL SOCIETY. This useful society will shortly publish its Report; and, though we have not seen it, we are enabled to guess with tolerable accuracy what will be the contents of it: In the first place, we shall be told the number of pins picked up in the course of the day, by a person walking over a space of fifteen miles round London, with the number of those not picked up; an estimate of the class of persons that have probably dropped them, with the use they were being put to when they actually fell; and how they have been applied afterwards. The Report will also put the public in possession of the number of pot-boys employed in London; what is the average number of pots they carry out; and what is the gross weight of metal in the pots brought back again. This interesting head will include a calculation of how much beer is consumed by children who are sent to fetch it in jugs; and what is the whole amount of malt liquor, the value of which reaches the producer’s pocket, while the mouth of the consumer, and not that of the party paying for it, receives the sole benefit. There are also to be published with the Report elaborate tables, showing how many quarts of milk are spilt in the course of a year in serving customers; what proportion of water it contains; and what are the average ages and breed of the dogs who lap it up; and how much is left unlapped up to be absorbed in the atmosphere. When this valuable Report is published, we shall make copious extracts. A NOVEL ENTERTAINMENT. DRURY-LANE THEATRE. Novelty is certainly the order of the day. Anything that does not deviate from the old beaten track meets with little encouragement from the present race of amusement-seekers, and, consequently, does not pay the entrepreneur. Nudity in public adds fresh charms to the orchestra, and red-fire and crackers have become absolutely essential to harmony. Acting upon this principle, Signor Venafra gave (we admire the term) a fancy dress ball at Drury-lane Theatre on Monday evening last, upon a plan hitherto unknown in England, but possibly, like the majority of deceptive delusions now so popular, of continental origin. The whole of the evening’s entertainment took place in cabs and hackney-coaches, and those vehicles performed several perfectly new and intricate figures in Brydges-street, and the other thoroughfares adjoining the theatres. The music provided for the occasion appeared to be an organ-piano, which performed incessantly at the corner of Bow-street, during the evening. Most of the élite of Hart-street and St. Giles’s graced the animated pavement as spectators. So perfectly successful was the whole affair—on the word of laughing hundreds who came away saying they had never been so amused in their lives—that we hear it is in agitation never to attempt anything of the kind again. DONE AGAIN. Dunn, the bailless barrister, complained to his friend Charles Phillips, that upon the last occasion he had the happiness of meeting Miss Burdett Coutts on the Marine Parade, notwithstanding all he has gone through for her, she would not condescend to take the slightest notice of him. So far from offering anything in the shape of consolation, the witty barrister remarked, “Upon my soul, her conduct was in perfect keeping with her situation, for what on earth could be more in unison with a sea-view than A CUTTER ON THE BEACH?” It is well known that the piers of Westminster Bridge have considerably sunk since their first erection. They are not the only peers, in the same neighbourhood that have become lowered in the position they once occupied. ASSERTION OF THE UNINTELLIGIBLE. OR, “A KANTITE’S” FLIGHTS AT AN EXORDIUM. FLIGHT THE FIRST. He who widely, yet ascensively, expatiates in those in-all-ways-sloping fields of metaphysical investigation which perplex whilst they captivate, and bewilder whilst they allure, cannot evitate the perception of perception’s fallibility, nor avoid the conclusion (if that can be called a conclusion to which, it may be said, there are no premises extant) that the external senses are but deceptive media of interior mental communication. It behoves the ardent, youthful explorator, therefore, to ——, &c. &c. FLIGHT THE SECOND. In the Promethean persecutions which assail the insurgent mentalities of the youth and morning vigour of the [pg 111] inexpressible human soul, when, flushed with Æolian light, and, as it were, beaded with those lustrous dews which the eternal Aurora lets fall from her melodious lip; if it escape living from the beak of the vulture (no fable here!), then, indeed, it may aspire to ——, &c. &c. FLIGHT THE THIRD. If, with waxen Icarian wing, we seek to ascend to that skiey elevation whence only can the understretching regions of an impassive mutability be satisfactorily contemplated; and if, in our heterogeneous ambition, aspirant above self-capacity, we approach too near the flammiferous Titan, and so become pinionless, and reduced again to an earthly prostration, what marvel is it, that ——, &c. &c. FLIGHT THE FOURTH. When the perennial Faustus, ever-resident in the questioning spirit of immortal man, attempts his first outbreak into the domain of unlimited inquiry, unless he take heed of the needfully-cautious prudentialities of mundane observance, there infallibly attends him a fatal Mephistophelean influence, of which the malign tendency, from every conclusion of eventuality, is to plunge him into perilous vast cloud-waves of the dream-inhabited vague. Let, then, the young student of infinity ——, &c. &c. FLIGHT THE FIFTH. Inarched within the boundless empyrean of thought, starry with wonder, and constellate with investigation; at one time obfuscated in the abysm-born vapours of doubt; at another, radiant with the sun-fires of faith made perfect by fruition; it can amaze no considerative fraction of humanity, that the explorer of the indefinite, the searcher into the not-to-be-defined, should, at dreary intervals, invent dim, plastic riddles of his own identity, and hesitate at the awful shrine of that dread interrogatory alternative—reality, or dream? This deeply pondering, let the eager beginner in the at once linear and circumferent course of philosophico-metaphysical contemplativeness, introductively assure himself that ——, &c. &c. FINAL FLIGHT. As, “in the silence and overshadowing of that night whose fitful meteoric fires only herald the descent of a superficial fame into lasting oblivion, the imbecile and unavailing resistance which is made against the doom must often excite our pity for the pampered child of market-gilded popularity;” and as “it is not with such feelings that we behold the dark thraldom and long-suffering of true intellectual strength,” of which the “brief, though frequent, soundings beneath the earthly pressure will be heard even amidst the din of flaunting crowds, or the solemn conclaves of common-place minds,” of which the “obscured head will often shed forth ascending beams that can only be lost in eternity;” and of which the “mighty struggles to upheave its own weight, and that of the superincumbent mass of prejudice, envy, ignorance, folly, or uncongenial force, must ever ensure the deepest sympathy of all those who can appreciate the spirit of its qualities;” let the initiative skyward struggles towards the zenith-abysses of the inane impalpable ——, &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. Dramatic Authors’ Theatre, Sept. 16, 1841. HUMANE SUGGESTION. MASTER PUNCH,—Mind ye’s, I’ve been to see these here Secretens at the English Uproar ’Ouse, and thinks, mind ye’s, they aint by no means the werry best Cheshire; but what I want to know is this here—Why don’t they give that wenerable old genelman, Mr. Martinussy, the Hungry Cardinal, something to eat?—he is a continually calling out for some of his Countrys Weal, (which, I dare say, were werry good) and he don’t never git so much as a sandvich dooring the whole of his life and death—I mention dese tings, because, mind ye’s, it aint werry kind of none on ‘em. I remains, Mr. PUNCH, Sir, yours truly, DEF BURKE, HIS MARK. DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE STATUE OF GEORGE CANNING AND SIR ROBERT PEEL. The new Premier was taking a solitary stroll the other evening through Palace-yard, meditating upon the late turn which had brought the Tories to the top of the wheel and the Whigs to the bottom, and pondering on the best ways and means of keeping his footing in the slippery position that had cost him so much labour to attain. While thus employed, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and his hands buried in his breeches-pockets, he heard a voice at no great distance, calling in familiar tone— “Bob! Bob!—I say, Bob!” The alarmed Baronet stopped, and looked around him to discover the speaker, when, casting his eyes upon the statue of George Canning in the enclosure of Westminster Abbey, he was astonished to perceive it nodding its head at him, like the statue in “Don Giovanni,” in a “How d’ye do?” kind of way. Sir Robert, who, since his introduction to the Palace, has grown perilously polite, took off his hat, and made a low bow to the figure. STATUE.—Bah! no nonsense, Bob, with me! Put on your hat, and come over here, close to the railings, while I have a little private confab with you. So, you have been called in at last? PEEL.—Yes. Her Majesty has done me the honour to command my services; and actuated by a sincere love of my country, I obeyed the wishes of my Royal Mistress, and accepted office; though, if I had consulted my own inclinations, I should have preferred the quiet path of private— STATUE.—Humbug! You forget yourself, Bob; you are not now at Tamworth, or in the house, but talking to an old hand that knows every move on the political board,—you need have no disguise with me. Come, be candid for once, and tell me, what are your intentions? PEEL.—Why, then, candidly, to keep my place as long as I can— STATUE.—Undoubtedly; that is the first duty of every patriotic minister! But the means, Bob? PEEL—Oh! Cant—cant—nothing but cant! I shall talk of my feeling for the wants of the people, while I pick their pockets; bestow my pity upon the manufacturers, while I tax the bread that feeds their starving families; and proclaim my sympathy with the farmers, while I help the arrogant landlords to grind them into the dust. STATUE.—Ah! I perceive yon understand the true principles of legislation. Now, I once really felt what you only feign. In my time, I attempted to carry out my ideas of amelioration, and wanted to improve the moral and physical condition of the people, but— PEEL.—You failed. Few gave you credit for purely patriotic motives—and still fewer believed you to be sincere in your professions. Now, my plan is much easier, and safer. Give the people fair promises—they don’t cost much—but nothing besides promises; the moment you attempt to realise the hopes you have raised, that moment you raise a host of enemies against yourself. STATUE.—But if you make promises, the nation will demand a fulfilment of them. PEEL.—I have an answer ready for all comers—“Wait awhile!” ’Tis a famous soother for all impatient grumblers. It kept the Whigs in office for ten years, and I see no reason why it should not serve our turn as long. Depend upon it, “Wait awhile” is the great secret of Government. STATUE.—Ah! I believe you are right. I now see that I was only a novice in the trade of politics. By the bye, Bob, I don’t at all like my situation here; ’tis really very uncomfortable to be exposed to all weathers—scorched in summer, and frost-nipped in winter. Though I am only a statue, I feel that I ought to be protected. PEEL.—Undoubtedly, my dear sir. What can I do for you? STATUE.—Why, I want to get into the Abbey, St. Paul’s, or Drury Lane. Anywhere out of the open air. PEEL.—Say no more—it shall be done. I am only too happy to have it in my power to serve the statue of a man to whom his country is so deeply indebted. STATUE.—But when shall it be done, Bob? To-morrow? PEEL.—Not precisely to-morrow; but— STATUE.—Next week, then? PEEL.—I can’t say; but don’t be impatient—rely on my promise, and wait awhile, wait awhile, my dear friend. Good night. STATUE.—Oh! confound your wait awhile. I see I have nothing to expect. THE BEAUTY OF BRASS. Tom Duncombe declares he never passes McPhail’s imitative-gold mart without thinking of Ben D’Israeli’s speeches, as both of them are so confoundedly full of fantastic MOSAIC ORNAMENTS. PUNCH AT THE ART-UNION EXHIBITION AGAIN Limited space in our last number prevented our noticing any other than the Sleeping Beauty; and, as there are many other humorous productions possessing equal claims to our attention in the landscape and other departments of art, we shall herein endeavour to point out their characteristics—more for the advantage of future purchasers than for the better and further edification of those whose meagre notions and tastes have already been shown. And as the Royal Academicians, par courtesy, demand our first notice, we shall, having wiped off D. M’Clise, R.A., now proceed, baton in hand, to make a few pokes at W.F. Witherington, R.A., upon his work entitled “Winchester Tower, Windsor Castle, from Romney Lock.” This is a subject which has been handled many times within our recollection, by artists of less name, less fame, and less pretensions to notice, if we except the undeniable fact of their displaying infinitely more ability in their representations of the subject, than can by any possibility be discovered in the one by W. F. Witherington, R.A. If our remarks were made with an affectionate eye to the young ladies of the satin-album-loving school, we should assuredly style this “a duck of a picture”—one after their own hearts—treated in mild and undisturbed tones of yellow, blue, and pink—and what yellows! what blues! and what pinks! Some kind, superintending genius of landscape-painting evidently prepared the scene for W.F. Witherington, R.A. It displays nothing of the vulgar every-day look of nature, as seen at Romney Lock, or any other spot; not a pebble out of its place—not a leaf deranged—here are bright amber trees, and blue metallic towers, prepared gravel-walks, and figures nicely cleaned and bleached to suit; it is, in truth, the most genteel landscape ever looked on. Nothing but absolute needlework can create more wonderment. Fie! fie! get thee hence, W.F. Witherington, R.A. Just placed over the last-mentioned picture, and, doubtlessly so arranged that the gentle R.A. should find that, although his bright specimen of mild murder may be adjudged the worst in the collection, still there are others [pg 112] worthy of being classed in the same order of oddities. Behold No. 19, entitled, “Landscape—Evening—J.F. Gilbert,” and selected by Mr. John Bullock from the Royal Academy. “What’s in a name?” In the charitable hope that there is a chance of this purchaser being toned down in the course of time, after the same manner that pictures are, and, by that process, display more sobriety, we most humbly offer to Mr. B. our modest judgment upon his selection (not upon his choice, but upon the thing chosen). That it is a landscape we gloomily admit; but that it represents “Evening” we steadily deny. The exact period of the day, after much puzzling and deliberation, we cannot arrive at; one thing yet we are assured of—that it has been painted in company with a clock that was either too fast or too slow. The composition, which has very much the appearance of the by-gone century, is a prime selection from the finest parts of those very serene views to be found adorning the lowest interiors of wash-hand basins, with a dash from the works of Smith of Chichester, whose mental elevation in his profession was only surpassed by the high finish of his apple-trees, and the elaborate nothingness of his general choice of subject. In the foreground of the picture, the artist has, however, most aptly introduced the two vagabonds invariably to be seen idling in the foregrounds of landscapes of this class—two rascally scouts who have put in appearance from time immemorial; they are here just as in the works alluded to, the one sitting, the other of course standing, and courteously bending to receive the remarks of his friend. By the side of the stream, which flows through (or rather takes up) the middle of the picture, and immediately opposite to the two everlastings, is a little plain-looking agriculturist, who appears to be watching them. He is in the careless and ever-admitted picturesque position of leaning over a garden fence; but whether the invariables are aware of the little gentleman, and are consequently conversing in an undertone, we leave every beholder to speculate and settle for himself. Behind the worthy small farmer, and coming from the door of his residence, most cleverly introduced, is his wife (we know it to represent the wife, from the clear fact of the lady’s appearance being typical of the gentleman’s), who is in the act of observing that the children are waiting his presence at table, and adding, no doubt, that he had better come in and assist her in the cabbage-and-bacon duties of the repast, than lose his time and annoy the family. We must now draw the spectator from the above-mentioned objects to a little piscatorial sportsman, who, apart from them, and in the retirement of his own thoughts upon worms, ground-bait, and catgut, lends his aid, together with a lively little amateur waterman, paddling about in a little boat, selfishly built to hold none other than himself—a hill rising in the middle ground, and two or three minor editions of the same towards the distance, carefully dotted with trees, after the fashion of a ready-made portable park from the toy depot in the Lowther Arcade—two bee-hives, a water-mill, some majestic smoke, something that looks like a skein of thread thrown over a mountain, and the memorable chiaro-scuro, form the interesting episodes of this glorious essay in the epic pastoral. SYNCRETIC LITERATURE Observations on the Epic Poem of Giles Scroggins and Molly Brown—resumed. The fatal operation of the unavoidable, ever-impending, ruthless shears of the stern controller of human destiny, and curtailer of human life—the action by which “Fate’s scissors cut Giles Scroggins’ thread,” or rather the thread of Giles Scroggins’ life, at once and most completely establishes the wholesome moral as to the fearful uncertainty of all sublunary anticipations, and stands forth a beautiful beacon to warn the over- weaning “worldly wisemen” from their often too-fondly-cherished dreams of realising, by their own means and appliances, the darling projects of their ambitious hopes! The immediate effect of the operation performed by Fate’s scissors, or rather by Fate herself—as she was the great and absolute disposer—to whom the implement employed was but a matter of fancy; for had Fate so chosen, a bucket, a bowie-knife, a brick-bat, a black cap, or a box of patent pills, might, as well as her destructive shears, have made a tenant for a yawning grave of doomed Giles Scroggins. We say, the immediate effect arising from this cutting cause was one in which both parties—the living bride and defunct bridegroom— were equally concerned, their lover’s co-partnership rendering each liable for the acts or accidents of the other; therefore as may be (and we think is) clearly established, under these circumstances, “They could not be mar-ri-ed!” There is something deliciously affecting in the beautiful drawing out of the last syllable!—it seems like the lingering of the heart’s best feelings upon the blighted prospects of its purest joys!—the ceremony that would have completed the union of the loving maiden and admiring swain, blending, as it were, like the twin prongs of a brass-bound toasting-fork, their interests in one common cause. The ceremony of love’s concentration can never be performed! but the heart-feeling poet extends each tiny syllable even to its utmost stretch, that the tear- dropping reader may, while gulping down his sympathies, make at least a handsome mouthful of the word. We now approach, with considerable awe, a portion of our task to which we beg to call the undivided attention of our erudite readers. Upon referring to the original black-letter quarto, we find, after each particular sentence, the author introduces, with consummate tact, a line, meant, as we presume, as a kind of literary resting-place, upon which the delighted mind might, in the sweet indulgence of repose, reflect with greater pleasure on the thrilling parts, made doubly thrilling by the poet’s fire. The diversity of these, if we may so express them, “camp stools” of imagination, is worthy of remark, both as to their application and amplitude. For instance, after one line, and that if perused with attention, comparatively less abstruse than its fellows, the gifted poet satisfies himself with the insertion of three sonorous, but really simple syllables, they are invariably at follows— “Too-ral-loo!” But when two lines of the poem—burning with thought, bursting with action—entrance by their sublimity the enraptured reader, greater time is given, and more extended accommodation for a mental sit-down is afforded in the elaborate and elongated composition of “Whack! fol-de-riddle lol-de-day!” These introductions are of a high classic origin. Many professors of eminence have quarrelled as to whether they were not the original of the “Greek chorus;” while others, of equal erudition, have as stoutly maintained, though closely approximating in character and purpose, they are not the “originals,” but imitations, and decidedly admirable ones, from those celebrated poets. A Mr. William Waters, a gentleman of immense travel, one who had left the burning zone of the far East to visit the more chilling gales of a European climate, a philosopher of the sect known as the “Peripatetic,” a devoted follower of the heathen Nine, whose fostering care has ever been devoted to the tutelage of the professors of sweet sounds; and therefore Waters was a high authority, declared in the peculiar patois attendant upon the pronunciation of a foreign mode of speech—that “Too-ral-loo” was to catch him wind! And “Whack! fol-de-riddle lol-de-day,” to let “um rosin up him fuddlestick!” These deductions are practical, if not poetical; but these are but the emanations from the brain of one—hundreds of other commentators differ from his view. The most erudite linguists are excessively puzzled as to the nation whose peculiar language has been resorted to for these singular and unequalled introductions. The “Too-ral-loo” has been given up in despair. The nearest solution was that of an eminent arithmetician, who conjectured from the word too (Anglice, two)—and the use of the four cyphers—those immediately following the T and L—that they were intended to convey some notion of the personal property of Giles Scroggins or Molly Brown (he never made up his mind which of the two); and merely wanted the following marks to render them plain:— T—oo (two)—either shillings or pence—and L—oo: no pounds! This may or may not be right, but the research and ingenuity deserve the immortality we now confer upon it. The other line, the “Whack! fol-de-riddle lol-de-day!” has, perhaps, given rise to far more controversy, with certainly less tangible and satisfactory results. The scene of the poem not being expressly stated in the original or early black-letter translation, many persons —whose love of country prompted their wishes—have endeavoured to attach a nationality to these gordian knots of erudition. An Hibernian gentleman of immense research—the celebrated “Darby Kelly”—has openly asserted the whole affair to be decidedly of Milesian origin: and, amid a vast number of corroborative circumstances, strenuously insists upon the solidity of his premises and deductions by triumphantly exclaiming, “What, or who but an Irish poet and an Irish hero, would commence a matter of so much consequence with the soul-stirring “whack!” adopted by the great author, and put into the mouth of his chosen hero?” Others again have supposed—which is also far more improbable—that much of the obscurity of the above passage has its origin from simple mis-spelling on the part of the poet’s amanuensis—he taking the literal dictation, forgetting the sublime author was suffering from a cold in the head, which rendered the words in sound— “Riddle lol the lay;” whereas they would otherwise have been pronounced— [pg 113] “Riddle—all the day”— that being an absolute and positive allusion to the agricultural pursuits of Giles Scroggins, he being generally employed by his more wealthy master—a great agrarian of those times—in the manly though somewhat fatiguing occupation of “riddling all the day:” an occupation which—like this article—was to be frequently resumed. A NEW THEORY OF POCKETS. DEFINITION Pocket, s. the small bag inserted into clothes.—WALKER (a new edition, by Hookey). We are great on the subject of pockets—we acknowledge it—we avow it. From our youth upwards, and we are venerable now, we have made them the object of untiring research, analysis, and speculation; and if our exertions have occasionally involved us in contingent predicaments, or our zeal laid us open to conventional misconstructions, we console ourselves with Galileo and Tycho Brahe, who having, like us, discovered and arranged systems too large for the scope of the popular intellect, like us, became the martyrs of those great principles of science which they have immortalized themselves by teaching. The result of a course of active and careful (s)peculations on the philosophy and economy of pockets, has led us to the conviction that their intention and use are but very imperfectly understood, even by the intelligent and reflective section of the community. It is, we fear, a very common error to regard them as conventional recesses, adapted for the reception and deposit of such luxurious additaments to the attire as are detached, yet accessory and indispensable ministers to our comfort. Now this delusive supposition is diametrically opposed to the truth. Pockets (we must be plain)—pockets are not made to put into, but to take out of; and, although it is of course necessary that, in order to produce the result of withdrawal, they be previously furnished with the wherewithal to withdraw, yet the process of insertion and supply is only carried on for the purpose of assisting the operation of the system. And having, we trust, logically established this point, we shall hazard no incautious position in asserting that the man who empties a pocket, fulfils the object for which it was founded and established. And although, unhappily, a prejudice still exists in the minds of the uneducated, in favour of emptying their own pockets themselves, it must be evident that none but a narrow mind can take umbrage at the trifling acceleration of an event which must inevitably occur; or would desire to appropriate the credit of the distribution, as well as to deserve the merit of the supply. We perceive with concern and apprehension, that pockets are gradually falling into disuse. To use the flippant idiom of the day, they are going out! This is an alarming, as well as a lamentable fact; and one, too, strikingly illustrative of the degeneracy of modern fashions. Whether we ascribe the change to a contemptuous neglect of ancestral institutions, or to an increasing difficulty in furnishing the indispensable attributes of the pocket, it is alike indicative of a crisis; and we confess that it is matter of astonishment to us, that in these days of theory and hypothesis, no man has ventured to trace the distress and the ruin now impending over the country, to the increasing disrespect and disuse of—pockets. By way of approving our conjecture, let us contrast the garments of the hour with those of England in the olden time—long ago, when boards smoked and groaned under a load of good things in every man’s house; when the rich took care of the poor, and the poor took care of themselves; when husband and wife married for love, and lived happily (though that must have been very long ago indeed); the athletic yeoman proceeded to his daily toil, enveloped in garments instinct with pockets. The ponderous watch—the plethoric purse—the massive snuff-box —the dainty tooth-pick—the grotesque handkerchief; all were accommodated and cherished in the more ample recesses of his coat; while supplementary fobs were endeared to him by their more seductive contents: as ginger lozenges, love-letters, and turnpike-tickets. Such were the days on which we should reflect with regret; such were the men whom we should imitate and revere. Had such a character as we have endeavoured feebly to sketch, met an individual enveloped in a shapeless cylindrical tube of pale Macintosh—impossible for taste— incapable of pockets—indefinite and indefinable—we question whether he would have regarded him in the light of a maniac, an incendiary, or a foreign spy—whether he would not have handed him immediately over to the exterminators of the law, as a being too depraved, too degraded for human sympathy. And yet—for our prolixity warns us to conclude—and yet the festering contagion of this baneful example is now-a-days hidden under the mask of fashion. FASHION! and has it indeed come to this? Is fashion to trample on the best and finest feelings of our nature? Is fashion to be permitted to invade us in our green lanes, and our high roads, under our vines and our fig-trees, without hindrance, and without pockets? For the sake of human nature, we hope not —for the sake of our bleeding country, we hope not. No! “Take care of your pockets!” is one of the earliest maxims instilled into the youthful mind; and emphatically do we repeat to our fellow-countrymen—Englishmen, take care of your pockets! PUNCH’S THEATRE. ritics, as well as placemen, are occasionally sinecurists, and, like the gentlemen of England immortalised by Dibdin, are able, now and then, to “live at home at ease”—to dine (on dining days) in comfort, not having to rise from table to give authors or actors their dessert. This kind of novelty in our lives takes place when managers produce no novelties in their theatres; when authors are lazy, and actors do not come out in new parts but are contented with wearing out old ones—when, in short, such an eventless theatrical week as the past one leaves us to the enjoyment of our own hookahs, and the port of our cellar-keeping friends. The play-bills seem to have been printed from stereotype, for, like the laws of the Medes and Persians, they have never altered—since our last report. This unexpected hot weather has visited the public with many a “Midsummer night’s dream,” although it is— and Covent Garden has opened because it is September; Sheridan’s “Critic” has been very busy there, though PUNCH’S has had nothing to do. “London Assurance” is still seen to much advantage, and so is Madame Vestris. The Haymarket manager continues to wade knee-deep in tragedy, in spite of the state of the weather. The fare is, however, too good for any change in the carte. “Werner” forms a substantial standing dish. The “Boarding School” makes a most palpable entrée; while “Bob Short,” and “My Friend the Captain,” serve as excellent after-courses. The promises recorded in the Haymarket bills are, a new tragedy by a new author, and an old comedy called “Riches;” a certain hit, if the continued success of “Money” be any criterion. It is with feelings of the most rabid indignation that we approach the Strand Theatre, and the ruthless threat its announcements put forth of the future destruction of the only legitimate drama that is now left amongst us; that is to say, “PUNCH.” When Thespis and his pupil Phynicus “came out” at the feasts of Bacchus; when “Roscius was an actor in Rome;” when Scaramouch turned the Materia Medica into a farce, and became a quack doctor in Italy; when Richardson set up his show in England—all these geniuses were peregrinate, peripatetic—their scenes were really moving ones, their tragic woes went upon wheels, their comedies were run through at the rate of so many miles per hour; the entire drama was, in fact, a travelling concern. Punch, the concentrated essence of all these, has, up to this date, preserved the pristine purity of his peripatetic fame; he still remains on circuit, he still retains his legitimacy. But, alas! ere this sheet has passed through the press, while its ink is yet as wet as our dear Judy’s eyes, he will have fallen from his high estate: Hall will have housed him! Punch will have taken a stationary stand at the Strand Theatre!! The last stroke will have been given to the only ancient drama remaining, except the tragedies of Sophocles, and “Gammer Gurton’s Needle.” With feelings of both sorrow and anger, we turn from the pedestrian to the equestrian drama. The Surrey has again, as of yore, become the Circus; she has been joined to Ducrow and his stud by the usual symbol of union —a ring. “Mazeppa” is ridden by Mr. Cartlitch, with great success, and the wild horse performed by an animal so highly trained, that it is as tame as a lap-dog—has galloped through a score or so of nights, to the delight of some thousands of spectators. The scenes in the circle exhibit the usual round of entertainment, and the Merryman delivers those reliques of antique facetiæ which have descended to the clowns of the ring from generation to generation, without the smallest innovation. Thus the Surrey shows symptoms of high prosperity, and properly declines to fly in Fortune’s face by attempting novelty. The Victoria continues to kill “James Dawson,” in spite of our prediction. The bills, however, promise that he shall die outright on Monday next, and a happy release it will be. The proprietor of “Sadler’s Wells” is making most spirited efforts to attract play-goers to the Islington side of the New River, by a return to the legitimate drama of his theatre, viz.—real water; while his box check-taker has kept one important integer of the public away; namely, that singular plural we—by impertinence for which we have exhausted all patience without obtaining redress. There are, we hear, other theatres open in London, one called the “City of London,” somewhere near Shoreditch; another in Whitechapel, both terræ incognitæ to us. The proprietors of these have handsomely presented us with free admissions. We beg them to accept our thanks for their courtesy; but are sorry we cannot avail ourselves of it till they add the obligation of providing us with guides. THE CORN LAWS AND CHRISTIANITY. Doctor Chalmers refused to attend the synod of Clergymen gathered together to consider the relative value of the Big and Little Loaf, on the ground that the reverend gentlemen were beginning their work at the wrong end. Wages will go up with Christianity, says the Doctor; cheap corn will follow the dissemination of cheap Bibles. “I know of no other road for the indefinite advancement of the working classes to a far better remuneration, and, of course, a far more liberal maintenance, in return for their toils, than they have ever yet enjoyed—it is a [pg 114] universal Christian education.” Such are the words of Doctor CHALMERS. We perfectly agree with the reverend doctor. Instead of shipping Missionaries to Africa, let us keep those Christian sages at home for the instruction of the English Aristocracy. When we consider the benighted condition of the elegant savages of the western squares,—when we reflect upon the dreadful scepticism abounding in Park-lane, May-fair, Portland-place and its vicinity,—when we contemplate the abominable idols which these unhappy natives worship in their ignorance,—when we know that every thought, every act of their misspent life is dedicated to a false religion, when they make hourly and daily sacrifice to that brazen serpent, SELF!— when they offer up the poor man’s sweat to the abomination,—when they lay before it the crippled child of the factory,—when they take from life its bloom and dignity, and degrading human nature to mere brute breat...