PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.

JULY 31, 1841.

POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE.

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

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

“—— not poppy, nor mandragora,

Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world.

Shall ever usher thee to that sweet sleep”

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

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

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

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

A RENCONTRE WITH A TEA-TOTALLER.

On going forth last night, a friend to see,

I met a man by trade a s-n-o-b;

Reeling along the path he held his way.

“Ho! ho!” quoth I, “he’s d-r-u-n-k.”

Then thus to him—“Were it not better, far,

You were a little s-o-b-e-r?

’Twere happier for your family, I guess,

Than playing off such rum r-i-g-s.

Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see ’em,

Are taken up at once by t-h-e-m.”

“Me drunk!” the cobbler cried, “the devil trouble you!

You want to kick up a blest r-o-w.

Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby,

If drain I’ve had!” (the lying s-n-o-b!)

I’ve just return’d from a tee-total party,

Twelve on us jamm’d in a spring c-a-r-t.

The man as lectured, now, was drunk; why, bless ye,

He’s sent home in a c-h-a-i-s-e.

He’d taken so much lush into his belly,

I’m blest if he could t-o-dd-l-e.

A pair on ’em—hisself and his good lady;—

The gin had got into her h-e-a-d.

(My eye and Betty! what weak mortals we are;

They said they took but ginger b-e-e-r!)

But as for me, I’ve stuck (’twas rather ropy)

All day to weak imperial p-o-p.

And now we’ve had this little bit o’sparrin’,

Just stand a q-u-a-r-t-e-r-n!”

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

TO JOBBING PATRIOTS.

MR. GEORGE ROBINS.

with unparalleled gratification, begs to state that he has it in

Command

to announce, that in consequence of

LORD JOHN RUSSELL’S LETTER

to the citizens of London having satisfactorily convinced her

MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY

that a change of ministry

CANNOT

be productive of a corresponding transformation of measures, and that the late

POLITICO-GLADIATORIAL STRUGGLE

for the guerdon of office could only have emanated from a highly commendatory desire on the part of the disinterested and patriotic belligerents

TO SERVE THEMSELVES

or their country,

HIS ROYAL MISTRESS,

ever solicitous to enchain the hearts of her devoted subjects, by an impartial exercise of her prerogative, has determined to submit to the

ARBITRATION OF HIS HUMBLE HAMMER,

some of those desirable places, so long known as the stimuli to the

LACTANT LYCURGI

of the nineteenth century.

LOT 1.

FIRST LORD OF THE TREASURY,

at present in possession of Lord Melbourne. This will be found a most eligible investment, as it embraces a considerable extent of female patronage, comprising the appointments of those valuable legislative adjuncts,

THE LADIES OF THE BEDCHAMBER,

AND THE ROYAL NURSES, WET AND DRY;

together with those household desiderata,

COALS AND CANDLES,

and an unlimited

RUN OF THE ROYAL KITCHEN.

LOT 2.

SECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE COLONIAL DEPARTMENT,

at present occupied by Lord John Russell. This lot must possess considerable attraction for a gastronomical experimentalist, as its present proprietor has for a long time been engaged in the discovery of how few pinches of oatmeal and spoonsful of gruel are sufficient for a human pauper, and will be happy to transfer his data to the next fortunate proprietor. Any gentleman desirous of embarking in the manufacture of

SUGAR CANDY, MATCHES, OR CHEAP BREAD,

would find this a desirable investment, more particularly should he wish to form either

A PAROCHIAL OR MATRIMONIAL UNION,

as there are plans for the one, and hints for the other, which will be thrown into the bargain, being of no further use to the present noble incumbent.

LOT 3.

SECRETARY OF STATE FOR THE HOME DEPARTMENT,

at present the property of Lord Normanby. Is admirably calculated for any one of a literary turn of mind, offering resources peculiarly adapted for a proper cultivation of the Jack Sheppard and James Hatfield “men-of-elegant-crimes” school of novel-writing—the archives of Newgate and Horsemonger-lane being open at all times to the inspection of the favoured purchaser.

“YES” OR “NO”

will determine the sale of this desirable lot in a few days.

LOT 4.

SECRETARY OF STATE FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS,

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

“From the rich peasant-cheek of bronze,

And large black eyes that flash on you a volley

Of rays, that say a thousand things at once,

To the high dama’s brow more melancholy.”

The only requisite (besides money) for this desirable lot is, that the purchaser must write a bold round hand for

PROTOCOLS,

understand French and Chinese, and be an

EXPERT TURNER.

LOT 5.

SEVERAL UNDER SECRETARYSHIPS,

admirably adapted for younger sons and poor relatives.

The whole of the proceeds (by the advice of her Majesty’s Cabinet Council) will be devoted to the erection of a

UNION FOR DECAYED MINISTERS.

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

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

THE DIARY OF A LORD MAYOR.

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

“Mr. ——

“FEU LORD MAYOR DE LONDRES.”

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

DIARY.

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

THE LORD MAYOR TAKING WATER.

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

“Commenced sacrificing to the Graces,

By putting on my breeches.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LOVES OF THE PLANTS.

The gay Daffodilly, an amorous blade,

Stole out of his bed in the dark,

And calling his brother, Jon-Quil, forth he stray’d

To breathe his love vows to a Violet maid

Who dwelt in a neighbouring park.

A spiteful old Nettle-aunt frown’d on their love;

But Daffy, who laugh’d at her power,

A Shepherd’s-purse slipp’d in the nurse’s Fox-glove,

Then up Jacob’s-ladder he crept to his love,

And stole to the young Virgin’s-bower.

The Maiden’s-blush Rose—and she seem’d all dismay’d,

Array’d in her white Lady’s-smock,

She call’d Mignonette—but the sly little jade,

That instant was hearing a sweet serenade

From the lips of a tall Hollyhock.

The Pheasant’s eye, always a mischievous wight,

For prying out something not good,

Avow’d that he peep’d through the keyhole that night;

And clearly discern’d, by a glow-worm’s pale light,

Their Two-faces-under-a-hood.

Old Dowager Peony, deaf as a door,

Who wish’d to know more of the facts,

Invited Dame Mustard and Miss Hellebore,

With Miss Periwinkle, and many friends more,

One evening to tea and to tracts.

The Butter-cups ranged, defamation ran high,

While every tongue join’d the debate;

Miss Sensitive said, ‘twixt a groan and a sigh,

Though she felt much concern’d—yet she thought her dear Vi—

Had grown rather bulbous of late.

Thus the tale spread about through the busy parterre:

Miss Columbine turn'd up her nose,

And the prude Lady Lavender said, with a stare,

That her friend, Mary-gold, had been heard to declare,

The creature had toy’d with the Rose.

Each Sage look’d severe, and each Cocks-comb look’d gay,

When Daffy to make their mind easy,

Miss Violet married one morning in May,

And, as sure as you live, before next Lady-day,

She brought him a Michaelmas-daisy.

NOTHING WONDERFUL.

The Duke of Normandie accounts for the non-explosion of his percussion-shells, by the fact of having incautiously used some of M’Culloch’s pamphlets on the corn laws. If this be the case, no person can be surprised at their not going off.

MODERN WAT TYLERS.

The anxiety of the Whigs to repeal the timber duties is quite pardonable, for, with their wooden heads, they doubtlessly look upon it in the light of a poll-tax.

Head of a Botecudo previous to disfigurement.

Head of a Butecudo disfigured by chin and ear pendants.

Head of a Botecudo disfigured by civilisation.

CIVILISATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOUVEAU MANUEL DU VOYAGEUR.

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

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

THE OMNIBUS

The horrors of an omnibus,

Indeed, I’ve cause to curse;

And if I ride in one again,

I hope ‘twill be my hearse.

If you a journey have to go,

And they make no delay,

’Tis ten to one you’re serv’d like curds,

They spill you on the WHEY.

A short time since my wife and I

A short call had to make,

And giving me a kiss, she said—

“A buss you’d better take!”

We journey’d on—two lively cads,

Were for our custom triers;

And in a twinkling we were fix’d

Fast by this pair of pliers!

My wife’s arm I had lock’d in mine,

But soon they forced her from it;

And she was lugg’d into the Sun,

And I into the Comet!

Jamm’d to a jelly, there I sat,

Each one against me pushing;

And my poor gouty legs seem’d made

For each one’s pins—a cushion!

My wife some time had gone before:

I urged the jarvey's speed,

When all at once the bus set off

At fearful pace, indeed!

I ask’d the coachee what caused this?

When thus his story ran:—

“Vy, a man shied at an oss, and so

An oss shied at a man!”

Oh, fearful crash! oh, fearful smash!

At such a rate we run,

That presently the Comet came

In contact with the Sun.

At that sad time each body felt,

As parting with its soul,

We were, indeed, a little whirl’d,

And shook from pole to pole!

Dunn, the miller of Wimbledon, has recently given his infant the Christian name of Cardigan. If there is truth in the adage of “give a dog a bad name and hang him,” the poor child has little else in perspective than the gallows.

PRAY DON’T TELL THE GOVERNOR.

A SONG OF TON.

Why, y-e-s—‘twas rather late last night;

In fact, past six this morning.

My rascal valet, in a fright,

Awoke, and gave me warning.

But what of that?—I’m very young.

And you’ve “been in the Oven,” or,

Like me, you’re wrong’d by rumour’s tongue,

So—pray don’t tell the Governor.¹ 1. The author is aware there exists a legitimate rhyme for Porringer, but believes a match for governor lies still in the terra incognita of allowable rhythm.

I dined a quarter after seven,

With Dashall of the Lancers;

Went to the opera at eleven,

To see the ballet-dancers.

From thence I saunter’d to the club—

Fortune to me’s a sloven—or,

I surely must have won one rub,

But—mind! don’t tell the Governor!

I went to Ascot t’other day,

Drove Kitty in a tandem;

Upset it ’gainst a brewer’s dray—

I’d dined, so drove at random.

I betted high—an “outside” won—

I’d swear its hoofs were cloven, or

It ne’er the favourite horse had done,

But—don’t you tell the Governor.

My cottage ornée down at Kew,

So picturesque and pretty,

Cost me of thousands not a few,

To fit it up for Kitty.

She said it charm’d her fancy quite,

But (still I can’t help loving her)

She bolted with the plate one night—

You needn’t tell the Governor.

My creditors are growing queer,

Nay, threaten to be furious;

I’ll scan their paltry bills next year,

At present I’m not curious.

Such fellows are a monstrous bore,

So I and Harry Grosvenor

To-morrow start for Gallia’s shore,

And leave duns—to the Governor.

THE EXPLOSIVE BOX.

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

EXCLUSIVE INTELLIGENCE.

(From OUR West-end and “The Observer’s” Correspondent.)

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

ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

The Times gives a horrible description of some mesmeric experiments by a M. Delafontaine, by which a boy was deprived of all sensation. We suspect that some one has been operating upon the Poor Law Commissioners, for their total want of feeling is a mesmeric phenomenon.