Read Ebook: Punch or the London Charivari Volume 1 November 20 1841 by Various

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VOL. 1.

FOR THE WEEK ENDING NOVEMBER 20, 1841.

MYSELF, PUNCH, AND THE KEELEYS.

I dined with my old friend and schoolfellow, Jack Withers, one day last September. On the previous morning, on my way to the India House, I had run up against a stout individual on Cornhill, and on looking in his face as I stopped for a moment to apologise, an abrupt "This is surely Jack Withers," burst from my lips, followed by--"God bless me! Will Bayfield!" from his. After a hurried question or two, we shook hands warmly and parted, with the understanding that I was to cut my mutton with him next day.

Seventeen years had elapsed since Withers and I had seen or heard of each other. Having a good mercantile connexion, he had pitched upon commerce as his calling, and entered a counting-house in Idollane in the same year that I, a raw young surgeon, embarked for India to seek my fortune in the medical service of the East India Company.

Things had gone well with honest Jack; from a long, thin, weazel of a youngster, he had become a burly ruddy-faced gentleman, with an aldermanic rotundity of paunch, which gave the world assurance that his ordinary fare by no means consisted of deaf nuts; he had already, as he told me, accumulated a very pretty independence, which was yearly increasing, and was, moreover, a snug bachelor, with a well-arranged residence in Finsbury-square; in short, it was evident that Jack was "a fellow with two coats and everything handsome about him."

As for me, I was a verification of the adage about the rolling stone; having gathered a very small quantity of "moss," in the shape of worldly goods. I had spent sixteen years in marching and countermarching over the thirsty plains of the Carnatic, in medical charge of a native regiment--salivating Sepoys and blowing out with blue pills the officers--until the effects of a stiff jungle-fever, that nearly made me proprietor of a landed property measuring six feet by two, sent me back to England almost as poor as I had left it, and with an atrabilarious visage which took a two-months' course of Cheltenham water to scour into anything like a decent colour.

Withers' dinner was in the best taste: viands excellent--wine superb; never did I sip racier Madeira, and the Champagne trickled down one's throat with the same facility that man is inclined to sin.

The cloth drawn, we fell to discoursing about old times, things, persons, and places. Jack then told me how from junior clerk he had risen to become second partner in the firm to which he belonged; and I, in my turn, enlightened his mind with respect to Asiatic Cholera, Runjeet Sing, Ghuzni, tiger-shooting, and Shah Soojah.

In this manner the evening slid pleasantly on. An array of six bottles, that before dinner had contained the juice of Oporto, stood empty on the sideboard. Jack wanted to draw another cork, which, however, I positively forbad, as I have through life made it a rule to avoid the slightest approach towards excess in tippling; so, after a modest brace of glasses of brandy-and-water, I shook hands with and left my friend about half-past nine, for I am an old-fashioned fellow, and love early hours, my usual time for turning in being ten.

When I got into the street an unaccustomed spirit of gaiety at once took possession of me; my general feelings of benevolence and goodwill towards all mankind appeared to have received a sudden and marvellous increase. I seemed to tread on eider-down, and, cigar in mouth, strolled along Fleet-street and the Strand, towards my domicile in Half-Moon street--"nescio quid meditans nugarum"--sometimes humming the fag end of an Irish melody; anon stopping to stare in a print-shop window; and then I would trudge on, chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy as I conned over the various ups and downs that had chequered my life since Jack Withers and I were thoughtless lads together "a long time ago."

In this mood I found myself standing before the New Strand Theatre, my attention having been arrested by the word PUNCH blazoned in large letters on a play-bill.

"What can this mean?" quoth I to myself. "I know a publication called Punch very well, but I never heard of a performance so named. I'll go in and see it. Who knows but it may be an avatar of the Editor of that illustrious periodical, who condescends to discard his dread incognito for the nonce, in order to exhibit himself, for one night only, to the eyes and understandings of admiring London."

The Avatar we do not allow--the illustrious periodical we do.--ED. OF PUNCH.

In another minute I was seated in the boxes, and found a crowded audience in full enjoyment of the quiet waggery of Keeley, who was fooling them to the top of their bent, accoutred from top to toe as Mynheer Punch the Great, while his clever little wife--who, by the way, possesses, I think, more of the "vis comica" than any actress of the day--caused sides to shake and eyes to water by her na?ve and humorous delineation of Mrs. Snozzle.

The curtain had hardly fallen more than a couple of minutes, when a door behind me opened hastily, and a box-keeper thrusting in his head, called out--"Is there a medical man here?" "I am one," said I, getting up; "anything the matter?" "Come with me then, sir, if you please," said he; "a severe accident has just happened to Mrs. Keeley; a falling scene has struck her head, sir, and hurt her dreadfully."

"Good heavens!" said I, much shocked; "I will come immediately."

Having felt the sufferer's pulse, I was about to turn her head gently, in order to examine the nature of the wound, when a hustling noise behind me causing me to turn round, to my infinite dismay, I perceived Mr. Keeley, having pushed the bystanders on one side, in the act of performing a kind of Punchean dance upon the floor, accompanying himself with the vigorous chuckling and crowing peculiar to the hero whose habiliments he wore. I was horror-stricken--conceiving that grief had suddenly turned his brain.

All at once, he made a spring towards me, and, seizing my arm, thrust me into a corner of the room, where he held me fast, exclaiming--

"Wretch! villain! restore me my wife--that talented woman your infernal arts have destroyed! You did for her!"

"Mr. Keeley," said I, struggling to release myself from his grasp--"my dear sir, pray compose yourself."

"Unhappy traitor!" he shouted, giving me an unmerciful tweak by the nose; "Look at her silver skin laced with her golden blood!--see, see! Oh, see!"

This was rather too much, even from a man whose wits were astray. I began to lose patience, and was preparing to rid myself somewhat roughly of the madman's grasp, when a new phenomenon occurred.

The patient on the sofa, whom I had judged well nigh moribund, and consequently incapable of any effort whatever, all at once sat up with a sudden jerk, and gave vent to a series of the most ear-piercing shrieks that ever assailed human tympanum.

I gazed about me with troubled and lack-lustre eye. Every lorgnette in the boxes was levelled at my miserable countenance; a sea of upturned and derisive faces grinned at me from the pit, and the gods in Olympus thundered from on high--"Turn him out; he's drunk!"

This was the unkindest cut of all--thus publicly to be accused of intoxication, a vice of all others I have ever detested and eschewed.

I cast one indignant glance around me, and left the theatre, lamenting the depravity of our nature, which is, alas! always ready to put the worst construction upon actions in themselves most innocent; for if I had gone to sleep in my own arm-chair, pray who would have accused me of inebriety?

How I got home I know not. As I hurried through the streets, a legion of voices, in every variety of intonation, yelled in my ears--"Turn him out--he's drunk!" and when I woke in the middle of the night, tormented by a raging thirst , I seemed to hear screams, groans, and hisses, above all which predominated loud and clear the malignant denunciation--"Turn him out--he's drunk!"

"ARE YE SURE THE NEWS IS TRUE?"

A DOSE OF CASTOR.

Peter Borthwick, late of the Royal Surrey Nautical, having had the honour of "deep damnation" conferred upon his "taking off" the character of Prince Henry, upon that occasion, to appear in unison with the text of the Immortal Bard, "dressed" the part in a most elaborate "neck-or-nothing tile." Upon being expostulated with by the manager, he triumphantly referred to the description of the chivalrous Prince in which the narrator particularly states--

CUTTING AT THE ROOT OF THE EVIL.

"Good heavens, Sir Peter," said Hobler, confidentially, to our dearly beloved Alderman, "How could you have passed such a ridiculous sentence upon Jones, as to direct his hair to be cut off?" "All right, my dear Hobby," replied the sapient justice; "the fellow was found fighting in the streets, and I wanted to hinder him, at least for some time, from again

TO PUNCH.

MY DEAR PUNCH,

Nothing convinces me more of my treacherous memory than my not recollecting you at the memorable "New-boot Supper;" for I certainly must have been as long in that society as yourself. Be that as it may, you have induced me to scrape together a few reminiscences in an imperfect way, leaving to you, from your better recollection, to correct and flavour the specimen to the palate of your readers, who have, most deservedly, every reliance upon your good taste and moral tendency. I have in vain tried to meet with the music of "the good old days of Adam and Eve," consequently have lost the enjoyment of the chorus--"Sing hey, sing ho!" It would be too much to ask you to sing it, but perhaps you may too-te-too it in your next. May your good intentions to the would-be AEsculapius be attended with success.--I remain, dear Punch, your old friend,

TOBY.

ASCITES.

Abdomen swell'd, which fluctuates when struck upon the side, sirs; Face pale and puff'd, and worse than that, with thirst and cough beside, sirs; Skin dry, and breathing difficult, and pains in epigastrium, And watchfulness or partial sleep, with dreams would strike the bravest dumb. To cure--restore the balance of exhalants and absorbents, With squill, blue-pill, and other means to soothe the patient's torments.

GRINDER.

Sure this is not your climax, sir, to save from Davy's locker!

STUDENT.

Way, no,--I'd then with caution tap--when first I'd tied the knocker. Sing hey! sing ho! if you cannot find a new plan, In Puseyistic days like these, you'd better try a New-man.

TYMPANITIS.

The swelling here is different--sonorous, tense, elastic; On it you might a tattoo beat, with fingers or with a stick. There's costiveness and atrophy, with features Hippocratic; When these appear, there's much to fear, all safety is erratic. Although a cordial laxative, mix'd up with some carminative, Might be prescribed, with morphia, or hops, to keep the man alive; Take care his diet's nutritive, avoiding food that's flatulent, And each week let him have a dose of Punch from Mr. Bryant sent. Sing hey! sing ho! &c.

ALARMING PROSPECTS FOR THE COUNTRY.

"ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER."

A poor man went to hang himself, But treasure chanced to find; He pocketed the miser's pelf And left the rope behind.

His money gone, the miser hung Himself in sheer despair: Thus each the other's wants supplied, And that was surely fair.

THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE.

WHEREIN THE READER WILL FIND GREAT CAUSE FOR REJOICING.

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