PUNCH’S RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS OF THE HOUSE OF LORDS.
(IN HUMBLE IMITATION OF THE AUTHOR OF “THE GREAT METROPOLIS.”)
No. I.—THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
Before entering on this series of papers, I have only one request to make of the reader, which is this: that, however absurd or incredible my statements may appear, he will take them all for Grant-ed.
It will hardly be necessary to apologise for making the hero of Waterloo the subject of this article; for, having had always free access to the parlour of the Duke of Wellington, I flatter myself that I am peculiarly fitted for the task I have undertaken.
My acquaintance with the duke commenced in a very singular manner. During the discussions on the Reform Bill, his grace was often the object of popular pelting; and I was, on one occasion, among a crowd of free-born Englishmen who, disliking his political opinions, were exercising the constitutional privilege of hooting him. Fired by the true spirit of British patriotism, and roused to a pitch of enthusiasm by observing that the crowd were all of one opinion, decidedly against the duke, worked up, too, with momentary boldness by perceiving that there was not a policeman in sight, I seized a cabbage-leaf, with which I caught his nose, when, turning round suddenly to look whence the blow proceeded, I caught his eye. It was a single glance; but there was something in it which said more than, perhaps, if I had attempted to lead him into conversation, he would at that moment have been inclined to say to me. The recognition was brief, lasting scarcely an instant; for a policeman coming round the corner, the great constitutional party with whom I had been acting retired in haste, rather than bring on a collision with a force which was at that time particularly obnoxious to all the true friends of excessive liberty.
It will, perhaps, surprise my readers, when I inform them that this is the only personal interview I ever enjoyed with the illustrious duke; but accustomed as I am to take in character at a glance, and to form my conclusions at a wink, I gained, perhaps, as much, or more, information with regard to the illustrious hero, as I have been enabled to do with regard to many of those members of the House of Lords whom, in the course of my “Random Recollections,” it is my intention to treat of.
I never, positively, dined with the Duke of Wellington; but on one occasion I was very near doing so. Whether the duke himself is aware of the circumstances that prevented our meeting at the same table I never knew, and have no wish to inquire; but when his grace peruses these pages, he will perceive that our political views are not so opposite as the dastardly enemies of both would have made the world suppose them to have been. The story of the dinner is simply this:—there was to be a meeting for the purpose of some charity at the Freemasons’-hall, and the Duke of Wellington was to take the chair. I was offered a ticket by a friend connected with the press. My friend broke his word. I did not attend the dinner. But those virulent liars much malign me who say I stopped away because the duke was in the chair; and much more do they libel me who would hint that my absence was caused by a difference with the duke on the subject of politics. Whether Wellington observed that I did not attend I never knew, nor shall I stop to inquire; but when I say that his grace spoke several times, and never once mentioned my name, it will be seen that whatever may have been his thoughts on the occasion, he had the delicacy and good taste to make no allusion whatever to the subject, which, but for its intrinsic importance, I should not so long have dwelt upon,
Looking over some papers the other day in my drawer, with the intention of selecting any correspondence that might have passed between myself and the duke, I found that his grace had never written to me more than once; but the single communication I had received from him was so truly characteristic of the man, that I cannot refrain from giving the whole of it. Having heard it reported that the duke answered with his own hand every letter that he received, I, who generally prefer judging in all things for myself, determined to put his grace’s epistolary punctuality to the test of experience. With this view I took up my pen, and dashed off a few lines, in which I made no allusion, either to my first interview, or the affair of the dinner; but simply putting forward a few general observations on the state of the country, signed with my own name, and dated from Whetstone-park, which was, at that time, my residence. The following was the reply I received from the duke, which I print verbatim, as an index—short, but comprehensive, as an index ought to be—to the noble duke’s character.
“Apsley-house.
“The Duke of Wellington begs to return the enclosed letter, as he neither knows the person who wrote it, nor the reason of sending it.”
This, as I said before, is perhaps one of the most graphic traits on record of the peculiar disposition of the hero of Waterloo. It bespeaks at once the soldier and the politician. He answers the letter with military precision, but with political astuteness—he pretends to be ignorant of the object I had in sending it. His ready reply was the first impulse of the man; his crafty and guarded mode of expression was the cautious act of the minister. Had I been disposed to have written a second time to my illustrious correspondent, I now had a fine opportunity of doing so; but I preferred letting the matter drop, and from that day to this, all communication between myself and the duke has ceased. I shall not be the first to take any step for the purpose of resuming it. The duke must, by this time, know me too well to suppose that I have any desire to keep up a correspondence which could lead to no practical result, and might only tear open afresh wounds that the healing hand of time has long ago restored to their former salubrity.
It may be expected I should say a few words of the duke’s person. He generally wears a frock coat, and rides frequently on horseback. His nose is slightly curved; but there is nothing peculiar in his hat or boots, the latter of which are, of course, Wellington’s. His habits are still those of a soldier, for he gets up and goes to bed again much as he was accustomed to do in the days of the Peninsula. His speeches in Parliament I have never heard; but I have read some of them in the newspapers. He is now getting old; but I cannot tell his exact age: and he has a son who, if he should survive his father, will undoubtedly attain to the title of Duke of Wellington.
EXTRAORDINARY OPERATION.
Royal Dispensary for Diseases of the Ear.
Our esteemed friend and staunch supporter Colonel Sibthorp has lately, in the most heroic manner, submitted to an unprecedented and wonderfully successful operation. Our gallant friend was suffering from a severe elongation of the auricular organs; amputation was proposed, and submitted to with most heroic patience. We are happy to state the only inconvenience resulting from the operation is the establishment of a new hat block, and a slight difficulty of recognition on the part of some of his oldest friends.
EXTRAORDINARY ASSIZE INTELLIGENCE.
One of the morning papers gave its readers last week a piece of extraordinary assize intelligence, headed—“Cutting a wife’s throat—before Mr. Serjeant Taddy” We advise the learned Serjeant to look to this: ’tis a too serious joke to be set down as an accessary to the cutting of a wife’s throat.
A SPOKE IN S—Y’S WHEEL!
“For Ireland’s weal!” hear turncoat S—y rave,
Who’d trust the wheel that own’d so sad a knave?
ALARMING DESTITUTION.
In the parish of Llanelly, Breconshire, the males exceed the females by more than one thousand. At Worcester, says the Examiner, the same majority is in favour of the ladies. We should propose a conference and a general swap of the sexes next market-day, as we understand there is not a window in Worcester without a notice of “Lodgings to let for single men,” whilst at Llanelly the gentlemen declare sweethearts can’t be had for “love nor money.”
A NATURAL INFERENCE.
“There’ll soon be rare work (cry the journals in fear),
When Peel is call’d in in his regular way;”
True—for when we’ve to pay all the Tories, ’tis clear,
It is much the same thing as the devil to pay.
THE TORY TABLE D’HOTE—BILLY HOLMES (loquitur)
“Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen, feeding is going to commence Wellington and Peel are now giving their opening dinners to their friends and admirers. All who want places must come early. Walk up! walk up!—This is the real constitutional tavern. Here we are! gratis feeding for the greedy! Make way there for those hungry-looking gentlemen—walk up, sir—leave your vote at the bar, and take a ticket for your hat.”
BLACK AND WHITE.
The Tories vow the Whigs are black as night,
And boast that they are only blessed with light.
Peel’s politics to both sides so incline,
His may be called the equinoctial line.
THE LEGAL ECCALOBEION.
Baron Campbell, who has sat altogether about 20 hours in the Irish Court of Chancery, will receive 4,000l. a-year, on the death of either Lord Manners or Lord Plunkett, (both octogenarians;) which, says the Dublin Monitor, “taking the average of human life, he will enjoy thirty years;” and adds, “20 hours contain 1,200 minutes; and 4,000l. a-year for thirty years gives 120,000l. So that he will receive for the term of his natural life just one hundred pounds for every minute that he sat as Lord Chancellor.” Pleasant incubation this! Sitting 20 hours, and hatching a fortune. If there be any truth in metempsychosis, Jocky Campbell must be the goose that laid golden eggs.
IRISH PARTICULAR.
SHEIL’S oratory’s like bottled Dublin stout;
For, draw the cork, and only froth comes out.
CALUMNY REFUTED.
We can state on the most positive authority that the recent fire at the Army and Navy Club did not originate from a spark of Colonel Sibthorp’s wit falling amongst some loose jokes which Captain Marryatt had been scribbling on the backs of some unedited purser’s bills.
HITTING THE RIGHT NAIL ON THE HEAD.
The Whigs resemble nails—How so, my master?
Because, like nails, when beat they hold the faster.
A MATTER OF TASTE.
“Do you admire Campbell’s ‘Pleasures of Hope’?” said Croker to Hook. “Which do you mean, the Scotch poet’s or the Irish Chancellor’s? the real or the ideal—Tommy’s four thousand lines or Jocky’s four thousand pounds a-year?” inquired Theodore. Croker has been in a brown study ever since.
CHARLES KEAN’S “CHEEK.”
MR. PUNCH,—Myself and a few other old Etonians have read with inexpressible scorn, disgust, and indignation, the heartless and malignant attempts, in your scoundrel journal, to blast the full-blown fame of that most transcendant actor, and most unexceptionable son, Mr. Charles Kean. Now, PUNCH, fair play is beyond any of the crown jewels. I will advance only one proof, amongst a thousand others that cart-horses sha’n’t draw from me, to show that Charles Kean makes more—mind, I say, makes more—of Shakspere, than every other actor living or dead. Last night I went to the Haymarket—Lady Georgiana L—— and other fine girls were of the party. The play was “Romeo and Juliet,” and there are in that tragedy two slap-up lines; they are, to the best of my recollection, as follow:—
“Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek.”
Now, ninety-nine actors out of a hundred make nothing of this—not so Charles Kean. Here’s my proof. Feeling devilish hungry, I thought I’d step out for a snack, and left the box, just as Charles Kean, my old schoolfellow, was beginning—
“Oh!—”
Well, I crossed the way, stepped into Dubourg’s, swallowed two dozen oysters, took a bottom of brandy, and booked a small bet with Jack Spavin for the St. Leger, returned to the theatre, and was comfortably seated in my box, as Charles Kean, my old school-fellow, had arrived at
“———cheek!”
Now, PUNCH, if this isn’t making much of Shakspere, what is?
Yours (you scoundrel),
ETONIAN.
AN AN-TEA ANACREONTIC—No. 4.
The following ode is somewhat freely translated from the original of a Chinese emigrant named CA-TA-NA-CH, or the “illustrious minstrel.”
We have given a short specimen of the original, merely substituting the Roman for the Chinese characters.
ORIGINAL.
As-ye-Te-i-anp-o-et-sli-re
Y-oun-g-li-ae-us-di-din-spi-re
Wen-ye-ba-r-da-wo-Ke-i-sla-is
Lo-ve-et-wi-nea-li-ket-op-ra-is
So-i-lus-tri-ou-spi-din-th-o-u
In-s-pi-re-thi-Te-ur-nv-ot-a-rin-ow
&c. &c.
TRANSLATION.
As the Teian poet’s lyre
Young Lyæus did inspire;
When the bard awoke his lays,
Love and wine alike to praise.
So, illustrious Pidding, thou
Inspire thy tea-urn votary now,
Whilst the tea-pot circles round—
Whilst the toast is being brown’d—
Let me, ere I quaff my tea,
Sing a paean unto thee,
IO PIDDING! who foretold,
Chinamen would keep their gold;
Who foresaw our ships would be
Homeward bound, yet wanting tea;
Who, to cheer the mourning land,
Said, “I’ve Howqua still on hand!”
Who, my Pidding, who but thee?
Io Pidding! Evoe!
THE STATE DOCTOR.
A BIT OF A FARCE.
Dramatis Personæ.
- RHUBARB PILL (a travelling doctor), by SIR ROBERT PEEL.
- BALAAM (his Man), by COLONEL SIBTHORP.
- COUNTRYMAN, by MR. BULL.
SCENE. Tamworth.
The Doctor and his Man are discovered in a large waggon, surrounded by a crowd of people.
RHUBARB PILL.—Balaam, blow the trumpet.
BALAAM (blows).—Too-too-tooit! Silence for the doctor!
RHUBARB PILL.—Now, friends and neighbours, now’s your time for getting rid of all your complaints, whether of the pocket or the person, for I, Rhubarb Pill, professor of sophistry and doctorer of laws, have now come amongst you with my old and infallible remedies and restoratives, which, although they have not already worked wonders, I promise shall do so, and render the constitution sound and vigorous, however it may have been injured by poor-law-bill-ious pills, cheap bread, and black sugar, prescribed by wooden-headed quacks. (Aside.) Balaam, blow the trumpet.
BALAAM (blows).—Too-too-tooit! Hurrah for the doctor!
RHUBARB PILL.—These infallible remedies have been in my possession since the years 1835 and 1837, but owing to the opposition of the Cabinet of Physicians, I have not been able to use them for the benefit of the public—and myself. (Bows.) These invaluable remedies—
COUNTRYMAN.—What be they?
RHUBARB PILL.—That’s not a fair question—wait till I’m regularly called in11. Sir Robert Peel at Tamworth.. It’s not that I care about the fee—mine is a liberal profession, and though I have a large family, and as many relations as most people, I really think I should refuse a guinea if it was offered to me.
COUNTRYMAN.—Then why doant’ee tell us?
RHUBARB PILL.—It’s not professional. Besides, it’s quite requisite that I should “feel the patient’s pulse,” or I might make the dose too powerful, and so—
COUNTRYMAN.—Get the sack, Mr. Doctor.
RHUBARB PILL (aside).—Blow the trumpet, Balaam.
BALAAM.—Too-too-tooit—tooit-too-too!
RHUBARB PILL.—And so do more harm than good. Besides, I should require to have the “necessary consultations” over the dinner-table. Diet does a great deal—not that I care about the “loaves and fishes”—but patients are always more tractable after a good dinner. Now there’s an old lady in these parts—
COUNTRYMAN.—What, my old missus?
RHUBARB PILL.—The same. She’s in a desperate way.
COUNTRYMAN.—Ees. Dr. Russell says it’s all owing to your nasty nosdrums.
RHUBARB PILL.—Doctor Russell’s a—never mind. I say she is very bad, and I AM the only man that can cure her.
COUNTRYMAN—Then out wi’it, doctor—what will?
RHUBARB PILL.—Wait till I’m regularly called in.
COUNTRYMAN.—But suppose she dies in the meantime?
RHUBARB PILL.—That’s her fault. I won’t do anything by proxy. I must direct my own administration, appoint my own nurses for the bed-chamber, have my own herbalists and assistants, and see Doctor Russell’s “purge” thrown out of the window. In short, I must be regularly called in. Balaam, blow the trumpet.
[Balaam blows the trumpet, the crowd shout, and the Doctor bows gracefully, with one hand on his heart and the other in his breeches pocket. At the end of the applause he commences singing].
I am called Doctor Pill, the political quack,
And a quack of considerable standing and note;
I’ve clapp’d many a blister on many a back,
And cramm’d many a bolus down many a throat,
I have always stuck close, like the rest of my tribe,
And physick’d my patient as long as he’d pay;
And I say, when I’m ask’d to advise or prescribe,
“You must wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.”
Old England has grown rather sickly of late,
For Russell’s reduced her almost to a shade;
And I’ve honestly told him, for nights in debate,
He’s a quack that should never have follow’d the trade.
And, Lord! how he fumes, and exultingly cries,
“Were you in my place, Pill, pray what would you say?”
But I only reply, “If I am to advise,
I shall wait till I’m call’d in a regular way.”
It’s rather “too bad,” if an ignorant elf,
Who has caught a rich patient ’twere madness to kill,
Should have all the credit, and pocket the pelf,
Whilst you are requested to furnish the skill.
No! no! amor patriæ’s a phrase I admire,
But I own to an amor that stands in its way;
And if England should e’er my assistance require,
She must—
“WAIT TILL I’M CALL’D IN A REGULAR WAY.”
ON DITS OF THE CLUBS.
Peter Borthwich has expressed his determination—not to accept of the speakership of the House of Commons.
C.M. Westmacott has announced his intention of not joining the new administration; in consequence of which serious defection, he asserts that Sir Robert Peel will be unable to form a cabinet.
“You have heard,” said his Grace of Buckingham, to Lord Abinger, a few evenings ago, “how scandalously Peel and his crew have treated me—they have actually thrown me overboard. A man of my weight, too!” “That was the very objection, my Lord,” replied the rubicund functionary. “Their rotten craft could not carry a statesman of your ponderous abilities. Your dead weight would have brought them to the bottom in five minutes.”