TESTIMONIALS.
TO MR. PUNCH.
SIR,—Having incautiously witnessed two consecutive performances of Mr. Macready in the “Lady of Lyons,” the comic portions of them threw me into a state of deep and chronic melancholy, which the various physicians employed were unable to cure. Hearing, however, of your excellent medicine, I took it regularly every Saturday for five weeks, and am now able to go about my daily employment, which being that of a low comedian, was materially interfered with by my late complaint.
I remain, with gratitude, yours truly,
JOHN SAUNDERS.
New Strand Theatre.
SIR,—I was, till lately, private secretary to Lord John Russell. I had to copy his somniferous dispatches, to endure a rehearsal of his prosy speeches, to get up, at an immense labour to myself, incessant laughs at his jokes. At length, by the enormous exertions the last duty imposed upon me, I sunk into a hopeless state of cachinnatory impotence: my risible muscles refused to perform their office, and I lost mine. I was discharged. Fortunately, however, for me, I happened to meet with your infallible “Pills to Purge Melancholy,” and tried Nos. 1 to 10 inclusive of them.
With feelings overflowing with gratitude, I now inform you, that I have procured another situation with Sir James Graham; and to show you how completely my roaring powers have returned, I have only to state, that it was I who got up the screeching applause with which Sir James’s recent jokes about the Wilde and Tame serjeants were greeted.
I am, Sir, yours,
GEORGE STEPHEN,
Late “over”-Secretary, and Author of the “Canadian Rebellion.”
SIR,—Being the proprietor of several weekly newspapers, which I have conducted for many years, my jocular powers gradually declined, from hard usage and incessant labour, till I was reduced to a state of despair; for my papers ceasing to sell, I experienced a complete stoppage of circulation.
In this terrible state I had the happiness to meet with your “Essence of Guffaw,” and tried its effect upon my readers, by inserting several doses of your Attic salt in my “New Weekly Messenger,” “Planet,” &c. &c. The effects were wonderful. Their amount of sale increased at every joke, and has now completely recovered.
I am, Sir,
JOHN BELL.
Craven-street, Strand.
Note.—This testimonial is gratifying, as the gentleman has hitherto failed to acknowledge the source of the wonderful cure we have effected in his property.
SIR,—As the author of the facetious political essays in the “Morning Herald,” it is but due to you that I should candidly state the reason why my articles have, of late, so visibly improved.
In truth, sir, I am wholly indebted to you. Feeling a gradual debility come over my facetiæ, I tried several potions of the “New Monthly” and “Bentley’s Miscellany,” without experiencing the smallest relief. “PUNCH” and his “Essence of Guffaw” were, however, most strongly recommended to me by my friend the editor of “Cruikshank’s Omnibus,” who had wonderfully revived after taking repeated doses. I followed his example, and am now completely re-established in fine, jocular health.
I am, Sir,
THE “OWN CORRESPONDENT.”
Shoe-lane.
Inestimable SIR,—A thousand blessings light upon your head! You have snatched a too fond heart from a too early grave. My life-preserver, my PUNCH! receive the grateful benedictions of a resuscitated soul, of a saved Seraphina Simpkins!
Samuel, dearest PUNCH, was false! He took Jemima to the Pavilion; I detected his perfidy, and determined to end my sorrows under the fourth arch of Waterloo-bridge.
In my way to the fatal spot I passed—no, I could not pass—your office. By chance directed, or by fate constrained, I stopped to read a placard of your infallible specific. I bought one dose—it was enough. I have now forgotten Samuel, and am happy in the affection of another.
Publish this, if you please; it may be of service to young persons who are crossed in love, and in want of straw-bonnets at 3s. 6d. each, best Dunstable.
I am, yours,
SERAPHINA SIMPKINS,
Architect of Tuscan, straw, and other bonnets, Lant-street, Borough.
CAUTION.—None are genuine unless duly stamped—with good humour, good taste, and good jokes. Observe: “PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, price Threepence,” is on the cover. Several spurious imitations are abroad, at a reduced price, the effects of which are dreadful upon the system.
W(H)AT TYLER.
The following pictorial joke has been sent to us by Count D’Orsay, which he denominates
TILING A FLAT.
All our attempts to discover the wit of this tableau d’esprit have been quite fu-tile. Perhaps our readers will be more successful.
A MESMERIC ADVERTISEMENT.
Wanted, by Mons. Lafontaine, a few fine able-bodied young men, who can suffer the running of pins into their legs without flinching, and who can stare out an ignited lucifer without winking. A few respectable-looking men, to get up in the room and make speeches on the subject of the mesmeric science, will also be treated with. Quakers’ hats and coats are kept on the premises. Any little boy who has been accustomed at school to bear the cane without wincing will be liberally treated with.
AN ALARMING STRIKE.
HORACE TWISS, on being told that the workmen employed at the New Houses of Parliament struck last week, to the number of 468, declared that he would follow their example unless Bob raised his wages.
SIR RHUBARB PILL, M.P. & M.D.
“Now the Poor Law is the only remedy for all the distresses referred to contained in the whole of the Baronet’s speech.”—Morning Chronicle, Sept. 21.
Oh! dear Doctor,
Great bill
And pill
Concoctor,
Most worthy follower in the steps
Of Dr. Epps,
And eke that cannie man
Old Dr. Hanneman—
Two individuals of consummate gumption,
Who declare,
That whensoe’er
The patient’s labouring under a consumption,
To save him from a trip across the Styx,
To ancient Nick’s
In Charon’s shallop,
If the consumption be upon the canter,
It should be put upon the gallop
Instanter;
For, “similia similibus curantur,”
Great medicinal cod
(Beating the mode
Of old Hippocrates, whom M.D.’s mostly follow,
Quite hollow);
Which would make
A patient take
No end of verjuice for the belly-ache;
And find, beyond a question,
A power of good in
A lump of cold plum-pudding
For a case of indigestion.
And just as sage,
In this wise age,
’Faith, Dr. Peel, is your law;
Which, as a remedy
For poverty,
Would recommend the Poor Law.
MATINEE MESMERIQUE
Or, Procédé Humbugaresque.
There is at present in London a gentleman with an enormous beard, who professes the science of animal magnetism, and undertakes to deprive of sense those who come under his hand; but as those who flock to his exhibition have generally left all the sense they possess at home, he finds it difficult to accomplish his purposes. If it is animal magnetism to send another to sleep, what a series of Soirées Mesmériques must take place in the House of Commons during the sitting of Parliament! There is no doubt that Sir Robert Peel is the Lafontaine of political mesmerism—the fountain of quackery—and every pass he makes with his hand over poor John Bull serves to bring him into that state of stupefaction in which he may be most easily victimised. While Lafontaine thrusts pins into his patient, the Premier sends poor John into a swoon, for the purpose of, as it is vulgarly termed, sticking it into him; and as the French quack holds lucifers to the nostril, Peel plays the devil under the very nose of the paralysed sufferer. One resorts to electrics, the other to election tricks, but each has the same object in view—to bring the subject of the operation into a state of unconsciousness. If the Premier would give a Matinée Politique, it would prove a formidable rival to the Soirée Mesmérique of the gentleman in the beard, who seems impressed with the now popular idea, that genius and a clean chin are wholly incompatible.
(H)ALL IS LOST NOW!
‘Sir B. HALL is still Sir B. Hall. Where is the peerage—the “B-all and end-all” of his patriotism? Really the Whigs ought to have given the poor dog a bone, considering with what perseverance he has always been
STANDING FOR MARROWBONE (MARYLEBONE).
When a person holds an argument with his neighbour on the opposite aide of the street, why is there no chance of their agreeing?—Because they argue from different premises.
NOVEL SUBSCRIPTIONS.
Looking into an Australian paper the other day, we cast our eye over a list of subscriptions for the “St. Patrick’s Orphan School, Windsor;” which, after enumerating several sums, varying from 10l. to five shillings, ended with the following singular contributions:—
- MR. BURKE—A supply of potatoes.
- A FRIEND—Five pounds of beef, and a coat.
- A FRIEND IN NEED—A shoulder of mutton.
- A POOR WOMAN—A large damper.
- AN EMIGRANT—Ten quarts of milk.
- AN EMIGRANT—A frying-pan.
At first we were disposed to be amused with the heterogeneous nature of the contributions, but, on reflection, we felt disposed to applaud a plan which enabled every one to bestow a portion of any article of which he possesses a superabundance. If, for instance, a similar subscription were began here, we might expect to find the following contributions:—
- SIR ROBERT PEEL—A large stock of political consistency.
- LORD LONDONDERRY—An ounce of wit.
- LORD NORMANBY—A complete copy of “Yes and No.”
- COLONEL SIBTHORP—A calf’s-head, garnished.
- THE BISHOP OF EXETER—His pastoral blessing.
- LORD MELBOURNE AND LORD JOHN RUSSELL—A pair of cast-off slippers.
- MR. WAKELY—A dish of Tory flummery.
- DAN O’CONNELL—A prime lot of
REAL IRISH BUTTER.
SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—NO. 7.
Fair Daphne has tresses as bright as the hue
That illumines the west when a summer-day closes;
Her eyes seem like violets laden with dew,
Her lips will compare with the sweetest of roses.
By Daphne’s decree I am doom’d to despair,
Though ofttimes I’ve pray’d the fair maid to revoke it.
“No—Colin I love”—(thus will Daphne declare)
“Put that in your pipe, if you will, sir, and smoke it.”
Once I thought that she loved me (O! fatal deceit),
For she wore at the dance the gay wreath I had twined her;
She smiled when I swore that I envied each sweet,
And vow’d that in love’s rosy chains I would bind her.
I press’d her soft hand, and a blush dyed her cheek;
“Oh! there’s love,” I exclaim’d, “in that eye’s liquid glancing.”
She spoke, and I think I can still hear her speak—
“You know about love what a pig knows of dancing!”
JOE HUM(E)ANITY.
The “late of” Middlesex, during his visit to Switzerland, happened to be charged, at a cottage half-way up the Jura, three farthings for seven eggs. Astonished and disgusted at the demand, he vehemently declared that things were come to a pretty
PASS IN THE MOUNTAINS
THE MINISTERIAL TOP.
We understand Sir James Graham has lately been labouring under severe and continued fits of vertigo, produced, as his medical attendants state, by his extraordinary propensity for turning round.