There is a curious paragraph in the Times of 23 March: “Binding of Satan.—During the past two or three weeks, a number of persons have been going round the streets, on the Surrey side of the water, wearing belts, like those worn by the fire brigade, on which passages from the Scriptures are painted, carrying with them an inkhorn and long sheets of paper, soliciting signatures to what they pretend to be a petition to Heaven, for the binding of Satan, the Prince of darkness. So eager are those persons to get the paper signed, that men, women, and children are stopped indiscriminately, and requested to sign. Those who are too young to sign, or unable to write their names, have the same done for them by the men, who do not attempt to disguise the fact of belonging to the followers of Joanna Southcote. Upon several occasions, a great deal of confusion has been created by the parties, for they generally manage to go about with knots of forty or fifty persons; and, occasionally, discussions ensue, which are calculated to bring the Scriptures into perfect ridicule. One person, more intelligent than the persons who are hawking the petitions about, inquired who it is that will present the petition? when the man replied, with the greatest coolness, that as soon as a sufficient number of names are attached to the petition, it will be presented to the Throne of Mercy by Joanna Southcote herself. Surely it is high time that such exhibitions were put down by the police.”
Early in April a circular from the Home Secretary was forwarded to the magistrates at the various gaols, telling them that, in consequence of the suspension of transportation of
male convicts to Van Diemen’s Land, it would be requisite for them to make immediate provision for the confinement and employment, in this country, of a great number of such offenders.
On the 14th of April the Queen paid a visit of inspection to the New House of Lords, and, on the next day, the Peers took possession of it, and transacted business there for the first time.
Talk of Gossip, was there ever such food for it as the arrival of Jenny Lind—it was a furore, a madness. She arrived in London late on the afternoon of Ap. 17, and was present in the evening at the performance at Her Majesty’s Theatre. On May 4 she made her first appearance on the Stage in England—in this Theatre—where she played in “Robert le Diable,” and, from that moment, until the end of the season, nothing else was thought of—nothing else talked of—but Jenny Lind, and it was no short-lived fit of enthusiasm, for she was the favourite of the public until her retirement; her beautiful voice and simplicity of manner charming everyone, from Royalty downwards. Unfortunately her dêbut was somewhat marred by a pecuniary squabble between her and Bunn, the operatic poet, a rival impresario, Lumley, having secured her services. Here is Punch’s version of the squabble:
“JENNY-LINDEN.
A dreadful engagement between the Swedish Nightingale and the poet Bunn.
On Lind, when Drury’s sun was low,
And bootless was the wild-beast show,
The lessee counted for a flow
Of rhino to the treasury.But Jenny Lind, whose waken’d sight
Saw Drury in a proper light,
Refused, for any sum per night,
To sing at the Menagerie.With rage and ire in vain display’d,
Each super drew his wooden blade,
In fury half, and half afraid
For his prospective salary.Bunn in a flaming frenzy flew,
And speedily the goose quill drew,
With which he was accustomed to
Pen such a deal of poetry.He wrote the maiden to remind
Her of a compact she had signed,
To Drury Lane’s condition blind,
And threatened law accordingly.Fair as in face, in nature, she
Implored the man to set her free,
Assuring him that he should be
Remunerated handsomely.Two thousand pounds she offered, so
That he would only let her go;
Bunn, who would have his bond, said No!
With dogged pertinacity.And, now, his action let him bring, [310]
And try how much the law will wring
From her to do the handsome thing,
Who had proposed so readily!The Swedish Nightingale to cage,
He failed; she sought a fitting stage,
And left him to digest his rage,
And seek his legal remedy.Then shook the House, with plaudits riven,
When Jenny’s opening note was given,
The sweetest songstress under heaven
Forth bursting into melody.But fainter the applause shall grow,
At waning Drury’s wild-beast show,
And feebler still shall be the flow
Of rhino to the treasury.The Opera triumphs! Lumley brave,
Thy bacon thou shalt more than save;
Wave, London, all thy ’kerchiefs wave,
And cheer with all thy chivalry.’Tis night; and still yon star doth run;
But all in vain for treasurer Dunn,
And Mr. Hughes, and poet Bunn,
And quadrupeds, and company.For Sweden’s Nightingale so sweet,
Their fellowship had been unmeet,
The sawdust underneath whose feet
Hath been the Drama’s sepulchre.”
Died on 15th May, at Genoa, on his route to Rome, aged 72, Daniel O’Connell, the erst “uncrowned King of Ireland,” who, during his lifetime, had been a thorn (and a very troublesome one) in the side of every English government. His heart was forwarded to Rome, but his body was embalmed, and, in due time, was sent to Ireland for interment.
The Liverpool Albion, quoted in the Times of 14 May, is responsible for the following story: “Some time ago, the Duke of Buccleugh, in one of his walks, purchased a cow from a person in the neighbourhood of Dalkeith, and left orders to send it to his palace on the following morning. According to agreement, the cow was sent, and the Duke, who happened to be en déshabille, and walking in the avenue, espied a little fellow ineffectually attempting to drive the animal to its destination. The boy, not knowing the Duke, bawled out to him: ‘Hi! mun, come here an’ gi’us a han’ wi’ this beast.’ The Duke saw the mistake, and determined to have a joke with the little fellow. Pretending, therefore, not to understand him, the Duke walked on slowly, the boy still craving his assistance. At last, he cried in a tone of apparent distress: ‘Come here, mun, an’ help us, an’ as sure as onything, I’ll give ye half I get.’ This last solicitation had the desired effect. The Duke went and lent a helping hand. ‘And now,’ said the Duke, as they trudged along, ‘how much do you think you will get for this job?’ ‘Oh, dinna ken,’ said the boy, ‘but I am sure o’ something, for the folk up at
the house are good to a’ bodies.’ As they approached the house, the Duke darted from the boy, and entered by a different way. He called a servant, and put a sovereign into his hand, saying, ‘Give that to the boy that has brought the cow.’ The Duke returned to the avenue, and was soon rejoined by the boy. ‘Well, how much did you get?’ said the Duke. ‘A shilling,’ said the boy, ‘an’ there’s the half o’t to ye.’ ‘But, surely, you got more than a shilling,’ said the Duke. ‘No,’ said the boy, with the utmost earnestness, ‘as sure’s death, that’s a’ I got—an’ d’ye not think it’s a plenty?’ ‘I do not,’ said the Duke; ‘there must be some mistake; and, as I am acquainted with the Duke, if you return, I think I’ll get you more.’ The boy consented; back they went. The Duke rang the bell, and ordered all the servants to be assembled. ‘Now,’ said the Duke to the boy, ‘point out the person who gave you the shilling.’ ‘It was that chap, there, with the apron,’ pointing to the butler. The delinquent confessed, fell on his knees, and attempted an apology; but the Duke interrupted him, indignantly ordered him to give the boy the sovereign, and quit his service instantly. ‘You have lost,’ said the Duke, ‘your money, your situation, and your character, by your covetousness; learn, henceforth, that honesty is the best policy.’ The boy, by this time, recognised his assistant, in the person of the Duke, and the Duke was so delighted with the sterling worth and honesty of the boy, that he ordered him to be sent to school, kept there, and provided for at his own expense.”
Eton “Montem” was abolished this year. It was a triennial custom, and had for its purpose the presentation of a sum of money to the Captain of the school on his departure to the University. Every third year, on Whitsun Tuesday, some of the Eton boys, clad in fancy costume (as is here given from the Montem of 1844), went to Salt Hill, and the neighbourhood generally, and levied contributions, or “Salt,” from all passers-by. The custom led to grave abuses, and the Provost and Head Master determined that it should end, but, that the boy who benefited by it should not be a loser, the latter, Dr. Hawtrey, gave him £200 out of his own pocket.