Ugly brothers, I am about to impart to you the secret of my existence! I have lived by the fine arts—yes, by sitting as
A model for door-knockers and cherubim for tomb-stones.
The latter may perhaps surprise you, but the contour of my countenance is decidedly infantile—for when had a babby a bridge?—and the addition of a penny trumpet completes the full-blown expression of the light-headed things known to stone-masons as cherubim.
But it is to the art of knocker-designing that I flatter myself I have been of most service. By the elevation of my chin, and the assistance of a long wig, I can present an excellent resemblance of a lion, with this great advantage over the real animal—I can vary the expression according to circumstances—
“As mild as milk, or raging as the storm.”
So that nervous single ladies need not be terrified out of their senses every time they knock at their door, by the grim personification of a Nero at feeding time; or a tender-hearted poor-law guardian be pestered during dinner by invitations afforded to the starving poor by the benevolent expression of his knocker.
Ugly ones! I have now imparted to you my secret.
* * * * *
ON THE POPULARITY OF MR. CH—S K—N.
Oh, Mr. Punch! what glorious times
Are these, for humbly gifted mimes;
When, spite of each detracter,
Paternal name and filial love,
Assisted by “the powers above,”
Have made C——s K——n an actor!
“’Tis true,” his generous
“Of genius he ne’er had a ray;
Yet, all his faults to smother,
The youth inherits, from his sire,
A name which all the world admire,
And dearly loves his mother!”
Stripp’d of his adventitious aid,
He ne’er ten pounds a week had made;
Yet every Thespian brother
Is now kept down, or put to flight,
While he gets fifty pounds a night,
Because—he loves his mother!
Though I’m, in heart and soul, a
To genuine talent, Heaven forefend
That I should raise a pother,
Because the philanthropic folks
Wink and applaud a pious hoax,
For one who—loves his mother!