Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, Complete eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 1,359 pages of information about Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, Complete.

  SHEIL’S oratory’s like bottled Dublin stout;
  For, draw the cork, and only froth comes out.

* * * * *


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.

* * * * *


  The Whigs resemble nails—­How so, my master? 
  Because, like nails, when beat they hold the faster.

* * * * *


“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.

* * * * *


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—­


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


Now, PUNCH, if this isn’t making much of Shakspere, what is?

Yours (you scoundrel), ETONIAN.

* * * * *


The following ode is somewhat freely translated from the original of a
Chinese emigrant named CA-TA-NA-CH, or the “illustrious minstrel.”

Project Gutenberg
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 1, Complete from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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