Here are the ingredients of the farce; and in the course of it they are compounded in such wise as to make Woodpecker jealous, merely because he happens to find Fanny in the dark, and in Whistleborough’s arms; to cause the latter to negotiate with Mrs. Coo for a seat in Parliament, instead of a wedding-ring; and Pacific to talk of the probable prospects of the nuptial state to Miss Polecon, who is an inveterate spinster and a political economist, professing the Malthusian creed. Rivet finding Fanny and her friend are taking business out of his hands by planning an elopement en amateur, gets himself “regularly called in,” and manages to save Woodpecker all the trouble, by contriving that Whistleborough shall run away with the young lady by mistake, so that Woodpecker might marry her, and no mistake. Bam bams Whistleborough, who ends the piece by threatening his deceiver with an action for breach of promise of borough, all the other breaches having been duly made up; together with the match between Mrs. Coo and Pacific.
If our readers want to be told what we think of this farce, they will be disappointed; if they wish to know whether it is good or bad, witty or dull, lively or stupid—whether it ought to have been damned outright, or to supersede the Christmas pantomime—whether the actors played well or played the deuce—whether the scenery is splendid and the appointments appropriate or otherwise, they must judge for themselves by going to see it; because if we gave them our opinion they would not believe us, seeing that the author is one of our most esteemed (especially over a boiled chicken and sherry), most merry, most jolly, most clever colleagues; one, in fine, of PUNCH’S “United Service.”
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“I have been running ever since I was born and am not tired now”—as the brook said to Captain Barclay.
“Hookey”—as the carp said, when he saw a worm at the end of a line.
“Nothing is certain”—as the fisherman said, when he always found it in his nets.
“Brief let it be”—as the barrister said in his conference with the attorney.
“He is the greatest liar on (H) earth”—as the cockney said of the lapdog he often saw lying before the fire.
When is a hen most likely to hatch? When she is in earnest (her nest).
Why are cowardly soldiers like butter? When exposed to a fire they run.
Do you sing?—says the teapot to the kettle—Yes, I can manage to get over a few bars.—Bah, exclaimed the teapot.
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
FOR THE WEEK ENDING DECEMBER 25, 1841.
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