Volume 1 — SIR RHUBARB PILL, M.P. & M.D.
Reading edition
“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.