of a vulgar mind to dwell upon the trifles, and lose the substantial—­to scan the dress, and neglect the wearer, so we opine the capabilities of D. Maclise, R.A., are brought into requisition to accommodate such beholders.  He has, moreover, carefully avoided any approximation to the vulgarity of flesh and blood, in his representations of humanity; and has, therefore, ingeniously sought the delicacy of Dresden china for his models.  To conclude our notice, we beg to suggest the addition of a torch and a rosin-box, which, with the assistance of Mr. Yates, or the Wizard of the North, would render it perfect (whereas, without these delusive adjuncts, it is not recognisable in its puppet-show propensities) as a first-rate imitation of the last scene in a pantomime.

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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.

FOR THE WEEK ENDING SEPTEMBER 18, 1841.

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THE HEIR OF APPLEBITE.

CHAPTER IV.

HAS A GREAT DEAL TO SAY ABOUT SOME ONE ELSE BESIDES OUR HERO.

[Illustration:  K]Kindness was a characteristic of Agamemnon’s disposition, and it is not therefore a matter of surprise that “the month”—­the month, par excellence, of “all the months i’the kalendar”—­produced a succession of those annoyances which, in the best regulated families, are certain to be partially experienced by the masculine progenitor.  O, bachelors! be warned in time; let not love link you to his flowery traces and draw you into the temple of Hymen!  Be not deluded by the glowing fallacies of Anacreon and Boccaccio, but remember that they were bachelors.  There is nothing exhilarating in caudle, nor enchanting in Kensington-gardens, when you are converted into a light porter of children.  We have been married, and are now seventy-one, and wear a “brown George;” consequently, we have experience and cool blood in our veins—­two excellent auxiliaries in the formation of a correct judgment in all matters connected with the heart.

Our pen must have been the pinion of a wild goose, or why these continued digressions?

Agamemnon’s troubles commenced with the first cough of Mrs. Pilcher on the door-mat.  Mrs. P. was the monthly nurse, and monthly nurses always have a short cough.  Whether this phenomenon arises from the obesity consequent upon arm-chairs and good living, or from an habitual intimation that they are present, and have not received half-a-crown, or a systematic declaration that the throat is dry, and would not object to a gargle of gin, and perhaps a little water, or—­but there is no use hunting conjecture, when you are all but certain of not catching it.