CONSCIENTIOUSLY, which is divisible into

• 1st. He that voteth according to HUMBUG, which is divisible into
  • 1st. He that is POLITICALLY humbugged, which is divisible into
    • 1st. He has SOME BRAINS, as
      1. He who believeth taxes will be taken off.
      2. He who believeth wages will be raised.
      3. He who thinketh trade will be increased.
      4. He who studieth political economy.
      5. He who readeth newspapers, reviews, and magazines, and listeneth to lectures, and the like.
    • 2nd. He that has NO BRAINS, as
      1. He who voteth to support “the glorious Constitution,” and maintain “the envy of surrounding nations.”
      2. He who believeth the less the taxation the greater the revenue.
      3. He who attendeth the Crown and Anchor meetings, and the like.
  • 2nd. He that is MORALLY humbugged, as
    1. He who thinketh the Millennium and the Rads will come in together.
    2. He who thinketh that the Whigs are patriots.
    3. That the Tories love the poor.
    4. That the member troubleth himself solely for the good of his country.
    5. That the unions are popular with the paupers, and the like.
  • 3rd. He that is DOMESTICALLY humbugged, as
    1. He who voteth because the candidate’s ribbons suit his wife’s complexion.
    2. Because his wife was addressed as his daughter by the canvasser.
    3. Because his wife had the candidate’s carriage to make calls in, and the like.
    4. Because his daughter was presented with a set of the Prince Albert Quadrilles.
    5. Because the candidate promised to stand godfather to his last infant, and the like.
• 2nd. He that voteth according to PRINCIPLE, which is divisible into
  • 1st. He whose principles are HEREDITARY, as
    1. He who voteth on one side because his father always voted on the same.
    2. Because the “Wrong-heads” and the like had always sat for the county.
    3. Because he hath kindred with an ancient political hero, such as Jack Cade, Hampden, the Pretender, &c., and so must maintain his principle.
    4. Because his mother quartereth the Arms of the candidate, and the like.
  • 2nd. He whose principles are CONVENTIONAL, as
    1. He who voteth because the candidate keepeth a pack of hounds.
    2. Because he was once insulted by a scoundrel of the same name as the opposite candidate.
    3. Because the candidate is of a noble family.
    4. Because the candidate laid the first brick of Zion Chapel, and the like.
    5. Because he knoweth the candidate’s cousin.
    6. Because the candidate directed to him—“Esq.”
  • 3rd. He whose principles are PHILOSOPHICAL, which may be considered as
    • 1st. He that is IMPARTIAL, as
      1. He that voteth on both sides.
      2. Because he tossed up with himself.
      3. He who loveth the majority and therefore voteth for him who hath most votes.
      4. Because he is asked to vote one way, and so voteth the other, to show that he is not influenced.
      5. Because he hateth the multitude, and so voteth against the popular candidate.
    • 2nd. He that is INDEPENDENT, as
      1. He who cannot be trusted.
      2. He who taketh money from one side, and voteth on the other.
      3. He who is not worth bribing.
      4. He who voteth against his own opinion, because his letter was not answered.
      5. He who, being promised a place last election, was deceived, and the like.

THE PROFESSIONAL SINGER

Have any of PUNCH’S readers ever met one of the above genus—or rather, have they not? They must; for the race is imbued with the most persevering hic et ubique powers. Like the old mole, these Truepennies “work i’ th’ dark:” at the Theatres, the Opera, the Coal Hole, the Cider Cellars, and the whole of the Grecian, Roman, British, Cambrian, Eagle, Lion, Apollo, Domestic, Foreign, Zoological, and Mythological Saloons, they “most do congregate.” Once set your eyes upon them, once become acquainted with their habits and manners, and then mistake them if you can. They are themselves, alone: like the London dustmen, the Nemarket jockeys, the peripatetic venders, or buyers of “old clo’,” or the Albert continuations at one pound one, they appear to be made to measure for the same. We must now describe them (to speak theatrically) with decorations, scenes, and properties! The entirely new dresses of a theatre are like the habiliments of the professional singer, i.e. neither one nor the other ever were entirely new, and never will be allowed to grow entirely old. The double-milled Saxony of these worthies is generally very blue or very brown; the cut whereof sets a man of a contemplative turn of mind wondering at what precise date those tails were worn, and vainly speculating on the probabilities of their being fearfully indigestible, as that alone could to long have kept them from Time’s remorseless maw. The collars are always velvet, and always greasy. There is a slight ostentation manifested in the seams, the stitches whereof are so apparent as to induce the beholders to believe they must have been the handiwork of some cherished friend, whose labours ought not to be entombed beneath the superstructure. The buttons!—oh, for a pen of steam to write upon those buttons! They, indeed, are the aristocracy—the yellow turbans, the sun, moon, and stars of the woollen system! They have nothing in common with the coat—they are on it, and that’s all—they have no further communion—they decline the button-holes, and eschew all right to labour for their living—they announce themselves as “the last new fashion”—they sparkle for a week, retire to their silver paper, make way for the new comers, and, years after, like the Sleeping Beauty, rush to life in all their pristine splendour, and find (save in the treble-gilt aodication and their own accession) the coat, the immortal coat, unchanged! The waistcoat is of a material known only to themselves—a sort of nightmare illusion of velvet, covered with a slight tracery of refined mortar, curiously picked out and guarded with a nondescript collection of the very greenest green pellets of hyson-bloom gunpowder tea. The buttons (things of use in this garment) describe the figure and proportions of a large turbot. They consist of two rows (leaving imagination to fill up a lapse of the absent), commencing, to all appearance, at the small of the back, and reaching down even to the hem of the garment, which is invariably a double-breasted one, made upon the good old dining-out principle