PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.

OCTOBER 30, 1841.

THE GREAT CREATURE.

That “great creature,” like some other “great creatures,” happened, as almanacs say, “about this time” to be somewhat “out at elbows;”—not in the way of costume, for the very plenitude of his wardrobe was the cause which produced this effect, inasmuch as the word “received” in the veritable autograph of Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy could nowhere be discovered annexed to the bills thereof: a slight upon their powers of penmanship which roused their individual, collective, and coparcenary ires to such a pitch, that they, Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy, through the medium of their Attorneys-at-law, Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, of Furnival’s Inn, forwarded a writ to the unfortunate Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam,—the which writ in process of time, being the legal seed, became ripened into a very vigorous execution, and was consigned to the care of a gentleman holding a Civil employment with a Military title, viz. that of “Officer” to the Sheriff of Middlesex, with strict injunctions to the said—anything but Civil or Military—nondescript “officer,” to secure and keep the person of Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam till such time as the debt due to Messrs. Moleskin and Corderoy, and the legal charges of Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles, should be discharged, defrayed, and liquidated.

Frequent were the meetings of Messrs. Gallowsworthy and Pickles and their man-trap, and as frequent their disappointments:—Fitzflam always gave them the double! Having procured leave of absence from the Town Managers, and finding the place rather too hot to hold him, he departed for the country, and, as fate would have it, arrived at the inn then occupied by Mr. Horatio Fitzharding Fitzfunk.

In this out-of-the-way place he fondly imagined he had never been heard of. Judge then of his surprise, after his dinner and pint of wine, at the following information.

Fitz. “Waiter.”

“Yes, sar.”

“Who have you in the house?”

“Fust of company, sar;—alwaist, sar.”

“Oh! of course;—any one in particular?”

“Yes, sar, very particular: one gentleman very particular, indeed. Has his bed warmed with brown sugar in the pan, and drinks asses’ milk, sar, for breakfast!”

“Strange fellow! but I mean any one of name?”

“Yes, sar, a German, sar; with a name so long, sar, it take all the indoor servants and a stable-helper to call him up of a morning.”

“You don’t understand me. Have you any public people here?”

“Yes, sar—great man from town, sar—belongs to the Theatre—Mr. Fitzflam, sar—quite the gentleman, sar.”

“Thank you for the compliment” (bowing low).

“No compliment at all, sar; would you like to see him, sar?—sell you a ticket, sar; or buy one of you, sar.”

“What?”

“House expected to be full, sar—sure to sell it again, sar.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“The play, sar—Fitzflam, sar!—there’s the bill, sar, and (bell rings) there’s the bell, sar. Coming.” (Exit Waiter.)

The first thing that suggested itself to the mind of Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam was the absolute necessity of insisting upon that insane waiter’s submitting to the total loss of his well-greased locks, and enveloping his outward man in an extra-strong strait-waistcoat; the next was to look at the bill, and there he saw—“horror of horrors!”—the name, “the bright ancestral name”—the name he bore, bursting forth in all the reckless impudence of the largest type and the reddest vermilion!

Anger, rage, and indignation, like so many candidates for the exalted mutton on a greased pole, rushed tumultuously over each other’s heads, each anxious to gain the “ascendant” in the bosom of Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam. To reduce a six-and-ninepenny gossamer to the fac-simile of a bereaved muffin in mourning by one vigorous blow wherewith he secured it on his head, grasp his ample cane and three half-sucked oranges (in case it should come to pelting), and rush to the theatre, was the work of just twelve minutes and a half. In another brief moment, payment having been tendered and accepted, Fitzflam was in the boxes, ready to expose the swindle and the swindler!

The first act was over, and the audience were discussing the merits of the supposed Roscius.

“He is a sweet young man,” said a simpering damsel to a red-headed Lothario, with just brains enough to be jealous, and spirit enough to damn the player.

“I don’t see it,” responded he of the Rufusian locks.

“Such dear legs!”

“Dear legs—duck legs you mean, miss!”

“And such a voice!”

“Voice! I’ll holler with him for all he’s worth.”

“Ha’ done, do!”

“I shan’t: Fitzflam’s—an—umbug!”

“Sir!” exclaimed Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitz of “that ilk.”

“And Sir to you!” retorted “the child of earth with the golden hair.”

“I suppose I’m a right to speak my mind of that or any other chap I pays to laugh at!”

“It’s a tragedy, James.”

“All the funnier when sich as him comes to play in them.”

“Hush! the curtain’s up.”—So it was; and “Bravo! bravo!” shouted the ladies, and “Hurrah!” shouted the gentlemen. Never had Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam seen such wretched acting, or heard such enthusiastic applause. Round followed round, until, worked up to frenzy at the libel upon his name, and, as he thought, his art, he vociferously exclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, that man’s a d—d impostor! (“Turn him out! throw him over! break his neck!” shouted the gods. “Shame shame!” called the boxes. “You’re drunk,” exclaimed the pit to a man.) I repeat that man is—(“Take that!”—an apple in Fitzflam’s eye.) I say he is another (“There it is!”—in his other eye) person altogether—a—(“Boxkeeper!”) Nothing of the sort; a—(“Constable!”) I’ll take—(“Take that fellow out!”) Allow me to be—(“Off! off!”) I am—(“‘Out! out!”) Let me request.—(“Order! order!—hiss! hiss!—oh! oh!—ah! ah!—phit! phit!—Booh!—booh!—wooh!—oh!—ah!”)”

Here Mr. Fitzfunk came forward, and commenced bowing like a mandarin, while the gentleman who had blacked Fitzflam’s eye desisted from forcing him out of the box, to hear the “great creature” speak. Fitzfunk commenced, “Ahem—Ladies and gentlemen, surrounded as I am by all sorts of—(Bravos from all parts of the house.) Friends! Friends in the boxes!—(“Bravo!” from boxes, with violent waving of handkerchiefs.) Friends in the pit!—(“Hurrah!” and sundry excited hats performing extraordinary aerial gyrations.) And last, not least in my dear love, friends in the gallery!—(Raptures of applause; five minutes’ whistling; three chandeliers and two heads broken; and the owners of seventeen corns stamped up to frenzy!) Need I fear the malice of an individual? (“Never! never!” from all parts of the house.) Could I deceive you, an enlightened public? (“No! no! impossible! all fudge!”) Would I attempt such a thing? (“No! no! by no manner of means!”) I am, ladies and gentlemen—(“Fitzflam! Fitzflam!”) I bow to your judgment. I have witnesses; shall I produce them?” “No,” said two of his most enthusiastic supporters, scrambling out of the pit, and getting on the stage; “Don’t trouble yourself; we know you; (Omnes. “Hurrah!” To Fitzflam in boxes—“Shame! shame!”) we will swear to