Punch: Punch (38.1860)

10

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[January 7, 1860.

DEATH OF A VALUABLE MEMBER OF SOCIETY.

he Talking Fish is dead!
The event is sad enough
to strike every Member
of Parliament dumb with
apprehensions of his own
future doom. This sud-
den demise is greatly to
be regretted, as there were
hopes of the Fish being
able to attend the Con-
gress about to be held in
Paris. Doubtlessly he
would have spoken as
much to the purpose as
any other official there.
He would have said “ Pa”
to the representative of
the Holy Father, and
“ Ma” to the old woman
who does duty for the
Emperor of Austria,
and what more could
have been wanted? If
a question had arisen as
to the “balance of Eu-
rope,” he could have
•pointed to his own scales,
and proved how worthy
lie was to hold either the
one or the other by ba-
lancing himself as upright
as any judge (an English
one, of course—who ever
heard of any other that was upright?) right on the tip of his tail. He has been dis-
appointed, also, in not having been invited to dine with Lord Cowley, who, on this
occasion,—and this occasion only—might have been able to boast of having had Fish for
dinner; but all these wonderful things, and many more, have been abruptly checked in
their career by the untimely decease of this duosyllabic wonder, who, when he met you, did
not accost you with, “ I have just two words to say to you,” and then, like too many talkative
monsters in human form, detain you by t he button-hole for at least a couple of hours. He
was eminently a fish and not a bore. He said his two wrords, and no more, simply because
he did not know more than two. His tongue was always dancing a pas de deux (the

IMPORTANT MEDICAL MEETING.

A Numerous meeting of the medical profession was held at
Apothecaries’ Hall on Tuesday evening, for the purpose of considering
the propriety of presenting a testimonial from the profession to the
Clerk of the Weather, in return for his recent management of his
department. Dr. Twtaddler was unanimously called to the chair.

Dr. Twaddler said, that he and other gentlemen had felt that the
weather for "the last month had been so extraordinarily favourable to
the profits, the legitimate profits [hear, hear), of the profession to which
he had the honour to belong, and was so exactly that which a medical
man with a proper regard for his family must be delighted to see, that
it seemed hardly proper to pass it over without notice. The thermo-
meter had varied twenty degrees in a day, and tumbled back, or run
up again in a night, and he was happy to think that few constitutions
were insensible of changes that sent a man out to his work perspiring
and brought him home freezing. For himself, he had much more work
to do than he could possibly perform, and had been compelled to
restrict his attendance to the residences mentioned in the Peerage.
But he did not grudge a share in the spoils [laughter) to his professional
brethren. [Applause) lie would call on his friend Mr. Honeyboy
to move the first resolution.

Mr. Honeyboy said, that they should really cut matters short, for
time was fees in a time like this, and they must make hay while the
influenza shines upon them. He was happy to say, that the weather
was .most trying, most depressing; you scarcely met a person without
a miserable cough, and as for the children, their life was one long
snivel. [Applause) He thought the Clerk of the Weather deserved

their best thanks, and-[here a huttony lad ran in and whispered the

speaker. Ironical plaudits) “ No, no, my dear fellows,” said Mr.
Honeyboy laughing, “it’s not humbug this time; he has a real
message for me, a whole family laid up, thank Influenza! ” [The
speaker bolted)

Mr. D’Emulgent said that their friend had gone off in such a hurry,
aperiently [roars of laughter), that he had forgotten his resolution.
Truly they ought to be thankful, for never was there so much sickness
about—not dangerous, mind you, for that it would be wrong to be glad

paternal and maternal salutations above alluded
to), and you could never persuade him to exe-
cute any other pas, or “Ma” either. He
must have been a good son, this Talking Fish,
for you never could get him to talk upon any
other subject but that of his parents. In fact,
he was endeared to his master from the fact
of his pay-rental propensities, which he would
exhibit more or less strongly at every new place
he wmnt to.

The loss of the Talking Fish will be largely
felt in the circle in which he moved,—by which
we mean, the large tub in which he was in the
habit of taking his daily rounds. According to
the information we have received from our usual
authentic sources, the Talking Fish is to be
buried, not in Westminster Abbey, nor St. Paul’s,
but in Billinsgate Market. His epitaph, borrowed
from the ducal hatchments, is to be simply, “In
Sealo Quies.”_ Mr. Chisholm Anstey has
offered his services as chief mourner; but it is
expected that the compliment will be paid, par
preference, to Mr. Gladstone, not only because j
his “talking” powers are fully equal to those of
his loquacious rival, but also because he is more
closely connected with the Seals of Office, to
which, it is well known, the lamented deceased
had the ambition of aspiring.

We need not state that the Talking Fish died
deeply regretted by his keepers, who will feel
his loss most deeply in that part where losses
are generally felt by persons the most deeply,—
viz , the breeches pocket.

What complaint the Talking Fish had, beyond
receiving every now and then a scanty supply of
flounders, we cannot state; but we understand
that he took his final leap from this world into
the next in his rash efforts to combine in his
own person the Seal and Die Department. He
succeeded eventually, and but too well, as the
fact of his own dying painfully testified. It was
his first, as it will be his last attempt in that
line, though it must be confessed that he has
succeeded in making a tolerably deep impression )
with it.

of, besides its being difficult to deal with, but that sort of very trouble- i
some, irritating, disagreeable illness that made everybody fidgety and
frightened unless the medical man was constantly in the house. He
thought, however, that any demonstration on their part was unwise,
as there was already a feeling abroad that if people washed themselves !
well, lived well, _ took exercise, talked cheerfully, and laughed often,
they might do without a good deal of the medical attendance they now
paid heavily for, and it would be well not to increase any prejudice
against the profession.

Mr. Fitzlabel agreed. They were going on very well, let
them take their money and be quiet. He had his washing-copper
brewred full of “The Draught” every morning, and it was empty at
night. [Sensation arid applause)

Dr. Greed had been afraid the weather was going to settle, but up
to that time there were no unfavourable symptoms. He advised their j
making their game while they could, and talking about it, if people
wanted to talk (he didn’t) afterwards.

Dr. Twaddler said, that as this seemed to be the view of the meet-
ing, he would adjourn it sine die, and retire from the chair, heartily
congratulating the profession on a state of things that must fill them
with so much justifiable pleasure.

After the usual vote of thanks, the meeting rushed off to make pills.

LORD BYRON, LORD PUNCH, AND LORD FINGALL.

Lord Fingall, an Irish Catholic nobleman, has very properly
refused to join the ridiculous movement which the Irish priests have
commanded their dupes and tools to perform on behalf of the Pope.
His Lordship’s father has his name embalmed in a verse by Lord
Byron, which verse Mr. Punch (in every way a superior poet to the
latter) begs to modify as follows, in honour of the son

“ Well done, that thou would’st-not, 0 Fingall, recal
The fetters on millions of Catholic limbs.

And manly the scorn thou must lavish on ail
The slaves, that now hail Pope Perugia with hymns.”