[pg 53] CHARLES KEAN’S “CHEEK.” MR. PUNCH,—Myself and a few other old Etonians have read with inexpressible scorn, disgust, and indignation, the heartless and malignant attempts, in your scoundrel journal, to blast the full-blown fame of that most transcendant actor, and most unexceptionable son, Mr. Charles Kean. Now, PUNCH, fair play is beyond any of the crown jewels. I will advance only one proof, amongst a thousand others that cart-horses sha’n’t draw from me, to show that Charles Kean makes more—mind, I say, makes more—of Shakspere, than every other actor living or dead. Last night I went to the Haymarket—Lady Georgiana L—— and other fine girls were of the party. The play was “Romeo and Juliet,” and there are in that tragedy two slap-up lines; they are, to the best of my recollection, as follow:— “Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek.” Now, ninety-nine actors out of a hundred make nothing of this—not so Charles Kean. Here’s my proof. Feeling devilish hungry, I thought I’d step out for a snack, and left the box, just as Charles Kean, my old schoolfellow, was beginning— “Oh!—” Well, I crossed the way, stepped into Dubourg’s, swallowed two dozen oysters, took a bottom of brandy, and booked a small bet with Jack Spavin for the St. Leger, returned to the theatre, and was comfortably seated in my box, as Charles Kean, my old school-fellow, had arrived at “———cheek!” Now, PUNCH, if this isn’t making much of Shakspere, what is? Yours (you scoundrel), ETONIAN. AN AN-TEA ANACREONTIC—No. 4. The following ode is somewhat freely translated from the original of a Chinese emigrant named CA-TA-NA-CH, or the “illustrious minstrel.” We have given a short specimen of the original, merely substituting the Roman for the Chinese characters. ORIGINAL. As-ye-Te-i-anp-o-et-sli-re Y-oun-g-li-ae-us-di-din-spi-re Wen-ye-ba-r-da-wo-Ke-i-sla-is Lo-ve-et-wi-nea-li-ket-op-ra-is So-i-lus-tri-ou-spi-din-th-o-u In-s-pi-re-thi-Te-ur-nv-ot-a-rin-ow &c. &c. TRANSLATION. As the Teian poet’s lyre Young Lyæus did inspire; When the bard awoke his lays, Love and wine alike to praise. So, illustrious Pidding, thou Inspire thy tea-urn votary now, Whilst the tea-pot circles round— Whilst the toast is being brown’d— Let me, ere I quaff my tea, Sing a paean unto thee, IO PIDDING! who foretold, Chinamen would keep their gold; Who foresaw our ships would be Homeward bound, yet wanting tea; Who, to cheer the mourning land, Said, “I’ve Howqua still on hand!” Who, my Pidding, who but thee? Io Pidding! Evoe! THE STATE DOCTOR. A BIT OF A FARCE. Dramatis Personæ. RHUBARB PILL (a travelling doctor), by SIR ROBERT PEEL. BALAAM (his Man), by COLONEL SIBTHORP. COUNTRYMAN, by MR. BULL. SCENE. Tamworth. The Doctor and his Man are discovered in a large waggon, surrounded by a crowd of people. RHUBARB PILL.—Balaam, blow the trumpet. BALAAM (blows).—Too-too-tooit! Silence for the doctor!