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1858.] to assure you he does not jest without a purpose, or play the buffoon only to coin sixpences. The fact, then, we propose to illustrate is this:—that Punch is a teacher and philanthropist, a lover of truth, a despiser of cant, an advocate of right, a hater of shams,—a hale, hearty old gentleman, whose notions are not dyspeptic croakings, but healthful opinions of good digestion, and who, though he wear motley and indulge in drolleries without measure, is full of sense and sensibility.

The birth-place and parentage of Punch are involved in some doubt,—a fate he shares with several of the world's other heroes, ancient and modern. Accounts differ; and as he has not chosen to settle the question autobiographically, we follow substantially the narrative —that ought to be true; for, mythical or historical, it appropriately localizes and fitly circumstances the nativity of the humorist of the age.

In 1841, Mark Lemon, a writer of considerable ability, was the landlord of the Shakspeare Head, Wych Street, London. A tavern with such a publican and such a name was, of course, frequented by a circle of wits, with whom, in the year just mentioned, originated "Punch." Lemon (how could there be punch without a lemon?) has been the editor from the outset. From which of the knot of good fellows the bright idea of the unique journal first emanated does not appear. The paternity has been ascribed to Douglas Jerrold. Its name might have been suggested by the place of its birth. If so, it at once lost all associations with the ladle and the bowl, and received a wider and better interpretation. The hero of the famous puppet-show was chosen for the typical presiding genius and sponsor of the novel enterprise. And there is no neater piece of allegorical writing in our language than the introductory article of the first number, wherein is exquisitely shadowed forth "the moral" of the work, "Punch,"—suggestive of that "graver puppetry," the "visual and oral cheats," "by which mankind are cajoled." Punch, the exemplar of boldness and philosophic self-control, is the quaint embodiment of the intention to pursue a higher object than the amusement of thoughtless crowds,—an intention which has been adhered to with remarkable fidelity. The first number appeared July 17th, and the serial has lived over a decade and a half, and grown to the bulk of thirty-four or thirty-five volumes. It was not, however, built in a day. It knew a rickety infancy and hours of peril, and owes its rescue from neglect and starvation, its subsequent and constantly increasing prosperity, to the enterprising publishers,—Bradbury and Evans,—who nursed and resuscitated it at the critical moment. Well-known contributors to the letter-press have been Jerrold, Albert Smith, à Beckett, Hood, and Thackeray; whilst Henning, Leech, Meadows, Browne, Forrester, Gilbert, and Doyle have acted as designers. Of these men of letters and art, Lemon and Leech, it is said, alone remain; some of the others broke off their connection with the work at different periods, and some have passed away from earth. Their places have been supplied by the Mayhews, Tom Taylor, Angus Reach, and Shirley Brooks, and the historical painter, Tenniel. These changes have mostly been made behind the scenes; the impersonality of the paper—to speak after the Hibernian style—being personified by Mr. Punch himself,—ostensibly, by a well-preserved and well-managed conceit, its sole conductor through all its vicissitudes and during the whole of its brilliant career. Whatever becomes of correspondents, Punch never resigns and never dies. The baton never falls from his grasp. He sits in his arm-chair, the unshaken Master of the Revels,—though thrones totter, kings abdicate, and revolutions convulse empires. Troubles may disturb his household; but thereby the public does not suffer. He still lives,—immortal in his funny and fascinating idiosyncrasies.