PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 1.
DECEMBER 11, 1841.
THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE LONDON MEDICAL STUDENT.
11.—HOW MR. MUFF CONCLUDES HIS EVENING.
Essential as sulphuric acid is to theignition of the platinum in an hydropneumatic lamp; so ishalf-and-half to the proper illumination of a MedicalStudent’s faculties. The Royal College of Surgeons maythunder and the lecturers may threaten, but all to no effect; for,like the slippers in the Eastern story, however often the pots maybe ordered away from the dissecting-room, somehow or other theyalways find their way back again with unflinching pertinacity. Allthe world inclined towards beer knows that the current price of apot of half-and-half is fivepence, and by this standard the MedicalStudent fixes his expenses. He says he has given three pots for apair of Berlin gloves, and speaks of a half-crown as a six-potpiece.
Mr. Muff takes the goodly measure in his hand, and decapitatingits “spuma” with his pipe, from which he flings it intoMr. Simpson’s face, indulges in a prolonged drain, andcommences his narrative—most probably in the followingmanner:—
“You know we should all have got on very well if Rapphadn’t been such a fool as to pull away the lanthorns fromthe place where they are putting down the wood pavement in theStrand, and swear he was a watchman. I thought the crusher saw us,and so I got ready for a bolt, when Manhug said the blocks had noright to obstruct the footpath; and, shoving down a whole wall ofthem into the street, voted for stopping to play at duckwith them. Whilst he was trying how many he could pitch across theStrand against the shutters opposite, down came thepewlice and off we cut.”
“I had a tight squeak for it,” interrupts Mr. Rapp;“but I beat them at last, in the dark of the Durham-streetarch. That’s a dodge worth being up to when you get into arow near the Adelphi. Fire away, Muff—where did yougo?”
“Right up a court to Maiden-lane, in the hope of boltinginto the Cider-cellars. But they were all shut up, and the fire outin the kitchen, so I ran on through a lot of alleys and back-slums,until I got somewhere in St. Giles’s, and here I took acab.”
“Why, you hadn’t got an atom of tin when you leftus,” says Mr. Manhug.
“Devil a bit did that signify. You know I only took thecab—I’d nothing at all to do with the driver;he was all right in the gin-shop near the stand, I suppose. I goton the box, and drove about for my own diversion—Idon’t exactly know where; but I couldn’t leave the cab,as there was always a crusher in the way when I stopped. At last Ifound myself at the large gate of New Square, Lincoln’s Inn,so I knocked until the porter opened it, and drove in as straightas I could. When I got to the corner of the square, by No. 7, Ipulled up, and, tumbling off my perch, walked quietly along to thePortugal-street wicket. Here the other porter let me out, and Ifound myself in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
“And what became of the cab?” asks Mr. Jones.
“How should I know!—it was no affair of mine. I daresay the horse made it right; it didn’t matter to him whetherhe was standing in St. Giles’s or Lincoln’s Inn, onlythe last was the most respectable.”
“I don’t see that,” says Mr. Manhug, refillinghis pipe.
“Why, all the thieves in London live in St.Giles’s.”...